On Blogging: A Semi-Serious Contemplation That Degenerates Into Dick Jokes

2012 marks the fifth year of my blogging career. I am not the most prolific blogger, nor am I even close to being Internet famous. And to say that I blog only for myself would be sort of a lie, because I am all too concerned about page views and comments (not that there are too many of those, mind you) and people who might stray over here from my Facebook profile (HEY YOU, YEAH YOU). So yes, every post is typed out with an audience in mind ; in the case of this humble little shindig, I'm talking about the two, maybe three regular readers who still have it in them to read and leave comments on the things I put up. I LOVE YOU GUYS.

There was a point earlier in the year when I very nearly decided to quit blogging. I only update once or twice a month in any case, so would it even have made a difference if I just gradually faded out of the scene entirely? Two factors eventually convinced me to stay and keep on keeping on :

1. I would be losing my single best outlet to unleash my feelings about British actors, music, and other pop cultural developments in my otherwise unexciting life (family and close friends can only take so much fangirling at any one time) and

 2. It is incredibly flattering and more than a little inspiring when people - either in real life or through random bursts of Internet kindness from strangers - tell you how much they enjoy reading your stuff and how funny you are, and it's all wonderfully ego-stroking but also terribly heartwarming.

One other thing that solidified my decision to keep blogging, comments or no comments, paltry page view stats be damned, is the top keyword search stat on my homepage...dashboard...thing. A staggering number of people (I won't reveal exactly how much, but it is hilariously astonishing) come to my blog in search of one thing above all else. This is the top search keyword that has brought me the majority of page hits over the last few years. Are you ready?

michael fassbender naked

                                         michael fassbender naked


 micheal fassbender naked


michael fassbender



naked


MOM HOW PROUD ARE YOU OF ME RIGHT NOW.

You know what pervs? Here, let me just give you what you came here for.

CLICK THROUGH FOR FULL-FRONTAL FASSJUNK



Or not. You know I was kidding right? I'm not actually going to put up an image of the Fassbendong (Fasspenis, Michael F. Assbender) anywhere on my blog. You have Tumblr and Netflix for that, and I have standards, paltry as they may be. But I genuinely appreciate the horny enthusiasm. You guys are the worst (by which I mean THE BEST).

Decisions, Decisions.

Next semester, I will have enough credit hours to take up a few extra, unrelated courses, and I am seriously considering making room for a language class. This is naturally a big decision, considering the level of commitment it is going to take to learn how to speak, read and write a foreign tongue from scratch. So I've drawn up a little list to help me decide which sexy foreign language would be the best option.

French

• If I am not greatly mistaken, this is one of the most widely spoken languages in Europe and it would be a natural advantage if I ever decide to go on a backpacking trip around the continent.
  
• I would increase my knowledge and ability of speaking French beyond adding "le" to the beginning of every other English word in conversation (which, admittedly, is very funny, but also not very classy).
• Think also of all the great French philosophers ; Sartre and Comte, just to name a couple. I'd be able to read their works in the original French, and then you know, show off.
  
• And then one day when I'm out ordering baguettes for breakfast in some chic French bakery, some sexy French dude will notice me, and we will get French married and have sex forever. And by French dude I mean him ;
  
  
  Smoking is so le chic and le ladyboner-inducing when the French do it.
  
• And if it doesn't work out with the French dude, there is always Canada.

Italian

• Pasta!
• Go backpacking. Impress sexy Italian dude with my linguistic abilities. Acquire sexy Italian dude.
  
  
  
  So Paolo Nutini is technically Scottish by nationality, but really. Such trivialities.
  
  

German

• I've heard a lot about German being a rather aesthetically unpleasing language ; Sylvia Plath likened it to "barbed wire" in one of the poems we studied last semester, and I remember someone else having written that the language sounded like a typewriter eating aluminium. But I've always been fascinated by how similar it is to English, which could also be an advantage when it comes to learning vocabulary.
  
• Also, backpack around Germany. Acquire sexy German dude.
  Or if I'm really lucky, the entire German national Under-21 football squad. I'm pretty sure all of them are over 18 at least. I think.
  
  
  Or I'll settle for Michael Fassbender. Really, it's no trouble. No trouble at all.
  Also it has come to my recent attention that I apparently have a cigarette smoke kink. Damn all these hot famous people and their bad habits.
  

Spanish

• You know the drill by now, yes? Travel Spain, perhaps South America. Acquire sexy Spanish dude. I don't really care about the all the Spanish-language literature I could be reading (go fly a kite, Pablo Neruda).
  

