We went to see “Finding Nemo” today. It was excellent, exactly what we’ve come to expect from Pixar - great characterization, quirky humor, beautiful graphics, great fun. It moves between the two parallel plotlines enough that you are constantly interested (even if you are a small and listless 7-year-old - not to imply that I am!)

It failed to grab me quite as much as “Monsters, Inc.”, but to that statement I should add these provisos: A) I loved “Monsters Inc.” so much that I was livid it didn’t take Best Picture. Yeah, I know it wasn’t nominated. ALSO a crime! B) Monsters Inc. had an impossibly cute toddler. Due to the biological urges that periodically attempt to seize control of my mind, just about any cute toddler reduces me to a pile of quivering happy goo, let alone a toddler computer-generated to be the highest value of “cute” mathematically possible!

Finding Nemo has a quirky, fun take on sea life and its ecological vagaries; heart-warming lessons; amnesiac tropical fish; dentistry; and of course, explosions. It was great.

I am rereading a history book we used as the primary text for a course of mine in college, HSTY 282: History of Modern China. The book is called The Search for Modern China, by Jonathan Spence. The car prowlers were not interested.

It’s a really fascinating book, for many reasons. It begins with the fall of the Ming dynasty at the hands of bandit chieftains and Manchu invaders, and follows the Qing dynasty, set up by those Manchu invaders, until its fall, and into contemporary times. The Qing was in some ways a casualty of really brutal economic imperialism, but also of Western influence in general. Unlike Japan, which ended up adopting a rigorous policy of modernizing and Westernizing their industry, army, and government all at once, Imperial China tried to adopt some of the methods and trappings of the foreigners while maintaining an almost unchanged government. Of course, China is also much vaster than Japan, so the changes which occured along the quickly cosmopolitan coast were slow to spread to the rural areas, famine-struck floodplains, and remote mountains of China.

Apparently before this book’s first edition was written, Chinese history was often viewed as two isolated periods - Imperial China and post-Imperial China - which, judging from the complex transitional period depicted, would really not do the situation justice. The same problems that plagued the Ming assail the Qing, and obstruct the short-lived democratic government, the attempted unification under Chiang Kai-shek’s Nationalist Party, and the early attempts at socialist communities by the Chinese Communist Party. In class, we didn’t finish the book, following China’s story only up to its unification as a Communist nation. I will be interested to read the later chapters, but I cannot yet tell you what is in them.

This book is fascinating for many reasons. Among them is the implied question of modernity, and what it means to be a modern state, something I’d never really had to come to grips with in a history course previously. The issue of modernity, as I take it from the story of China, is intertwined with the idea of nationalism. Nationalism was basically unheard of in Ming China and earlier. It seems that the concept of nationalism - the need for something more clearly defined than “All Under Heaven” (the linguistic origin of “China”) - may have started under the Qing, who were the first conquering people to maintain their own culture and identity in the face of China’s cultural legacy. If the Manchus are Other, than what are We?

Another reason to love this book is just that it’s a well-crafted narrative of conflict and chaos. You can trace, at least roughly, the strands in this complex knot of events. Any writer, or any role-playing Gamemaster, can benefit from seeing the vast variety of the human experience in the most tumultuous times in China’s history. I really can’t describe this adequately, but it’s a rich account of the interplay of hope and despair; inspiration to change and respect for tradition; searches both outside and within.

This book, while not a complete substitute for a discussion course, will give you a much richer understanding of the philosophical undercurrents of Chinese political discourse, what the Chinese government believes the responsibilities of a government to be, and why that government still views America and Europe with distrust and defiance.

Lastly, the book is written well and engagingly. It’s easy to follow. The only difficulty in that regard is remembering some of the more secondary players’ names, which of course are not familiar names - Chen Duxi, Zhou Enlai, et cetera - but Spence helps out by reminding us where we’ve heard of them before.

