unreleased rant diluted by ennui; nuts at work; H. back in town

[fflo]

Started this week already behind here at work---and that may be part of the reason I haven't gotten around to raging against the piece-o'-crap Super Size Me. Though even by the end of the film Sunday night my pique had already largely subsided. It did most everything fat-phobic I'd feared it would do (and a little I hadn't anticipated), plus its "experiment" was badly executed (and sans even pseudo-scientific control). But I'd have had a personal antipathy for the guy even if he hadn't pissed me off with the moviemaking, just from his classic redneck moustache style and proudly-displayed fraternity paddle. So maybe I'll spare ya'll the invective about the dozens of decapitated "anonymous" bodies demonstrating fatness, and the horrid sequence surrounding one guy's stomach-mutilation surgery, and other vile bile of that ilk.

Had a phone message from H., who is back in town. Of course that comes during a crazy busy week for me.

Comments

P.S. Re: the lividity

[fflo.livejournal.com]

I'm not shy about old stories or poems or songs, except the ones I don't like myself any more. Don't know where a copy of that story would be, though.

It wasn't brilliantly executed or anything. But I do think it hung back a little, which is tricky for a young writer. Didn't overtell itself. Someone accused my narrator of being precocious, cuz she thought and spoke in complicated sentences for a girl her age, but some young people do that, you know? Not all children are childish, most particularly the freaks---those who stand out for something, like, say, being a tomboy and prototypical feminist gender rebel.

Besides, it's sort of a literary conceit anyway---the straightforward philosophical assertion of the relative innocent.