I'm sorry!

I'm so sorry that the blog has fallen into dishevelment, you guys. I've got lots of stuff on my mind, but no time really to post it. I've been getting ready to go off to school, I move on Saturday which is exciting and frightening all at once, and I've been doing things with my friends before they all leave too, and doing things with my family before I leave. Everything has just been so busy lately, and next week will be all of the Welcome Week events. I may get a chance to post in the evenings then. I don't really know. My schedule has been pretty erratic and will continue to be for the next couple of weeks. Unfortunately, I don't have a new chapter of the Anderfic to tide you all over, either! I've been so busy, and so tired that I don't have the time or energy to come up with what will happen next, let alone write it down! But I do have a few things to say before running off to watch a biography on the Vanderbilt family which just happens to be coming on the Biography Channel tonight. I love that channel. Yesterday, they re-aired Salvador Dali, Jackson Pollock, Frida Khalo and Deigo Rivera (sp?), which are so infinitely interesting.

So. John Mark Karr has been cleared. Good for him? I guess. He'll be extradited to California for child pornography charges. He is so, so creepy. Maybe after this the media circus surrounding the case will finally pack up and go home. I, for one, am absolutely sick of hearing about it. It's also one of those cases that makes me wonder what it is exactly that makes a story like this one so huge. Just think about it. How many other children have been murdered in their homes, and the cases unsolved? We rarely hear about these cases, especially to the extent of the Ramsey case. So, what was it that made this one particularly special? The parents being suspects? The parents are probably suspect in many cases when a child in murdered. Was it wealth? How many children from a wealthy background are murdered, I wonder. Was it the fact that she was white? I'd really like to see the stats on murders reported in the news media vs. the ones that aren't and what the racial majority is in each case. Was it that fact that she was a beauty queen? Which is so strange and creepy that you really can't look away, much like a car accident. I think it's a combination of the three, wealth, colour and the beauty queen thing. Now, just so people don't go off saying I'm playing the 'race card,' I'd like to clarify that I'm white, and that from my own personal observation I've seen a lot of the cases reported extensively have mostly to do with people who are white. Just think about it. Think about the cases we here nothing about, and the ones you hear so much about it makes you want to vomit. Think about the reasons why.

The Andershirt

I started this last night with AC360 on in the background. I finished this afternoon and cannot wait to wear it absolutely everywhere.

Chapter Twelve

Because some of you have no patience or sense of suspense :P I will warn you all however, that this will actually be the last chapter until I can find the time to write some more. I don't have a chapter after this. I do have some rants and stuff about last night, but as the show starts in 10 minutes and this is pretty much the first time I've been home all day, it will have to wait. I have no notes, so if I forget everything, you all will have to deal with a little less snarkiness in your day. But, I know you all come here for the fic anyway, so my rants are of little to no consequence. They just amuse me immensely.

Warning: Marco... Polo... Marco... Po-FICTION!

“Anderson,” called a recognizable voice from down the hall.
“Mother…” his voice was so small and quiet.
“You’re mother? I’m in your bed and your mother, Gloria freaking Vanderbilt, is here?” the words rushed out of my mouth in shock.
“She comes over occasionally for lunch and to catch up. She has her own key to the apartment. I asked her to come today to meet you.”
“And you didn’t bother to tell me?”
I was touched that he wanted his mother to meet me but extremely annoyed he hadn’t warned me. I was no where near being appropriately attired for such an occasion and my clothes were in the other room.
“Her first impression of me can’t be like this! I can’t be the girl slinking out of her son’s room with a bad case of bed head and pyjamas. Go distract her so I can get into the guest room and get dressed properly,” I shoved Anderson to get out of the bed and go distract his mother.
He pulled on a pair of worn-in jeans over the shorts he’d worn to bed and a navy blue t-shirt over his well-defined chest. He rushed out of the room to find his mother and keep her busy until I could get to where my clothes were.
I cracked open the door looking for any sign of Gloria and Anderson. When I had made sure that it was clear, I made my way quickly to the guest room. I shut the door quietly behind me and began to wonder what I should wear. Anderson had worn only a t-shirt and jeans out, so I concluded that it would be best to wear something similar.
I took out my favourite jeans again, always reliable, and searched for a top to wear. I found a simple black polo and a long green t-shirt to layer underneath to wear. I put them on and then began to do my hair. I pulled it back into a loose ponytail and braided it, pinning it underneath into a low bun. With some simple studs in my ears, I evaluated my appearance and left the safety of my room to find Anderson and Gloria in the kitchen making lunch.
Anderson turned away from the counter as he heard my steps, beaming as he faced me. His eyes were alive with something I couldn’t quite define. Gloria turned as well, looking at me and then the look on her son’s face when I entered. There was a calculating air about her, as though she had some sort of system to grade me against. Anderson had taken advantage of the silence in the room to stand beside me. He took my hand and led me to his mother. She examined me further as the close range. He held my hand, squeezing gently, trying to tell me it would be okay.
“Mom, this is Chelsea,” the tone of his voice was seeking for her approval.
She smiled politely; I couldn’t tell if she was being truly sincere. I assumed she’d met many women Anderson had brought home, some of which she didn’t approve but still had to be nice to. I did still return her smile with me own, trying to be as sincere as I could. Anderson had changed positions, his arm heavy and comforting around my shoulder.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I wasn’t sure if I should call her Ms. Vanderbilt, Cooper or Gloria and so didn’t mention a name. I reached my hand out to her, “It truly is an honour to meet you.”
Sensing my nervousness, she softened her posture and spoke in a smooth voice, “Please, call me Gloria.” She shook my hand, firm, but elegant as one might expect.

Chapter Eleven

I'm home now. Spent a lovely weekend away. I'm exhausted. Bah.

Warning: Fiction.

