In the wee hours of the morning, I was dreaming about being peacefully asleep with a tall man in the room, when some sound awoke me. I opened my eyes to find that there was indeed a tall man silhouetted in my bedroom doorway.

Strangely calm, I blinked and asked him what the heck he was doing in my room. He said: "It's me, Cat." I sort of recognized the voice (why he didn't tell me his name I don't know), but I was a little pissed and told him he was leaving. I marched him out to the livingroom and to the front door, but it was still too dark to see him.

"Who the hell are you?" I asked. He leaned his face in close to mine, making an annoyed sound. Still no good, so I dragged him to the kitchen and turned on the light. It was my nephew, Clifford. "How did you get in here?"

"I know where Mom's key is," he said. Still pissed, I made him leave and went back to sleep.

Fully awake a few minutes later, I wondered at my own behavior. Obviously he was there because he had no place to stay. What was I thinking? I got up and looked outside, noticing on the way to the window that the cat had barfed on the rug enormously. Oh, goody. Clifford wasn't in the courtyard below. Avoiding my cat's present, I logged on to Trillian and found my sis online. I was glad to find her despite the hour, and I asked her about Cliff...

And now that I'm really awake, I'm realizing that I hate, hate, hate non-lucid dreaming. I was mighty surprised to discover it was only 8:45pm. Coming out to the livingroom to write this bizarre entry, I was fully freaked. If there had been cat barf on the rug--*shiver*.

Now I wonder if I'm really writing this entry.

Brad Anderson has a subtle knack for mood. While many directors hit you in the head with camera effects and cliche jump-getters, Anderson is comfortable depending upon the creepiness of a place, and faces of his actors.

Session 9 is the story of a crew of asbestos removers, each under their own form of stress, as they complete a high-pressure job in what must be the eeriest place on earth, the Danvers State Mental Hospital. As you might guess, bad things happen. Clues and misdirection make for an entertaining mystery.

Session 9 winds up slowly (much like Next Stop Wonderland), and the mood creeps in until you're staring wide-eyed at the screen, afraid to move. I regret not seeing it on the big screen as I'm sure the fear would have been more encompassing. On the other hand, I want to sleep again someday. Big thanks to jr for getting me to see this movie. I definitely recommend renting this and watching it with all the lights out. Bring a friend.

For reasons beyond the scope of this blog I purchased The Book of Questions today. I had to be led to it, as it was in a section of the store I'm ~sadly~ unfamiliar with: the romance shelf in the self-help section. It was nestled between such titles as Seduction, Making it Last, and The Secrets of Mind Control (!). It amazes me that books like Seduction and Sex for Dummies sell at all. Who the fuck would take that to the counter?? I suppose they all say they're buying it for a friend. Well, Seduction isn't so bad. At least it's not Basic Seduction for Complete Clueless Bastards.

Back to the subject...

Some of these questions are quite good. I thought it would be fun to post one from time to time, when I'm strapped for content. As in, every day.

Today's question:

"Do you believe in ghosts or evil spirits? Would you be willing to spend a night alone in a remote house that is supposedly haunted?"

I've felt things I can't explain. I've studied the subject a great deal, and because of this I am extremely skeptical of your average ghost story--I can nearly always explain it away, though I don't because people hate when you take away their mysteries. I tend to think that there are human possibilities we don't yet understand. I'm endlessly fascinated by what people call "ghosts", and would jump at the chance to camp in a haunted house, provided I could take some equipment and a couple friends.

The brilliant and handsome Icy has done it again with a little something to ease your communication problems. 416 someone you love today.

Kelly, of course, won the annual competition by getting one more prediction right than I did.

Overall I enjoyed the show--the only cringeworthy moment was the annual scramble for the mute button when Randy Newman came on. How I loathe him. I hope now that he's won they don't have to nominate him anymore.

While I'm very happy that Denzel got the prize, I find it a bit ironic that A Beautiful Mind won so much except Best Actor, when the movie was entirely on Crowe's back. Howard better get out the kneepads.

And you all know how I feel about Halle. Yeah!

It's been a long day, and I'm beyond exhausted. I have stories to tell, but the one thing I must say before I pass out tonight is:

WOO! HALLE BERRY! YESSSSSS!

I'm actually hoarse from yelling with joy for her. That was so very right.

