I was stunned and a little angry when I first heard that Matt Smith, the man tapped to play the 11th regeneration of everyone's favorite time traveling alien, was a twelve year old.
Okay, so he's not REALLY twelve, but he IS younger than I am, and that is something that I simply couldn't accept.
As a literal life long fan of Doctor Who, Matt Smith was a blow to my vanity. I'd always known that one day I would pass the Doctor in age and officially grow old, but casting the youngest actor to ever take on the role was a needless way to hasten that inevitable moment. As a woman that's not quite thirty, I didn't appreciate having to face that milestone moment so soon.
Despite a number of doom-and-gloom predictions on my part, when the new Doctor Who series aired this Summer I had to give Matt Smith his due (despite the scoff worthy fact that he insisted on repeating over and over that he, as the Doctor, was "getting old.") He was a decent actor, and he did a decent job. I was able to admit gracefully that Smith would never earn the same devotion reserved for Tom Baker and David Tennant, but I could at least grow to like him.
My opinion changed once more when I found a mention on gallifreynewsbase.blogspot.com of Smith's surprise guest appearance at the 2010 Glastonbury Music Festival during the encore performance from Orbital, a band commonly thought of in connection to the Doctor Who theme song.
While watching the clip or Orbital on YouTube, I think I fell in love with Matt Smith. I don't know if he was partially in character that night or if the Doctor has partially taken over Matt Smith, but the pure joy and complete madness he exuded is the Doctor's calling card. It wasn't hard for me to imagine that the Doctor himself was on stage with Orbital, and, judging by the looks on some of the fans faces, I think the audience may have felt the same.
You have to respect a man who takes on the impossible roles in life and ignores his critics. You have to admire him even more when he turns the impossible into something marvelous and then shares it with everyone around him, young and old alike.
Isn't that exactly what the Doctor would do?
*The Doctor looks pretty sexy in Jack Harkness's coat, don't you think?
**Smith deserves double bonus points for saying "timey-whimey, wibbley-wobbley"
***If you're Matt Smith, feel free to e-mail me and ask for my phone number.
Swag Bucks
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Monday, July 19, 2010
MAC Cosmetics: Venomous Villains
Thanks to my dear Twitter friend @SocialiteBB and her blog, www.thesocialknoght.blogspot.com , I've discovered that two of my favorite powers are joining forces for a limited time.
This September, MAC is releasing another of it's famous limited edition collections, but this one is a surprising joint venture with Disney.
The Venomous Villains collection is inspired by Disney's newest villain, Dr. Facilier, Cruella DeVil, Maleficent, and, my idol and inspiration, the Evil Queen.
Check out the teaser video.
http://www.maccosmetics.com/vv_landing/index.tmpl
While I would have never hoped in my wildest and most indulgent dreams that MAC would sell make up inpired by the Evil Queen, I have to say that this is a stroke of genius. Disney fans are known to be rabid collectors, and when you hit a core group like the villains fans (*cough* *cough*) you're pretty much promised a total sell out. Of course, that isn't even factoring in the rabid MAC fans and their adoration for MAC's limited editions (once again *cough* *cough*).
I need to start saving money. I get the feeling I'll be making a pretty big purchase at the cosmetics counter next month.
This September, MAC is releasing another of it's famous limited edition collections, but this one is a surprising joint venture with Disney.
The Venomous Villains collection is inspired by Disney's newest villain, Dr. Facilier, Cruella DeVil, Maleficent, and, my idol and inspiration, the Evil Queen.
Check out the teaser video.
http://www.maccosmetics.com/vv_landing/index.tmpl
While I would have never hoped in my wildest and most indulgent dreams that MAC would sell make up inpired by the Evil Queen, I have to say that this is a stroke of genius. Disney fans are known to be rabid collectors, and when you hit a core group like the villains fans (*cough* *cough*) you're pretty much promised a total sell out. Of course, that isn't even factoring in the rabid MAC fans and their adoration for MAC's limited editions (once again *cough* *cough*).
I need to start saving money. I get the feeling I'll be making a pretty big purchase at the cosmetics counter next month.
Has Anyone Seen My Stapler?
Working in an office means working in a very unique environment. The concept of locking dozens of adults in small areas fitted with desks and malfunctioning office equipment has not only spawned shows like The Office (both of them) and movies like Office Space, but it's also spawned my paycheck.
What makes the office environment so unique is the way perfectly rational adults turn into children once the nine hour work day begins (hence the truthful hilarity of the products listed above.)
For example - Today I was stuck working under a merciless pile of paperwork while being attacked by a phone that quite literally did not stop ringing for hours on end. By the time I was able to take a break the extra large tea I had at lunch had long since kicked in. I quickly made a mad dash past empty desks for the nearest restroom. There I encountered a locked door and a running water faucet. After the faucet continued to run for several minutes, I realized the restroom occupant was covering the sound of their clicking cell phone keys as they sent a text or twelve.
