Archive for the ‘Weird’ Tag

Bonjour, Mes Blog-Readers

Sunday, September 29th, 2013

Hello to all orange leaves, tumbling softly from autumn trees, hung-up laundry, and people from distant planets.
It’s been a while. I’m sorry. Many things have happened in the past few months, and on top of that I may have… lost my password… so I can only access my blog on my grandparents’ computer due to a confusing series of events, and therefore my blogging is going to be a little stilted in future, unfortunately. Nevertheless, I have NOT disappeared off the face of the planet. I do continue to exist. Probably. I’m going to work on a better blog post to make up for the past months, (hopefully), but for now I will happily direct you to the Youtube channel I’ve recently set up. Find it here. I’ve decided to pursue a career in the art of video gaming. I’m currently uploading the first video (only 3978 minutes left!) and I have no real idea of when it’ll be up, except that it may be next week. Or later.

In other news, the new Arcade Fire is coming out at the end of October, just before my birthday, so you know… If you want to get me something… and also I’m turning sixteen, which I find so weird. Sixteen is one of those landmark ages that everyone always talks about being really special, and it’s the age that about every single teen fantasy character ever is. I don’t think anything particularly exciting is going to happen to me, though. I really want to get my driver’s license, buy one of those 60s style Volkswagen buses, kidnap my friend and ride across the country playing music at little roadside restaurants.
What else? Well, it’s fall again, my favorite time of year. It’s a beautiful day outside, and laundry is hanging in the backyard, blowing slightly in the breeze. Things feel pretty good. I remember when I started this blog I wasn’t doing so well, but that seems like another lifetime. I’m back at school now, and much happier than I’ve been for a pretty long time.
Here’s to things staying this good. Yours truly (and I mean it this time), ~Onceabasementdog


The Dubious Coming of Spring and Softball

Sunday, April 14th, 2013

Hello to all dogs running in excited circles, rocks being thrown at windows, and reindeer standing in backyards.
It’s sort of spring now. Sort of. There’s a two foot high pile of snow in the backyard, but you know. Spring.
I haven’t blogged in a while, because I’m embarrassed about my previous post, where I rambled on about God only knows what for five minutes or so. I THINK I was trying to get across some point about green energy but I’m not even sure anymore. Anyway, I’ve finally faced the embarrassment and here I am, bloggeging again. (That’s definitely how you spell it.) Anyways, a lot of stuff has happened in the last few months, which I’ve neglected to write about– less than a week ago there was a SNOWSTORM, because you know, IT’S SPRING AND EVERYTHING, but the good news is that the sun is melting most of it away and winter seems, finally, to be retreating to let spring take over. There are flowers growing in the yard and squirrels running to and fro. I like spring a lot, because it always feels like you’re waking up from a long cold dream.
This year I’m going to be playing softball. Let it be known that I despise softball. But I’m not even sure if there’s a baseball league for girls my age, or if there is it’s probably not in Canada– and I really wanted to play some sort of game involving a ball and a bat and a baseball field. I settled for softball, and I’m excited. And nervous. I keep having these unfortunate softball dreams to reflect my anxiety– in one I was on a team where everyone else was dead, except me. They were still playing and running around and stuff. Just… they were dead. Last night I had a dream where I forgot to bring my glove to a game and couldn’t find one that fit me; I was forced to put on this tiny pink glove and it didn’t end well.
I think I’ll be all right. I’ve played baseball for five years (with the exception of last year) and I am by no means an awful player.
I’m already all out of words. I’m serious. The words just aren’t flowing today. Maybe I’ll write a poem, and call it a day:

An Ode to Softball

Softball, softball,
A ball large and green
Never such an unsightly thing
Have I ever seen.
Thou art far too big for my hand
And also difficult to throw;
I want a regular baseball
You get me? Y’know?
But alas, there’s no league
For a girl to play baseball,
And I don’t know what rhymes well with baseball
Except maybe, “face stall”.
This year as the spring comes,
And to the diamond all us softball players run
There will be no baseball
And definitely no face stalls.
Whatever a face stall is.

