Presently, the city buses have a thing printed in big letters on their sides saying something to the purpose of, “Give us your input on the city bus system! futureofregionaltransit.com!” I would really like to have bus stops somewhere closer to my house than two miles so that I could, you know, actually use the bus system sometimes maybe, so I went to the URL in question. And what did I see? “The requested page could not be found!” So I guess that’s the future of regional transit. No big surprise there.
I’m reading Moby Dick for the first time, and it may be the most unintentionally gay book I have ever encountered. I just got to the part where he’s talking about the amazing wonderful sperm that makes everything in the world awesome, and holding hands with his shipmates and gazing lovingly into their eyes.
And, seriously, Ishmael and Queequeg? There’s a certain type of proprietary language that can come across either as patronizing and objectifying, or as romantic… OK, well, sometimes even in the romantic instances it’s also patronizing and objectifying, because it’s a possessive style of speaking; it depends on the context, the dynamic between the two people. In this context, it sounds either racist or gay, and since one of these things is just the tiniest bit preferable to the other, I’m pretty well just reading this book as if there’s a canonical romantic relationship between those two. It doesn’t help that it’s mentioned twice that they’re married.
And speaking of racism… well, it was published in 1851, so I was braced for quite a bit, but I’ve found the treatment of the non-white characters to be an odd mix of the bullshit I expected and some unexpectedly not-as-assholish-as-they-could-be attitudes. I mean, it’s still racist as hell, but there have been several moments when I was impressed with Melville for being something less of an unforgivable brute than his contemporaries.
Also, there’s the word “dick.” Every time I hear it, I am biologically compelled to say, “dicky dicky dick dick.” It’s a sort of twitch, really. But enough about Moby Dick (dicky dicky dick dick).
I dreamed that Lestrade came to my house to pick me up to go solve a crime with him and Zombie Girl (whom we were to meet at a mall). This was Sherlock Lestrade, he of the gorgeous hair.
And speaking of Sherlock, I also dreamed that Benedict Cumberbatch was a prince (or possibly just playing a prince; the dream wasn’t very clear) in a nation opposed to mine (or at least opposed to the nation I was working for; I had a distinct mercenary feel about me in this dream). I was a badass fireball-thrower and stabber, and I was fighting against Prince Benedict or whoever he was and his forces. But then I realized that he and his forces were just a decoy to keep me and my fireballs and my stabbing busy while his father the king wrought havoc amongst my allies elsewhere.
So I ran to help my allies and defeated (perhaps even killed) the king. Then Prince Benedict went to prison. For some reason, I felt like I had to see him in prison in order to have some kind of closure that I needed after this event. But my nation didn’t want me to see him in prison, so they’d put him in a secluded prison and not told me where it was.
I managed to weasel the general location out of this one gal, but she was loath to give me more details. So I went looking on my own. I was having a hard time finding the place, but I knew that Benedict always took part in the play the prison put on, so if I just went to the play I was sure to see him. There was some hint that he might have escaped before I managed to see him in prison, but I never did find him or discover what happened before I woke up. Ah, well.
Pretty sure that’s all I have to say.