Okay, I've seen enough of the films to make my ~infallible~ judgements. Here are mine and and those of my Favorite Movie Buddy, Kelly. Where he and I disagree, his picks are in parentheses:

Original Screenplay I'll be rooting for: Memento It will lose to: It won't.

Adapted Screenplay
I'll be rooting for: Ghost World
It will lose to: In the Bedroom (Lord of the Rings)

Visual Effects
I'll be rooting for: AI (Lord of the Rings)
It will lose to: It won't. (Lord of the Rings)

Sound
I'll be rooting for: Moulin Rouge (Lord of the Rings)
It will lose to: Black Hawk Down (Lord of the Rings)

Editing
I'll be rooting for: Memento
It will lose to: It won't. (Lord of the Rings)

Costume Design
I'll be rooting for: Moulin Rouge
It will lose to: It won't.

Cinematography
I'll be rooting for: Lord of the Rings
It will lose to: It won't.

Art Direction
I'll be rooting for: Moulin Rouge
It will lose to: Amelie (and I won't be very sad) (Kel sez Moulin Rouge will take it.)

Animated Feature Film
I'll be rooting for: A Disney exec to break his fucking neck on the way to the podium. (Kel is rooting for Shrek, and thinks it will win. I hope he's right.)

Music (song)
I'll be rooting for: Lord of the Rings
It will lose to: Whatever is the most insipid. (Kel sez LotR will take it, which probably says something about my musical taste.)

Music (score)
I'll be rooting for: Lord of the Rings
It will lose to: It won't.

Makeup
I'll be rooting for: A Beautiful Mind (LotR)
It will lose to: Lord of the Rings

Foreign Language Film
I'll be rooting for: Amelie
It will lose to: Ha, as if.

Supporting Actress
I'll be rooting for: Maggie Smith
She will lose to: Jennifer Connelly

Supporting Actor
I'll be rooting for: Ben Kingsley (Ian McKellan)
He will lose to: No way. (Jim Broadbent)

Best Actress
I'll be rooting for: Halle Berry (Nicole Kidman)
She will lose to: Sissy "I don't do accents" Spacek

Best Actor
I'll be rooting for: Will Smith (Russell Crowe)
He will lose to: Russell "I do accents" Crowe

Directing
I'll be rooting for: Peter Jackson
He will lose to: I don't think he will. Fingers crossed.

Best Picture
I'll be rooting for: Moulin Rouge (LotR)
It will lose to: Lord of the Rings

The Kelster, John-John, and I will do our usual Oscar watching thang. Kel and I will compete ferociously for the most correct predictions. My correct prediction: he will win.

To combat recent ookiness without the age-old tactic of whining, I decided to make a short list of things that give me that little glow. You know, that warm feeling of joy, small or large. Here, numbered only for fun as they are in no particular order, is today's joy list:

1. Peanut-butter toast
   
2. Paint
   
3. Sappy movies
   
4. Cats
   
5. Mutual crushes
   
6. Interesting arguments
   
7. Friends
   
8. Portland
   
9. Hail storms
   
10. Goofy knick-knacks
    
11. Possibilities
    
12. Cold milk

I don't normally get like this. I can usually be objective about remakes, and take them on their own merits. But not this time.

Westworld is a long-time favorite, and one of the few films I find genuinely scary. The image of Yul Brynner's robotic face under the human mask still gives me nightmares. I am hating Schwarzenegger for even considering the part. They can do nothing for this film but fuck up my sweet memories.

May they all find themselves at the mercy of homicidal robots, damn them.

Ever have one of those days where you're needy and want attention? I have them every once in a while, and try to resist getting all clingy and stupid.

Not today.

I'm going to cling to each and every one of you, and beg you for validation. I am the Demon of Codependence, and I will ruin you.

I went to see Gandhi's widow the night of her performance. She was a statuesque woman with long black hair and caramel skin. She had the face of the seer in The Matrix. She was heartbreakingly beautiful.

She knew I had questions about her husband's work. She gave me a skeptical smile and handed me a paper with a press photo from one of her numbers. In the picture, the stage was filled with women costumed in gold, looking vaguely egyptian. "There is a puzzle here," she said, "and you must solve it."