If you have any interest in history, Asian politics, writing stories against the backdrop of political upheaval, or creating rich, political roleplaying worlds, buy this book. That is all.

So today I microwaved my lunch, and headed down to my car. I only drive to work 2 days out of 5. I was planning to grab my Buffy Roleplaying Game: Monster Smackdown book from the car, and eat a leisurely lunch under a tree in the park, devising mayhem for tonight’s Buffy game.

As I turned the key in the lock, I noticed sparkling crystals across the back seat. “What did I spill this time?” I wondered. Someone had broken the rear fixed window (the triangular “vent” one). I was perplexed. They had not, apparently, searched the car, as my CD player (telegraphed to the world by a trailing CD-cassette converter) was still there. My bookbag was undisturbed. I sighed, and started towards the park, notifying my husband, my State Farm Agent, and the State Farm Glass Repair organizers.

So I’m sitting under the tree in the park, mildly annoyed, but remaining tranquil. Then, as I speak with the glass people, something small and relatively hard hits my head. It of course strikes me that this must be a bug, and that in its dazed state its most probable trajectory is directly down my dress. I keep myself from eeking at the insurance people, and start scrabbling at the back of my dress in an investigative fashion. I find something. It is definitely neither dress nor underpinning. Whether it is squirming is difficult to determine through the fabric. So I immobilize this object with my fingers, holding my celphone up with my other arm, and continue to arrange for auto-glass repair. Minutes stretch on, and people pass by, and I ponder the oddness of the picture I must present, and the ache in my arm. Another insect lands on my arm, and in my startlement, I let go of the first one. I then proceed to jump around fanning my skirts and wiggling the back of my dress. Insect or seed pod? The world may never know, for the secret did not disclose itself. However, the bug dance was sufficient for the amusement of several small children otherwise interested in squirrels, so perhaps the world is a better place.

Since then, I’ve realized, however, that there is something missing from my car—I accidentally got the wrong shave stuff for Matt the other day at Nordstrom (I like him to smell good, so I buy him expensive shave stuff). I had undertaken to exchange this stuff. So there was a small Nordstrom bag on the seat in the back of my car, and now it isn’t there. So some krill-brain broke into my car for a $14.50 bottle of Clinique for Men Post-Shave Healer. And I am filled with wrath.

Between the wrath and the lack of preparation, things do not look good for my gaming group.

Nah, I don’t mean the Bat-Boy of Weekly World News Fame. I mean two of the DC Universe’s finest: Nightwing and Robin.

Nightwing, AKA Dick Grayson, used to be Robin. Tim Drake is the current Robin. I, as a ravening Gotham fan-girl, have noticed that these two fellows are absolute girl magnets. As for Jason Todd, the second Robin, well, death really keeps the ladies at bay.

Let me paint you a picture. Nightwing was engaged to Starfire (an alien on the Titans), has had flirtations with his apartment manager in Blüdhaven, and dated the Huntress (why?). He is currently dating Oracle, former Batgirl and current operator/decker of the Gotham world. He is so attractive to women that Oracle starts getting snippy with him when she hears there is a new female vigilante in town — she is already sure the new girl will go after him. Heck, even Dick knows it — he was really nervous when his partner at his day job (policeman) asked him over for dinner, because he thought she was coming on to him! (Of course, blushes all around when he meets the hubby and small ones.) I don’t even know what he got up to as Robin — although in “Robin: Year One”, the girls come a-crushin’ on his first day in school.

As for Tim Drake, the incumbent Boy Wonder, he’s dating the Spoiler, a rather inept but charming Gotham vigilante. She set her hood for him while he was still dating his civvie girlfriend, Arianna. One of Tim’s Young Justice teammates, Secret, was so jealous of Spoiler she nearly killed her. And as for the other ones, well, Wonder Girl can maintain her crush on Superboy all she wants, but she (she of the superpowers and major hero lineage!) uses Robin as an example of what a hero should be, and there’s been some platonic hugging of late. As for minor flirtations, there’ve been a few. Spoiler has put her burgeoning detective skills to use in the cause of jealousy on a couple of occasions.