There’s my half-hearted poem. Happy spring. This was a terrible blog post. Don’t hurt me. ~Onceabasementdog

Gregariously Awful Fan Art

Wednesday, January 23rd, 2013

Hello to all fruit trucks passing by (note: obscure music reference), holes in the carpet, catnip mice, and bumps on the ceiling.
Well, it’s yet another ridiculously frigid day here in Onceabasementdogville. I got a call from the people who work in our co-op this morning, and the guy talked to me in French for a few minutes, before I had the chance to tell him I was only understanding twenty percent of what he was saying. What I got from the conversation was, ‘les toilettes sont geles’ and something about the heaters not working. So great. That’s awesome.
Anyway, so as I write this he’s in here poking around looking at the frozen toilets, or whatever.
I was going to talk about gregariously awful fan art. Yes, that’s right.
Well, you see, I draw sometimes. Nothing special. I draw dragons and guys with swords and vests and cool haircuts– I’m no master artist, but I am in some way talented, I do believe. Anyhow, I have an account on Instagram, and DeviantArt. What I find on both sites is that there’s a heckuva lot of fan art. Now what is fan art, exactly? Basically it’s a whole lot of teenagers scribbling out kissing characters from Japanese manga. Sometimes it can be pretty good– other times, it isn’t very good at all. Sometimes it’s so bad I want to run outside in the snow in my bare feet, hit my head against a tree, and scream at nothing in particular.
Like, for instance. The other day I was glancing at fan art for The Kane Chronicles. For no… particular reason. And what did I see? Well, for one, lots of kissing. Shudder. And what else? Lots. Of. ANUBIS.
Who’s Anubis? It’s actually a jackal-headed Egyptian god. But in this age, it’s been reinvented as a very dreamy hero from a kid’s series of books by Rick Riordan, author of Percy Jackson. And he’s SOOO dreamy that all the fourteen and fifteen year old girls just can’t help drawing him and putting him up on fan art sites. And that’s fine. On one level I enjoy staring at endless pictures of a dreamy death god. But on another level, it makes me want to scrape my brains out.
I was going to show you some examples of terrible fan art, but Instagram won’t let me steal its pictures. Jerks.
There’s actually little point to this blog post… in case you haven’t noticed. I feel like I need to vent about how bad fan art can be, and how ridiculous it is that there’s 586 thousand and something pictures of Naruto (a Japanese manga and anime) on Instagram all by, probably, teenagers, and most of them are pretty gregariously awful. The kissing. The KISSING! Yeeeauauuughgghhhhhh…
All right, let me just say this. Let me just– just listen. Okay? Just sit yourself down and listen to this.
In comparison to all those never-ending hordes of hormone-crazed fifteen year old girls, (the Hydes to my Jekyll), I feel oddly superior. I’m probably not, but it feels like it. I’m probably hopelessly conceited. But I don’t spend my time trying to think up the most painfully embarrassing drawing I can possibly create. I have healthier obessions. (I guess.)
My Healthier Obessions:
1. Star Trek: The Next Generation.
2. Collecting books.
3. Arcade Fire.
4. Baseball stats. (Joe Mauer hit .354…)
5. Dreamy death gods.
6. The openings to TV shows. I have the entire Avatar The Last Airbender opening down by heart. Even the punctuation…
‘Long ago, the four nations lived together in peace. Then, everything changed when the Fire Nation attacked. Only the avatar, master of all four elements, could stop them. But when the world needed him most… he vanished. A hundred years passed, and my brother and I discovered the new avatar, an airbender named Aang. Although Aang’s airbending skills are great, he still has a lot to learn before he’s ready to save anyone. But I believe… Aang can save the world.’

Wow, am I off topic or what? I’d better get out of here. ~Onceabasementdog

I Do Like Dragons, However

Saturday, January 5th, 2013

Hello to all bad Bruce Springsteen impersonations, people sitting on record players, diamond dogs, and fifteen year olds shamelessly stuck in the 1980s.

The other day I finally got my record player working IT’S FANTASTIC. We got it from my granddad a long time ago, but I could never figure out how to force it to make sounds. I figured it out, am very proud of myself, and now as I write this I’m listening to Bruce Springsteen. Why? Well, not because I LIKE Bruce Springsteen, but because somebody said the lead singer of Arcade Fire sings like him sometimes and I had to check for myself to see if this was true or not. Actually, Arcade Fire is about a billion and three times better than Bruce Springsteen, but don’t tell Bruce Springsteen I said that.