I had no alternative but to turn and ran past the empty desks once more, this time heading for the second closest restroom. Here I encountered yet another locekd door and the suspicious smell of cigarette smoke. Luckily, the third closest restroom was directly around the corner from the second closest. But this restroom was occupied, as well. There was no smoke, no clicking of keys, and no running water, but there was a total silence that led me to believe someone was taking a nap and banking on using an upset stomach as their excuse if caught.
Several bathrooms, one aggravated yell, and a "pee-pee dance" that could have rivaled The Lord of the Dance later, I found a free handicapped stall in the furthest bathroom from my obviously empty section of the office.
There is no moral to this story other than ending it with, "And it's only Monday."
What makes the office environment so unique is the way perfectly rational adults turn into children once the nine hour work day begins (hence the truthful hilarity of the products listed above.)
For example - Today I was stuck working under a merciless pile of paperwork while being attacked by a phone that quite literally did not stop ringing for hours on end. By the time I was able to take a break the extra large tea I had at lunch had long since kicked in. I quickly made a mad dash past empty desks for the nearest restroom. There I encountered a locked door and a running water faucet. After the faucet continued to run for several minutes, I realized the restroom occupant was covering the sound of their clicking cell phone keys as they sent a text or twelve.
I had no alternative but to turn and ran past the empty desks once more, this time heading for the second closest restroom. Here I encountered yet another locekd door and the suspicious smell of cigarette smoke. Luckily, the third closest restroom was directly around the corner from the second closest. But this restroom was occupied, as well. There was no smoke, no clicking of keys, and no running water, but there was a total silence that led me to believe someone was taking a nap and banking on using an upset stomach as their excuse if caught.
Several bathrooms, one aggravated yell, and a "pee-pee dance" that could have rivaled The Lord of the Dance later, I found a free handicapped stall in the furthest bathroom from my obviously empty section of the office.
There is no moral to this story other than ending it with, "And it's only Monday."
Emotionless -OR- What To Do When Your Rock Star Grows Up
“Most people would agree that the rock star image is a classic symbol of youth and rebellion.”
That statement is what's called a "no brainer."
For me, however, that sentence means a good bit more. When I say that’ most people’ feel that way, I say it with a sense of irony and a touch of arrogance.
Both of my parents were musicians, and it was firmly believed that stardom would come knocking on our door at any moment. Rock stars weren't simply icons in my house. They were my brothers. Their names, songs, and sense of style were as much a part of my childhood as cartoons and playing hide and seek. By the age of three I’d given myself a (rather embarrassing) stage name. When I was five I’d picked out my band name (which was even worse than my already abandoned stage name.) In third grade I dressed as a member of a rock band for Career Day (complete with mismatched earrings and crazy shoe laces in my high tops.) When confronted with the idea that girls didn’t grow up to be rock stars, I happily rattled off a rather short list of female rockers and added, “And my momma said I could do it!”
In later years, my musical obsession grew. Like most teenagers and college students, I picked one or two rock stars that I idolized, adored, and religiously stalked on the Internet. I couldn’t fall asleep without listening to their CDs, and I swore their lyrics were taken from the darkest, deepest, most hidden parts of my soul.
Then I did the one thing I was told to never do. I grew up.
Despite my parents’ careful tutoring, I realized that I would never achieve the ultimate goal of a life of decadence and no responsibility. I would have to use my days for working instead of sleeping (because surprisingly there would be no never ending fountain of money,) and I would use my nights for sleeping instead of utilizing my limitless and unnamed ability to enthrall the masses.
I adjusted to this realization. I found new dreams and aspirations that were grounded firmly in what I liked to call "reality." The transition was much easier than anticipated, and twenty two years of careful training soon faded away into Adulthood. My musical roots were mostly forgotten except for the occasional one liner when passing Hot Topic and the periodic need to wear too much makeup and a lot of black.
Or at least that was the case until a recent random Internet search led me from one site to another, and an accidental trail was created that led me straight back to one of the rock stars to whom I’d given so much devotion. I was stunned when I saw him. Wrinkles were visible in places that had once been covered by eye shadow, and there were no more thick streaks of eyeliner. His curls were hidden under a black knit cap, and his clothes were made of cotton instead of leather. I was mortified to see that he too had grown up, but he'd done it on his own terms.
I started missing who he’d once been, and then, as if the two were connected, I started missing who I had been. Somehow choosing the path of maturity made me lose my ability to feel truly, obsessively passionate about anything. Unlike my formerly-beloved rocker, I didn’t go into adulthood gracefully and with my soul intact. I’d become completely disconnected.
Sadly, even the pain of that realization was fleeting.
The obvious and ironic truth is that my unconventional parents were right all along.
