I wish there was a way to order the original Star Wars trilogy to my own personal specifications. Episode IV was on tonight and as always, I found myself cringing at the part where Han has been edited out of shooting first. Granted, I rather like Han Solo as a practical, Wild West-type gunslinger who knows when to shoot scum-of-the-earth bounty hunters rather than get himself killed, but I think I could get behind the whole self-defense thing if it didn't look so damn stupid.

And then there's that whole editing the end of Return of the Jedi so Anakin looks like Hayden Christensen. Unlike most people I know, I actually don't mind the new end sequence---or even the new end sequence music---but replacing the Sebastian Shaw face only forces me to recall the dark times of Star Wars. And considering how much effort I've expended trying to expunge the prequels from my awareness, that seems a cruel way to end an Ewok party.

So, George Lucas, is it too much to ask that your audience be allowed to pick and choose the pieces of the three different editions you've released? Because I've been doing it myself, and in addition to being a little hard to explain, shifting back and forth between DVD and VHS just so I don't have to watch those aggravating bits is exhausting.

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Why is it that the people in science fiction movies/shows never seem to have watched any science fiction movies/shows? I don't buy for a minute that these super smart scientist types aren't super geeky science fiction fans. Which isn't to say that science fiction would have all the answers for them, but wouldn't they make a few references to that time in that show when the spaceship used the sun to recharge itself? And a handful of Han Solo and Captain Jean-Luc Picard jokes would do wonders for crew morale. Like that time in Stargate: SG-1 when Daniel Jackson introduced himself to the aliens as "Olo...Hans Olo." Who couldn't laugh in the face of danger after hearing that?

I think I need to hide away from the internet for the next week. In the past few days, I seem to have morphed into an internet klutz...but I can't tell if that's hormone-induced paranoia or an actual foot-in-virtual-mouth disorder. Maybe both? In any case, it's causing some serious angst on my part---which probably *is* hormone-induced, alas. Can I just pull reality over my head and wake up in two weeks or so?

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To take my mind off the lamentable fact that I'm currently being stamped as Queen Elizabeth I at princesse_stamp---because in what universe am I most like Queen Elizabeth I?!---I've been pondering who I would cast in a production of Pride and Prejudice. As an added challenge, I'm trying to find actors whose ages are as close to the characters' ages as possible.

So far, I'm liking Holliday Grainger for Elizabeth and Carey Mulligan for Jane, but I'm not sure who I'd cast for Darcy...or Lydia. Any thoughts? Suggestions? Vehement objections?

My coworker has been reading Jon Krakauer's Into the Wild these past two weeks or so, and in preparation for the book club discussion she'll be leading tonight, we've been engaging in a mini discussion of our own. Without getting into all that I feel and think about Chris McCandless---I've been doing more than enough of that lately---part of me can't help but ponder the role his own words have played in our understanding of his character.

What would people think of me, I wonder, if the only evidence of my self was to be found in journal entries, short stories, school essays, emails and letters? I love the challenge of presenting myself in words, and I'm very good at it, but so much of my writing is tied to a moment, an emotion or a thought that for all its power is nonetheless fleeting. How would anyone know which moments to emphasize? Which ones are representative of the truth of my essential self? And would anyone read those writings and believe they mask that truth rather than reveal it, written perhaps to reassure myself that I'm worthy of my own good opinion?

I highly doubt I'll ever be the subject of such intense study---and considering how Chris McCandless came to be so, I can only be grateful for that---but it's rather entertaining to project myself into a future biographer's shoes and try to see myself between the lines of the words I've left behind.

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Because I can't help wondering just what an external, arbitrarily designed entity has to say about my life:

This Is My Life, Rated
Life:	7
Mind:	7.1
Body:	7.7
Spirit:	8.3
Friends/Family:	5
Love:	0
Finance:	7.7
Take the Rate My Life Quiz

I'm not quite sure what to think about this. On the one hand, I rank higher than my age group on everything but love, so go me! But on the other hand, my favorite number is seven, and I'm just superstitious enough to wonder if I've reached my cosmic balance. Does this mean that if I want to improve my love life, I have to contract a terminal disease or lose my mind or make a really, really bad investment? Bother.

I think I have more or less come to the conclusion that adding the suffix "-splosion" to the end of any one-syllable noun results in hilarity. GOREsplosion! FURsplosion! FENCEsplosion! WATCHsplosion!

Okay, so adding "-splosion" to the end of any one-syllable noun *except* "watch" results in hilarity.

This is a little cryptic, for which I apologize. But do you ever meet people who are so...lost and screwed up, I guess...that your heart hurts for them? I guess everyone is a little lost from someone else's perspective, but some people are so raw all the time that I have to wonder if they even see the world through all their glowing red self. Do they wish to exist in that hurt? Do they ever grow out of it? I have to admit that I don't generally feel the desire to fix them---that's their choice, their responsibility---but they pulse so fiercely with their pain, anger, fear that I wish I could show them how I see the world. Or at least smother them in aloe for a while.

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Does anyone have any science fiction or horror recommendations? I'm trying to broaden my experience with both genres, but there are so many titles out there that I have no idea where to start. And since I'm not much of an Arthur C. Clarke type scifi reader or an H.P. Lovecraft type horror reader, I'm a little wary of the recommendation lists I've discovered online.

I like smart fiction, but I also really like character development and more of a poetic or philosophical touch to the story-telling. Past scifi loves include A Clockwork Orange, Dune, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, The Martian Chronicles, Mojave Wells, Impossible Things, Alas, Babylon, and A Princess of Mars. Past horror loves include A Certain Slant of Light, The Monk, I Am Legend, Dark Ladies, and Dracula. Any suggestions along those lines?

