It’s Saturday night and I just submitted a paper to Shakespeare Quarterly. That’s like the big, head honcho of Shakespearean academic journals. It won’t get accepted, but you have to submit if you’re ever going to get one accepted so that’s that. The important thing about all of this is that it’s Saturday night and I’m working on Shakespeare stuff. How lame is that? I mean really--how lame am I?

To add to the lamitude of my life and this post, I’ve wanted to write something for awhile, but have had absolutely nothing to say. I think that also speaks to my general lack of worth to the world at the moment. I’ve searched, honest I have, but I like Obama, and I like most of the movies I’ve seen, and nobody actually cares about Shakespeare, even the Shakespeare nerds. Well, some of them do, but they don’t count cause they’re even lamer than I am.

So where does that leave us? I’ve been watching G.I. Joe--which is awesome! And, yeah. That cartoon is a bit goofy, has anyone else noticed this? I didn’t realize it until I started watching it again, but it’s just so darn silly at times. Cobra isn’t just a terrorist organization, but some weird sci-fi, mad scientist, fundamentalist, crazy group. It’s pretty sweet. And then there’s Zartan. See picture provided for your enjoyment.

Do you see the abs peeking out from under the shirt there? What bad guy wears a shirt that only comes down to just above the belly button? How do you get scared of a bad guy dressed like that? And is he attacking because he’s evil or because he doesn’t like your hair? These are important questions to answer before I accept the validity of the G.I. Joe mythos.

Finally, there is the very important issue of neither G.I. Joe nor Cobra being able to shoot ANYTHING. Seriously, anything. Now, I’m sure that’s directly related to no one dying in the cartoon ever--people are jumping out of helicopters for goodness’ sakes and something clearing the propellers and pulling their rip cord. Frankly, it’s impressive. But I think the cartoon could have allowed for flesh wounds at least. I mean, this is supposed to be America’s elite special forces group and they can’t hit anything. It’s embarrassing really. And Cobra, this dread terrorist organization, is more comedic than scary.

There really is no question why I’ve grown up with absolutely no respect for bad guys. I had examples like Cobra Commander and there’s nothing to be scared of there except a headache from his screechy voice. Which sends me off on another tangent. What does Cobra Commander sound like during sex? It’s a valid question. Does his voice get higher because I can’t imagine anyone else could reach orgasm while listening to that in their ear. Does it get more snake like? Cause that’s not hot. I have no justification for my yearning to know what Cobra Commander sounds like during sex. I just want you to know that I know that.

So that’s all I’ve got. Some G.I. Joe musings, acknowledgment of Shakespeare offering nothing meaningful to my life and an acute awareness of my Saturday night’s lacking in…well…anything. I think I’ll write a trashy romance novel.

I just saw Taken, but before I get into that let’s go back sixteen hours to the start of my day.

I woke up in a rage this morning. You probably think that’s hyperbole, but it’s not. There was rage in me when I opened my eyes at 7:45 am. There was rage--red hazed, bloodthirsty, violent rage--because there are roofers that pick what appear to be only my days off to roof our apartment. They don’t do it on Tuesday or Thursday when I’m up early. They don’t do it Friday when I’m kind of up early. They do it Monday, Wednesday, or sometimes Saturday when I’m attempting to sleep until the crack of the afternoon.

And, it’s worth noting, that roofing is not a quiet activity. Literally, it sounds like a morbidly obese person, or perhaps Godzilla, is doing up-downs on my roof. Sometimes the smell of tar leaks in to make things that much more pleasant. What’s even better is we don’t know when they’re going to do it because no one tells us so I’ve developed a small case of PTSD. The first time it happened for example I thought someone was being MURDERED above me. Again--there’s no hyperbole here.

So I get up. One can’t sleep through the apocalypse, after all, and I go about my day. I discover in the course of my day that Folger’s coffee gives me diarrhea and I’ve started to manifest physical symptoms of stress. We’re off to a great start here. My day gets better though through good company, dinner, and going to see Taken.