Anyway, it’s a lonely winter morning, and it’s very sunny and blue and snowy out there. I seem to be suffering from a particularly nasty bout of ADD today, because I keep forgetting what I’m writing about and turning to smile appreciatively at my record player, spinning on. Sometimes I’ve got attention problems, but don’t tell my old teachers, because they definitely never noticed.

So… what was I going to… oh yes, I’m reading this book. It’s called Eragon, and it’s about dragons. And a boy who rides a dragon. And evil sorcerers. While questionably original, it’s not that bad. There were moments when I felt like kicking it out the window, but all in all I’m enjoying it, even though I don’t love it. One of the main characters just died, and that is not cool, because I liked him more than I liked Eragon, whose perspective the book is written in. I don’t actually like Eragon– he’s annoying, and he talks like he’s forty, even though he’s supposed to be fifteen. He also keeps hurting himself. I’m kind of tired of hearing about his agony and slowly healing abrasions and cuts.

I mean, I really like dragons, but. I don’t like this book as much as I hoped I would. Dragons are fun, they’re enormous fire-breathing lizards, what more do you need, but Eragon is just so unoriginal that it grates on my nerves. The cities and towns all have these super-fantasy-style names, like for instance, Uru’baen, Ilia Feon, Doru Araeba, Farthen Dur, Carvahall. I’m sorry, how do I pronounce Uru’baen, exactly, and why must it have an apostrophe? What’s with fantasy names and apostrophes, anyway? Do they put them in there because it sounds foreign and unusual? Okay, I don’t need no apostrophes though, thanks.

I take back my meanness to Bruce Springsteen, that ‘I’m On Fire’ song is really good.

There is nothing else to say. I reccommend you check out Team Hunchback, my other blog, because it’s mildly amusing and pointless and absurd. The link’s in the post under this one. So, now I’ve got to watch my record player adoringly for a few hours.

Yours somewhat sincerely, (BRISINGR!), ~Onceabasementdog.

Impersonating Fictional Characters Is Fun!

Thursday, December 13th, 2012

Hello to all feathers, drifting softly through the sunlit air, coconuts on beaches, and airships caught in hurricanes.

If you’re on an airship caught in a hurricane: first, check to make sure you’re not just a reference of Skybreaker. If you’re not, then try flying above the hurricane into clearer sky. If this is not possible, batton down the hatches, or whatever you do on airships, get ready the parachutes or lifeboats, in case you’re flying over the sea. Send out a distress signal for help. And take a picture while you’re at it– I need stuff to blog about, thanks.

So, it’s a moderately cold Tuesday (or… Wednesday?) here in Onceabasementdogville, and obviously I’m VERY up to date, because I really do know what day it is and everything. Lately I’ve been avoiding my blog as much as possible, due to, well, stress mainly, because I’ve got like TWO DOZEN followers holy moly, jeez, where’d you all come from? And that’s a lot of expectations to satisfy. I feel like I have to be funny every time I blog, and sometimes it just doesn’t come to me. I try, but the funny plays a wicked game– sometimes I can write for ages and all of it’s mildly amusing, and sometimes I just stare deeply into the screen trying to desperately come up with a way to make something funny out of the word bookmark. Maybe I shouldn’t have been trying to make something funny out of the word bookmark. It’s just… not a funny word. Book-mark. Book… mark. It marks books, okay? That’s all it does.

Anyway, today I was getting into politics. I could like, talk about that… but no. I have something more interesting to relay to you, dear Blog-Reader.

It’s no secret two thirds of my waking life is taken up with staring at walls and scribbling sketches of dreamy fantasy heroes and then throwing them out because I feel like no one should ever look at them. (I’m probably right. Even MY eyes hurt when I look at them, and I created them.) So often, in the midst of this extreme wall-staring boredom, I do crazy things. Sometimes I interview the ladies who work at the local bookstore with my camera and pretend I’m doing a ‘documentary about bookstores’ so it isn’t so weird. Sometimes I dance in frightful, spasmatic circles in my room while I listen to Arcade Fire songs. Often, I take up residence on the chair in my room and gaze at the walls. Today, though, I held an interview– with myself.