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Apparently, there's a program that can be installed on a cell phone that allows it to be turned on---that is, connected to---remotely without giving any indication that it's on. This sort of thing is used frequently in cutthroat corporate situations in order to gain information. Not so much information on Super Secret Projects, but more information on a company's employees so that said employees can be enticed away from their current company into working for the spying company. This way, the spying company gains talent as well as proprietary knowledge.

Sneaky. And kinda evil.

All of this is to say, anyway, that I received a call today from a number that registered as nothing but zeros. And knowing that this kind of program exists, I'm now feeling a little paranoid that my phone---innocuous as it may appear!---is spying on me. ::eyes phone askance:: If you're listening, phone, to the tappings of my keyboard, know that I suspect! And, uh, if you're not listening...cool. This isn't any weirder than any number of other entries I've posted.

But I'm watching you....

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I have no attention span tonight, despite all attempts to the contrary. I've watched a couple episodes of Eureka, dabbled through some of the short stories in the second half of I Am Legend, located a few Bones fanfics to read...sometime soon...maybe. But really I've been making endless rounds at various blogs and social networking sites, wondering if anyone else is just sitting around waiting for the meteor shower to start.

And, lo! And, behold! I have stumbled upon a rather amusing nothing. Gakked from sunlitdays, because haven't you ever wondered...( Who comments the most on this journal? )

The results are kind of interesting, actually. I would've guessed the first, of course, but I'm not sure how I would've ranked all the others.

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I had the most beautiful dreams about beaches last night. There were other things involved, of course---an aspiring journalist, learning to make fried rice, a small, curious town, secret love---but what's stayed with me most clearly are the beaches.

I'm not even sure I can describe them. The sand, champagne pale, was so soft, pillowed in gentle dunes and easing flat to meet the water. The water was warm and welcoming, vast, almost still in places, roaring in high and playful waves at others. The sky was a cap of silken cloud, the sunlight diffuse, occasionally slanting through in flashes at the horizon. And everything seemed shaded through a perpetual sunset---opalescent with the softest peaches and pinks, shadowed in faint brushes of violet and blue.

I know that if all beaches were truly this way, I'd come to miss their unpredictability, the sharpness of noon sun and the play of cloud and color on the water, but just once I'd like to walk as my waking self on one of these dream beaches.

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I was in a meme sort of mood this afternoon, and decided to indulge in one of the memes that's conveniently making the rounds at Facebook. For those in the Facebook know, it's that one-artist-answer-all-the-questions meme ( ...if you can stand to read just one more! )

Hmm...I'm a little astounded that I didn't use my favorite song---Stars---to answer any of these.

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Time now for another installment of Kim Pretends She Can Dance!

I was watching videos of last year's So You Think You Can Dance and felt inspired to try my feet at some of their moves. Since I possess not even a fraction of their strength, training, or flexibility, that really just meant stepping into my ancient dance shoes and shimmying around my living room.

I do occasionally wonder, though, what would've happened if I'd been taking dance classes since I was small. I don't think I have the kinesthetic talent that the truly great dancers possess, but I love to dance, and I don't believe there's anything in my body or my mind that would've kept me from at least becoming a really good dancer. Sigh. If only.

Of course, I know I can still take dance classes, but it would've been much easier to do so when my parents were footing the bill. (So to speak.) ...Or when I could expect my dance classes to consist of students more or less my own age.

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Actual library conversation: ( Really? Really. )

[The previous may have been unduly inspired by cleolinda's recap of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Alas, my life does not lend itself nearly so well to script formatting and/or hysterically funny asides.]

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Is it just me or has the rule "deaths come in threes" turned into "deaths come in waltzes"? Seriously. I've been counting deaths in 1-2-3s for something like three or four times now: 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3....

My parents and I have spent the last 45 minutes or so watching sad songs on YouTube and trying not to crying. It's all my fault, I guess, since I started the discussion---five hours ago---about the challenge of creating art while fearing what others expect of you. This reminded my father of a song he couldn't quite remember about a small-town singer who is crushed by the critics. And since my family is...well, my family...this meant that for the next four hours---amid other discussions and entertainments---we attempted to discover the title and artist of the song.

After much googling and gnashing of teeth, we stumbled on "Mr Tanner" by Harry Chapin. Which we watched. And cried over. And that led us to a few more Harry Chapin songs, including "Taxi", which in turn led us to "Same Old Lang Syne" by Dan Fogelberg. Which we watched. And cried over. And the loss of that great talent reminded me of another similar loss. Enter "A Boy and His Frog" by filkertom. Which we watched. And *sobbed* over. After that, there was only one thing to do: we watched the Jim Henson memorial medley. Which actually cheered us up. Considerably.

Never a dull moment in my parents' house, I tell you.

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I just started watching season 3 of BBC's Robin Hood, and I can't help pondering who I would be in the Robin Hood world. This is not so much a desire to Mary Sue myself as it is a not-so-idle curiosity about the sort of person I would've been in that environment. Would I be lady or peasant? Scholar, homebody, or warrior? How would I feel about the state of England---or would I care at all?

After an enormously entertaining conversation with my dad and Elessar this past weekend, I know I'd be an archer, should I choose to take up arms against the Sheriff of Nottingham. And I suspect, considering my reluctance to be helpless without a bow, that I'd probably be pretty skilled at sticking people with daggers.

I am such a writer....

Anyone else want to ponder with me? Create a Robin Hood alter-ego?

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I can't believe how good Burn Notice is. Every time I think the show reaches a pinnacle of awesomeness, it surpasses itself. And Jeffrey Donovan...dude, it was worth losing you on Touching Evil to watch you kick ass in/as this role.

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I am pondering the quandry that is women's undergarments. ( And so I cut for too much information...and possible vulgarity? )

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