In Which Blue Is Tripped Up By Her Own Assumptions, But Still Wholeheartedly Supports Barack Obama

I was all set to write a post about how, even if you thought Obama was inexperienced or overidealistic, you should still vote for him because he would be the most likely to increase diversity in the executive branch.

I was going to link it to my post on color-blind casting, to wit:

The reason (I believe) that directors so often cast only a "minority" (pun intended) of non-white actors in performances, even in performances intended to be color-blind, seems correlated in some way with the way the director has experienced people "of color" in his/her own life. That is to say, if a director does not already have significant personal relationships with a diverse group of people, the director is less likely to give significant stage time to a diverse group of people.

and note that Obama would be the candidate guaranteed not to view "white" as the "default" color of humankind and thus save us from a government where the automatic assumption is that decisions are made by white people for white people.

I was going to close with the clincher; that increased diversity in Washington can only benefit the country, and that even if Obama himself is "inexperienced," he's likely to surround himself with smart people who can help him.

Just think about how much help Bush gets (and then think of how many of them have resigned/been removed from their positions for misconduct), and imagine it instead with Obama and his team of more awesome.

Then I did some research.

Do you know who currently has the most diverse campaign staff?

Hillary.

Obama's not even second. He's third.

(This graph appears on many news aggregators and blogs; I took it from Feministing.)

What's an Obamaniac to do?

Cold, Part II

The pipes in my apartment are frozen, and neither I nor my downstairs neighbors have any running water.

Indefinitely.

Can't even make myself a cup of tea to commiserate.

Also it's cold. Really, really cold.

(I do have a space heater, which extends heat in a five-inch radius. I sit and hug it.)

Sigh.

w00t Caucuses!

I am just so excited about what happened in Iowa.

My mental iPod keeps playing John Linnell's "Iowa" over and over....

Iowa is a witch, she's a witch, she's a witch!

Also, Obamania rules. ^__^

Oh. My. Ceiling Cat.

When I was in undergrad, the coolest website going around was... well, okay, it was Homestar Runner, but the second coolest was the Brick Testament.


The Gospel according to Lego.

Now those zany Bible-interpreters have taken it a step further -- a revised Revised Standard Version, if you will.

May I present to you: The Bible, As Written By Lolcats.

1 Oh hai. In teh beginnin Ceiling Cat maded teh skiez An da Urfs, but he did not eated dem.

2 Da Urfs no had shapez An haded dark face, An Ceiling Cat rode invisible bike over teh waterz.

3 At start, no has lyte. An Ceiling Cat sayz, i can haz lite? An lite wuz.4 An Ceiling Cat sawed teh lite, to seez stuffs, An splitted teh lite from dark but taht wuz ok cuz kittehs can see in teh dark An not tripz over nethin.5 An Ceiling Cat sayed light Day An dark no Day. It were FURST!!!1

I'm working my way through this highly entertaining translation, which has the added benefit of reminding me of a few Bible stories I've long forgotten. Favorite quote thus far?

Dey wuz gonna naem him Zechariah,60 but Elizabeth wuz all "STFU we iz callin him John."

I can totally see Elizabeth doing that. She was one righteous d00d. Or d00dette. Or... um... cat.

The Lolcat Bible also has illustrations, so if you want to compare and contrast with the Lego annunciation scene pictured above...

I may have to start praying to Ceiling Cat from now on.

My New Year's Dream

I'm not making a New Year's resolution this year.

There are too many things that have to happen on their own merits (mostly dealing with graduation and post-graduation) for me to have any extra time for additional projects.

I already exercise (nearly) every day, and my food intake seems reasonable. I've also already planned my budget for the next six months, thus negating the need to make a resolution to "save more money."

(Before you all go "ooh, isn't she Little Blue Perfect," consider that I spent New Year's Eve not being kissed. Correlation does not equal causation, of course, but... am not perfect.)

But I do have a New Year's dream.

I'd like to sing somewhere. Jazz standards and Cole Porter. Decent accompanist, pretty dress.

I'd do it for free, and I'm not expecting to be "discovered" by the experience. It's just something I've wanted to do for a long time.

