Why? No, really...

So. I've been on and on and on about Neil Gaiman this week. See, I've just rediscovered his journal, and I've been reading the back issues, as it were. I love him. I also hate him. And this isn't just a minor disgruntlement. It's like, this deep down, searing, writhing hatred. Not of him as a person, in fact, he sounds lovely (online). It's his genious. I can't even begin to hope to ever write like him. I mean, I could write like him, but my imagination is far too rusty. Damn Catholic school and it's "my way or the highway" mentality (And also for teaching me that it's okay to blame others!!)

For instance:

"Coraline's a short, scary novel for disturbed young women of all ages and genders;" Quote found here. I mean, I say stuff like that, but it's always accidental. I guess the trick is to start saying them deliberately.

"And I wrote my 2001 Xmas card (which turned out to my surprise to be a 26 line poem about pirates and death and ghosts and suchlike Xmassy things.)" Look here for quote. (Cosmo says this is definite proof that Neil Gaiman's "my man.")

"...interrupting a very peculiar dream in which I was one of an order of monks living in a rambling farmhouse, which was trying, in the way of farmhouses in dreams, to kill us all, and I needed to warn the little old lady who lived in a cottage out the back that the house was the sort that ate people, and we were just having an odd conversation about whether or not my eyes were baby blue or dirty green ("dirty green!" I assured her, but she was deaf as well as half blind and paid little attention) when the bedside phone rang with my wake-up call." Find that here.

I need to try and remember my weird dreams. Then I'd have story material. Right? I had this one last night where I was still working at the bank, but they were no longer in the same tower and the one they were in was undergoing hardcore reconstruction and this guy, Aaron Parsons, who was at school with me, and who everyone misses but no one can find, was in the mail room looking serious (Which he never did) and trying to tell me something. Also, my boss, who loved her mall hair, had straightened it and was wearing it in a really fashionable up-do, which she wouldn't ever be caught dead in in real life. She was pretty cool, 'cause she knew her hair was wrong and she loved it and even invited ridicule. Her favourite thing was to primp and tell you "Don't be hating" before it was a cool/funny statement. I think Jamie Kennedy stole that from her, actually.

Anyhow, for Rachel and Simon, who've read the book, and Cosmo who watched the movie with us, I'd like to present the Neverwhere Stops site. To warn you, the site's links are partially dead, but what's there is still good.

And I shall move on, because today I found a new show for me to fall in love with. It's called Father of the Pride. Frankly, anything with John Goodman is good. Anything featuring cartoon lions, tigers and pandas is good. It's just a really good show. So there, I have spoken. And for the record, while my television is always on, I'm rarely watching it. This made me watch, which means you should, too.

And maybe it's just because I'm far from home, but has anyone else noticed Mila Jovovich running down the side of New City Hall in this trailer? It's funny, 'cause I'd forgotten them shooting this up the street from the bank last winter. A friend and I were trying to get to the subway one freezing night and couldn't, because of the burnt out stunt car surrounded by cops in the middle of the road. Fun and games in the city.

Now, this was a post riddled with quotes, so I've covered myself for this morning's which didn't have one, and I'm good for a couple more. Yay me.