Except, it wasn’t technically with myself. I mean, it was. But I was pretending to be this character from a Kenneth Oppel book. It was fun. I must be losing my mind, but it really was fun– I think I’ve got some strange, best-kept-secret talent for impersonating random characters from fantasy books, or sometimes from TV shows. I do a mean Drusilla from Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Anyway, it was the middle of the day and the house was empty, and my sister Little Girl of Horrors was out with my dad, and I had a sudden itch to interview myself with my old analog camera. I’ve done that in the past– conjured up imaginary characters and interviewed them. You don’t even want to know how weird it’s gotten. So I pulled on a black coat and assumed the persona of a fantasy character. I owned it, seriously. I hear they’re making a movie.


Yes, yes, I was assuming the character of Victor Frankenstein. Maybe that’s the absolute height of weirdness, but who cares? It was fun and as long as nobody ever sees that video, I won’t mind that it exists.

There’s probably something else of interest to talk about. Dunno. If you like books, then you’ll be glad to know I like books, too, and I’m reading this one called ‘The Scorpio Races’ by the lady who wrote that series that tried to imitate Twilight, except it was about werewolves. I never picked up that series, but The Scorpio Races is pretty good, so far. There’s something to it, anyway. I don’t like that the heroine is kind of lame, but she has her moments of coolness, so that sort of makes up for that. The hero is the usual teen fiction romantic interest stereotype. Calm, collected, powerful– can command man-eating horses. And by the way he would ‘be almost handsome if his features weren’t quite so sharp.’ Well, that’s that. I’m glad I know.

So, that book I’m trying to get published is still floating around not being published yet, and I’m still waiting for the possible rejection letter. The heroine in it is NOT lame at all, and I wish more heroines would be that way. They say girls are being better represented in books these days, but I still don’t quite believe it.

Anyway. I feel all sleepy and bored. I was going to write a poem about bookmarks, but all I can come up with is this meager offering:

Once I owned me a bookmark;

Twas eaten along with me book

By an angry book-eating shark.

There you are. ~Onceabasementdog

The Terrible Teen Section

Friday, November 23rd, 2012

Hello to all USB sticks sitting in places where I’ll definitely forget about them, dogs on airplanes, and solar-powered monkeys.

Ah! It’s almost winter again! Don’t you just love winter? What with the holidays and the snow and the ice and the darkness and the NEVER-ENDING FRIGIDITY–

Never mind. I hate Onceabasementdogville. I want to live in a volcano or something. I bet it would be nice and warm THERE.

So, I like libraries. I do. I think I like them because they’re quiet, and familiar, and they always smell like books. (Well, that’s a surprise.) There’s a library pretty close to my house, and I bike there sometimes to peruse the various sections that I find an interest in. Usually I end up gazing blankly at the teen section, trying to decide which book I should take out, My Love Is A Beautiful Vampire, or The Day Everyone Turned Into Robots, solely on the basis of which one looks less horrible. Because, see, the teen section at my public library is an actual hell of paper and ink. I’ve only taken out maybe three good books from that wall of blatant torture, and they weren’t even fantastic or anything. I don’t know why the teen section has to be so horrible, it just is. I still have suspicions about the librarian hiding all the good books from me when I drop by.

Anyway, a while back I took these pictures of some books from the Terrible Teen Section. Assuming they don’t burn out your eyes the minute you look at them, I think you’ll be able to examine them and understand why exactly my faith in literature and human kind in general is plummeting:

Oh, but this is just a taste of the many horrors of the Terrible Teen Section, my dear Blog-Reader!

I almost have no words for this one. But I’ll try. So, you’ve got this invisible boyfriend. And you know, it causes all sorts of complications, I assume. I mean, all the other girls can SEE their boyfriends! But she can’t! Oh my God it’s so awkward!

Next one. It’s almost worse… somehow.

But what does that even MEAN? Is she more real than your average Joe? Or what? I can tell you one thing, though, with absolute honesty:

This is the best title I’ve ever seen.

Now, here’s the last one. Brace yourself…

Audrey, wait!
What? Why? What’s HAPPENING to her?

