Sometimes I dream entire episodes of shows or movies. The narratives are actually cohesive, even if the events are not consistent with the “rules” of the show.
I dreamed an episode of Sherlock. While it broke the mostly real-world feel of Sherlock, it still worked.
Then, in my dream, Stephen Moffat announced that Sherlock was really Dr. Who, and always had been. I was disappointed, but while I was still dreaming, thing about this that made me the saltiest wasn’t that Sherlock wasn’t Sherlock, it was that all the music changed from Michael Price’s fantastic, moody compositions* to synthy Dr. Who TARDIS materializing noises.
Don’t you touch my jangly adventure theme or Watson moody cab ride piano notes.
*Price co-produced the music on The Iron Giant, and composed the scores for Hott Fuzz and Nanny McPhee. So much nerd happiness, here.
Possible Totally gonna be Steven Universe spoilers after the cut!
[image: cartoony pink lion leaping]
Someone spreads that dust around.
Inspired by the art of Mariah McCourt. Her Patreon.
I’ve been a comics pro for thirty years now, and watched many companies come and go. A lot of the companies that went had one or both of these things in common: they either didn’t pay their bills, or they insisted that the road to respect was papered with a contract that required a creator give up most or all rights.
I’m writing about this today because of this story: “Billionaire” Trump Can’t Pay His Transition Team’s Salaries.”
Good ol’ Orange Dictator has a habit of not paying for things. He’s ripped off countless small businesses, refused to pay the caterer for one of his weddings, and so on. And he’s about to be president of the United States. (#notmypresident)
If one of the most visible people on the planet is crappy about paying his bills and treating small business owners like vending machines he can shake for a free soda, why would a comics company no one outside of comics has heard of worry about paying a creator or giving them a fair deal? OD’s transition team was well aware of his habit of not paying, they just thought he didn’t dare to not pay them.
Don’t kid yourself that you have the magic or the pull to get paid or get a good deal from a unscrupulous publisher. Don’t assume that yours will be the property a crum-bum executive won’t exploit.
While bad apples in comics aren’t easily identified by having orange skin and flapping yellow hairpiece, your gut should be a reasonable guide. If it sounds to good to be true, it is. If a company keeps going out of business and coming back, there’s trouble. If you find yourself casting about for a “second-best” idea to pitch to a company, you don’t trust them. Run away. Orange skin and bad feelings are how nature says Do Not Touch.
I encountered some serious concrete at the Reseda, CA @starbucks drive thru, because I was running to get the plate # of an SUV whose driver had stolen from the tip jar. They just casually boosted it as they pulled away.
I wrestled out of my seat belt, and took three steps before I fell, hit my shoulder on a pole, landed on both knees, and jammed my left leg. (I think now it may be that my left hamstring gave out.) I started crying from pain and frustration, sent David after the SUV to get the plate numbers when he got out of the car to help me. (He couldn’t catch it.)
The #Starbucks employees (and the people behind us) did…not a damn thing. The barista (Krystina) and three shift supervisors (Damian, Marian, and Kevin O) knew (husband and I went inside to talk to them) I was down on the curb and crying and elected to do nothing to help because of “sketchy” (Damian’s word) people in the neighborhood. We were dressed for a party, we didn’t look remotely dangerous, poor, ill, or whatever #sketchy means to shift supers.
David took me to the ER. Every bump of the ride made me cry harder. Ever have a Charley horse, a muscle spasm? Everything from butt and groin to below my knee feels like it’s twisted together in an over-tight rope.
My wish is that 2017 won’t make us nostalgic for 2016.
(My friend Ivy Ratafia’s birthday cake.)
2016 is the year that said to 1943, “Now you’re really gonna see something.”
I’d be crying about my ideal princess, if I wasn’t so tired, in front of other people, and overwhelmed.
I was called “Princess Lea” in high school, and I owned it. Leia was a badass teenage princess. She dragged Vader, lied like a carpet to Grand Moff Tarkin, blasted her way out of jail, rescued men (the Sulk is Strong with the Skywalker males LUKE, KYLO), and beat bad guys. Then Leia became an admirable general; tough, careworn, kind, and grieving. Leia’s journey, Carrie Fisher’s journey, has see-sawed from young and addled (Carrie Fisher was addled, not Princess Leia) to fierce and wise, and giving no fucks about men bitching that she wasn’t a kid anymore.
Carrie Fisher could write, too, true and funny stories. My best friend Lisa read me all of Wishful Drinking in a marathon phone call because once she started, she couldn’t stop reading it, and I kept asking for another chapter until the last page.
I understand Carrie Fisher’s and the Princess/Admiral life arc so well. Any girl who grew up alongside them does.