The performance was in a cafe, the stage a cleared corner. She began with her ensemble a combination of dance, voice, and music that sounded like Philip Glass. It was so much more than I was expecting. So meaningful, yet so clear, and even entertaining. I was entranced.

Midway through the show, the number in the puzzle began. I hadn't realized she intended to perform it--I thought the answer was in the picture alone, and was having trouble solving it. When the performance was over, I knew.

"Did you solve the puzzle?" she asked.

"Everyone is afraid of death." I answered. "Everyone, at first."

"Are you afraid?"

"I'm having trouble conquering my fears because of the atheism, but I'm working on it."

She smiled. "There's a further secret," she said. Then I knew more.

When I went home, I knew where to look. There, entered in a file on my computer, were the details of my life and death. Everyone's life and death. I discovered that I will marry, though there are surprises. I will have no children, as I'd planned. I will die at the age of 69 of respiratory problems. There are two other options, but the details were blank. My husband will die ten years later.

At first, looking at the bald numbers, I was terrified. But I knew that the terror would pass, and with this information I could finally find peace. I will die. This is how. I have some years left. There are other possibilities. I'm not afraid.

The Miriam Makeba song Angilalanga is about someone who cannot sleep for the dreams they are having as they become a seer.

I can't sleep for much more mundane reasons.

Among the more creative techniques for getting to sleep: pretending you're getting up, wiggling your toes, and a good tummy rubbing might be winners, though frankly I'd rather have someone around to do the last. My cats certainly love it.

Luckily, there's plenty to read when you're up late, and trying to avoid the infomercials. My personal technique is to develop friendships with people in disparate timezones.

When it comes down to brass tacks, I'm a fool for not putting my all into getting over insomnia, or at least getting it under control. I don't need a study to tell me that I fuck up when I'm tired. I've spent days cleaning up messes I made under the influence of grogginess. It kills my mood, scorches my health, and makes people think I'm an airhead. Okay, sleeping won't help that last bit.

I need a nap.

A couple more:

Post-modern? Drop dead
And take the Yankees with you
Where's my burrito?

Frenzied designing
'Zilla twelve at last includes
Real peanut butter

I've been thinking about doing a new bio in the form of a silly Ode to Me. I may still, but I thought I could have a little more fun than that. Instead, Haikyou: (bad) Haiku to my favorite people. Here's a beginning. If I'm not killed by my unwilling subjects, there will be more to come.

X-phile amazing
Does she love the Duchovny?
Moreso: Anderson.

A little gay porn
Never hurt the merest mouse
Perhaps mussed his fur.

All hobos beware
Libertarian distaste
Will chase you with wit.

I was walking home tonight happily humming Police tunes, a little late because I sat in the office chatting with a friend on the phone. Yes, on the phone. A pleasant surprise for me, I've rediscovered the joy of conversation.

I won't name names, but many years ago I knew someone. We were close; we'd call one another every single day. And talk about nothing. As I grew away from her, the phonecalls became more and more uncomfortable, until finally they were fucking excruciating. That, and a helpdesk job, put me off phones for a long time. It was an accident I found out I like them again.

Remember about two years ago there was a blog fad where people signed up for a free 800 number, and you could call and leave them message? Ureach was the place that did it. I signed up for the number, and stayed for the superior webmail long after the free 800s were gone. Ureach continued to offer the number for a fee, but I'd never used it much anyway (did anyone?), so I dropped it.

A few days ago, I logged in to my email account to find--gasp!--advertisements. I'd been looking for an excuse to change to one of their paid plans for a while. I like the company, they just didn't offer anything I wanted. Phone service? Bah. But the ads got me moving. Desperate, I signed up for their premium (still pretty cheap) plan. Suddenly, I had a toll-free number again, and a crapload of free minutes. But this time it was different. Not just a message phone, the new toll-free numbers forward to wherever you are--you receive an actual phonecall. You talk to humans.

I did what anyone would do. I told my friends. I used the outgoing service to call some, too. It was...fun. Next thing I knew, 120 free minutes became 17.

My only regret about the new number is that it doesn't work from overseas. There are people I want to talk to on other continents, dammit! But at least it covers Canada. And no, I'm not posting it on the page like the old days. This sucker rings my home, and that is sacrosanct. Those that are going to get it already have it.

So Cat has gone phone-friendly. Anybody got a coat the Devil can borrow?

What can little boys do that little girls can't? A lot more than we think, apparently.