So, there you have it. If that doesn’t convince you modern teen books are spiralling (apparently literally) into absurdity, I don’t know what will.

Yours semi-truly, only when I’m not making fun of things, (and that’s never), ~Onceabasementdog

Light and Fluffy and Meaningless

Monday, October 22nd, 2012

Hello to all sub-par high school rappers, dogs running after frisbees, small birds, and pumped up kicks. 

So. You all missed me. Right? You were like ‘Jeez! She hasn’t made a new blog post in like forever, we ought to storm her house with torches and pitchforks!’ Well, no need to fear or create an angry mob, I’ve returned, and I foresee many satirical and lightly amusing sentences to come. Read on my friends.

Why was I gone for a couple weeks, you ask? Well, let’s just say I saved the world. Oh yes, I did indeed. I saved the world by going on long bike rides, listening to music, and roaming the internet looking for bizarre Indie music videos. I’m so proactive! If I wasn’t in the world, why… well… things would be the same? 

Anyway, now that I’m on this paragraph, I realize I really don’t have much to say. I mean, I could detail exactly how I saved the world– but who wants to know? It’s a story for another day. I’m all out of serious writings. I’ve spent too much time lingering on sad realistic fiction books lately, and I need to fight it back with a light and fluffy, nice meaningless ramble. So what’s light and fluffy and meaningless? Sea monkeys? Soap operas? 

Well, anyway, the sad realistic fiction I’ve been reading all came from the terrible teen section at the local library. I swear they hide all the good books from me when I come in. How is it actually possible to  have an entire wall devoted completely to teen books, and yet, a very small margin of them are even readable? I mean, it’s not like I really know anything about any of them, but just by their covers I can tell they’re awful. And you might say, well, you can’t judge a book by the cover, but, OH REALLY? What about a cover where two pretty teenagers are lying on the grass together and the title is ‘Why Don’t You Kiss Me Now?’ 

I think it’s safe to say that one needs to be burned. Or at least, I won’t ever read it.

So, anyway. The sad realistic fiction book was The Goats. But it wasn’t about goats. It was pretty good, but I didn’t like the ending– it was about these kids who run away from their summer camp, and at the end they just headed tamely up to the people trying to track them down and get them back to their parents. I thought for sure they were going to keep living in the woods. But they totally wussed out and didn’t. Jeez. And there wasn’t even dragons or vampires or fairies or anything– it was just so… realistic. Bleh! 

On a personal side of the writing spectrum, I’m currently trying to figure out how to write a modernization of the classic Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde story. My version is set in the same time period, the 1800s, but Dr. Jekyll is a kid and it’s a lot more light-hearted. I mean, people die and he goes nuts at the end. But it’s still light-hearted. I’m also doing a Peter Pan rehash where Peter Pan is the antagonist and it comes from the point of view of one of the lost boys. I’m not sure if that one will work, but it’s pretty cool so far. Also the Mother is going to send away my book, Vaudeville, to a publisher– so it’s actually possible that I may become an actual honest-to-goodness writer, if they like Vaudeville and want to print it. Hurrah! Remember, the author of that awesome book you’ll definitely be buying and enjoying sometime in the future was me, Onceabasementdog.

Not much else is new on this end. I’m trying to become a rapper but I have such a pitiful teenage girl voice that every time I hear myself on a recording I cringe. It’s just better when I sing. Oh! That reminds me to remind you to check out The Sepia Trees on Youtube. Tis our band. We are semi-awesome. Seriously. 

Also, I might as well go on to command you to: 

1. Follow me on Twitter @onceabdog 

2. Follow me on Instagram @Parrotqueen. 

3. Compost what you can instead of throwing it out.

4. Be kind to sea monkeys. They’re… well… I guess they’re not exactly ‘people too’ but whatever, close enough.

5. And, uh, if you read The Goats, keep in mind they’re not goats.

Yours as ever sort of sincerely, sort of, ~Onceabasementdog. 



Further Adventures of the Biking Girl

Wednesday, September 19th, 2012

Hello to all tuskless walruses, pianos lingering over people’s heads, granola bars, flamingo-people and parrots on the shoulders of pirates.

