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Fan Fiction For Dummies – A Glossary

DAHLINGS –
I am still going through “House MD” withdrawal, as you can imagine.
With the recent scholarly discussions on fan fiction (fiction written by fans of television shows, movies, computer games and coloring books), your faithful correspondent felt there should be a sort of glossary of terms.  Naturally, given my predilection for “House, MD”, this is my jumping off point.
The first thing one needs to know is that the show’s fans, both insane and regular folk, like to use portmanteau names (the first of them all being Bennifer for Ben Affleck and Jennifer Aniston).  This means a relationship is there, usually romantic or sexual or both. Personally I don’t care for them, but it breaks down to:
House + Cuddy – Huddy  (Hugh Laurie & Lisa Edelstein)
House + Wilson – Hilson (Hugh Laurie & Robert Sean Leonard)
House + Cameron – Hameron (Hugh Laurie & Jennifer Morrison)
And so forth.  It doesn’t matter whether or not it happened on the actual show; these are ways for “shippers” to identify themselves.  Although many prefer the more adult “House/Cuddy” etc. As you have probably gathered from this blog, I myself tend to prefer the House/Wilson friendship.
“Ship” is short for relationship.  Every possible character combination has come up in fanfiction.  Homosexual romance and/or sex is called “slash.”Heterosexual romance/and or sex is called “het”.  Just romance is called “fluff” and usually means a light, cute story.  There are popular genres known as “hurt/comfort,” and “smut,” respectively.  I hope these are self-explanatory.
Now, dahlings, there are various genres of fanfic…there are actually hundreds, but first I shall confine myself first to some spedific House/Wilson “fic”genres.
“mpreg” Male pregnancy. One of the men (usually Wilson) has a baby and he and House raise it.  Don’t even try to wrap your mind around this.
There’s a subgenre of one or both of them being babies, or turning into babies.
Almost all have lots and lots and lots of sex.
Babies?”  “Don’t blame me, I live in the writers’ heads.”
“Post-Finale” Since the finale was left open-ended, with House and Wilson riding off into the sunset, there has been an explosion of fics in which House copes with Wilson’s death, sees his ghost, or cures him.  Some are quite amazingly good.
 “Contractverse” A series of stories based on “The Contract,” where House is tortured and traumatized in exchange for keeping Wilson alive (of course Wilson doesn’t know it).  Later stories have House a physical and mental wreck. I’ve glanced at these, but to be honest, they turn my stomach. 
BDSM – you know what that is.  Readers can ask where to find stories where House or Wilson is “the top”, etc.  For some reason, Wilson is usually the one dominating or humiliating House. 
Speaking of which, some writers write House/Wilson in abusive relationships, usually because the writers themselves are in abusive relationships.  Or concentrate on child abuse, which usually means House collapses into a sobbing heap having an epic flashback,weeping, “No, daddy, I’ve been a good boy!”
Basically, the entire panorama of human experience is filtered through these stories, making this kind of fiction even more id-driven than romance novels. 
Two other genres that are common to many fics of all kinds are:
“First Time”bazillions of these.  Most are much of a muchness.
“AU” – alternative universe.  Anything that doesn’t directly relate to the events or locations of the show.
 
From a small sampling of House/Cuddy “fics,” it seems that the concentration these days is to depart from the show’s plot and have the two characters in an established relationship.  Usually raising Cuddy’s daughter Rachel.  Some of the show’s best and most realistic fanfiction has come from this neck of the woods, in my opinion.

There are also a fair amount of “first time” fics. And lots and lots and lots of sex.
I have never read a House/Cameron fic, so I don’t know the content or genres.  If any writers would like to enlighten me, please do so in the comments.  But I’m sure there’s lots and lots and lots of sex.
 
There also seem to be quite a few “femmeslash” (lesbian) stories involving Cameron and Thirteen (Olivia Wilde).  Since Thirteen was bisexual on the show, it makes a certain sort of sense.
 Probably a fair amount of sex, don’t you think?
 