So, why? Why the bat-boys? The pixie boots can’t be the answer, and the short-shorts are long gone. Why are these powerless do-gooders the heartthrobs of the DC Universe? Read on if you dare.

Top Ten Reasons Bat Boys Bag the Babes

10. They’re cute. Might as well get this out of the way. They’re ripped. They have the classic comic book strong jaw, black glossy hair, and startling blue eyes. Like Batman (and Superman, but let’s remember who was there first!)

9. They have no powers. That may sound a little weird, but think about it. They save the world with superteams full of people shooting energy beams and using “tactile telekinesis”. Your average villain is not going to go for the puny human tactician first. Safety of your boyfriend is a good thing.

8. They’re urbane and well-travelled. They charge all over the world, saving it from evil! No, really. Paris, the Himalayas, the Caribbean — they have it covered. Just think of the stories! “So then we’re hovering in mid-air from the Cobra-issue jet-boots, with a thousand-foot drop below and one hundred pygmy yeti charging hungrily in from one side!”

7. They’re witty. Despite Batman’s example and injunctions, they can’t stop mocking the mooks. They’re quick with the pun and the rejoinder.

6. They have that “bad boy” charm. The dark clothes, beating people up in alleyways, zooming around on motorbikes and hot cars in violation of multiple traffic laws…they have the “bad boy” charm…but at the same time, they’re more lawful good than a squeeky clean Boy Scout (All Boy Scouts are arsonists deep inside!)

5. They’re heroes, duh! Besides the cool-factor, if the city is racked by cataclysmic earthquake, if armed gunmen hold up your workplace, they will save you! It’s dreeeeeeeamy!

4. They have mad skillz. They can pick locks, crack computer security, climb just about anything, speak several languages, convince suicidal people not to jump, outwit supervillains, and drive alien motor vehicles. Not only is that pretty nifty, but it’s great to have something to fall back on — you know, if heroing becomes lame, and your vast pots of money evaporate.

3. They are used to female authority! Couldn’t resist putting that in. Oracle says “Jump!” and they ask “Straight up, or off the building?” Great training for the future.

2. If they stand you up, you know the reason. And it’s a good one. They’re saving the world! Or people’s lives! You can even get a vicarious sense of heroism by not complaining. Or is that martyrdom?

And the #1 Reason Bat Boys Bag the Babes is…

1. Trained by the World’s Greatest Detective! Need I say more?

For your viewing pleasure, I present “Spelled by Alaskan Schoolchildren!”

Intestines:
Testerds
Inastins

Sponge:
(by the same kid) sponch, snonge

And, the pi&#232ce de r&#233sistance:
Peristalsis (The wavelike muscular contractions of the alimentary canal or other tubular structures by which contents are forced onward toward the opening.):

parstalms
perikoffis
pearesauceeguess

We went hiking on Sunday! My friend Lissell is wise in the ways of hiking, and took us (me, the hairier half, and our friend wonko) on a short jaunt up the beginning of Eagle Creek Trail, up in the Gorge. (wonko’s photos here.)

For those of you not of the web-footed persuasion, the Columbia Gorge is what happens when you first flood an area with hundreds of feet of basalt blankets one on top of the other, and then make some poor schmuck of a river run through it. It is a vast winding gorge between Oregon and Washington, with edges varying from trickle-worn bluffs on up to vast towering black cliffs laced with intrepid greenery and icily beautiful falls. On the Oregon side it tends to the latter. Here you shall find Multnomah Falls, second largest year-round waterfall in the nation; and a bevy of lesser falls, named and unnamed, clustered along the walls like merry ladies-in-waiting, chattering all the year.