When I close my eyes I find myself sitting on the wooden planks of my old bedroom floor, surrounded by a stack of CDs. All I can do now is blow the dust off of those discs one by one and hope that somewhere in the echoing silence I’ll find the lyrics that will wake up the missing part of my psyche. I have to believe that I can start over, that for all these years I’ve simply been a kid playing pretend, and that I’ll get one more chance at growing up.
Maybe this time I can get it right.
That statement is what's called a "no brainer."
For me, however, that sentence means a good bit more. When I say that’ most people’ feel that way, I say it with a sense of irony and a touch of arrogance.
Both of my parents were musicians, and it was firmly believed that stardom would come knocking on our door at any moment. Rock stars weren't simply icons in my house. They were my brothers. Their names, songs, and sense of style were as much a part of my childhood as cartoons and playing hide and seek. By the age of three I’d given myself a (rather embarrassing) stage name. When I was five I’d picked out my band name (which was even worse than my already abandoned stage name.) In third grade I dressed as a member of a rock band for Career Day (complete with mismatched earrings and crazy shoe laces in my high tops.) When confronted with the idea that girls didn’t grow up to be rock stars, I happily rattled off a rather short list of female rockers and added, “And my momma said I could do it!”
In later years, my musical obsession grew. Like most teenagers and college students, I picked one or two rock stars that I idolized, adored, and religiously stalked on the Internet. I couldn’t fall asleep without listening to their CDs, and I swore their lyrics were taken from the darkest, deepest, most hidden parts of my soul.
Then I did the one thing I was told to never do. I grew up.
Despite my parents’ careful tutoring, I realized that I would never achieve the ultimate goal of a life of decadence and no responsibility. I would have to use my days for working instead of sleeping (because surprisingly there would be no never ending fountain of money,) and I would use my nights for sleeping instead of utilizing my limitless and unnamed ability to enthrall the masses.
I adjusted to this realization. I found new dreams and aspirations that were grounded firmly in what I liked to call "reality." The transition was much easier than anticipated, and twenty two years of careful training soon faded away into Adulthood. My musical roots were mostly forgotten except for the occasional one liner when passing Hot Topic and the periodic need to wear too much makeup and a lot of black.
Or at least that was the case until a recent random Internet search led me from one site to another, and an accidental trail was created that led me straight back to one of the rock stars to whom I’d given so much devotion. I was stunned when I saw him. Wrinkles were visible in places that had once been covered by eye shadow, and there were no more thick streaks of eyeliner. His curls were hidden under a black knit cap, and his clothes were made of cotton instead of leather. I was mortified to see that he too had grown up, but he'd done it on his own terms.
I started missing who he’d once been, and then, as if the two were connected, I started missing who I had been. Somehow choosing the path of maturity made me lose my ability to feel truly, obsessively passionate about anything. Unlike my formerly-beloved rocker, I didn’t go into adulthood gracefully and with my soul intact. I’d become completely disconnected.
Sadly, even the pain of that realization was fleeting.
The obvious and ironic truth is that my unconventional parents were right all along.
When I close my eyes I find myself sitting on the wooden planks of my old bedroom floor, surrounded by a stack of CDs. All I can do now is blow the dust off of those discs one by one and hope that somewhere in the echoing silence I’ll find the lyrics that will wake up the missing part of my psyche. I have to believe that I can start over, that for all these years I’ve simply been a kid playing pretend, and that I’ll get one more chance at growing up.
Maybe this time I can get it right.
Conquering My Blog Demons
I’m here for two reasons. One, I'm a writer, and I’ve been told that blogging is what writers are supposed to do, and two, I'm a woman that always has something to say.
However, commitment gives me hives, and apparently so does blogging. The mere idea of a formulated, regularly updated blog is enough to make me break into a cold sweat.
My answer to the blogging conundrum is this: I can be a mini-blogger. A few paragraphs and some random, completely unrelated, not-very-scholarly posts are easy to manage. This page can be my way giving you a window into my mind, and seeing as how I am my own favorite subject, well.... There's not much there to argue with, is there?
So here is my non-conventional, irresponsible, completely commitment free blog. If you don't expect anything from me, and I don't expect anything from you, this could be the beginning of something beautiful.
Enjoy!
However, commitment gives me hives, and apparently so does blogging. The mere idea of a formulated, regularly updated blog is enough to make me break into a cold sweat.
My answer to the blogging conundrum is this: I can be a mini-blogger. A few paragraphs and some random, completely unrelated, not-very-scholarly posts are easy to manage. This page can be my way giving you a window into my mind, and seeing as how I am my own favorite subject, well.... There's not much there to argue with, is there?
So here is my non-conventional, irresponsible, completely commitment free blog. If you don't expect anything from me, and I don't expect anything from you, this could be the beginning of something beautiful.
Enjoy!
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