Recently my assistant Leo was reading some fanfiction.  He remarked to me, “But this has nothing to do with what happened in real life!”
I agreed with him, until I remembered that “real life” was a television show.
Damn.
Ciao,
Elisa & Fletcher

Project Runway – Hello, Olympics, Goodbye, Dali!

DAHLINGS –

The Olympics have started, but it’s the end for Jennifer, whose mantra was that her vision was “Holly Golightly at a Salvador Dali exhibit.” Poor deluded little thing. This week’s challenge was to create outfits for the female athletes at the opening ceremonies of the Summer Olympics. Simple enough, wouldn’t you think?

Non. Not for this bunch.

Most of them were thrown into a designing tizzy, resulting in some of the oddest athletic wear I have seen since I was accidentally taken to a Burning Man some years ago. Jennifer could simply not grasp the concept, and ended up creating Olympic Barbie:

What this outfit has to do with the Olympics, with athletics, with China, I have no idea. And neither did she. Which got her promptly, and understandably, auf’d. Since I only noticed her in the last episode, I cannot say that I am sorry, although I am hoping Leatha Stella gets the biker boot soon. Is it me, or she sending the same sad outfit down the runway again and again?

For some reason, one kept flashing on John McCain at that biker’s rally, listening to the bikers waste gallons of fuel gunning their motors as he ridiculed tire gauges.

But I digress. Joe was spot on when he said, “There’s too much drama because there’s too many queens around.” He quietly went ahead and created what your faithful correspondent felt should have been the winning outfit, even with that odd hemline. (It should be noted that many of the so-called even hemlines this season have been, on close-up, as they say, “craptastic”.) This was one of the few times the cliché of the straight man’s fondness for sports actually came in handy.

However, he lost to Korto, whose outfit was nice enough, but not terribly exciting for moi. But at least the curvaceously creative Liberian native is still on the show, which is a plus in more ways than one.

Speaking of queens, was that a collective sound of lustful panting that arose when Apolo Ohno skated up to the designers? Even Tim Gunn looked as though he was thinking, “I’d love to get that outfit off your supremely muscled diminutive physique and show you that this older chap can still do a few gymnastics of his own.”

Commandant Heidi began the show by looking as though both her spray-on tan and sprayed-on leather pants had been heavily greased. Perhaps she had just finished roasting one of her children over an open spit. For the runway, she wore an odd chain-mail outfit, that like most of her runway outfits, are letting her evil side show more than ever. They might need to have an exorcism on the set after the series ends at this rate.

Getting back to the designers and their utter bafflement at the challenge, take a look at this horror by Jerrell:

Didn’t Minnie Pearl once wear that hat? The outfit is a puffy pouffy nightmare, dahlings, no doubt about it. With capri leggings, no less. (And if, like tanorexic Blayne, you don’t remember the Beatles, surely you won’t know who Minnie Pearl is. But I care not.) Like most of the designers, he threw caution and intelligence to the wind. It is a miracle he did not get auf’d. Perhaps it was because during the runway he was actually wearing something more interesting on his head than Kenley.

Daniel sent a cocktail dress, of all things, down the runway! Isn’t he capable of designing anything else?? Are we going to be seeing cocktail dresses made of tin foil, cocktail dresses ala Jane Austen, military cocktail dresses? Of course, one cannot top Michael Kors’s comment that Daniel’s dress looked as though it came from “the Republic of Cocktail Land.” Daniel is the Sweet P of this season, slowly inching his way to a complete mental breakdown. My heart breaks whenever they show him in the workroom, agonizing over his latest…cocktail dress.

For a little fun from the last episode, compare this latest photo of last week’s judge Sandra Bernhard with the poster for her upcoming revival.

As I wrote previously, someone has too much time on their hands. Unlike moi!

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Today’s Fashion Tip:

Do NOT let this happen to you or anyone else you know!

Terrifying.