It’s a good movie, I recommend it to those that aren’t bothered by human trafficking. But as I watched this movie I found it was difficult to be entertained because it was simply to real. No one watches Roadhouse, for example, and feels bad for the people of the town because drug lords are actually ruining their bar. But young girls actually are being kidnapped and sold into slavery as prostitutes and a movie about it, even with Liam Neeson being oh so very, well, Liam Neeson, is good but not exactly entertaining. Mostly I just sat there and felt horrendously bad for all the women that won’t be saved by dads that kick serious ass.

But then I had another thought. It’s a selfish one to be sure, and perhaps not everyone will see the humor, but I find it one of those slightly morbid thoughts that is funny because it’s true. I’m glad I’m fat. Really, seriously glad. Why am I glad when I have diabetes, joint problems, and possible enforced celibacy to look forward to? Because my very unattractiveness means that no one is going to kidnap me and sell me into human trafficking. Yes, there are people with fat girl fetishes out there, but most of them are poor and my chances are so small as to be infinitesimal.

Now, the downside is that in the event of an apocalypse people are totally going to try and kill and eat me first, but I’m prepared to kill them before they get the chance so almost all my bases are covered.

So here’s to fat girls: we’re hard to kidnap and nobody wants to pay to have sex with us.

It’s funny cause it’s true. I swear.

Let’s have a discussion about incest. I’m talking about incest in books and movies not real life, of course, but we should probably be clear about that. I recently read a book--it was a good book. It was a fun book. It was an adventure book. It was a romance book. It was an incestuous book. I’m sure you can understand why I felt unfulfilled.

Let’s look at this situation logically:
Premise 1: Incest is not hot.
Premise 2: Stories of typical romance and love should be hot.
Premise 3: Once you fantasize about someone as evidenced in premise 2, you will be unable or at least find it very difficult, to think of that person in a familial and non-incestuous manner.
Conclusion: If you are going to write a book and market it as a typical romance/adventure story there should be a disclaimer like: CONTAINS INCEST WITH INTENTION TO PROCREATE.

That’s all I’m saying.

This book, which I will only reveal the title to in private conversations with those that don’t want to stumble across it on accident because I don’t want to ruin it for everyone, should have been a great read. Girl living in the real world thinking she’s all normal. Finds supernatural boy and they end up in a whirlwind adventure accompanied by her best friend who actually is all normal and loves her, though she obviously doesn’t love him. I say obviously because everything about this book is formulaic. The best friend loves her, but she’s not normal so she can’t return his love; the supernatural boy, on the other hand, is cold and tough and when he loves her she absolutely returns his love. Unfortunately, the supernatural boy is her brother (so we think).

I was so angry at the end of this book that I screamed (screamed) from the couch. I warned my roommate leading up to this moment that violence might occur if the book ended the way it appeared. My powers of foreshadowing, honed through years of English major experience, served me well--we were still a few chapters away when I caught the scent of possible incest, but I kept going. I persevered because I thought, “Surely I’m wrong. Surely this isn’t the way it’s going to be.” But, when all was said and done the book only replied, “Screw you. And don’t call me Shirley.”

Now, some of you are no doubt imagining Luke and Leia, and the author does attempt to draw some analogy between the two. Look, I imagine her saying, Leia kisses Luke and it isn’t freaky because they didn’t know. To her I reply: see above. Leia did not kiss Luke with intent to procreate. Luke has, at most, a schoolboy crush on Leia in a New Hope. By Empire she and Han are fairly dancing around each other and Leia’s decision to kiss Luke is so without heat or sexual intent as to be laughable. To compare a nearly realized young sexual relationship to Luke and Leia is a false analogy in an attempt to justify an egregious abuse of incestuous plotlines.

I feel cheated, abused, and dirty. If I’m expected to relate to the heroine and she’s expected to fall in love with the supernatural boy then said supernatural boy better not be related to her because then I feel like I’ve fallen in love with my brother. And that’s something that I, he, and his wife would all have an issue with I’m sure.

It’s like this book is a skeezy uncle who sat my young mind on his lap so as to better grope me. And now I have to read the sequel. I hate everything.