We paid 5 bucks for a parking pass, and hiked up as far as Punchbowl Falls, where we ate our (suddenly exquisitely delicious) lunches, rested our feet, and watched high school boys swim in icy water to impress high school girls. We had a wonderful time. My asthma, I think, is unimpressed by mild consistent slopes, preferring to put in an appearance at really steep, root-and-rock hikes.

Also, I identified one of the main obstacles to my exercising some time ago—mind-numbing boredom. This trail had none of that. None of the trudging along paying attention only to the ache in my feet, the tightness in my bronchial apparatus, and the impertinences of suspicious greenery. This trail was open on one side almost constantly to the small canyon Eagle Creek cuts, and the beautiful sun-dappled curves, the white riffles, and the trees climbing up on the opposite ridge. We padded under dripping overhangs, cooled ourselves in tiny waterfalls, and were haunted by bright blue butterflies. It was an utter delight.

I should preface this story by saying that I read some wedding stories on Etiquette Hell the other day, and I am not the worst bridesmaid ever. However, I liked my title, so deal with my hyperbole.

A dear friend of mine is getting married this July, and for some reason decided I could be trusted to be a Matron of Honor. While I am torn on the whole “Matron” issue between my newlywed thrill at the word and my fear that it describes my current physique all too well, I gladly accepted. I did, however, decide that I must make a superhuman effort to smooth her wedding-planning journey and to help her as much as possible. You see, as far as I’ve heard, one of the primary purposes of the Matron of Honor is to help the bride out pre- and intra- wedding—and while I would love to be of more direct help in this matter, she lives in DC, weds in Cleveland, and chose a MoH from soggy old Oregon.

I compiled a messy first draft of my advice to brides, based on my own experiences last July, and sent it off to her. Among the many tips, warnings, and imprecations, fluttered the following advice: “Nag your bridesmaids, early and often. There’s a lot of steps involved in them getting their outfits together, and it can be a major headache if anything gets procrastinated on. Of course, I know this, so you won’t have to worry about me!”

Why didn’t I just say “What could POSSIBLY go wrong?” instead?

I knew I should go get measured and order my dress. But it was in farthest Beaverton, and I was in Hillsboro at night, and Portland during the day, and between the two I was constrained by the rails of the MAX train. I was lazy. So finally I went in this last weekend.

To set the scene: David’s Bridal is, I suppose, the country’s largest bridal chain. I had never been to a bridal chain before, as for my wedding I had patronized a small local business where I got waited on and pampered and spoiled like a prize poodle. David’s Bridal was Large. A muzaked version of the Wedding March from Lohengrin segued awkwardly into muzaked Pachelbel’s Canon. Two girls in Nascar jackets pawed at the racks of white dresses.

I gathered up the bridesmaid separates in appropriate sizes and I tried them on. I chose out some dyeable shoes, and made my way to the cashier’s desk. Since this story is about my own shortcomings, not those of David’s Bridal, the least said the better.

At any rate, after I had paid for the items (and, I later discovered, not received the 15% discount for the Bride buying her dress from David’s as well), I insisted on an actual ETA for the dress. The saleslady discovered that it was an “8-week definite” item, and 8 weeks landed on the day after the wedding date I had given her. Fear gripped my heart, and I knew that I was a Bad Bridesmaid. Store models of two-pieces were for sizing only, even if they had been the same color, and not ripped and stained from the vagaries of the clientele. The brand was a David’s Bridal exclusive. They could not charge me more and rush it. It was an 8-week definite—which might mean 9 weeks. I would have scratched my head at that, but I was too busy loathing myself. I prepared to call the Bride, and inject into her life that vein of mad panic I remembered only too well.