Florence of Arabia in Fire Island…

DAHLINGS –

It’s been days and I am STILL absolutely exhausted! Why, oh, why did I leave my fabulous (featured in Architectural Digest) oceanfront mansion and go to The Pines on Fire Island? Well, for one thing, I was invited to an only slightly less fabulous (not featured in Architectural Digest) oceanfront mansion for luncheon with other members of the fabulous fashion community. One can surmise my fatigue level from my overuse of the word “fabulous.”

In ANY event, the luncheon was tasty (if vegan), the host was très célèbre, as were most of the guests, and the gossip was even tastier than the food. Mostly about Aubrey O’Day and Linda Hearst, and that sort of thing.

Luncheon over, some of the guests went downstairs for a nap, some went upstairs for casual unprotected sex, but yours truly did the wrong thing:

I went for a stroll. To Cherry Grove.

For those of you who don’t know this (as I did not), Cherry Grove is about 300 miles away from the Pines on foot, if only ten feet by private yacht. And of course stilleto heels were hardly the right attire for a rickety wooden boardwalk. However, I still had the slightest of hangovers from the Dior Beauty party in Easthampton the night before. Tinsley Mortimer was there, in a lovely green Dior gown, with Topper, and we were all terribly tactful about the failure of her reality show.

The problem is, dear Ms. Mortimer has no discernible personality, so the crew filmed for days and was left with nothing but footage of a blonde stick figure applying makeup over over.

Rather like “Groundhog Day,” but pointless.

ANYWAY, back to my misguided Adventure. As always, I was covered in veils and sunblock, with my assistant walking the mandatory ten paces behind me. We walked and walked and walked…what was astonishing was the terrible condition of the boardwalks between the multi-million houses. It wove up and down, up and down. It was ENDLESS! Thank God I had left Bucky the Wonderdog back at my fabulous (featured in Architectural Digest) oceanfront mansion!

We passed one house with a flyer for a show in Cherry Grove, featuring a singer whose quote was “Show stopping lesbian!” Pondering what made the difference between an ordinary lesbian and a show-stopping lesbian at least made the time pass.

Soon, the unthinkable happened:

I started to perspire.

“Cool me off! I am perishing from the heat!” I snapped to my assistant. She simply stood there gaping at me, sweat streaming down her face. The idiot had not thought to bring a thermos of cocktails! I whipped back and continued to walk, and soon the boardwalk ended, at the edge of a FOREST, of all things. A handsome young nearly naked man was jogging towards me, and I hailed him with a cry of despair: “WHERE IS CHERRY GROVE?”

“Oh, honey, you follow the trees with the yellow paint on them.” He pointed from where he had come, the deep forest, lined with a green algae-covered swamp. No one loves nature more than moi, but at a safe distance. My shoes! My pedicure! We staggered through the woods, where I had to repeatedly duck under branches and occasionally step over coupling males, and came out into…

a desert. The sun beat down upon me, and my assistant gasped like a snapper on a hot wooden dock. The sand was far too hot to take off my shoes (my assistant took hers off, little fool, and started to howl with pain. It gave me a certain satisfaction, given my overheated, soaking state. I prayed I would not see anyone I knew!). Like a beautiful Lawrence of Arabia, I made my way across the desert under the baking sun, and then there came the Sign:

CHERRY GROVE (with an arrow)!

We made it into town, where I was able to slake my thirst with a frozen margarita. (My assistant chose pink lemonade–pah!)

That is why you have not heard from me…the sunburn alone had me prostrated. My beautiful skin, scalded! I have been applying aloe vera by the handful. It has not been so much the physical pain, as much as the emotional torture of looking in the mirror and seeing a lobster-red face and chest looking back. I shall not be seen in public again until it has faded.

Later, dahlings –

Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

POINTLESS REBELLION Opens – An Outrage!

DAHLINGS –

I am speechless. Simply, utterly speechless. That doppleganger of mine (I believe she’s a distant relative), Elisa DeCarlo, who simply REFUSES to change her name, is opening in a SHOW in NEW YORK (my city) this week!

I might have to stay indoors for the duration.