Meet Xabi Alonso ; footballer, all-round classy motherfucker, my favourite Spanish person ever, and world champion nonchalant shirt-cuffs-adjusting/watch-promoting wall-leaner. I am coming for you with my Spanishes, Xabi.


Russian

• I've heard that learning the Cyrillic alphabet can be a real bitch, but think about how inspired I'd be to actually finish Anna Karenina, and then read it in its original language. Maybe those long-ass names won't annoy me so much, either. Seriously Tolstoy/translators, after the 35th time you've referred to Sergius Ivanich Koznyshev by his full name, I think we'd already have a pretty good grasp on who he is, thanks.
• Come to think of it, there's a barrel of other Russians to be tackled as well ; Nabokov, Dostoevsky, Chekhov. So in terms of Teh Literatures, there's plenty that learning Russian could do to enhance my learning experiences.
  
• Also ; travel Russia, acquire sexy Russian dude.
  

Misha Collins. American, but Russian enough. Which means I'll just have to travel Chicago or wherever it is he's living now.


Japanese

• This would obviously be the toughest, with Japanese really having the least similarity with any other language I already speak. Not to mention having to learn to write from scratch too ; I dumped a Mandarin class halfway once, being the good 10-year old coward I was back then. Tonal languages are way intimidating, you guys.
  
• Traveling around Japan would be awkward, since I would be presumably be the only brown person around for miles, but my ability to speak the language may make things like acquiring sexy Japanese dudes much easier.
  
  
  Takeshi Kaneshiro, who is technically half-Taiwanese, but it's a good thing we're not keeping score or anything. Hotness is universal after all.
  
  
  
  So this really hasn't helped much with the decision-making, to be honest. But at least we all got some global-flavoured eye candy, am I right? Right. You're welcome.
  
  

Pretty.

A fantastic piece by Katie Makkai, defining the word "Pretty" and all its implications, on the pressures placed upon women to be pretty, and to find and place value in physical appearance. Every girl and woman you know should watch this.



I am fortunate enough to have parents who never insisted on me doing or wearing anything that was designed to make me a pretty little girl. I've always hated dresses and skirts and necklaces, and it wasn't until a few years ago that I made allowances for stuff like nail polish and dangly earrings, but never more than that. I was a happy kid, though. Puberty hit me extremely hard. I went for years and years before finally being diagnosed, at 18, with PCOS or Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, a fairly common but pretty much never-discussed reproductive problem. PCOS basically involves a whole bunch of tiny growths in my lady parts that mess with hormones and result in me missing periods for quite literally years at a time (ngehh...too much information, you think?).

The physical symptoms of PCOS include skin pigmentations, excessive body hair growth plus hair loss - generally a very fucked up cocktail of almost too-balanced male and female hormones. It's not a curable disease so much as a lifelong condition ; as far as doctors can say, I'll be on the Pill for the foreseeable future to regulate my lady processes. And for the longest time, before I knew enough to put a name to my condition, I felt exceedingly strange, and very ugly. I have been mistaken for a boy far too many times than I can care to remember, and I somehow felt not worthy enough of being female, and I hid within baggy jeans and men's shirts and short hair. I had a hard time understanding why anyone would want to be friends with a creature like myself, while at the same time I took pleasure and comfort in other things I knew I was good at ; I was smart, and I was funny, I knew that. I could read three Jane Austen books in one day flat. I had impeccable taste in music and pop culture (durrr). I was nice. But oh boy, oh no, I was just too hideous to live. I wasn't skinny like other girls, I could barely fit into off-the-rack clothes, my voice was way too gravelly and deep to ever be considered feminine, I walked with a very pronounced slouch, eyes forever glued to the floor, because I was so much taller and bigger than everyone else. I didn't have my periods every month, like every other girl did. I looked so different from what I thought the acceptable image of a Real Girl should be, and as a result I hated being touched, I hated having my picture taken, I hated having to look at myself in any way or form. I wasn't girl enough. And I certainly wasn't pretty enough, and I hated myself for that as well.


Pretty was important to me. Being pretty would finally validate my status as female. Or failing to be pretty, to at least not be physically repulsive (physically repulsive is essentially how I saw myself in the mirror from ages 12 to 18). I wasn't right, I thought my parents would be terribly embarrassed at my failure to be a proper teenage girl. It didn't help when other girl cousins of mine were complimented on their looks and I got praise for my endless strings of A's. What was academic nerdery compared to being able to wear a cute blouse and look nice in it? It didn't help not knowing what was wrong with me ; years of so-called alternative herbal therapy and pills and being told "Don't worry it will work itself out" and that one time we seriously considered some weirdshit form of electrical acupuncture.


