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Words (By the Book)
Jun. 3rd, 2007 08:40 am
I built the underground
When there was no one else around
In my dreams I had long conversations about Star Trek with three dudes in mullets who refused to cut their hair. A few of the other social misfits used body pressure to get past me and my Fathom merchandise on clearance to get at the magazines and graphic novels.
There are awesome graphic novels about Vikings and werewolves, WITH FIRE, in my sleep.
I've never met the dudes before. They're all-new.
'Cause it's happened before
And I'm gonna build this city again
Don't tell me that the high-rise has to end
I have delicious old new books with names like Forerunner Foray (complete with Charles Mikolaycak dust cover!) and A Quiet of Stone.
It's really my favorite find; hardcover, the jacket in battered-ish condition, but not actually torn, the pages slightly yellow, faintly spotted at the edges with mold and spiderweb and some sort of bug or rodent waste in one corner near the spine-binding.
That means it was never a library reject book; it sat unread and unloved in someone's garage or attic or wherever, and then came to me, and I took it in, and now it's pretty and clean.
I can't get over this COVER. It's so beautiful.
That scan KILLS the billion subtle, watercolor-like washes of color that make all the difference with the genuine article. It's like a piece of a pearl shell. ^_^
I've always loved this artist, and now I know his name; what a shame he's passed on.
Presently, I'm reading Devlin's Luck by Patricia Bray. It's not great, but it's not terrible, so I have no especially pressing reason to put it down.
The protagonists are always male. Always always. Unless they're fragile, perfect princesses with names like Elvalinea.
A few years ago, I bought David Brin's Brightness Reef because there was a chick on the cover. The interesting parts are told from the boy alien's viewpoint. I don't really remember her, but I think the chick is a sort-of scientist who exists mostly to have sex with the male human scientist and be sparkly-happy intuitive ala` Deanna Troi. Which ended up not bothering me, because the boy alien's psychology was actually sort of alien, so it was very cool.
Why must I love the genres that treat women like wrapping paper and condoms? *Headdesk.*
I think I'll go write about Her for a few hundred words, pretend that means something.
Also, I have a massive headache. It can't be a hangover. People SWEAR to me that hangovers make you wish you were dead, and I'm just mildly irritated. Ergo.
When there was no one else around
In my dreams I had long conversations about Star Trek with three dudes in mullets who refused to cut their hair. A few of the other social misfits used body pressure to get past me and my Fathom merchandise on clearance to get at the magazines and graphic novels.
There are awesome graphic novels about Vikings and werewolves, WITH FIRE, in my sleep.
I've never met the dudes before. They're all-new.
'Cause it's happened before
And I'm gonna build this city again
Don't tell me that the high-rise has to end
I have delicious old new books with names like Forerunner Foray (complete with Charles Mikolaycak dust cover!) and A Quiet of Stone.
It's really my favorite find; hardcover, the jacket in battered-ish condition, but not actually torn, the pages slightly yellow, faintly spotted at the edges with mold and spiderweb and some sort of bug or rodent waste in one corner near the spine-binding.
That means it was never a library reject book; it sat unread and unloved in someone's garage or attic or wherever, and then came to me, and I took it in, and now it's pretty and clean.
I can't get over this COVER. It's so beautiful.
That scan KILLS the billion subtle, watercolor-like washes of color that make all the difference with the genuine article. It's like a piece of a pearl shell. ^_^
I've always loved this artist, and now I know his name; what a shame he's passed on.
Presently, I'm reading Devlin's Luck by Patricia Bray. It's not great, but it's not terrible, so I have no especially pressing reason to put it down.
The protagonists are always male. Always always. Unless they're fragile, perfect princesses with names like Elvalinea.
A few years ago, I bought David Brin's Brightness Reef because there was a chick on the cover. The interesting parts are told from the boy alien's viewpoint. I don't really remember her, but I think the chick is a sort-of scientist who exists mostly to have sex with the male human scientist and be sparkly-happy intuitive ala` Deanna Troi. Which ended up not bothering me, because the boy alien's psychology was actually sort of alien, so it was very cool.
Why must I love the genres that treat women like wrapping paper and condoms? *Headdesk.*
I think I'll go write about Her for a few hundred words, pretend that means something.
Also, I have a massive headache. It can't be a hangover. People SWEAR to me that hangovers make you wish you were dead, and I'm just mildly irritated. Ergo.
