Twelve. Reset the Counter.

I've felt cooler and sexier the past week than I think I've felt in a long time. An increase in alcoholic intake may or may not have something to do with it.

I will also blame an increase in time spent with friends — I saw both Jeremy and Laura during the week, though unfortunately not together (hopefully to be remedied this coming week?), as well as getting the chance to help Claire celebrate her American citizenship. And, more directly, I can attribute the feeling to seeing more live music this week than I have in a long time. I got to be a minor groupie Saturday afternoon/evening, and felt utterly awesome for it.

The groupie thing led to dinner, which led to drinking, which led to a discussion of a project that actually has my interest piqued. I hope it honestly had his piqued, too. We shall see, and at least it's something else to look forward to, on top of everything else September has in store for me.

At any rate, there was a column on the Huffington Post recently (someone on Facebook linked to it, I'm terribly not a regular Huff-Po reader my self) about the disappearance of the "tough girl". And of course, as a woman who knits, cooks and takes Krav Maga, I took a bit of offense (as did pretty much all the commenters). I do think that there has been a shift back towards the home in terms of redefining womanhood, but considering that the home is still the basic unit of what communities and nations are composed of, that's not necessarily a bad thing.

But on top of that, I think Ms. Aloi, the columnist, misses an important point: women (and we're talking about Western First World women, of course) aren't the only ones "losing their toughness", if they are even doing such a thing. In fact, they'd be losing it far less rapidly than their male counterparts. Men can cry now, and that's all dandy, but I get the impression more and more than it also gives men an incentive to keep feeling entitled to being taken care of by society and other people. He goes out to restaurants more because that means he doesn't have to learn how to cook for himself. He doesn't have to be macho anymore, which means he can let his beard grow out and develop the watery lank musculature of the walking-not-working man. He can have an entire wardrobe of t-shirts with 80s cartoon characters on them. Taking care of himself involves paying someone else to launder his Nordstrom Rack purchases, having a maid over to clean his apartment once a week, and keeping his mustache trimmed all by himself. Violence is a big no-no, and guns are scary and should be banned. Don't forget to admire the new electronic toy he just bought, it comes in pretty colors.

Yes, women are going along the same route. But why not talk about the supposedly-true toughies, the men, doing this, before we bemoan the death of G.I. Jane?

By the way, yes I know I'm criticizing really only one group of men. But Ms. Aloi's article seems to really only be criticizing that same group of women.

Illin' on Netflix

My immune system: weakened on four years of working nights, hiding from the sun and contact with other humans.

The punishment: still getting hit with bouts of sickness once or twice a month for a year and a half after I converted back to Daywalker status. Apparently, my vitamin-wrangling of Tuesday's under-weather state wasn't enough to scare it off completely; it's been lodged in the back of my throat for the last couple of days, just festering enough to keep me from being antisocial, yet still with a restless hunger to get out of the damn house.

Fortunately, I have the Netflix. (However, I'm starting to suspect that the Netflix subscription actually comes with a monthly dose of germs, slipped into my drinking water by red-cloaked ninjas in the middle of the night. Just to make sure I keep watching.)

Now that I've opted out of taking my disease to the slumber party I was scheduled to attend this evening (Netflix also doesn't seem to want me to have a social life with friends from high school, seeing as I keep getting sick on weekends that involve major exciting plans with anyone of that crowd.) (Hmm ... actually, that is an interesting pattern. Cathy's wedding. Stomach flu on the way to Steph's house. Now Alysha's birthday. I sense a pattern here.), I'm settling in for the night with knitting and an engorged queue of old movies and TV shows to watch. Watched so far this weekend: Commando, and Walk Don't Run.

Commando has been one of those movies that, as a girl who prefers hanging out with guys, I long knew I would have to see one day. It's one of those "Guy Flicks" that will randomly get referenced in conversations, or have clips linked to on Facebooks, or get spoofed in movies and/or TV. It was inevitable: if I didn't watch it myself, it would be forced upon me by one of the men I love, complete with grunting, beers, and "AWESOME" commentary.

And I have to say, after seeing it: Why the heck haven't you guys made me watch this film before? I feel like all the male friends in my life have failed me, forcing me to watch this movie on my own, on a Friday night, of my own volition. I think my conversation with friend Geof, who insisted on hearing my review of the movie once I'd seen it, sums up my feelings fairly accurately.


At least now I am in on The Commando Jokes ... and only missing Schwarzenegger's term as Governator by three weeks! That's me, always just missin' it. Thanks, boy friends.

(Speaking of boyfriends, my boyfriend is actually in town this weekend for SF Sketchfest, and I'm having to miss him. Fate keeps trying to keep us apart, but don't you worry, beloved. Someday I will meet you and you will understand exactly what you've been missing your entire gay life. Trust me.)

I also want to say something about Walk Don't Run, which was really only on my Netflix queue because I like Cary Grant, and this was his final film. I admit: was impressed. I feel pretty sure that Sophia Coppola took some inspiration from this film when she made Lost in Translation (and I don't just mean the location), but — this being the mid-60s — without the angst and loneliness pathos that characterizes the more recent film. The movie was pleasing, funny, and not entirely predictable. The comic sequences stretched just long enough, stopping before they got old, and I was pleasantly surprised to realize that one of the minor characters was George Takai, just before or right at the beginning of his Star Trek career. Hollywood is, apparently, a small place.