The show is called “POINTLESS REBELLION,” and apparently, according to an email this creature sent me, it’s about her life as an Ebay seller who has sold well-worn shoes to foot fetishists (as if I would ever do such a thing!!), and her relationship with her father, who was the president of Sarah Lawrence College. To quote the email:

From him, Elisa inherited manic depression and a desire to be onstage. An accomplished male drag artist, Elisa recalls her deep identification with and rebellion against her late father, who reluctantly chose business over show business.



Apparently this is a comedy, and this person has won a number of awards as a performer, in New York, San Francisco, and Chicago. How this has been going on without my knowledge is simply an outrage

It will be opening at some place on the Lower East Side called the Red Room, as part of a theater festival called Frigid New York, co-produced by Horse TRADE and the EXIT Theatre of San Francisco. I might show up on opening night, Thursday, March 8 at 7:30pm, just to put this person in her PLACE!

If this sort of thing interests you, it is also playing on
Saturday, March 10 at 4 pm
Tuesday March 13 at 6 pm
Wednesday, March 14 at 9 pm
Friday, March 16 at 9 pm

Tickets are $12 (I tip more for my manicures!), half price for seniors and students with identification. No, not the kind that gets underage children into bars. For tickets one can go to www.smarttix.com, or call (212) 868-4444.

This pathetic creature added in her email to moi that discount tickets are available if you use the code BIGRED. Apparently that is the name of the…thing standing next to her. The show runs slightly under an hour, it reads.

I intend to be there opening night…will you??

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

It’s Official – Oprah Winfrey ADORES Breasts!

Dahlings –

Far be it for moi to criticize anyone else’s lifestyle (although if you dare criticize mine, beware! As it says below, I have efficient and nasty lawyers).

However, the hypocrisy of that Oprah Winfrey person. Yes, I know, she’s rich, she pulled herself up by her anklestraps, she insists on being on every cover of that damn magazine urging women to “be the best you can be” or “build strong bodies 12 ways” or “Join the Army” or whatever it is. Etc. etc. etc.

So, in this day and age, why bother to pretend that you are a player of the pink oboe, when it is transparently obvious that you would rather eat the dark oyster? (Note I did not say “bearded clam.”)

My personal assistant had the television on this afternoon when she was supposed to be steaming my fabulous outfits. I’m going to the Marc Jacobs soiree at Gotham Hall this evening, and I need to have a selection of devastating garments handy.

Before I had a chance to discipline the foolish lumpkin, the sight on the plasma screen rooted me to the spot. Oprah Winfrey, delightedly standing behind a half-naked woman and fondling her breasts!

“I didn’t know Oprah had a side career in soft-corn pornography,” I thought. Then, I realized Ms. Winfrey was ostensibly fitting women for brassieres on her television program.

Perhaps it was the manner in which her hands caressed each woman’s poitrine, big, small and in between. The way she lovingly fondled the curve of the cups of the lingerie. Perhaps it was the rapturous gleam in her eye. But Oprah was enjoying this far too much!

Suddenly those ‘rumors’ about her friendship with Gayle seemed quite plausible.

And I’m certain that the participants on the show enjoyed themselves as much as Ms. Winfrey, if the eagerly screamed “THANK YOU, OPRAH!” s from the half-naked women were anything to go by. Who knows what happened when the cameras were turned off? Probably most of these women hadn’t been felt up so well since high school. (Although there were so many women, one has to admire Oprah’s stamina.)

The rest of the program was the usual women’s’ kerfuffle, how to find the perfect pair of jeans and such. (Using size 10 women as examples–of COURSE size 10 women can find perfect jeans! My God! )

But I digress. Ms. Winfrey examined each woman’s derriere with a scrutiny that was quite discomfiting.

Yes, we all know she’ll never marry that eunuch Steadfast or Stiffpole or whatever his name is. If only she wouldn’t keep blowing smoke in the media’s eyes by pretending to blow Stiffpole. Come out, come out, Oprah! Then we will all know you are being your best possible you, as you like to say.

Must dress! Kisses!