Now, the Bride is a very reasonable girl, and if she felt that mad panic, she did not betray it. She wanted to get off the phone to ruminate over the possibility of a different dress (one-pieces are 6 week orders and store models are available for sale) and search the store’s website for such a dress. I found a pretty store model one-piece in my size and the right color, and sat grimly in a chair in the fishbowl section of the premises, prepared to defend the dress I held from any demented bridesmaid commandos that might desire it. Grimly I sat, and glumly. The minutes stretched on, helped by the excruciating music, and I gulped down guilt and fear. Perhaps she did not call because she was drafting my pink slip. Perhaps she would never be my friend again—both she and the groom would despise me forever. And don’t forget the music. By the time Celine Dion’s heart started going on and on the second time, I was pondering breaking one of the omnipresent mirrors and ending my pain Roman-style.

Finally she called, patted my guilt down to manageable size, and approved the dress I held in my hands. Of course I wasn’t going to risk the assumption that the right size would necessarily fit, at this point, so I flagged down a harried employee and got a dressing room and a strapless bra to try the dress on with.

Now some of you, I should hope, have never had to wear a strapless bra. There are pretty much two options; a normal-sized bra with elastic stronger than human flesh; and modern bustier. Bustiers engulf your entire midsection, and thus have the added benefit of taming any floppy tummy bits you may have. They’re great, if expensive (I had to have one for my wedding), and that’s what I had on hand. However, the “Tighter, Mammy, tighter!” schtick applies. They hook up the back - usually about 10 hook-and-eyes - and require quite a bit of pulling to hook in place. I was all alone. First, I tried to hook it up in front and slide it around. But, as I had suspected, this would have required disengaging my epidermis from my dermis to slide with it. So I put my shirt back on, and waited for a saleswoman to pass, suppressing my natural desire not to be anywhere near naked around a stranger. The woman who passed told me without explanation that she couldn’t do that, but so-and-so could, and she’d go get them.

So I waited. In preparation for near-exposure to strangers, I stationed myself with my back to the door and managed to heave one hook of the bustier shut behind my back. I waited. Now, mind, my watch is without batteries, so I could be wrong, but I believe I waited for almost 15 minutes. There were no mirrors inside the dressing room - yeah, I know - so I couldn’t even amuse myself by noticing new and exciting blemishes on my face and figure.

Eventually, with a muttered string of imprecations and blasphemies, I decided to try to put the blasted thing on myself.

Here’s where I atoned for being a bad person. The one hook I had hooked would invariably pop open the moment I attempted to hook another. I was pulling and swearing and probably turning purple with rage and frustration—again, no mirror. Imagine, if you will, the old Disney scene where Donald Duck is trying to keep the rascally beavers from destroying Old Sequoia. The beavers have gotten inside the tree, and are gleefully buzz-chewing it down, and Donald’s only recourse is to attempt to plug the holes from which the sawdust is flying. New ones immediately emerge, and eventually he ends up posed against the tree with several fingers and a toe plugging holes, and a new one spewing sawdust in his face. Now imagine, if you will, this scene occurring with bustier hooks as plugs, and my 5 extra pounds as the sawdust, and all the machinations occurring behind my back, with no mirror. Actually, don’t imagine it, I have my dignity, occasionally.

Finally I stood, red and panting, with great muscular aches in my arms, in the damn bustier. It was mostly hooked. Good enough. I reached for the spaghetti-strapped dress. The strap broke and the dress fell off the hanger.

In short, my friends, discharge your duties quickly. I do not know what impish gremlin beset me last Saturday, but he is not the type you want in your life or your wardrobe. Spare yourself.

At long last, I have acquiesced to my fans… well, the voices in my head say they’re fans… and made a quasi-blog. It will be a place for my friends to relieve their boredom and refresh their memories of why they’re glad I’m across the country from them. Not to mention THE clearinghouse for me-related materials.

Right now the site looks suspiciously like my friend wonko’s site, wonko.com. This is because he built the back-end and kindly bartered it for a peach pie. Eventually I will change red and gold to purple and blue, and slowly begin the corruption of the site to fulfill my dastardly aims. For now, it has vague dribbles of content, so I’m happy.

Enjoy my site, o friends. We’ll see where it goes from here.