I just finished one of those "books." You know the type; the kind that makes you look at the world a little wonky and think about what it means to exist. I don't know why I do this to myself either. Oddly enough, I've simultaneously discovered young adult fiction and so have started to raid bookstores for teen sci-fi/fantasy/horror/love stories that read quick and easy. Welcome to the many facets of me.

On the one hand I wish to discuss The Book (that's actually it's title, I'm not being facetious). On the other hand I'm not entirely sure I have thought through what I just read enough to share those thoughts in any sort of meaningful manner. Compile that with my continued readings of Aristotle and Cicero and you see my current philosophical dilemma.

I think I've settled on the topic of mistakes for this particular musing. I, like most everyone else I would imagine, do my best to never mess up. Sometimes my best is tremendous and sometimes my best seems more like a specific effort to mess up, but none-the-less I try my best to never mess up. Recently, though, I've had a thought about that. I have to mess up. I don't mean have to in the sense that nobody's perfect and thus all will mess up at some point to differing degrees, but that if I don't mess up, then I never have a comparison against which to judge my behavior.

There are other people certainly, and for many mistakes I am more than happy to look at someone else and see that I need never experience a particular mistake or moral/ethical error, but if I am the person I imagine I should be everyday in every way I imagine I should be then I will forget why I should be that person, what it means to be that person, or the value in being that person.

Here now it sounds like I am excusing my mistakes--I'm not. I was recently involved in a spectacular debate over The Philadelphia Story because I felt the father never accepted responsibility for his actions and the movie forgave that. My point is more that I cannot be good if I am not, in some capacity, bad. That statement too is loaded, and it simply reeks of perversion into rationalization for any number of heinous behaviors, but I feel it is worth the risk to examine the necessity of my own failings. Not the morality or immorality, but necessity. The trick is keeping the two separate and not confusing the one for the other.

A couple of years ago while discussing V for Vendetta my friend came up with the question, "can something be necessary and unethical?" This, along with four other questions, we put to our classes and I reasoned for myself that if something were necessary it must be ethical and if it were unethical that there must be another way. It seemed to me that ethics, being the more malleable of the two, must be the category to shift. I can say it is unethical to kill another person, but if that person is going to kill me then I must kill them to survive. My actions of self-defense there become ethical because they were necessary and so the ethics of killing are more malleable than the necessity of self-defense. All of that is to explain that I think, perhaps, I have shifted my stance. I think, perhaps, that something can be necessary but still unethical. And that's very, very tricky.

This is dangerous, much like saying I need my mistakes, because every time I engage in an unethical or immoral behavior I can claim it is necessary. As in The Philadelphia Story, a husband who cheats on his wife and absolves himself of guilt by saying it was necessary he seek comfort elsewhere so that he can stay with her in the long run. His philandering then, to quote the movie, has nothing to do with her and he is, therefore, absolved. But accepting/recognizing necessity is separate from guilt and I think guilt might be key. If you can see the necessity of your actions and simultaneously recognize their immorality or ethicality then guilt becomes a key signifier of your honesty. How can I not feel bad that I am forced to take an action that isn't right? But there is another dimension there of actual awareness of actions, and justification of actions. To put it simply, how do I know it was actually necessary versus someone arguing it was necessary to absolve him/herself? This is all entirely too circular for a blog.

My point is simply this: in an ongoing awareness of how things relate to each other, I see a necessity for my mistakes that I had previously missed. I am not, however, justifying, rationalizing, or arguing for their rightness in any sort of moral or ethical sense. No doubt someone will only read the first part of that statement and yell at me for justifying my bad behavior. Finally, while I recognize the necessity for my mistakes, I am not at a place yet where I can recognize which mistakes individually are necessary, and which happen through lack of awareness on my part. Sometimes we break our personal moral/ethical code because we must, and sometimes we break it because we can. I cannot state with any assurance (as I'm sure no one else can) that I am at a point where I can tell the difference. But I do, after two years, feel I have a better understanding on necessity and ethicality. At least where V is concerned.

Of course that leaves me with the question, should our ethical and moral codes be reexamined? I'll take that one on after a bottle of wine and let you know how it goes.