Ciao,
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Today’s Fashion Thought:
We all know there is nothing like a dame. I’ve always liked the word dame. I hope someday I will be remembered as such: “She was a great dame,” “She was one tough dame,”
I think of a dame as a gal who knows who she is. Who can be tough when she needs to be, but knows when mercy is called for.
Great in bed. Feminine without being prissy.
From “Damn Good Vintage,” by the Zaftig Goddess

Chatting With Lana Turner – Plus Today’s Fashion Tip!

Dahlings –

Tonight I turn my attention to lighter topics. It’s time to start Christmas Shopping for all of your loved ones, and what better place than my store, Elisa’s Bounteous House of Style (link at your right)? The Vintage Blowout Sale is still going on, until November 29th. And I am also stocking my store with plenty of goodies for her, him, and the four-legged set. For example:

Patrick Cox black satin evening slippers with rhinestone buckles:

Cunning little Christmas wreath pierced earrings:

Goldtone faux ruby brooch by Monet:

Vintage stunning 50s R&K Originals turquoise wool dress, size Large:

Vintage 60s tan wool Italian cut man’s two-piece suit, 42 Long:

And so much more! Yes, it is indeed a great deal of work, but as long as my personal assistant scurries at the sound of my footsteps, it is all getting done.

Which is how it should be, n’cest pas?

This weekend I attended a seance, and who should pop in but my dear dead friend Lana Turner. Lana is such a delight. We sat in the corner and chatted about the recent revelations about the bisexuality of both Katherine Hepburn and her longtime beloved, Spencer Tracy (or “Ol’ Granite Face,” as Lana calls him). Although it is a trifle unnerving to picture Spencer in a passionate clinch with Jimmy Stewart, as Lana said, “They can say anything about you after you’re dead, and I oughta know.”

Lana is a trifle envious of today’s stars, who can be openly, even annoyingly, gay (Rosie O’Donnell leaps to mind), or bisexual (Madonna, although I doubt whether she notices her bed partners–she is far too busy staring at her ceiling mirror). Lana herself prefers gentlemen, but her daughter is a lesbian and it does not bother Lana in the least. “For one thing, women smell so much better than men,” she remarked to me. “Anyway, most women. Some of ’em smell like tuna that’s been out of the can too long, if you catch my drift.”

If she had been corporeal, I would have patted her hand and agreed. But maybe it’s better I didn’t. One would have hated to have one’s actions misconstrued.

Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky The Wonderdog

TODAY’S FASHION TIP:
“As a seller, I feel black velvet….all velvets, but particularly black…..is the most underrated textile in the vintage world. It indeed is more common, and as dressier items tended to be the ones people held onto, it’s more plentiful. But despite that…..it’s still the most elegant. Easily accessorized, instantly glamorous. ”
Vintage or Bust, the eVintage Society blog

Rummy, We Hardly Knew Ye…Rumsfeld’s Departure

Dahlings –

I’m still recovering from that wild post-election party I went to. A conga line of Democrats, the Republicans hiding in the library, puffing cigars and grumbling…it was such fun!

But one has to atone for one’s sins, so today I am drinking green tea for its antioxidants and eating chocolate, because…well, because.

And now Donald Rumsfeld has stepped down. That image always makes me imagine someone stepping off a wooden apple box in the middle of a meadow, I don’t know why. I’m not up to any Deep Thoughts myself, but I received the most charming note today from a stricken reader, poor fellow.

Dear Ms. Hoardmeister –

I’ve written to you because I thought you would understand my problem. I’ve always had problems with men. My last boyfriend was Morgan. Morgan was…well, he was special. Tall, handsome, and always on top. That’s what I need. Once I touched his bunghole, he didn’t speak to me for three days!

I know, I know, too much information, but that’s me, in my head, out my mouth. Finally I cried and asked him to forgive me, and then everything was all right. Until Morgan dumped me for a hot Asian waiter at the Saigon Grill. That used to be our place. Men like Morgan, they do what they want. Men like me, I do what they want, what can I say?