I can't tell you exactly when things changed, or how. Perhaps it was the comfort of knowing that whatever was wrong with me could be handled by a little yellow pill, or maybe it was just maturity. Whatever it was, my skin cleared up, I grew out my hair, and I stopped worrying. I stopped taking Pretty as the ultimate definition of womanhood, or femininity. I still feel a mite insecure around those seriously gorgeous girls who always have perfect hair and can pull of a miniskirt like woah, but I've stopped looking in the mirror and going "Ugh" at myself. I look like what I look like. Once in a while I get super dressed up and then I'm all "Hey, I clean up pretty good". I still get mistaken for a dude now and then, but these days it doesn't mean the end of the world. I wear nail polish and jewelry and nice clothes because I like them and I want to, and I no longer see them as items reserved for Real Girls Who Have Periods And Never Get Asked Stuff Like "Hey, Are You Just A Guy With Boobs Or What?" (true story [I was fifteen], and I have had much worse than that).

When I join in with the girlfriends on another round of Holy Crap, The Cramps Are Murdering Me Lah, it's always with a mixture of gratitude that I can actually be a part of this distinctly female monthly occasion, but also with the desire to tell them to quit whining because they have no idea how easy they have it (in the reproductive sense, anyway). And I suppose, most of all, I learned not to judge by appearance, pretty person or not. I know I risk sounding Hallmarkish and cheesy, but it's true. I'm a constant reminder of it myself, and I'm forever grateful to the people who were willing to look beyond my *gasp* PHYSICALLY REPULSIVE EXTERIOR (kidding, I'm not ugly, really) and see the personality and the everything else I already had but didn't notice because I was so busy trying to find a way to be pretty. Pretty, not to stand out from the crowd, but the kind of pretty I thought would finally make me normal, and regular, and just a girl. I cannot tell you how glad I am to have gotten over that period (HA) in my life. It's still a struggle, and it's not as though I am completely free of doubt and insecurity. What is good is that I'm in a much more positive place mentally, and not constantly beating myself up for failing to be a woman by my apparent inability to look like one. And that's a fine place to start.


In other news ; Fassbending continues. I'm slowly working my way through his (good and not embarrassing) films, and I watched Fish Tank just last week. It's a fabulous piece of work, a depressing and unflinching look at life for the British lower classes, and achieving womanhood, and escaping your circumstances. Michael Fassbender gives a very impressive performance in this one.



Very impressive.

No, actually he's a terrific actor and (usually) picks fabulous movies, so I won't have to constantly justify myself with "Oh but he's so pretty".

Up next in my Spree of Fassbendage is 2008's Hunger in which he also appears nekked plays Irish republican hunger striker Bobby Sands.

Fassbending. So Much Fassbending.

Potential SPOILERS for the recently released X-Men : First Class


Here is my overall impression of the film.





Hnnnggguuuuuuhhhh.



Here are some of my other thoughts about the film, but with more words.

1. Michael Fassbender and James McAvoy, two of my favourite British men ever, in the same film. It is still rather odd to see them as leading men in a summer blockbuster comic book movie, and part of my brain refuses to accept it. But still. Fassbender. McAvoy. Together. McBendering. Fassavoying. It's too much for a girl to take. Both of them are easily the backbone of the film, and carry the plot and the entire supporting cast effortlessly, while delivering fabulous individual performances and having mad, mad, mad, mad, mad, mad chemistry with each other. Acting-wise, totally solid.



2. Speaking of mad, mad, mad, mad ,mad chemistry, the gay subtext within the Charles Xavier- Erik Lensherr friendship (intentional, according to the screenwriters) stopped being subtext and became plain text about 12 seconds after the title card. Even James McAvoy in an interview expressed mock surprise that the two didn't simply get married by the end. I can attest to the fact that he's not exaggerating; the Erik/Charles slash fiction pretty much writes itself.


You see? I mean sure, there's a winged topless woman in front of them, but they are in bed together. As if the Internet needs any more encouragement than that.



3. The entire thing could have just been Michael Fassbender Wears Nice Suits And Kills Nazis While Speaking Four Languages And Doing Funny Things To My Ladyparts, and I would have been just as happy. Happier, in fact.

4. I'm still trying to figure out exactly what the plot was - it wasn't the strongest of storylines but it served its purpose, I suppose. Russians something something CIA something Cuban Missile Crisis something something mutants are DIFFERENT something something January Jones' boobs something. The important thing was that it didn't feel contrived or overly-hammed up, and more importantly, it was a heck of a lot of fun.
But most importantestly (this is now a real word, okay?), Michael Fassbender sexes sexily around the X-mansion, wearing a turtleneck. Of SEX.