Unfortunately, there aren't any open mic nights at any of the bars in my current location (nor are the bars well-equipped to handle Cole Porter). There are pretty good odds that I will find myself relocating this summer, however. Perhaps in different environs the opportunity will find a way to present itself.

If all else fails, I could try the whole Secret thing again. "I will sing at an open mic night. I am singing at open mic night. I love singing at open mic night!"

('ll keep you posted on how that one turns out.)

But, as they say, stating the dream aloud is the first step. So... now it's stated, and we'll see what happens.

Cold

It was too cold to sleep last night.

For a while I tried abandoning all frugality and cranking up the thermostat, but the drafts from my charmingly antique apartment blew out the warmth the way a kid might blow out a birthday candle.

So I turned the thermostat down again (no point in paying for heat one can't feel, not to mention the associated energy costs), and huddled in bed, layered like a baklava, wearing both slippers and earmuffs.

And, trying not to freeze, I suddenly thought of Coco.

I hadn't really thought about Coco DeLaurente since I posted on my "ten-year bookiversary;" but there she was, her grubby figure planted in my brain.

"Just imagine you're Coco. This is how Coco feels."

Coco was the fifteen-year-old heroine (and alter-ego) of my adolescent novel The Red Book of Cordia. She was, at the time, everything I wasn't, including impoverished, wily, mobile (she travels through three Cordian principalities -- Nelcordia, Wrylan Dos, and Eilcavert -- in the space of six months, while I paced the streets of my tiny hometown), and, of course, orphaned. These kind of protagonists generally are.

At the time, when my winter bedroom got even the slightest bit chilly, I would think to myself "this is how Coco feels, in her unheated room at the Waverly Home for Neglected Girls; remember it, so you can write it down effectively."

Now, in an apartment so cold that the air sliced through my face with every breath, the memory re-emerged and I had to laugh.

But it put me in mind of the other games I played, when I was young, starting with the ever popular "what would [name of character in The Red Book of Cordia] do in this situation?" I think I mentally ran every major decision in high school past the handful of primary characters in my novel, and usually decided to do whatever Tiva Shirala did, as she was the character that seemed to have the most sense. (Coco, in this case, was much too impulsive and emotional; plus she lacked life experience.)

Then my mind jumped me back five years and I remembered myself, following my parents through endless grocery stores and Home Depots, playing the game "if I had to use my ears only (a nicer way of saying "if I were blind," although that's exactly how I thought of it at the time), what would I be able to discover about where I was and what was around me?"

I also played math games, imagining I was given only $10 and had to purchase ingredients for a meal for X number of people (another situation that has become all too true in reality). One afternoon I trailed my parents through the grocery store and counted every occurrence of the word "real," as in "Real Cheese!" or "Real Fruit Flavor!"

Then an even older memory popped up, one so ludicrous that I could hardly believe I once imagined it. Little Blue, probably around fourth grade, in church and taking Communion... and imagining, the entire time, that she was a female version of Oliver Twist and the pastor was the cook, handing out tiny pieces of food.

So -- Team Readers -- own up. What kind of pretend games did you play when you were younger? Were they quite this bizarre, or is there a closet fraternity of secret imaginers out there?

Oh -- and what can I do to make my apartment less cold?

Pretty Blue's Diary: 2008 Edition

Tuesday 1 January

118 lbs (dear heavens), chocolate units 2 (emptied the Christmas Godiva box), calories 700 (approx. -- peas are one of those dangerous high caloric vegetables, I believe).

Food Consumed Today:

1 cup coffee
Three-egg omelette w/4 oz. frozen peas, ground chilis
One mint-filled chocolate
One coconut-filled chocolate

Two p.m. Snowed in: my flat. Ugh. The last thing on earth I feel physically, mentally, or emotionally equipped to do is to spend another day indoors with my cat. First day of New Year has been day of boredom. Already scoured countertops, using combination of cleaning agents found underneath the sink (do cleaning agents expire? must check...), this time actually scrubbing at stove burners, etc. instead of giving general once-over swipe for removal of crumbs and appearance of cleanliness.

Wish dratted snow would stop. Can see car from window, or rather outline of car as if car were car-shaped snowman. Snow has also downed telly reception, ensuring limit of channels to one fuzzy sports game of something-or-another.

What I wouldn't give to be at a turkey curry buffet right now.