I like going on bike rides. It’s no lie. There’s endless bike paths to follow around Onceabasementdogville, and the stores are so accessible, not like I have any money to access them for. I spent at least half an hour digging around the nuclear wasteland of my room for coins to buy a bottle of pop with, and came up with a loonie, ten cents and an American quarter. I also found a spiderweb where a spiderweb shouldn’t be and a weird bug that I’ll pretend I never saw.

So I donned my hat and pulled on my sweater and went out the door, Arcade Fire blaring in my earphones. The plan? Coffee. To waken my zombified, sleeping-in, school-missing brains, that is. So I went down to the Tim Hortons, squinting at the display board to try and figure out if my measly dollar-and-ten cents and American quarter would get me a coffee. I think I have bad eyesight, because it took me forever to figure out if the dollar and thirty-something cents was thirty-something or eighty-something. I still don’t know, I just dropped all my coins in the cashier’s hand and hoped it was good. I stared at him and hoped he’d overlook the American quarter, because honestly, I don’t know if they even take American money here where I am, not in America.

Anyway, I got my coffee, and went out and sat on the curb. I took out my notebook and started writing a little story. By the way, coffee tastes just like it smells: disgusting. The story I’m writing is about a girl living in the early nineteen hundreds. I don’t know what to call it, but I think it’s about stars or something. I took off again, having forced down two thirds of the coffee, which was all I could take. You know, I think caffeine doesn’t affect me that much, because after I drank it I went really really really really really fast on my bike and raced a squirrel but he was faster than me and ran up a tree which wasn’t fair and there was this BUZZING in my head and I can’t figure out what it was but anyway the big hill before the bridge was no problem, I went up it like, in five seconds flat, I assume my legs are getting stronger.

On the way home I went down the little path that went in front of all the big houses. There was this old lady walking by and she stepped aside and get this, I KNEW she would say something, and she did. She said in the haughty tones of a person from the rich end of town, “This is NOT a bike path.” Oh, okay. And I’m NOT going to make fun of you on my blog or anything.

For some reason my thoughts are going way faster than I can type and trying to write ‘me’ always come out ‘my.’ I don’t know why this is happening.

At one part on my bike ride these girls on a scooter passed me and they oinked at me, all right, whatever. I’m not a pig. At least I don’t think so. No, I’m pretty sure.

Jeez I think my head’s about to blow off. No more coffee ever for me, that was a bad idea.

I’m sure there’s more to say but running in circles for a long time is what I plan to do now. Okay, see you later, yours truly and stuff, ~Onceabasementdog.



I Am On the Hunchback’s Team

Wednesday, August 15th, 2012

Hello to all bottles of vitamin water, empty bowls of ginger chicken, microphones on floors, and hydrangeas.

I have something to admit. It’s horrible. It really is. Take your children from the room. Don’t led them read it.


There I said it.

It’s true. I am ashamed. Cassandra Clare is a popular teen writer, and her books are pretty good, (by teen fantasy standards, anyway). The first book in the series holds a coveted position beside my pillow, and sometimes when I really can’t sleep I read my favorite parts out loud in the darkness and it’s funny, but that calms me right down. I love that first book and the second one isn’t bad, too. Now, the third book is coming out in April, (tell me how I survive until then, Blog-Reader, tell me), and I must admit I’m looking forward to it. I want that book. I want to take off the book jacket, smell those freshly-printed pages, smell them, smell them, smell them, and dive into the first chapter as I would dive into a sea of Jell-o. Now what’s sad about this whole picture isn’t that I’m comparing reading a book to diving into a sea of Jell-o, or even that next to actually reading it, smelling it is my favorite part– no, the sad thing is that I love those two characters so much. Those two, agreeably tortured, pretty,  pretty characters. They must be real, or how else would I continue living?

I was nosing around on the series’s Facebook page, and my eye caught a disturbing comment someone had posted. Apparently, they were ‘on team Jem.’ This is something you never, ever want to see. Because what does it mean? It means hordes of silly teenage girls fighting over which character is more desirable, has more power to make people build shrines in their closets and market embarrassing t-shirts. I scrolled down the page, and discovered it just went on and on. Everybody had an opinion. Who is better, Will or Jem? The general census, to my surprise, was that Jem is better. But he is not. Jem has a terrible sickness that will claim his life if a cure isn’t found, and therefore he is pitiable and vulnerable– but Will is strong-minded and suffering on a whole other, emotional level. Not to say I don’t like Jem, too. Just not as much.