5. The women in the movie aren't exactly portrayed in the best light. CIA agent Moira McTaggart is down to her bra and panties within seconds of the audience meeting her (but guys, those were her government-approved stripper club stakeout clothes, they were for WORK dammit), January Jones did nothing but walk around in tight suits with her chest hanging out. The mutant Angel chooses to join the "bad guys" almost as soon as her character is established, which means she had pretty much no lines or any development for the rest of the movie.And then there was that line about why women shouldn't be in the CIA. It's hard to tell if stuff like this was meant to reflect the rampant misogyny of the story's 1960s setting, or if it's just what it is - blatant sexism that's present in nearly all forms of modern media which goes unnoticed so much of the time. But let's forget about all that because here is Michael Fassbender in a suit again.




6. I have not seen a single episode of Mad Men, and therefore cannot comment on January Jones' acting in that show, but holy crap was she completely wooden and uncharismatic and unappealing as Emma Frost. She had a couple of pretty snarky lines that would have worked wonderfully if delivered well, but meh. But that's okay though, because while January Jones was not-acting, Michael Fassbender was providing enough intensity, complexity, vulnerability and charisma to run a nuclear power plant. If you could run a nuclear power plant on intensity, complexity, vulnerability and charisma, that is.


And on top of all that, he was also providing the HOT. Such selfless talent.



7. As Grace pointed out, the so-called villains in this instalment were one-dimensional, paper-thin and completely dispensable. Kevin Bacon's evil ex-Nazi character started off with promise but by the end had been reduced to the cartoonish "let's blow up the world" brand of super villain. His minions fared much much worse - they barely had any lines, and I don't think anyone so much as mentioned Riptide's name.



8. One-note bad guys aside, this film does a great job of fleshing out Magneto's character and origin story (cause let's face it, this is Michael Fassbender's movie and everyone else is there to be pretty wallpaper [except McAvoy, he co-owns this movie. And my heart]). Wait, what? Oh yes, this film does a great job of fleshing out Magneto's character and origin story in a way that made him somehow sympathetic and also not entirely evil/wrong. His Holocaust experiences and the way they shaped his future bitterness, anger, and his vengeful nature did not feel contrived or overdone in the slightest. And where the previous X-Mens seemed fairly contented to leave us with the Professor X = Bald and Good/Magneto = Caped and Bad dynamic, this one gives us more shades of grey, and spade upon spade of sexy.


Fassy darling, you seem to have forgotten your shoes. Don't worry though, I'll help you put them on, so you don't have to stop that intense-staring-into-the-vaguely-off-camera-distance thing you're doing so well there.


9. The focus is placed more on making it a character study of Erik Lensherr and Charles Xavier, and not so much on the flashy CGI or explosions. However, the special effects, when they did show up, were effective and suitably dignified with the proper dosage of badassitude. This scene with the missiles, for instance, was crazy hot.


I don't know how much it had to with the hundreds of phallic weapons dangling in the air right in front of him, or the fact that in this particular scene Michael Fassbender suddenly develops a very prominent Irish accent broad enough to drive several trucks through, but I wanted to bone him so hard at that moment, unflattering helmet or not.

10. I can't think of anything else to say, so here's some more Fassbender. It is a truly great man indeed, who can steal the boiling, frothing oceans of my lust away from James McAvoy.



Sweet Jesus help me.


In conclusion:

Fassbender.

Well okay, in all seriousness, X-Men : First Class, while it has its share of flaws, is a tremendous amount of fun, and in no way a waste of a couple of hours and fourteen bucks. It definitely surpasses it predecessors in terms of quality and storytelling (and hotness) and if any sequels are indeed planned, I for one will be looking forward to them. Also, Fassbender. All fangirl-style objectification aside, the man is a ridiculously good actor, and it's nice to see him (and McAvoy) get some major recognition from the masses, so people can cast him in more movies and I can go sit in dark cinemas and squeal (inwardly) for many years to come.

Excuse me while I just sit here and swoon a thousand times over.

Just a quick afterthought ; another thing that really bugged me was how Charles Xavier had to put two fingers to his temple to let us know every time he was using his mad mutant psychic skillz. Someone needs to come up with a new way for telepaths to do their telepathing, because way to be subtle, Captain Obvious.

After-afterthought : How is it that nobody in Hollywood has cottoned on to the undeniable truth that Fassbender needs to be the next James Bond? Because if he were, I would actually watch one of those damned movies. Many times. In a row. Also someone should appoint me as Head Boss Queen Leader of Hollywood because no one in that town knows what they're doing.