I spent an hour lying in the dark staring at the bright red numbers of the digital clock on the night stand before giving up. I slid my legs off the side of the bed, letting my bare feet fall flat on the cold hardwood. I walked slowly as I found my way to Anderson’s room in the dark. His door was partially open. I pushed it gently as it swung back on its hinge.
I could make out the silhouette of the bed, Anderson in it, against the dim light coming in through the window. I made my way to the bed as silently as I could. I lifted the covers and crawled in between, moving closer to Anderson until the bare skin of his legs brushed against mine. He woke with the gentle shock of contact, unsure of what was going on. His eyes opened slowly as he lifted his head up a little to look around.
“What are you doing in here? I thought you were sleeping in the other room,” he said groggily.
“I couldn’t sleep in there,” I whispered in response. “You woke me up and I couldn’t get back to sleep.”
“Why?”
“I just want to be beside you…”
We both grew silent and he pulled me close to him. We were facing one another, my head tucked safely in the space between his neck and shoulder. His arm lay lightly over my side, our legs tangled together, feet touching. I could hear the beat of his heart and felt the rise and fall of his chest as he inhaled and exhaled. It took only a few minutes for me to fall asleep next to him.
I woke the next day, still in his arms. I took a long, deep breath and stretched myself out a little. The sun came streaming into the room in broken rays. According to the clock on the wall, it was nearly noon. I looked at Anderson’s sleeping face, soft and serene, before touching his nose lightly. He twitched, closing his eyes tighter. I kissed his closed eyelids gently.
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” tracing the outline of his lips with my index finger.
He shook his head in protest, pulling me closer and tightening his hold on me. I pushed on his shoulders playfully, trying to escape him. He smiled and laughed, one eye open, and held me tighter still. He was incredibly strong, so I pushed harder, joining in his infectious laughed, just as we both heard the apartment door close. Anderson’s eyes shot open and he looked at the clock. He looked back at me, his face contorted into a mix of nervousness and apology.
“It’s my…”

Chapter Ten

This'll be my last post for a couple of days. I don't have much to say, or much time. I'm going way tomorrow until Monday evening. After that, I don't know how busy I'm going to be. There will be various going away parties going on, I have to go school shopping and I also have to start packing for school. And so, I leave you all with another installment of The Anderfic.

Warning: Olly olly oxen.... FICTION!

The rest of my time in New York was spent mostly with Anderson. We ate dinner at his favourite restaurants, took Molly to the park and spent time at his apartment in the city. He had insisted that I check out of my hotel and stay with him my last two nights in New York. He would be gone during the evening to tape the show, but it was certainly more comforting than my faceless hotel room.
It was impeccably decorated, again the work of his mother; the style very much open and lofty. All of the colours were bright and airy. The mood in the apartment was incredibly relaxed.
He showed me to the guest room where I had chosen to stay. I unpacked my belongings, putting my clothes in the dresser and everything else organized neatly on top. The room was decorated in soft greens and blues. It was a nice contrast to the warmth and vibrancy in the other house. The bed was high, a large pine sleigh bed covered in numerous pillows. It afforded a magnificent view out of the tall window facing all of New York.
He showed me around the apartment, giving me the full tour. I was given all access to the entire place, free to do and to go where I wanted. He only asked I didn’t go into his room, which he had shown me repeatedly just encase I needed something in the middle of the night, while he wasn’t home. He didn’t need any of his things showing up on eBay, he joked.
On the first night, I crawled into my bed after watching the broadcast. It would take about half an hour for Anderson to get back from the studio and I would be able to see him in the morning, a rather enchanting thought.
I hadn’t quite fallen asleep when I heard the sound of Anderson’s muffled footsteps coming down the hall towards my door. A small sliver of light made its way inside my room, dancing along the floor and wall as he peeked his head inside.
“Are you awake?” came a hushed voice out of the dark.
“Barely. Why?” I tried hard to not sound annoyed by being disturbed, always my first response.
He came inside and slowly made his way to the bed. I was roughly in the centre when he crawled up and lay down beside me. He placed a suit-clad arm around my shoulder, the cotton sheet I’d pulled over me creating a thin barrier. He kissed me delicately.
“I wanted to say good night.”
He kissed me again before slipping off the bed and leaving me alone in the dark. After he left, I became painfully aware of how alone I really was in the room and how badly I wanted to fall asleep in his arms.

Paula Zahn is crazy..?

I can't decide if Paula Zahn is crazy. The commercials for her show always make me go "WTF?! Are you on crack?" Either she really is crazy, or CNN just gives her the nuttiest stories because they think it's funny to make her LOOK crazy because she's not actually crazy, unlike Glenn Beck and Nancy Grace (whom they make fun of on This Hour Has 22 Minutes all the time and it is HYSTERICAL). So what is it that has made me question the sanity of Paula Zahn? With the beginning of the crisis in Lebanon, it was the commercial on evangelical Christians thinking that it was the apocalypse. Well, is IT the apocalypse? No. It's not/was not. But more recently it has been her questioning of civil liberties. Should we give up our civil rights for security? It makes me twitchy and want to scream at the tv "NO, WE SHOULD NOT, PAULA!" Now, I will tell you why.

They who would give up an essential liberty to purchase a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety.
-- Benjamin Franklin

I do believe that some people may recognize the name of the man to whom that quote is attributed. I hear he's a big wig in the States, founded something they say. Seriously, Paula, giving up freedom for security is crap. Freakin' crap. I'll take my freedoms instead of having them taken from me to create a false sense of security. Because that's all it is. Nothing is truly safe and secure. No matter how many protective layers you wear, or how cautious you are, there is a risk involved in everything you do. Life is a risk. It's a big risk, one I rather enjoy taking and enjoy having the liberty to take. So please, let me keep my freedoms.

Chapter Nine

Warning: Fiiiiction.