Despite the asexual nature of most of the roles, the majority of child parts in mainstream film go to males. A quick list of recent films featuring male children:

Hearts in Atlantis
Stir of Echoes
The Sixth Sense
A.I.
Disney's The Kid
Stuart Little
Billy Elliot
Unbreakable
Harry Potter

For the girls:

The Shipping News
Beautiful

Part of the problem is a result of long-standing gender-bias in adult casting. Of the nine movies in the first list, five of them require a child to relate to (or play a younger version of) an adult male. The Shipping News proves there's no need for a child to be male in order to show bonding with a father, despite this, boys are overwhelmingly chosen as foils for male stars.

American paranoia about child molestation adds a layer of innuendo to any casting decision. In our society, pairing men with girls is a delicate proposition. Once upon a time, Shirley Temple was supreme on the screen; today we'd run out of non-threatening males to play her father. With this Lolita syndrome, often the initial assumption is that any girl onscreen will be victimized. Much care must be taken to establish safe father/daughter relationships early in the film. This is an extra burden on a script, and casting a male by default is an easy way around it. In this case, the fault isn't with industry, but with a hysterical society that feeds on television news and court tv.

Still, in the final analysis, most of the roles played by boys could have easily been played by girls. The searching robot-child of A.I., the visionary children of Stir of Echoes and The Sixth Sense, and the pre-teen of Hearts in Atlantis, all gender-neutral roles. And no, following the book is no excuse--choose another book. Literature is full of children.

Finally, what's the likely deciding factor? In the end, probably the fact that writers write about their own alter-egos, and directors want to tell a personal story. And in Hollywood, most of those people are men.

A typical conversation at the Connor residence:

Me: Could you fix me breakfast?
Either cat: [blank stare]
Me: It's your day to fix breakfast.
Either cat: [blank stare]
Me: And don't get cat fur in it this time.
Either cat: [rubs against leg]
Me: Why do I feed you?
Either cat: Mew!

I received a card from my Aunt Diana today. Diana is the only member of my extended family (and it's a very large one) with whom I'm still in contact, so she keeps me up to date on weddings, deaths, etc.

On February 22nd, my uncle Kenny died. His memorial service was yesterday, or I might have gone. Memories of Kenny are full of conflict for me.

Though he was my mother's brother, Kenny was my father's drinking buddy, so I knew him better than the other uncles. He was my favorite uncle by default, I suppose. His sons were infrequent playmates.

When my father left when I was a teenager (no, he wasn't missed), he made absolutely no contact--we assumed he was dead. My mom and Kenny dropped contact, for reasons I didn't understand at the time. I didn't realise he'd been a better friend to Dad than to his own sister. When my mother died a few years later, it was Kenny who called my dad and had him get in touch with me. Enough time had passed that this was a welcome contact--his call just a day after Mom's wake helped me cope with her death.

When my father died, I was briefly--and uncomfortably--in touch with Kenny. I promised him I'd have a wake, but the truth was that I didn't want the old drunkard in my house. I avoided the subject, and never had the wake.

So tonight, when tentative sobs touch the back of my throat, I wonder why. While I haven't loved him since I was a child, I did love him then. So many pieces of the past sit static, unnoticed, until they fall away with a brittle snap. Someday, I will be someone's snapped-off past.

Kenny Meyer: Rest in peace.

Remember when emoticons were new? You'd send a little joke to a friend with a ;) tacked on, they'd write you back asking what they hey?, and you'd say: "tilt your head to the left."

I've been feeling that way lately, as I've come to discover the usefulness of inline tags, but lament that they are little-known. Not that they'll become well-known because they show up here, but hey, it's worth a shot.

Inlines add emotional inflection to a group of words. To use them, surround the word you wish to alter. The inlines (that I know) are:

Bald-Faced Lie: ~
Confession: %
Brag: +
Rimshot: ^
Pedantry: #

Examples of usage:

~I love you~
%I love you%
+You love me!+
^I loove you.^
#That's love, you halfwit.#

More involved:

I ~love~ you.
I love ~you~.

My fave is the inline BFL, which I use for insulting people I like. ~Bastard.~

Inlines are more flexible and precise than emoticons for expressing tone in text. As long as they're not over used (oh please save us from tackiness!), they're a great tool.