Wait, it’s not like I’m picking a team! I refuse to even consider the idea. I refuse to join in on the whole subject of having teamsWhy do male antagonists need teams? They don’t! And when you think about it, do female protagonists have teams? They do not. Do hunchbacks have teams? Of course not! They’re not handsome and desirable!

Ah. Now there’s a good t-shirt. Team Hunchback. I’m on that team.

I guess there’s nothing wrong with people making ‘teams’ of the characters in books. It just seems unbearably corny and embarrassing. Why can’t you just read the book without making note of which character is the best? And even if you do, why profess your love for him all over the internet? Please, don’t profess your love at all– keep it in the shrine.

I’m not one to talk, really. While looking over those comments I was thinking, Oh, you idiots, Will’s the best. You’re all wrong. I still love those characters, I just don’t really want a t-shirt proclaiming the fact that I do.

Yours sincerely, (next time I’ll talk about politics. I swear), ~Onceabasementdog.


The Best Dream Ever and Mr. Rochester’s Mustache

Sunday, August 5th, 2012

Hello to all people on unicycles crashing into fences, pears in baskets, railings, and curtain designers.

This morning I had the best. Dream. Ever.

I was substituting for the lead singer of Arcade Fire. We were playing in front of this enormous crowd– and the first song was Month of May, and I was totally killing it. It was the epic-est dream I’ve ever had– usually my dreams are just downright depressing, like for instance, that one I had a few years ago where a giant squid-woman was scooping people up and eating them, or maybe the one where I rescued a colony of mice living in a jail and then they ran out and fell off a cliff. The Arcade Fire dream was absolutely fantastic, in any case, and it would’ve went on longer if the Mother hadn’t walked in… just then… as I was having the most incredible dream of my existence… and woke me up.

(Here I twitch a few times.)

In other news, yesterday I watched the 1980-something version of Jane Eyre. It wasn’t good, nor was it especially bad– and I’m sure I would’ve enjoyed it more if MR. ROCHESTER HADN’T HAD A MUSTACHE.

The actor was annoying enough to begin with– he didn’t capture his character at all, at least in my opinion– but he would’ve been fine, bearable even, if he just didn’t have that fr-icking mustache. I realize it was the eighties, and everyone had a mustache and bad hair, but in Mr. Rochester’s case it just made him look like a loser! A mustache-bearing loooooooser! I tried to picture him without it, or to just ignore it, but it was impossible. Every time there was a shot of his face ALL I SAW WAS THE MUSTACHE. I mean, the lady playing Jane was absolutely perfect– but the mustache just ruined everything. Everything.

Now my view of Jane Eyre is colored by the mustache. If I ever read the book again every time Mr. Rochester says something all I’m going to think about is that thing on his face, that horrible thing on his face. I have to see the newest version, and cleanse my mind of the mustache– hopefully that Mr. Rochester doesn’t have one. If he does I might have to take matters into my own hands and make a version of Jane Eyre myself, where Mr. Rochester is clean shaven, God help me.

Anyway. It’s another stupidly hot day in Onceabasementdogville, and I do fear I shall melt into a puddle of gloop. It’s really just ridiculous out there. Things will start spontaneously bursting into flame soon.

In other words, there is no possibility of taking a walk today. Yours as untruly as never, (did I use that one already?), ~Onceabasementdog.

‘On Seeing Mr. Rochester’s Mustache’

‘Twas a day in the middle of a hot, lonely summer,

And all things considered, my life was a bummer.

We rented Jane Eyre, assuming it would be fair,

But all was then ruined by the thing on his face

That was hair.

The girl playing Jane was fine, I exclaim!

But the mustache was torturing me with intense mental pain.

I must needs discover who casted this man,

And then went on to suggest a mustache was an excellent plan.

Charlotte Bronte frowns down on the mustache,

And… I send my regards to my dear friend… Eustache.

(Well? You go ahead and tell me what rhymes with mustache.)