“What time is it?” I whispered as I kissed his earlobe.
“Nearly five. Are you hungry?” he faced me, his eyes filled with what appeared to be concern.
I hadn’t eaten since early that morning. I hadn’t noticed how hungry I was until he has mentioned it. I nodded in response. He smiled sweetly, with a glint of mischief in his eye.
He loosened his arms begrudgingly and began to put the finishing touches on our meal. He told me to wait in the kitchen while he went into the separate dining room to prepare. With the food ready, he brought the plates in.
When he returned, he motioned for me to follow him. The room was decorated with art deco furniture. An ornate chandelier hung from the ceiling and emitted a low light. The walls were a deep shade of burgundy. As my eyes followed Anderson, they were led to the table set in the centre of the room. On the table was a small, elegant bouquet of red roses cut short so we would see one another. Place settings were out, candles lit around the room adding to the ambiance. In a silver bucket was what I assumed to be a chilled bottle of wine.
Anderson stood waiting for me, holding out a chair. I ran my fingers delicately along the back of the chair, savouring the sensation of wood on skin, before purposefully brushing against him as I passed. I had as much power over him as he did over me. Slowly, I lowered myself into the chair, making sure I made contact with his stomach as I went.
“Thank you, Mr. Cooper,” a hint of poison deep in my voice.
After he seated himself, he leaned in on his elbows, his chin nearly touching the rose blooms. He looked directly at me, his gaze intense and heated once again.
“Tease,” he hissed at me.
I laughed, pleased and amused. I could tell it bothered him that he couldn’t just have me. I was new, difficult and stubborn. I’d become a challenge he was determined to conquer. It was written all over his face.

Andervacation

It looks like we're going to be Anderless for an entire week T_T In USAToday yesterday:

CNN's Anderson Cooper, who flew from Israel to London Friday, has been putting off his vacation "week by week, like kick the can," and plans to finally take this week off, CNN chief Jon Klein says. CNN's Miles O'Brien spent his planned vacation "dodging Katyusha rockets" in northern Israel, while Soledad O'Brien spent hers in Jerusalem and Cyprus, Klein says. "This summer has kept us on our toes."

But, Andy does certainly deserve a break. But at least now I don't have to feel like I'm missing something when I go away, or if I'm out late with my friends. The blog is going to be fairly random this week as a result of the Andervacation.

Only 19 days until I move into residence and start university life. I got my Welcome Week pack in the mail this morning, and also received an email from my roommate. She's from Bucharest, Romania. I'm incredibly excited.

More Anderfic on the way this week!

Autograph

Mmm, pretty Coop autograph. It came in the mail from CNN a few days ago. It's framed nicely in my room right where I can see it.

Ceasefire -- August 11th, 2006

The UN resolution finally agreed upon in the security council deserves a big, giant Andersmile.

Andy looks like he's chilly in London. He's wearing a jacket and polar fleece, and he pulls his shoulders up like he's trying to cover his ears to keep them warm. Too cute. I just checked the forecast for London. It's 16°C (60°F), so that is pretty cool, especially after having been in the Middle East for the last month where it's 30°C+ everyday.

Christiane's yellow trench was awesome. I would've liked to see it full length, and then try it on, LOL! I don't know how much I liked it on her, but I loved the jacket.

Okay, onto the big news! A UN resolution! At last! I know that this doesn't mena the fighting will stop, but is certainly is a step in the right direction. Of course, Israel is now taking the time they have left before it's put into effect to hit as many Hezbollah positions as possible and has expanded the ground campaign, but we're on our way. Israel has okayed a ceasefire, Lebanon is bound to, and I think, if I read correctly, that Nasrallah has accepted the resolution and ceasefire. So once it is in effect, hopefully all the fighting will stop. I find it unlikely, but I'm left to cling to hope. Neither side is gaining anything from this attack, especially Israel. Lebanon is left with approximately $2 billion in infrastructure damage and Israel looks like a civilian killing-machine.

During the broadcast, they talked a lot about the underlying causes of terrorism and extremism because of the "homegrown" terror suspects. Christiane and Peter Bergen have been working on that CNN Presents special "In The Footsteps of Bin Laden," or something and so she was kind of given the job of explaining. There was a lot of interesting information in the segments she did. Like the man, a cleric I think, who said that Bush doesn't really understand what terrorism is all about. He said that Bush says it is a war on the western way of life, but really it's about American and British foreign policy and how they effect the regions these people come from or where they feel their roots are and where their people are from. A religious "jihad" is a cover. The use of jihad itself is a perversion of the word by terrorists and the media. Jihad stems from a word that literally means "strive." Jihad is not a "holy war," but rather an inward struggle to practice one's faith. Something I find particularly interesting about the Islamic faith is the principle of ijtihad, which also comes from the same root as jihad, but means to make a decision based on personal interpretation of Islamic law in the Qur'an. It encourages the idea of personal faith, instead of being told what to believe and not questioning. I love that idea. Go read The Trouble With Islam by Irshad Manji. Absolutely amazing and eye-opening to more of the underlying causes of violence in the Middle East. She explains it better than I could ever hope to.

One thing you always find from the friends, family and neighbours of those currently being investigated for any crime is that they will always say that they were so quiet and the last person to ever do something like that. The London plot is no different. But, I think the reaction of many of those close to the people who've been arrested is very indicative of a larger social problem. The father of one of the suspects said that "they went to pray" and because of this, they were guilty. Whether it is actual or perceived, I think a lot of those who are of Arab descent or are Muslim feel persecuted by the larger population. They feel alienated from the rest of society. A comment like that, saying that it was their faith that made them suspect, shows a much larger problem. I see a lot of hatred directed towards Muslims and Arabs within my own community, so I can only imagine how it would be in a much larger city with a large populatuion of immigrants. This is something that needs to be fixed before it gets worse. If we allow the discrimination and hate directed at Arabs to continue, I think that things will get much worse for everyone. If you treat someone as second-class, they will rise up. Maybe that's what we're seeing now.

London -- August 9th & 10th, 2006

First, I just have to say that I am so glad that Anderson is finally out of the Middle East. Although, I'm sorry, I'm gonna miss the vest. I thought it was sexy.

Second, I'm sorry I haven't actually updated for realz in forever. I finally got myself a social life one month before I have to move away to university >.>

Third, when Peter Bergen said "If it quacks like a duck, walks like a duck and looks like a duck, it's not the ALF" I nearly fell out of my bed laughing. Oooh, the ALF.

Four, saving entries as drafts rules. Hence why I've been working on this for about five days.

Five, I really truly do feel bad for those of Arab descent who are getting caught up, or may get caught up, in the "ARABS ARE BAD THEY WANT US ALL DEAD AND HATE OUR LIVES" attitude. You know, like this one from my favourite hatemonger:

"Not all Muslims may be terrorists, but all terrorists are Muslims."
Ann Coulter's syndicated column; Sept. 28, 2001

Gotta love Ann Coulter. She makes me want to vomit. The whole "Islamofacist" thing is truly frightening. This has nothing to do with Islam, or with skin colour and nationality and to define people in such a way is truly despicable. Evil has no definition. To say that all terrorists are Muslim is not only prejudice and disgusting, but it's a blatant lie. The first act of modern terrorism as we know it now happened in 1875 in Bremerhaven, Germany by a man who went by the alias of William King Thomas. His real name, Alexander Keith, Jr., was born in Scotland but moved at a very young age to Halifax, Nova Scotia. His uncle was the famous brewer Alexander Keith, whom he was named after. He had concocted a plot to blow up steamliners to collect insurance money. What happened in Bremerhaven was a primitive timebomb planned to go off onboard the Mosel exploded on the dock, killing 80 people. It was the "crime of the century." Find The Dynamite Fiend by Ann Larabee and read about it. That wasn't his first crime.

Another non-Muslim terrorist: Timothy McVeigh of which Ms. Coulter says:

"My only regret with Timothy McVeigh is he did not go to the New York Times building."
New York Observer article; August 26, 2002.

She's lovely, isn't she? I'm just going to write up an excerpt from my own personal journal that is relative to all of this. I wrote it after starting Walking Since Daybreak by Modris Eksteins.

Feb. 8, 2006
Someone telling their own story is so powerful and can enlighten a person to the struggle that has played out in our own history, what is playing out now in the Middle East. Too many parallels between the present and the past. There's always a bad guy and the good. Usually it is some power in the West versus some other 'evil,' [defined by us of course]; Germans and the Nazis, the Japanese after Pearl Harbour, the Communists, [actual and perceived,] Russians, Vietnamese, [Chinese] and Cubans, and not it's Arabs and Muslims. Our media, and their media, portrays the other side as the bad guy and we're all painted with the same extreme brush. Our generation has been so lucky. Despite all the conflict abroad, we've remained relatively untouched here at home, but if the powers that be continue on the path we're on, we'll end up right back where we were in 1945, if we're lucky. We need to do more than read about the past, we need to look objectively and find the mistakes because those mistakes are being made again. You can see the lines being drawn, the division in nations, ideologies, races, cultures and the world. [...] Intolerance is rising. [...] The global community really needs to stop sugar-coating and address the serious underlying issues in oppression, poverty, hatred bigotry and intolerance, because it's there more than we care to admit.

Terror and evil has no ethnicity, no political affiliation, no religion or gender. But right now, we need an enemy to fight, an enemy with a face, an image to focus on. Unforunately, there is a link of ethnicity and religion among all of those who have plotted serious terrorist attacks and have carried them out, giving an image to fight against. Now a whole new breed of racists and bigots, like Coulter, has surfaced. I feel oh-so-comforted.

Chapter Eight

I'm bribing you all again. I'm sorry. I've been so busy lately!

Warning: Fiction.

His fingers moved nimbly to unbutton my top from where they were closest. I placed a hand over his, squeezing his hand tightly.
“Stop,” I whispered almost inaudibly. It was so hard to say that single, small word.
“What do you mean ‘stop’?”
“I don’t think we should do this,” I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I don’t think that us doing this is a good idea. I mean… I want more than just sex from this. I’m not that kind of person.”
He blinked and started blankly at me, not moving, his fingers still entangled in my shirt.
“You’re serious?” He searched my expression for an answer. “This has never happened before… You want more?”
“I want to really get to know the person you are, not just tv-interview-celebrity Anderson Cooper. I want emotions, ideas, conversations and dreams. I don’t want to be thrown away. I don’t want to be left broken and used.”
“You don’t think I do this all the time, do you? I don’t just pick up girls and seduce them,” he sounded defensive and grew quiet before continuing. “There’s something about you. Something familiar, something exhilarating and amazing,” his voice was soft. He kissed me on the forehead and leaned against my lightly, his face resting against my own. “Alright, what do you need from me?”
“Come home with me please,” I said meekly. I didn’t want to sound demanding or needy.
I curled up against him, tucked tightly into the cavity beneath his chin and the curve of his shoulders.
“Why there? Why do you want me to come home with you?”
He wrapped his arms around me, his hands locked together in the small of my back, holding me close like one might hold a frightened child. I relaxed in his embrace and leaned my head on his shoulder, closing my eyes.
“I’ll have more control there. I have no control with you here. I can’t just let you seduce me so easily in a city where you know all the tricks. You’re going to have to work outside your element.”
“I had a feeling. You’re not going to make this easy for me,” I could hear the smile on his face as he spoke, his voice vibrating in my ear.
He breathed in deeply, smelling my hair. He held me, squeezing me gently into his chest. I could smell the cologne he was wearing, a subtle smell of citrus. I fingered the fabric of his shirt, running my hands along his shoulder blade and back. I felt a small shiver run through his body.

Chapter Seven

I'm bribing you all with stories until I can get back and actually blog. Have fun.

Warning: Fiction. So much fiction it hurts.

I started to move towards him, but he motioned for me to stop.
“Stay where you are.”
“Why?” My voice felt small and nervous. I only wanted to be in his arms again.
“You’re beautiful. I don’t want to ruin it with movement.”
I could feel his eyes roam over every square inch of my body. It was such a strange sensation, a mix of comfort and fear. I didn’t know what to expect, what he was after. I wanted to hide, but I wanted him to see every part of me. I wanted him to tell me what I didn’t know.
“You remind me of myself when I was younger; so delicate and innocent, full of wonder and amazement. I can see the thirst in the shadows of your face. The same thirst I had for knowledge, for danger; the need to make a difference.” His voice grew quieter as he spoke, reflecting on years gone by, on the person he'd been.
He moved towards me as quickly as he’d left. He cupped my face in his hands, his grip more forceful this time, angling my face to his. He kissed me, eagerly and hard, as though he were searching for something, some comfort, in me.
We stood together in the kitchen, the lines separating us blurring, reality blending and becoming soft and malleable. I could feel the beat of his heart in his chest, the rhythm of his breathing as his scent mixed with mine, mingling in a heady perfume surrounding us. There was nothing left to interrupt us, we were completely alone.
His fingers held my face, the tips of them caught in my hair. My arms wrapped loosely around his neck and shoulders, the collar of his shirt pressed sharply against my skin. He moved. His hands moved slowly along the line of my jaw and down my neck, small touches filled with something unknown and mysterious. The hairs on my arms and neck raised, my skin tingled.
My entire body ached and pulsed with life, with anticipation, with need for him. I knew he was feeling the same. We hurt together.
With his hands on my hips, he pushed me against the island where I’d been chopping vegetables. The edge of the counter hurt as it pressed into my flesh as he pushed hard against me, pinning me to the spot. A soft mix of pain and pleasure escaped my lips as he slid his hand inside of my shirt. His thumb traced my belly button and the soft contour of my hip bone. I bit my lip as his kisses moved along my neck and what was exposed of my shoulders. His mouth was warm and moist against my sensitive skin.

We got our wish! Sort of!

I've been watching CNN roughly since I woke up. I just saw a commercial on CNN for AC360. Anderson is going to be in London tonight because of the foiled terror plot. He's out of the ME, finally! Who knows how long he'll stay, if he's going home after or back to the ME, but he'll be safe for today and tonight.

Thursday's show
No liquids are now allowed in carry-ons.
An alleged sophisticated terror plot uncovered. Are travelers safe? Anderson is live in London with a look at the alleged plot and the suspects. Tune in at 10 p.m. ET.

Chapter Six

Warning: Fiction. Don't believe a lick of what you read.


With his back turned to me, I was able to sneak behind him, close enough to angle my head above his shoulder. He didn’t move, his body became tense with the proximity of mine next to him. I placed a hand on his shoulder blade, to steady myself on my toes, as though I had known him for years rather than two days. I could hear the sharp intake of his breath as we made contact, I could feel the filling of his lungs beneath my open palm.
I whispered softly into his ear, “What are you doing?”
He turned slowly, ignoring the question, to face me. His face only inches from my own, my hand still raised slightly, now in line with his chest.
“I think a better question would be what are you doing?” he asked, his voice deep and husky.
I retreated a small distance from him, lowering my hand to my side and dropping my gaze from meeting the intensity of his.
He stepped forward, using one strong hand to tilt my head so he could look directly into my eyes. I looked to the side, unable to deal with the scrutiny in his look.
“Stop,” he used his hand to brush a strand of hair out of my eyes.
“Stop what?”
“Avoiding me. I want to look at you. I want to see you.”
His hand had found its way to my shoulder, exerting a small amount of pressure almost caress-like. I stopped avoiding his gaze and allow him what he wanted to see. I knew I was unable to hide what was written on my face and in my eyes from him.
“There’s something so familiar about you…” a quick movement and his hand brushed my cheek and ear.
His face lowered, our noses touched briefly as we tilted our heads and our eyelashes fluttered against each other in anticipation. I angled my face towards his, watching the muscles under his skin filling his face with emotion. Our mouths met softly, not sure what to expect. His lips were tender and smooth against my own. He pulled me even closer, his arms wrapped tightly around my waist. I could feel the strength in his arms as his held me, warm and private. His elegant body was so firm underneath the fabric of his clothing.
My fingers dug gently into his shoulders as our kiss grew in intensity, the heaving of his chest quickened beneath my open hands. We stayed together, savouring the moment and the feel of one another until a hissing sound brought both of us back to reality.
Anderson looked over his shoulder, still holding onto me tightly. I could feel each individual digit as he pressed them into my back, unwilling to let me go.
“Fuck,” he grumbled under his breath.
He continued to look at the pot boiling over on the stove, reluctant to loosen his grip. He turned to face me again and smiled in a way I’d never seen before. His entire face looked at me, bright and alive; his eyes were an unreal shade of blue. He touched me again, brushing his thumb along the line of my cheek bone before letting go.
In two large strides, Anderson covered the distance between where we stood and the stove. He turned the burner off and moved the pot onto another, away from the heat. A playful smile darted across his lips as he looked back at me. Lips that just seconds ago I had felt.

Mmm, donuts

Andy is so cute. Last night when Tom Foreman was doing the 360 Bulletin and the story about Krispy Kreme in China, Andy went "mmm donuts." It was a sad impersonation, but nonetheless cracked me up and was sooo cute. Can't wait for some screencaps to show up. He's such a funny guy.

I'm slightly amused by how Anderson always, always, always specifies that the shooting going on is outgoing, for his mother and for those of us crazy Anderfans. Last night he said something along the lines of "which is why I'm not running in fear." I think it was an attempt at some light-hearted humour. I laughed. But maybe I'm strange.

Israel was to meet and discuss a major escalation of the ground operation. Crap. I'm going to pretend I don't live on earth and people don't suck.

I have been listening to too much crappy music. I know it's bad, but nonetheless, I can't help but listen to it. Sexyback by Justin Timberlake and Deja Vu by Beyonce are currently my two favourite songs. Well.. Beyonce can do no wrong. Justin has been my guilty pleasure for years. So they're not that bad. But, I've been listening to Pussycat Dolls and that London Bridge song by Fergie. I want to gag with my bad taste in music lately.

Slacker.

I'm such a slacker. I've been on all day, wandering around the interwebs, looking for various Coop-related things, and I haven't even blogged. So bad, am I.

I honestly have started to become bored. I think I'm all ranted out for now. I've said all I really have to say on this issue, which is being harped upon so heavily. So, when Coop comes home maybe I'll have some more to say. Until then, I will post randomly about random things that catch my interest.

Finished!

TADA! This took me about 6 hours to finish. I'm rather pleased with it. His right eye bothers me a little, I think because it's darker than the left, but that's the way it is in the photo too. I'm just too OCD for my own good.

Posted in my deviantArt as well.

Chapter Five

I'm too exhausted to even consider trying to formulate a proper blog entry. I'll play catch up tomorrow. But I will leave you instead, with another installment of the Anderfic. I want to say thank you though, to everyone who leaves comments on the blog. I really appreciate it, even if I don't answer all of them (depends on my mood). They always make me smile.

Warning: Definitely fiction. If it were true, do you think I'd be here blogging for you?

As we drove out of the city, he asked more about me. He asked things that were rather trivial, like my favourite movie, to what my family was like and why I’d chosen to go into journalism. I gave him my answer and then asked him a question in reciprocal. As we drove, I gazed out the car windows as buildings blurred past and turned into trees and expanding lawns.
We entered what appeared to me to be a residential neighbourhood, slowing and pulling into a cobblestone driveway. The car came to a stop and I looked around trying to find anything that may suggest it was some type of restaurant. Nothing. We were completely alone. When I got out of the car, Anderson asked if I could help him carry some things inside. I obliged and went to the rear of the car to help. I was surprised by what I found.
“Groceries? You’re planning on cooking?”
“No, we’re planning on cooking.”
I couldn’t help but smile. I loved to cook, but I loved even more a man who could cook. I looked at the array of fresh vegetables and spices, trying to put together an idea of what might be on the menu.
“What are we going to cook, Anderson?”
“I’m not really sure. At least, I don’t think. We’ll see where this takes us.”
I continued to ask questions as we walked towards the house. It was his; a place to get away from the hectic pace of the city, a place to reflect and relax. Very exclusive, I smiled to myself thinking about what he’d said.
The outside of the house was very Victorian, architecturally. It was set far back from the quiet road, a vast expanse of neatly kept grass and shrubbery surrounding it. The inside was an elegant blend of modern minimalism and elaborate traditional decoration. The floors were all rich oak wood, warm and inviting; the walls varied from calm pastels to bold jewel tones setting the atmosphere of every room individually. I made mental notes in my head of the paintings and other pieces of art lining the walls as we walked toward the kitchen; a Pollock, Renoir, Mucha, a large Ansel Adams print all mixed among pieces done by his mother. I gazed in bewilderment, impressed by it all.
“My mother helped decorate,” he scratched his head with his free hand. “I’m fairly useless when it comes to design.”
“It’s gorgeous. The art… How did you… Are they all originals?”
“Mostly. Some are numbered prints. I have more upstairs if you’d like to look later.”
I nodded that I would, still astounded by what I had seen of the collection. I’d forgotten to mention during our talks that I was a bit of an artist myself; one without motivation, but still an artist.
We entered the kitchen, a room that in itself was a work of art. Growing up with a cook for a mother and a family that always gathered in the kitchen, I had learned to appreciate the importance of a good kitchen. It was incredibly spacious with immense marble countertops. A butcher’s block stood near the centre island. An oversized flattop stove and an oven were built into one side of the countertops. After unloading the groceries, I placed a hand on the marble enjoying the smooth texture of the cool stone. Anderson had begun pulling out pots and pans while I stared aimlessly.
“Are you ready?”
He looked at me as though he could read my mind. I felt so vulnerable, so naked beneath his eyes.
“Sure,” the word came slowly from my mouth in a distracted tone. “What do you want me to do?”
“Start chopping some vegetables. The ones you like, I’m not picky. I’ll do everything else. I want to leave you guessing, a surprise I suppose.”
I smiled at him and began looking through the vegetables; onions, mushrooms, zucchini, tomatoes, peppers and some others. I busied my hands while I let my mind wander to think about what all of this was supposed to mean.
Anderson was busy cooking up something that smelled delicious. The kitchen was filled with the mixing scents of peanuts, coconut and something I couldn’t quite place. It was all very Asian in nature, something I enjoyed.

Preview!

This is the drawing so far. This is about 3 and a half hours of work. I still have a lot more to do!

I'm sorry!

I'm sorry I haven't blogged all day. I was out all day long, literally, with my friends. I know. I have friends that take precendence over the blog. It's unbelievable. But, what can I say? We went to see the Natal Day fireworks (for those who don't know, it's Halifax's birthday on Monday!). There is also to be an intense amount of partying tomorrow, as Chase, one of the guys from the States who showed up at my house driving a car that runs on "the vegetable oils" (HA! Fronz), is turning 21 on Monday too, so we're celebrating tomorrow (they're leaving Monday to go to Cape Breton, wtf? Halifax rules all). And Monday, I think there are more fesitivies which require me to attend (I must check with my handler, J. Stoffer, pfft), and Thursday I think is the AIDS vigil. I'm going to be busy this week! Blogging may be hard! But, don't worry. I'll try to find the time.

And to be slightly on topic, I started a drawing of Anderson. The picture that I used in two of my wallpapers, the one where you can see his adorable freckles. It's going to take a while to finish. But, you will all see it! Maybe I'll give you sneak peeks :P That's all for now. It's after midnight. Sleeeeeeeeep.

Chapter Four

Warning: Still very much fiction.

As he looked over the three pages of notes I’d taken, I searched his face for a sign, some signal to show me what he was thinking. I swore I saw a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“You like me in blue? Oh, and pinstripes? How insightful,” he smirked, clearly amused.
“I have to please my female readers,” I answered back quickly, dripping with an equal amount of sarcasm.
He laughed, handing me back my notes and pulling out of the parking lot. He asked me the address of my hotel, turning onto the street. We engaged in small talk along the way, asking him a little about himself. He asked me how long I was planning on staying in New York. I answered just as the car came to a stop and I recognized the façade of my hotel building. I looked back at Anderson, my hand on the door handle ready to leave.
“I’ll see you again before you leave.”
With one of my legs still in the car, the other on the sidewalk, I turned at an angle to face him.
“What?”
“I want to see you again. Tomorrow. Stay here. I’ll pick you up,” a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
“Alright. Any particular time I should expect your highness?”
A chuckle and an answer of noon-ish. I rolled my eyes and thanked him for his company and kindness before shutting the door. I ran quickly up the hotel stairs and into my room. Behind the safety of the heavy wooden door, I sunk down to the floor thinking about what had happened.
Exhausted, I picked myself up and sorted everything to prepare for bed. I folded down the sheets and slipped between, enjoying the sensation of the cotton sliding against the bare skin of my legs. I lay in bed savouring every moment of what had happened before falling into a pleasantly dream-filled sleep.
I woke earlier than usual, not sure when to expect Anderson to arrive. I had to shower and get ready. I was still unsure what to wear, I had no idea where he planned to take me. I settled on my favourite jeans and a simple but elegant top which would probably be practical for most of New York. I threw a pair of comfortable walking shoes in my bag encase there was any amount of walking planned.
The knock on the door was confident, three heavy taps. As I walked across the room to answer, I made sure to catch my reflection in the mirror. I didn’t want to look at though I tried too hard, but rather as though this was normal for me. I noticed the time was around 20 past 12; about noon-ish.
I breathed in deeply with the movement of the door along its hinge, preparing a bright smile for who I knew was on the other side of the door. When the door had opened completely, I saw a flash of silver as the light from the window at the end of the hall glinted off of grey locks. Blue eyes looked at me, studying the rather dramatic difference in my appearance since yesterday. I’d only word a loose t-shirt and jeans with my hair in a ponytail out walking.
He smiled, apparently pleased by how I’d cleaned myself up. I asked if he wanted to come in or if we would be leaving immediately. He looked at his watch and then at me.
“We should be going now. Our reservations are in half in hour and it takes a while to get there.”
“Reservations, hm? Where might they be?”
“No where touristy, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he smirked with the hidden knowledge of where we were going, “very exclusive.”
“Fine then. Don’t tell. Let me grab my purse and we’ll go.”

My two favourite men

Jon and Andy, all together and cute and in suiiiits. And the world is a better place for it!

Okay, I didn't watch last night. I was drinking with my mom, brother, dad, nephew and two Americans ho showed up (my dad knows one of them) after driving from Chicago in a beat up Benz stationwagon on FRENCH FRY OIL. Honest to god. The car runs on friggin' vegetable oil. They say there's no difference in the way the car would run on diesel than on the vegetable oil. They converted the engine of course. So, here's my question: If two 20-somethings can convert a diesel engine to run on old french fry grease, why the hell do we still need fossil fuels?

Loosen Up My Buttons...

Someone please explain to me WHY I can't get Buttons by the Pussycat Dolls out of my head? Seriously. I want to hurt something. It's the Middle Eastern/East Indian sounds on the track. Love that stuff.

Last night, they kept talking about how Bush hasn't spoken to Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Olmert. They also brought up on last night's broadcast Snow saying that the US has not given Israel the greenlight. I blogged on that yesterday. Shimon Perez, the Israeli vice Premier and former Prime Minister, has said that there is no pressure from the American government to stop. The absolute bias the government shows Israel is certainly going to hamper diplomatic efforts, and is not in the best interest of either Israel or the United States. The United States is alienating itself from the entire region by showing unbending support for Israel. Excellent idea, what with Iraq and Afghanistan already under their belts.

CNN is a big fan of GoogleEarth. They use it all the time. Last night, they should before and after pictures of Beirut, I think it was. Utterly destroyed. How can this possibly end well? If you destroy everything a person has, it leaves a neverending hatred in their heart. Violence only leads to more violence. There is one person, at least, who has realized this.

Last night, Nic Robertson was in Iraq talking to a soldier, commander, something like that, by the name of Fisher. He had started using different tactics in the area under his control, instead willing to forgive and using gentlier means to gain information. He has started to use discussion, benefits, and rewards, rather than just walk in and use force for everything. With force, he said that innocent people get hurt. Then those who knew them, their families, take up arms to fight in retaliation. So far, it's worked. Attacks in the area are down and the people are more open to American troops in the area. I'm sitting there going, "This man is brilliant." People take up arms in retaliation. Simple, no?

Baalbeck

The only reaction I could come up with last night as the news came in about the Israeli raid on Baalbeck was, "Crap. We're all screwed." Seriously. This is going to all end so badly, so, so badly. Already today we've seen the rockets going into Israel increase to the highest number yet in retaliation. Hezbollah says that Israel only succeeded in arresting? kidnapping? abducting? civilians, five to be exact, while Israel says that they're Hezbollah officials. Great. Because, it wasn't kidnapping people that started all of this. Nope, it wasn't at all. This is all crap. How many people have to die to prove that violence doesn't work? Ghandi is rolling in his grave.

The one segment that really got to me last night was the segment on children in Israel collecting Katyusha rockets. That is an absolutely terrifying idea to try and fathom. Anything with children always gets to me. The motherly instinct kicks in and I get all mushy and protective. No child should ever have the opportunity to become so familiar with violence and the tools used to inflict it. I am, however, thankful that Anderson has decided not to overlook the plights of children like the family profiled. But, I also see the other side to the reason he is reporting it. Often you hear Anderson talk about the "sliding scale of sorrow," and how you have to pick and choose which stories are sad enough to strike a chord. Children collecting rockets strikes a chord.

New in the 360 blog: White House denies giving green light to Israel. Are they stupid? Or do they just think that we're stupid? Because last time I checked, sending bunker busting missiles and M109s to Israel is definitely a "green light," at least in my book. American diplomacy at the United Nations has the power to make or break a ceasefire. So far, all they've done is break them. American diplomats have rejected all other international attempts to create a resolution and a ceasefire. Now, Condi says they could create a resolution by the end of the week. Why's that? They could have had one two weeks ago. Is it because international opinion is starting to weigh heavily against Israel and the United States that they've changed their tune so durastically? I just want to go smack some people upside the heads, because they're being morons. That is all.

The more time is spent on this story, the more I wonder what it is that really decides what stories get the most coverage. Of course, on the "sliding scale of sorrow" a war is pretty freakin' bad, but there are things that are just as bad going on but don't get barely any coverage at all. While watching last night, along the bottom on the headline scroll, one of the headlines was something along the lines of "Rebels in Darfur rape and murder to try and gain... something something." I only just caught it out of the corner of my eye. Why does Darfur only get a scroll along the bottom, and an occasional 30 seconds news piece?

To put it into perspective, the ME Crisis has essentially had 24 hour coverage for three weeks. Around 550 Israeli and Lebanese civilians have died. So, that's like 26 people a day. The conflict in Darfur has had little to no coverage over the last three years. It has been declared a genocide by the American government and has been called the "world's greatest humanitarian crisis" by Kofi Annan. An estimated 400,000 people have died from the government-supported violence, more die from starvation. Approximately 100 people die a day in Darfur. Women are raped as a means of ethnic cleansing, children are murdered, and entire villages are destroyed. Where the hell is the international coverage on that, huh? I'm pretty sure that scores high on the "sliding scale of sorrow."