I’m writing to you, Ms. Hoardmeister, because I’m in love. I really am. But I can’t tell anybody. It’s like when I was growing up. Being gay was “the love that dare not speak its name.” Well, it’s worse.

I’m in love… with a… Republican.

Please don’t hate me. This is the real thing, I can tell from the way I feel when I see him on CNN. I was killing time in Borders Bookstore, and I picked up a copy of Rumsfeld: A Personal Portrait, by Midge Decter. I thought I’d have myself a good snicker. But the word she used to describe him was: manliness. And oh, yes, those photos of him in a college-wrestling outfit–I’d like to be underneath him on a mat!

I had to buy the book, Ms. Hoardmeister. I made sure they put it in a bag. He’s my dream man: Donald Rumsfeld: the ex-Secretary of Defense. I can tell he’s a top.

I never watched the news, but I became a CNN junkie, just waiting for Donny to come on. Those teeth, that smile…I don’t call him Rummy like other folk, I call him Donny. It’s my pet name.

I fantasize about our perfect evening together. Donny would pick me up at my hotel in a big limo, and then he’d take me out for dinner at the Capital Grill. That’s up there in DC. He’d probably drink something real sophisticated, and I’d have a pina colada. And we’d have the best table. Everybody would be looking at us and talking about what’s going on. His wife knows he’s gay. But you gotta be careful about the media. Even they get tired of writing about Brangelina! Donny’s got two butch lesbian bodyguards, they are so interesting, they used to have to guard the Bush twins. But that got to be too much nightlife so they asked to switch.

He’d order for me, and he’d remember what I like. Donny wouldn’t even have to look at the menu. Because he’d care so much. He’d order me a hamburger, and he knows I don’t like American cheese, he’d remember I like goat cheese, it’s real sweet. (Most people from the South don’t like goat cheese.) We’d have a nice long dinner. He’d tell me all about his plans for the war, whichever war it was, there’s so many going on all the time. It’s hard to keep up!

Donny would confide in me how stupid President Bush is and how crazy-making it is to try to get Dubya to understand a single thing. Even with pictures. One problem is that Dubya is irrelevant, you know what I mean? Who listens to him any more? Now he’s trying to ban gay marriage. The whole world going to hell in a hand basket and Dubya wants to ban gay marriage. That’s the problem in Iraq; all those crazy gay couples blowing up US troops. Please. Well, at least Dubya said he’s the “Decider” when it came to Donny and all those generals. The “Decider.” Sounds like a character in a bad video game, doesn’t it?

Donny would say he won’t go hunting with Dick Cheney, ‘cause once that ole guy has a shotgun and a couple of Stella Artois in ‘im, you better look out! Donny calls him “Deadeye Dick.”

After dinner, we wouldn’t have dessert at the Capital Grill. ‘Cause it’s kinda bright and noisy. We’d go somewhere dark with a candle. Dessert and coffee. Something fruity, ‘cause with all the kissing that’s gonna happen, you wanna eat something clean. Like lemon sorbet at a wedding. ‘Cause you don’t want to feel all full when you have Donald Rumsfeld lying on top of you.


And we’d go back to my hotel, and I don’t have to tell you what would happen next. Other than that would be lots and lots of explosions. Oh, that night would absolutely nuclear. In a good way. He has totally occupied my heart. He’d invade me again and again, but I wouldn’t ever want him to pull out.

And now it’s all over, and he’s leaving the government. I am heartbroken. I can only hope his replacement is suitably butch.

Thanks so much for listening! I feel so much better. Kisses!

Poor, sweet boy, such an innocent. I can’t answer for the replacement’s masculinity, but I hope he is a suitable match. I know what unrequited love feels like all too well, although in my case it wasn’t for a man, it was for a Vionnet snatched up by an unfeeling witch with no feel for true quality. It haunts me to this day.

Oh, dear, I am completely fatigued. Off to take a hot scented bath using my specially hand-made soap by Sarah Jessica Parker.

Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog