That is my goal today. I have no other goals. I don’t even have a list of goals of things I need to have goals about.
Let’s see. A single subject that I can prettily explore in about a thousand words because attention spans are not what they were. That’s not a slam. That’s just a hasty observation. About you. If the shoe fits, walk around in it. Shoes are awesome. Being barefoot is awesome. Socks are awesome, too. Did I miss anyone?
After all, my pretend crack addiction is actually affecting my ability to write anything other than ‘testicle fur’ at odd moments. I pretend a lot, as I don’t have Netflix. If I had Netflix, my brain could atrophy and melt. I could become one of those secret control the world bankers and just enjoy all the cash rolling in. I applied for that job but had to admit I didn’t have Netflix. I have not heard back from them yet. See what I mean? If I had a goal listed somewhere–do not go off on tangents about Netflix or secret world banking organizations– I’d not be a the end of a small paragraph of nonsense and self-indulgent fluvering. [I made that word up. It means to meander needlessly and test the patience of patient readers.]
Oh, got a really nice rejection notice. If that makes sense. You were a finalist but we went with other plays but we loved your writing. Ah!! Hope springs eternal in the writer’s droopy soul! Someone likes my writing?? Hallelujah.
Just because it’s a leftover, sitting there in the fridge like a welfare queen, does not mean it goes into scrambled eggs. That’s the number one and only rule for this life that counts. No chicken skin, no weird rubbery green bean-ish bean thingie, no no no no.
Dang it, this has several subjects by now. Bad breakfast cooking, world bankers, absence of Netflix, imaginary crack addiction, rejections that are nice…Ugh a bug.
The toast is good from that breakfast fiasco. [I did not cook breakfast this morn. Stop right there. I would not just randomly throw shit into the eggs and call it a meal. There are things that do not go into eggs. God damn it, there are rules here. I don’t care. Yes, there are people starving and eating nuclear waste dirt right now to stay alive. I know that. I watch those miseryporn commercials same as you, you judgmental horror. You smug smuggle! Go judge yourself and eat vitamins and drink kale sweat. Bye!]
Kale sweat. My thirty-page rhyming couplet ode to my mother’s childhood pets. It starts off with a scream about nostalgia and ends with a longing for the good ole days. Arcs, people, arcs are what makes art work.
“Satanic Mafia” is going to be the title of one of my many books. It’s going to be a Christmas tale, about an animal rescue. The new title, after I get a mysterious email from the UN, will be Fluffy’s Last Stand Against the NWO, which will be a more friendly-seeming and sales-garnering title and attract a wider audience who will…Must stop torturing myself about imaginary books. Time for an imaginary hit off my imaginary crack pipe. Sometimes dreams are the only things you have left and sometimes those dreams are weird, man. Weird.
Okay, let’s end this on a positive note. +
No, just kidding. Oh, the House on Clark Boulevard has officially gone through that first round of editing. I know!! I just peed myself a little, too, in excitement and anticipation and hopeful hopes for a better tomorrow.
PS– the Orange Snowflake held its own pep rally yesterday, Saturday April 29th, because…yeah. Can’t someone send that poor Crusty Cheeto a Cheer the Fuck Up card? Maybe send him a basket of refugee children’s ears or a nice spiral cut ham? I can’t. I’m, like, totally busy, um, writing some goals down. Yeah. Goals. Mm.
Well, don’t I feel special. Two rejections for my submitted something or other on the same day. Those pieces sucked anyway and I submitted them during the wrong phase of the moon and my energies were all wrong and I wasn’t being open to all the universe had to show me yet, of course. Life lessons or something to be learned here. Or that my writing sucks and nobody wants a thing to do with it. I’m a crappy writer who has delusions of grandeur. I should have gone into shoveling dead animals off the highway, at least I’d have enough cash to buy Christmas presents once in a while and some actual self-respect rattling around in whatever’s left of my soul. Which is poisonous thinking and I should pour some sugared sunshine posit-tronic thoughtjuice on that and smile through the pain and fake it until I make it. Wheeeee.
Yeah. Something like that.
I know we’re not supposed to admit a feeling of utter GODDAMN IT GODDAMN IT FUCK. That’s so…defeatist. No sense, none, not a single dropsicle of sense, needs to be wasted on getting upset, angry or in any way emotional over yet another rejection and another right after that and another, and yet another, oh look, another rejection form letter urging me to keep submitting; even though they enjoyed reading my work it was not suitable at this time for our needs. Maybe next time. Maybe next time. The two following little blurts are from actual rejections sent to moi. I have made them generic and every day to protect the guilty and the sadsacks alike.
Thanks again for sharing this. As always, there was a wide range of excellent responses to this image, but we received 262 poems in total, and the artist and I could each only pick one. Unfortunately we chose other work—check the [I’ll leave the name to your imaginations] this Tuesday and Thursday to read the two winners. [Subtext– come and read what a good poet wrote. Why don’t you try being a good poet so maybe your life will have meaning at last? That’s so not the subtext, brainworm.I should support other writers, so they’ll support me when I’m in the winner’s circle. And when will you get near that winner’s circle, o Ms. Crappola O’Crappy? ]
Thank you again for submitting your play, [ what does it matter? It lost. It doesn’t deserve a title.] We are finally gearing up for this year’s production of [when did I submit a play for this place? Oh yeah, back in September 2016], and while we enjoyed reading your play, we are unable to include it in the lineup.
UPDATE, as of May 5, 2017– just got one of my fave kinds of rejections. Where they tell you you did not win and then wax rhapsodic over the play that did win. Like, a giant bitchslap of just how much you sucked and that other play ROCKED THEIR UNIVERSE AND IS THE BEST THING SINCE SLICED BREAD, THE WHEEL AND THE INVENTION OF CATS. “We just thought you’d like to know you didn’t get selected.” End it there. I don’t need a revival-tent-ish testimonial to whatever did win. Fragile ego here, god damn it!!
Now, I do have a sense of humor about rejections, I do. I laugh– ha ha-– and then try to remember that rejection is a part of life and it’s all about learning something and that when you get lemons, drink vodka and that when a door closes, you still have cheesecake. Except when the cheesecake is at the store so you spread peanut butter on stale crackers instead, which makes you feel like a total loser because a real winner, even when they didn’t get picked from a random herd of sweaty, earnest other writers, would have fucking cheesecake in their fucking house. Amen.
There’s not even those fake Dollar Store cheesy puffy things in the house that try to be Cheetos but fail so miserably it’s laughable. Ha ha. Maybe the universe can send me one of those “You’ve won five dollars” scratch-off lottery tickets [One I don’t actually have to buy. One I find out in the yard beneath the oak tree. I’m totally down for some miracles right now. Magically appearing, modest-winning scratch-off lottery ticket, I’m in!] before deluging me with rejection letters. I think that’s fair. Totally, like, fair and stuff. There’s no balance here, universe. None! It’s a lopsided smackfest! At least send some fake ass cardboard-esque Cheeto wannabe products my way if you’re gonna keep sending me multiple rejection notices every other day. Hello!!! HELLO!! Is this thing on??
Oh, P-freaking-S– I was gonna, like, take a break from this here bloggie for a bit due to needing some mental health days [like, um, you couldn’t tell or something that my mental health, like Elvis, has left the building], having life flu, and generally, planning a dance like nobody’s watching dance party marathon for one, but…yeah. I decided to vent like a pouty little volcano and spew feeble almost-ash into the indifferent air. whee
Oh– Goddamn it, France. Remember when Germany occupied you, ahem, during that thing we labeled WWII? Why are you trying to put an actual far-right fucknut on your French throne there? [I know it’s not a throne, I was being cutesy.] So the actual right-now Germany can make movies about the noveau [neu– I hope that’s a somewhat correct German word for new. Again, I was trying to be cutesy.] French Resistance? Yeah, immigrants, Satan sent them. So maybe build a wall around France and then Satan can’t get in…oh wait, that’s America’s Bigly Planz. Um…let me get back to ya, France. BRB.
How bad does it have to get before people…Fuck. Really bad. It has to get kill a bunch of people, mass graves, atrocities and breaking news reports read by serious-faced perfect-haired automatons bad and even then, it has to get more and more foul until we all magically remember we’re all better than that and this cannot stand and how can people do that to each other…I forget that we all forget and have to repeat everything a bazillion times to get anything through our goddamn thick heads. And then repeat it all again after that because nothing sticks in our goddamn collective thick heads. Never forget? We never remembered in the first goddamn fucking motherfucking goddamn place. Amen. I ended with this French stuff to remind myself that rejections suck but fascism sucks more. It’s all about perspective, fellow babies. Now I want cheesecake and Cheetos. Hello, power of suggestion.
I shall follow up my wildly popular and highly fluffy post, Let’s Go to the Movies, with some quote mining from yours truly. Titles with numbers in them seem to be known as ‘clickbait‘ and by Jove and by gum, I wish to be clickbaited! I know how that sounds, but I’m both needy and indifferent to the world. I am a contrary contrarian. If you repeat a word twice, you sound either Dickensian or that you have a scratch and your devices are having trouble playing you back.
Thirteen quotes. I suggest some of you make memes out of the following. Or a GIF. Or is that just ‘gif’? Ugh, modern spelling, amirite?
#1– from my short play, the Bluegrass of God,which has actually been performed!
ALITA: I buried all my things. In my backpack. I buried my past. It was nice. I said a little prayer and I think God heard me cause I found this place and the wind, it blows through like fiddle music, and it don’t care, it don’t care that I’ve been slapped by the Devil. So you see, Miss Paula…I can’t go with you. My past is buried nearby and it might, it might just burst out of the ground like a rocket. Just like a rocket.
#2– from my completed novel, The Adventures of Sexy Jesus and Grumpy Odin.That’s right, completed. I had fun writing it, even if no one ever reads it, publishes it or goes near it with a twenty-thousand foot pole:
Jesus came swanning in and women and yes, the men, too, watched him. That careless human beauty he wore as his own skin. The graceful workings of his slender frame. Loose sweatpants the color of November nights, a loose brightly printed shirt covered with abstract squiggles and squares, a forest green background, bright blue designs. It was rather like a cardinal landing among a flock of wary, admiring sparrows. That buttery dark hide had been burnished by his time in the harsh Nevada deserts. Those dark eyes held murder and rage in the center of each, twin black flames that promised a horrible, prolonged end to whatever crossed his path or even looked at him a little funny. Lights flickered. The dirt monkeys murmured, looked up, their faces open and wondering. They were moments away from asking the gods to make the lights stay on. No amount of modernity could reroute that urge to appeal to whatever forces might be listening for help, for comfort, for an ending of a torment.
#3–Ah, here’s the latest from my Wind in the Willows, American style, knockoff. I wrote this in the last couple of days, so it’s FRESH. This concerns the two sides about to have a fake war to bolster economies and get rid of the giant squids of Jesus that Luke and his side have had to take care of, since Deadlion’s End does not have a public aquarium. Meryl, by the way, is the mayor of Deadlion’s End. From my Tales of Beastface Bay, War Talk:
Or we can cobble together something ourselves, said Meryl, thinking of the expenses for hiring speech writers, then paying them extra to be quiet about the speeches they wrote. I’m sure, said the mayor, we can all write our own speeches here. I mean, how hard is it, really, to write a good, stirring patriotic barn burner of a speech? Rah rah, freedom, courage, we all have to sacrifice, liberty, they won’t beat us into the dust, we’re better than this, they can’t break us, courage, liberty, freedom, the blood of our ancestors, freedom, liberty, courage, freedom isn’t free, giant squids must go, courage, liberty, freedom, they can’t break us down and make us lose our liberty, courage or freedom. Something like that and then we all hug and cry, and go off to make sure our side wins.
#4– I shall make most of these short, don’t worry! From my massively produced and even published! short play, the Mating Season of Flying Monkeys:
BELINDA: Marjorie. You can’t tell me what to do anymore. I’m…an old woman now. You’re my sister, not…not my mother. I’ve decided to have a one night stand, if you absolutely must know.
#5– From a poem I wrote for a monthly poetic challenge, where Rattle puts up a random picture and poets of all stripes who so wish can compose a composition inspired by said artistic photo or rendering. M’kay? This is from She Enters the Forest:
She can see the cerulean hint of bluebells just there oh just there. I am not a good girl. She smiles over her shoulder toward the anxious eyes awaiting her return. Forgive me, I think I’ll need forgiving. I think this is unforgivable. I hope so.
#6–Ah, my next selection is from a short play of mine, the Man Who Went Insane From Money.A bank teller has had enough of the world. This one came from a happy, fun conversation I had with a fellow artsy sort, in Eugene, Oregon, at a party. What if bank tellers were honest about your bank account? We were laughing back and forth about what bank tellers would actually like to say to customers, and indeed, what all customer service sorts would like to say…and so I wrote a bit of a play. Inspiration sometimes comes from actually talking to other people. I know!
TYLER: Just turn on your too-high heels and totter out of here. Go get drunk and find a new man to suck dry, though you are kind of old. I’d max out your one remaining credit card for some plastic surgery, get your ass tightened up, your vajayjay, too. The boobs, goes without saying. Get those wrinkles filled in. Do some high class fucking and sucking and then presto, back in business. Just some friendly free advice
#7– Be patient, we’re more than half way through my self-induced tour of quote mining from my own stuff!! This is taken from City Full of Rain, a short story I need to rework. I think the ending…yeah. If you’re a writer [hashtag WeAreAllWriters] then you ‘get it’. You ‘get it’ so hard right now. You are ‘getting it’ with a cherry on top.
I probably am crazy, I probably made this all up to amuse myself because life is so very un-amusing. But I doubt it. I’ve been writing all this down for a year or so, hand-written in those single-subject notebooks they still sell at the supermarket. Each little scribbled word drains me. Yet I do it anyway. I want a record of what I did. Don’t we all? A record of why I did what I did and why it mattered. Don’t we all? I am not violence-minded, don’t worry. How could I hurt them? They’re angels or whatever they are. Survivors to this modern age. Nothing is that careful or cautious, nothing. Not even God. They’ve survived, Mike and Penny, because they’re impervious, not because they’re cautious. I could expose them but who, honestly but a handful of other crazies and wild-eyed breathless others, would take me seriously?
#8– Ah, from a Christmas short tale I penned. Seven Swans A Swimming Toy Store and Comic Books Emporium. Some writing challenge thingie for some vague project that might happen and so I wrote a short tale about an uncle and his niece and a ghost in a toy store. And it’s not even scary. I’m slippin’, I tell ya. Slippin’. La Grande, Oregon, by the way. Since that’s my college town and…yeah. Yep.
Allegedly, he was quite sad his older sister had died so tragically, in a giant city famous for crushing its inhabitants in traffic jams, mudslides and tales of the once-famous reduced to tiny, faded ends. The rise and fall of the famous had become Los Angeles’s gasoline of choice. But, he and Holly had never been close. He could not fathom such a nomadic sort of life. He could not fathom creating a child and dragging it around like an extra-annoying backpack…as Holly had once labeled her own offspring. La Grande had been where he had attended school and then La Grande had become his home when he got a job teaching indifferent teens elderly literature selections they could not fathom as in any way relatable to their lives. They memorized bits here and there for the tests that would open doors to elitist liberal bastions of indoctrination that they’d spend a lifetime paying for if they took out student loans. Dreams in America now seemed for the very rich or the very delusional.
#9– Hang on, Sloopy! Almost at the end! This is from a rather sweet short story I puffed out on a Sunday afternoon, about an elderly lady named Maybelle and her very special doll. The story is, of course, called Maybelle.
Judi had gone out for ‘supplies’ or rather, a lunch with her friend, Beau, a married man. Maybelle found that rather sad but said nothing. It was Judi’s life. Her own life had been a series of dead ends, heart aches, losses and quiet little deaths of her every dream and most of her hopes. The only bright spot remained Baby Cynthia. The one boy who had squired her about a bit had gone off with another, prettier, livelier girl without a backward glance and no one had stepped in to take that place. She had tried to be a nurse, had tried to be a teacher, had ended up taking odd jobs here and there when she had no talents for nursing and no backbone for teaching. She had dreamed of her own little house and times being what they were, always, for her, that had never come to pass. Sometimes life just shunts people gently or not so gently aside.
#10– Oregon Gothic gets a nod, my patient lovelies! This excerpt from Bailey, the first salvo in my OREGON GOTHICcollection, is a real treat. It’s candy corn, Peeps and Cadbury Eggs kinda special. Or a kale smoothie, organic yogurt enemas and rain water collected from one of those temples in Cambodia treat special. Hey, I try to cater to all reading and other sundry tastes here. Our plucky heroine has broken down after enjoying a meal with her grandparents…
Because it’s perfect.
How many horror movies had she watched with just this crap going on? Storm. Broken down vehicle. Girl alone. Psycho with knife, axe, gun. It was practically an American institution, an American movie classic shown every single freaking Christmas and twice at Easter. Halloween. Night of the Living Dead– the original, not the shitty remake. Friday the Thirteenth, the very first one. Carnival of Souls. Every Dracula movie ever, surely. She couldn’t think of any more movies, her mind just refusing to spit out any more examples, because she seemed too busy trying not to piss herself in fear. So where was the psycho?
Stop it, Bailey, just stop it. She scolded herself as she walked along, trying to hurry. It was not that far to town. And she had been discussing local murders with her grandparents. No wonder she was spookedy-spooked. Weiser, Boise, nowhere near here though. Nowhere near. Miles away, in a different state. Idaho was full of crazies. Oregon was not, which was not true but still comforting.
And like some malignant cue from the universe, a male voice said, “ Hey. “
#11– This is yet another tale that graces Oregon Gothic, also about a ghost at Christmastime time, that visits one of the residents at a nursing home. Tiny Rooms.
“It’s all right. I don’t mind. So you sit with a little ghost and cook things for Christmas. What’s crazy about that? That’s rather nice.” I had somehow said just the right thing. Nora smiled, that rare real smile she had.
“I think so, too…or I’d have told her to go away and leave me alone, ” Nora confessed. “One Christmas, I had a tuna sandwich and a cup of tea. It was all I had in the house. I was just grateful I didn’t have to go hungry. I couldn’t afford a tree that year, either. And. And I never bothered to buy one after that. It was just…not worth the bother. It was a relief. To be done with it all.”
#12– This is from Lady Judas, one of the first plays I ever wrote. It’s been rewritten X amount of times since then and I rather like how it’s evolved. A suicidal woman comes home to a family dinner where Jesus shows up. Now, originally, I had Jane, the protagonist, actually dying as she’s imagining a homecoming of sorts. But. What if she lived and had to face everything and everyone? Ray speaks about his wife and the mother of Jane and her sister, Lanie, toward the end of this latest rewrite, about what love is, to him.
RAY: Is that what you all think? She ripped her arms open because of me? Is that what you think, Jane? I loved her. I loved her, I love her to this day. She was a mean, bitter woman and some people are just like that, but I loved her. I cleaned her up when she had her spells, I put bandages on Lanie and you, I cleaned up the mess so nobody had to see it but me, I…I did what I had to because I loved her to pieces. I loved her to pieces.
#13– Something wildly cheerful to round up my baker’s dozen! This last long quote, ha ha ha, is taken from my soon, I hope, to be published novel, The House on Clark Boulevard, about Nancy who’s both battling the holiday cooking and family demands as well as battling the Forces of Darkness. Enjoy!!
“Is there going to be those eggs?” Art asked, as he did before all holidays. Those eggs. Deviled eggs. Mayonnaise and mustard and egg yolk, mashed together and spooned back into shiny white egg halves. That’s how he knew it was a special day.
“Yes. Mom will probably make a big batch. Anything else you want? Apple pie or cherry or maybe a chocolate pie?” She sent out and Art just smiled, he was back on familiar ground, not dealing with a crazy wife with her cracks showing.
“Apple pie is always good. Do you like apple, Alice?” Art threw an unexpected curve ball at his strangely silent daughter, who turned her eyes to her father, her mouth full of mushy egg noodles.
“Can we have lemon?”
Lemon?? Art shrugged, cast Nancy a why-are-kids-so-weird glance. “Sure.”
Oh yes, lemon. When both Art and Alice hated lemon anything. “I’m sure we can make a lemon pie,” Nancy replied very agreeably. It seemed vastly important to reassure everyone she was back to normal, that she was mama and wife again. With some stitches and blood loss, but still mama and wife, no name at all, just mama and wife. That her only interests were cooking for Christmas and cleaning up after one and all and being pleasant. Nancy quickly shoved that thought far far down, shoved it into a ghost bottle with a bit of her own fingernail in it. She was Nancy the Magnificent Mr. Blue Fighter. She had conquered an invader here in the lands of Oregon East. “A big ole lemon pie with a playing card crust!”
Whew!! Thirteen quotes! I had fun. Did you? I seem to have a real spite against Christmas. I left out most of the writing that contained adult themes or language. I tried to keep it short and snappy. Tried being the operative word. Well, goodbye until next time. I’m sure yours truly will come up with something like Five Ways to Write About Potted Plants or perhaps 16 Ways Socks Figure in the Cannon of Western Literature.
Oh, gentle readers and assorted others– I was going to post something writer-ish and perhaps even share a bit of my latest little project! I really was! Instead I saw this list about movies…and felt, as in lots of feels, that I should, instead, fill in my choices for all the movie categories below. It was something I saw over on FB. If that’s even cool anymore to admit you go anywhere near FB. So!! Here ya go. It’s not scientific or artistic or of any merit whatsoever. So it will probably garner moi at least five likes and even a spam comments! Squeeee!!
Most Hated Movie: Drawing a blank here so I’ll put the Matrix. I really did not like the Matrix. I did not like it in a box, I did not like it with a fox.
Movie I Think Is Overrated: Avatar– Fern Gully did this way better and it was funnier.
Movie I Think Is Underrated: Fame– the 80’s movie about the artsy school, and if they remake this one, I’m going on a rampage. Wonder Boys– Michael Douglas and Toby Maguire. I can watch this one over and over. Why is this not a staple of TBS???
Movie I Love: Office Space. I believe you have my stapler? PC load letter. We need to talk about your TPS reports.
Movie I Secretly Love: okay, do not judge me. Don’t. These movies are my version of crack, meth, Oxycontin…Twilight. Yep. Twilight. If you doubt my sanity and have taken me off your list of future Serious Girl Writers, well, I don’t blame you in the least. I watch this movie with a hate-it/this is so oddly soothing back and forth going on in my head.
Favorite Action Movie: Captain Blood came to the forefront here. With Errol Flyn. The Run-Down, with the Rock and Christopher Walken. Okay, the Scorpion King, too. It’s fun and goofy. Um, [if you’re done judging me from the Twilight admittance] the Robin Hood with Kevin Costner. Because it’s fun and goofy and features Alan Rickman stealing the whole movie. Come on!! Thelma and freaking Louise, of course, of course. Jurassic Park.
Favorite Drama: The Color Purple. Like Water for Chocolate. A Room With a View. To Kill a Mockingbird. The Grapes of Wrath. A Streetcar Named Desire. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. An Officer and a Gentleman. Terms of Endearment. The Black Stallion. The Man From Snowy River. Where the Red Fern Grows. Old Yeller. Gladiator. Dante’s Peak.
Favorite Western: The Beguiled– why did they remake this?? Why?? Unforgiven. The Apple Dumpling Gang– does this count? It’s Disney, but it’s sorta a Western. The Ballad of Little Jo– about a woman who dressed as a man to survive in the Old West, based on a true story. The Quick and the Dead, Sharon Stone one. The Coen Brothers and their version of True Grit. [My dad likes the ‘real’ True Grit, by the way. If you don’t know that John Wayne also made a movie called True Grit, you’re probably watching too many foreign cat videos over on the youtubes.] Posse. Renegade with Vincent Cassel, because no one should never not watch a French guy in a Western. Dead Man– Johnny Depp does a fantastic turn in this dark, crystal clear black and white masterpiece from Jim Jarmusch.
Favorite Horror:Okay, here goes. Night of the Living Dead– the original one, not the remake, ugh a bug, stop remaking the classics, you fucksticks. The Exorcist– it still gives me the shivers. The Devil’s Backbone– a Spanish film that’s truly gorgeous and truly spooky. Halloween– the original because I don’t have to explain why, do I? Carrie– the Brian DePalma one, with Sissy Spacechick. Yes, I do want to see the musical based on Carrie, you bet your buckets of pig’s blood I do. An American Werewolf in London, want to watch that right now. Waxwork, both of them. Both!! The Company of Wolves– based on the Angela Carter stories, gorgeous and creepy and darkly sexual. Audition– one of the truly most frightening movies I’ve ever sat through. Drag Me to Hell– eerie and so well done with just shadows and sound effects mostly, rather old-fashioned for a Sam Raimi flick. Army of Darkness– this might be in the sci-fi category, but then again, maybe not. From Dusk till Dawn. Pitch Black. The Abominable Dr. Phibes– I have to drop everything and watch this when it comes on, just a hypnotic acid trip of a movie. I’ve never done acid, but…Holy crap, will stop there.
Favorite Comedy: Arsenic and Old Lace. Buffy, the Vampire Slayer– with Paul Reubens and Rutger Hauer and some truly 90’s slangin’ going on. Harvey. Waiting for Guffman. The Princess Bride. Blazing Saddles. Young Frankenstein. Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Run away, run away! Planes, Trains and Automobiles. The Birdcage. This is Spinal Tap. The Ref– seriously, this is Christmas with my family, or it seems like it. Fast Times at Ridgemont High. High Spirits. Dogma. The original Ghostbusters. Heathers. Best in Show. For Your Consideration.
Favorite Romance: It Happened One Night. Strictly Ballroom. Dr. Zhivago. Pride and Prejudice– I like any version of this, really. The Proposal. The Philadelphia Story. La Belle et la Bete– Beauty and the Beast, 1946. Bus Stop. Bringing Up Baby. Sense and Sensibility. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Out of Sight. Moonstruck. Penelope. The Holiday– this might come under guilty pleasure movies. House of the Flying Daggers– this might fall under action/adventure as well? The Ghost and Mrs. Muir. Little Women– the one with Winona Ryder.
Favorite Shakespearean Movie: Twelfth Night. Midsummer Night’s Dream– with Kevin Kline. Much Ado About Nothing, with Emma Thompson.
Favorite Period Epic: Far and away, the Ten Commandments. Yul Brynner chewing scenery in that sexy manly skirt outfit, yes, please.
Favorite Disney Movie: Darby O’Gill and the Little People. I watch this all year round, by the way. Just in case you were curious.
Favorite Science Fiction Movie: The Ice Pirates. [Go ahead, look this one up, I dare you not to wonder what happened in my life to make me list this movie in a public forum.] One I saw recently, Metropolis, a silent movie that they should show to those who think history isn’t important…The Terminator. E.T. The Road Warrior– still such a stunner of a movie. Pan’s Labyrinth. Labyrinth– David Bowie as the Goblin King!!! The Dark Crystal. The Beastmaster, with Marc Singer! If you have not seen that one or heard of it, honeychile, you need to go watch it ASAP. Eighties hair, animals, bad dialogue, oiled up heroes and villains. And standing around looking very helpless all the time ex-Charlie’s Angels eye candy. Go. I understand.
Favorite Animated Movie: Toy Story 2. How To Train Your Dragon. I still love Fantasia. Monsters, INC. Finding Nemo– that opening scene…! The first Land Before Time. Bambi. The Emperor’s New Groove.
Favorite Superhero Movie: Christopher Reeve as Superman, that first or second outing he had as the Man of Steel. [The glut of superhero movies lately have left me cold, clammy and indifferent to cookie cutter men in tights. Captain Ironman Spiderhulk Magnetic Batdude can suck it. I’m starting to hope a super-race of villainous vaginas attacks from outer space and turns all the superboring studs into those anal plugs morticians use. Is that so wrong? That was a bit mean. Maybe turn them into potted plants? That way they can brighten a room and give back to the environment.]
Favorite Musical Movie: Singin’ in the Rain. Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Sound of Music [did you really think that one would not make a list of movies that I cobbled together???] Brigadoon. [Anything, basically, with Gene Kelly.] I enjoyed the soundtrack way more than the movie of Across the Universe. If that means anything.
Favorite Bad Movie: Um, ahem, [[twilight]] ahem. Oh– Beast of Yucca Flats. Night of the Lepus. Catwoman– omg, I can watch this one over and over and never get tired of watching Halle Berry awkwardly imitate a cat. Wow.
Childhood Favorite: Charlotte’s Web.
Favorite Franchise: Star Wars! I can’t recite the dimensions of the Millennium Falcon, so don’t ask me to.
Best Trilogy: LOTR.
Guilty Pleasure: Dodgeball. The Mummy, with Brendon Fraser. The Fast and the Furious movies…any of them. A Million Ways to Die in the West…I know, shh. The Patriot, with Jason Isaacs. Peter Pan, with Jason Isaacs. Basically, anything where Jason Isaacs shows up as the veddy British baddie. [Lucious Malfoy, you betcha.]
Favorite Movie so far this year: I did go see Beauty and the Beast. I did enjoy it.
Favorite Movie Of All Time: The Fisher King. I keep wanting to write an entire post about this movie.
Okay. Yep. I think you were supposed to keep it down to just one movie per category.Whoops.
My taste in movies is atrocious. So, probably, is yours. I’ve seen a lot of those films on those big important lists that AFI and such put out. I’ve also watched those movies everyone actually watches. As trying to get through some of those ‘important’ films just makes me want to slap puppies at times. But I persist and get through them and then feel really smart and important for the rest of the day. I tried to be honest and not just list those films that make me seem super-intellectual and esoterically out there. Films that would make me seem super-duper ‘artsy’. Don’t get me wrong, I do like the obscure, made in the twenties, silent, B/W, made with actual clowns and random people passing by, German Nouveau, Post-Plague, Pre-Finger-Painting, three-hour take on a dog’s journey to bury its bone in the rotted bosom of society itself.
Oh heck yeah, I will actually watch something along those lines with real wonder and astonishment. I’ll also sit through Dracula, Untold, and enjoy a guy turning into bats to fight the Turks.
Yes, moi is planning a stay at home all day and not mingle with the relatives be alone festival. Mostly because my ability to deal with people borders on cringing away in horror that other people actually exist outside my fevered brainlands. As said relatives, in a small town off the wilds of Boise [Idaho, for those who think I live in France or Canada, tee hee] have invited their relatives, who fill me with actual snarls. I have no wish to hear about how the lib’rals are blah blah blah and the paid protestors and…yeah. All of that swirling conspiracy crap spews from the various mouths and yours truly just wishes for that damn meteor of death already to hit. Boom. Gone. No more uncomfortable dinners with earnest little tape recorders.
I am a liberal in a very red part of my state/s. As this region here might as well be called Idaho-lite or Idahgon. But I won’t go into this, nope nope nope.
It’s the Day of the Rabbit. Where a magical rabbit hands out chocolate eggs to all the good children of the land and then there’s ham and springtime.
I know what Easter is, thanks. Brought up a Lutheran. Did the whole nine yards. Jesus and I have agreed to see other people but we still keep in touch, to misquote from True Blood. Lafayette. I’ve been rewatching that, which is why those particular words occurred to me in this context. Not so much watching it as it’s playing in the background as I write frothy somewhat happy morality tales about talking animals. I still grind my teeth over humorless Bill, who should have been staked in the very first episode, and shrill Sookie, the helpless little houseplant. [They made her do stupid things so Beell could save her all the time, it got old freaking fast.] I still enjoy Eric and Pam, wishing the show had cut most of the other characters and centered the show around those two Fangtasia fantastics. I won’t do a True Blood
run down, don’t worry. It’s Easter! It oddly seems appropriate on the Christian Day of Blood [yeah, I went there and if you’re offended, that means you’ll come back hoping to be offended again. Yay!]
Okay! Working on my Beastface Bay tales. I have about five done. The giant squids of Jesus, Teddy’s back story, Burt and Judy and their crime spree, Sean and Bean’s exodus from Froggy Pond, and oh, how Teddy got and lost a friend. Oh. That tale went into a dark but satisfying place. I didn’t wish to write that fate of that little fish, and I know full well I can unwrite it. I’ll read over my words and see if it ‘rings true’ or not.
Oh, there are no tales about any rabbits in my Wind in the Willows knockoff.
Well, there’s a baker rabbit in Driftwood who might be selling her seven daughters to the locals for, um, favors, but that’s just a rumor there in a small town. You know how small towns are!
Oh my, this started with my staying home by myself on Easter and ended with a weird reference to a mother rabbit pimping out her rabbit daughters. With a hasty sneer toward True Blood, which I hatewatch, apparently. I should probably edit this heavily and add some smiley face pictures. Well, back to writing! I’m about to dive into Captain Isaiah’s shipwreck while hauling slave horses back to Beastface Bay during the dark days when slavery was a thing. Have a nice day, Jesus.
PS– Night of the Lepus was on last night! I laughed, I cried, I laughed so hard I cried. I just want to thank whomever over at TCM for deciding to run that truly so bad it’s good little gem right after the rather sweet Ernest Borgnine movie, the Rabbit Trap. [I was not out having sparkling conversations with sparkling poets, sorry. I was schlumped at home with the remote control and some tap water.]
Goodness, gentle readers and assorted riffraff– yours truly truly did tackle the writing prompt I made up out of thin air for some vague sarcastic point in riptide. Lesbian giraffes attacked by a giant squid sent by Jesus. I imaginatively called it The Giant Squid and wrote it in an afternoon’s passing. A little over five thousand words. I made up this sort of coastal community peopled by animals acting like people, ala Zootopia and every other fucking animal-based whathaveyou where the animals talk. Wind in the Willows, Watership Down, Duncton Wood, The Plague Dogs, Animal Farm, the Velveteen Rabbit, the Jungle Book, Redwall series, the Narnia Chronicles, Charlotte’s Web, James and the Giant Peach, the Last Unicorn, the Tale of Despereaux, Babe the Sheep-Pig, the Tale of Peter Rabbit, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, Stuart Little, the Trumpet of the Swan…
Here’s the big reveal:
I LOVED WHAT I CAME UP WITH.
It had an odd gentle fairy tale feel to it. I kept the sickening violence and adult language mostly to off-stage and not written into the tale at all levels. Yes, the squid does attack the elderly alcoholic zebra [you read that right] but the zebra dies of fright and shock and a heart attack. I just found all this…stuff pouring out of my suddenly revved up little brain and flowing out through the medium of my flying fingers. Words formed! Entire paragraphs bloomed! I smiled the whole time I composed! I wanted to find out WHAT HAPPENS NEXT. I grew to really like the voices that developed among my various characters, even the not so likable ones. I grew to completely SEE this little village of Deadlion’s End set right on Beastface Bay. A cozy little collection of houses and cottages! That there were other communities and settlements up and down this imaginary coastline of mine. Driftwood and Seagull’s Feather and Starling’s Wing and Froggy Pond and Deadlion’s End! That there were hidebound laws and traditions. That some were trying to change those laws and traditions. That it seemed this little world had been waiting for me to discover it. It seems all there, I just have to write about what I observe in my brain’s widescreen, featuring Dolby Surround sound, inner movie theatre.
Even now, I want to dive back into this insular world. To explore it. See what pops up over in Froggy Pond, which is not so welcoming to visitors anymore, or if Teddy, the Irish Wolfhound, actually does have a litter of illegitimate puppies with a loose Labrador over in Furcape. Which is the nearest big city to Deadlion’s End or just the End as inhabitants along this coast of mine refer to it…
Now, I do have a second tale about the Beastface Bay-ites completed.About the mixed species couple that run the antique shop in Driftwood, just down the road from the End. It turned rather dark, but I am a rather dark writer most of the time, and it was also funny. What unfolded I just let unfold. I got out of the way of the story that wanted to be told. I called a whale Bluebell. I invented a sullen little feud between turtles and goldfish. I wanted to next tackle life in Froggy Pond, and why the two turtles fled its confines. I want to explore what happens to the one goldfish, Liam, that escaped the nighttime massacre of the fish pond he once dwelled in. I want Judy, the otter, and Burt, the weasel, exposed and yet I don’t want them caught for what they did, because that’s real life and people get away with all manner of stuff all the time, that’s real life. But these are talking animals living in houses and selling teapots for a living. So?? The creatures that live along Beastface Bay honeyfuggle me into telling their stories. They entice me. I am enticed.
The ideas are churning through my brain meat. I need to make notes and write down names. I need to map out relationships and who said what to whom. I need to write write write. Compulsion roils through me. It’s fantastic.
Alliteration aside…or not, that is up to you, toads of the post-modern landscape…this is going to be about me swinging back to JUST BEING ME.
I have lost my way. As a writer, as a human, as a human writer. I’m more focused on what can sell or does sell or doesn’t sell at all, fuck it god damn it fuck…than on actually writing stuff. Stuff and things. The things that catch my attention. Instead of focusing on market trends and just how much to blog and share and how to infiltrate writer’s groups and not come off as creepy or aggressive bitchy salesperson…I should instead glory in figuring out how a giant squid can devour an entire village of lesbian giraffes. [I made that up. I’m not actually working on a tale or play about a giant labial-ish squid, in the manner of Cthulhu,set to devour a village full of prickly quadrupeds who are full of the love that dare not speak its name. Mm. Mm!! I could call it–Jesus Sends a Squid, and then market it to fundie Christian markets. Or not.]
I need to stop trying to be commercial or whatever that is. Stop being hesitant. Self-censoring. Hesitant. JUST BE ME, MYSELF AND I, HELLO, SHUT THE DOOR, GET OUTTA HERE, DUH. Just fucking write. Stop worrying about how to sell it or market it or get it into the correct slot! [Except realistically I can’t do that. I don’t have a trust fund. I’m not in a Hallmark movie. Reality never bothered me much before so why start actually facing shit now?] Gosh, will this fit into the PG family-friendly horror category my publisher wants or more toward kitchen sink post-apocalyptic anti-modernist comedy stylings that seem to be trending right now? No!! Just write. Write. Let it splatter out like hot shit from a goose’s saucy backside. [As they poop a lot. A lot. As in they have lots and lots of poop and it splatters.] Stop caring about things like dragging in pennies every few years for something I’ve put out there! So what if my family has written me off as a good argument for an abortion. Just write.
If you don’t know already, I’m not talking to the collective you. I am ripping into myself in a sort of pep talk. I am trying to get some inner riptides to savage me. Yeah, I went there. I had to find a way to give that romance novel bodice ripper compound title up there some sort of legitimacy. I’m trying to rip the scabs off and let the inner infected fluids fly out as they will.Splatter and splash as they will. Yippee kye aye!! Stop trying to be something you’re not, kiddo!! Stop trying to please everyone with your bowl of limp wilted lettuce offerings. Stop trying to produce prose that slinks apologetically about like a whipped canine. Get busy writing or take up sculpting!
Gol dang it, could you be any more precious and fragile?
I could be. Oh yes, I could be.
For those of you who might be confused, this is where I pretend I pretend I don’t actually have inner voices talking to me all day long. It’s cute. It’s probably getting stale by now. It has a whiff of cutesy stale crackers by now. Okay!
Well, don’t. End this buckaroo burbling and bumble off…BINT.
Funny. Bint. Ha ha. Urr urr urr. Too bad I can’t harness you to a wagon and turn you into cash.
What? Was that a crack about how we’re not pulling our weight?
Kinda. If the shoe fits.
Maybe you should try writing something people actually want to read. Try that! Why has that not occurred to you?
Like what? I am open to suggestions. Hit me. Power point me. Note card it and do a speech at the podium.
Are we actually having this fight in public for the one person who actually bothers to read this bumblesnatching burblefluff?
Why not? Posting my actual work seems to be a real snort-and-ignore.
A snore?? Bwha ha ha ha. Bwha ha ha. There’s more laughter coming at your expense. For the rest of the day.
Thanks, as always, for your non-help. You do realize we’re all in this together?
Hey, we can migrate to other brains and infest them any time we wish. We’re imaginary!! Maybe you should get back to being precious and writing creativity checks you can’t cash.
Oh fuck you.
That’s the spirit! You go, girl!! Go write something good for once. Don’t worry, you’ll get all tough and don’t-care and then come right back to wah wah wah can’t write can’t write wah wah wah!
That was just mean.
Oh we’re sorry. Do you want a donut? Hey…
I’ll end that there. Because why be self-indulgent when you can be off writing about a giant squid attacking a village full of talking same-sex giraffes?
PS– Hi. Hi there. It’s the day after this, um, we’ll call it a post and not a mental breakdown…Yours truly has, indeed, tackled the lesbian giraffe village attacked by a giant squid possibly sent by Jesus. Apparently, Sunday afternoons is when my short story gears grind into motion. I plan to clean said short story up and submit it. I might even do a series of tales about my beloved, now, to me only at the moment, characters from Deadlion’s End, who live along Beasthead Bay. Always Be Hustling. ABH.