So where is the coverage? ER, the NBC primetime drama, covered more of what's going on in Darfur this year than the news media did. If ER can film in Darfur, you can get a fucking news team there, so that's not it. The only thing I can really come up with that seems to make any sense is that it's Africa, and who really cares what's going on in Africa? Not viable trading partners, no oil, the only ones we really need around are South Africa and Egypt. This is why I'm going into journalism. Frustration and disgust.

From the Canadian in me: the Prime Minister has said he is unsure as to whether or not Canada will be able to commit troops to an international force in Lebanon. I've come to realize Harper is excellent at stalling. We're all tied up in Afghanistan. Really? Okay. Well, I'm fine with that. We do have troops there, and we don't want to stretch ourselves too thin. We don't have a huge military, and Canadians are stationed all around the world. My cousin is currently in Holland. But, I hope Mr. Harper doesn't become a two-faced backstabber by sending troops to Lebanon. He has already said that Canada will only commit troops to Darfur if it is an international force through the UN. So, remember that Mr. Harper. If you have to choose Darfur or Lebanon, choose that which came up first, or else you will have a very angry Canadian on your doorstep. The entire country knows where you live.

Thanks to legionpossessed via acoopervision for the screencap.

Chapter Three

Hmm, I wonder if should put this all in a seperate blog, to keep my fangirliness seperated from my crazy rants. Comment to let me know what you think.


Warning: None of this has any basis of fact. I have never met Anderson Cooper, and have never been to New York. This is all written in fun. It's fiction. Whii ^^



We talked for a while there in the café. I told him I was from Canada, studying journalism and political science. Other than CNN and The Daily Show, I couldn’t give a definitive answer as to what it was that had drawn me here. I didn’t know why.
He glanced at his watch. Quarter past ten, we’d been talking for over an hour. The sun has finished setting and the café had emptied. He asked me how far away I was staying. Honestly, I wasn’t sure. I didn’t know how far I’d walked that afternoon. I told him instead the address of the hotel.
“That’s a long way to walk and an expensive cab ride. Why don’t you come up with me while I tape the show and then I’ll take you back.”
I answered, my eyes I was sure were nearly glowing, that I would be delighted and honoured to be invited to watch him tape the show. I asked though, for only one thing. Well, technically, two things I suppose. I wanted a pen and a notebook. Mine were at the hotel. He gave me a strange look, but didn’t bother to ask why. I suppose that he wanted to save it for later.
When we got to the studio, he had an assistant find a notebook for me while he went to change. I had to keep out of the way, but I didn’t mind I was watching everything that was being done, writing things down while they readied themselves for the broadcast. Anderson emerged from somewhere behind the set and smiled at me in the background. My breath caught in my throat a little bit as I could feel his gaze move across me.
The broadcast ended and Anderson came over to tell me to stay put until he came back. We would leave as soon as he’d changed. I saw him eyeing the notebook I held in my hands and had written in during the show. Curiosity was written all across his face. When he came back out, the same boots and jeans on as before, he asked me what I’d wanted a notebook for.
“Mine is at the hotel. I keep notes during the show and the news to keep track of ideas and statistics to blog about the next day.”
“You… blog about the show?” He sounded perturbed.
“Not the show, really. The show gives me a topic. I write things down or else I forget. I started it as a sort of assignment to refine my writing skills.”
He titled his head to the side and made one of the ‘hmms’ that I enjoyed so much.
“Has it helped?”
“I’d like to think so.”
He approached a small, sleek black BMW. Appropriate, I thought. With his eyes, he motioned that this was his car and for me to get in the passenger side. Only the click of the automatic lock broke the mutual silence. I slid into the car, the beige leather cool against my warm skin. When the car’s engine started, I took a deep breath and pinched myself to make sure I hadn’t imagined everything. I flicked my eyes to the side and he was still there. Relieved, I began to relax again when he asked to see my notes.
“I’ve never know someone who took notes during anything. I want to see what I make you think.”
I knew what he had made me think and I knew what I had written down. I was reluctant to hand them over, but couldn’t deny such a request. I shifted uneasily, not able to predict his reaction as I handed the notebook to the long, slender fingers being held out.

Icons!

I have a serious problem. Thanks again to colorfilter for the textures. Comment if you take some.

Follow your bliss

Another wallpaper for you all. Thanks to colourfilter for the texture. This one is now the wallpaper on my desktop ^^

On to last night's broadcast! The focus over the past couple of days on all of the news channels has been the attack in Qana, leaving at least 54 people dead and 17 of those children. Israel is sorry, they didn't target that building and it was a mistake. I don't think I can do anything other than roll my eyes. They keep trying to justify it, keep saying that they told everyone to leave. Not everyone is able to get out. Yeah, it's war, yeah, it's sad and bloody, but seriously, Israel is sounding a little too high and mighty for my tastes. You fucked up, show some serious remorse.

Also, I'm completely and utterly tired of the US blocking all attempts at creating a ceasefire. A sustainable ceasefire is what they want. Well, in order to get a sustainable ceasefire, YOU NEED A CEASEFIRE. American diplomacy is doing jack all right now, and until there is a ceasefire, there is no way to continue the peace process. Stopping the bombs and civilian deaths, generally a good way to jumpstart peacemaking. The US wants a "comprehensive plan" that includes a sustainable ceasefire, the disarmament of Hezbollah, Israel returning Palestinian and Lebanese prisoners, the return of occupied territories/disputed land (Golan Heights), the return of the Israeli soldiers, peacekeepers in the area, the deployment of the Lebanese army in Southern Lebanon and so on and so forth. The only thing that the US refuses to agree on is an "immediate" ceasefire. They have a veto in the Security Council, so if everyone else agrees to it, they can just say, "Yeeeah.... No. Israel, you are free the blow the shit out of Hezbollah/Lebanon." Vetos are the worst idea EVER.

So, Castro has ceded power for the first time in what, 47 years? He's nearly 80, sweet mother of god. Maybe he's a robot like Bob Barker. And you know what? I really don't care a whole lot that he's ceded power while having surgery. Until the man dies, I really hold no opinion or interest one way or another. I'm more interested in what Mel Gibson has to say. Sad, isn't it?