Whatcha Watchin’?
February 27, 2009
Welcome to another “episode entry” that seeks to disturb (and distract) you with various thoughts and images all related to that wonderful box of brain-eating radiation we commonly refer to as the TV. So get up real close, because it’s so funny when mom orders us to sit back or we’ll go blind. That’s not why I’m going blind, mom!
What’s On:
Click to get your own. Only $19.99!!1!
As most of you in the know already…um…know, Battlestar Galactica has once again docked its gritty form of spacey paranoid theater inside our airlocks. My thing is to let a few episodes pass me by so that I can load up for an evening of one, long uninterrupted chunk of geeky goodness. And people, pay attention: it’s still awesome…mostly. I won’t spoil here, although I’m sure I’m well within my rights to do so, but to summarize quickly: they found earth, it sucked, they had a rebellion, it failed, the Cylons are learning some mind-blowing shit, and I’m like “whuh?”.
Let’s put it this way, the first episode that dealt with the aftermath of the coup was a ten-thousand word sack of expository revelation delivered at 100 miles-per-hour. And even after I went to the official site to catch up, I realized why the show is so good and why it’s also losing me a bit; it’s so fucking deeeeep. There are family trees here that are so thick and complicatedly branched that halfway through climbing around in it you realize you never put this much work into your own freakin’ tree. Not that it’s all that interesting to learn that your great Aunt Edna from Bulgaria lived until she was 98 because she never left the house. Compared to a race of humanoids constructing a race of robots to enslave only to have them construct robots to eventually free them (or something, I’m close), it’s just not all that worth the eye strain.
Anyway, it’s still good, unrelenting and merciless drama in a very cool setting. Yes, it’s a little confusing at times, but so is arithmetic and you still have to balance your checkbook, right? And if anyone out there is watching it, let me know how you’re finding the final season of this groundbreaking show.
American Idol. Oh, shut up. I have something of a vested interest, okay? I was once given the opportunity to try out for Star Search when I was in high school and turned it down to smoke weed and listen to Led Zeppelin (sorry, mom). I actually think the new season is very weak so far, but there’s still an air of authenticity to the proceedings that is rarely matched by other reality shows. “Project Runway” and “America’s Next Top Model” being the other two. I know, I know…I’m a little girl eating frosted flakes with her teddy bear. Whatever.
My horse so far is the 16 year-old chick with the Raggedy Anne hair. The girl can wail. Don’t go getting sloppy, now, Annie!
Survivor: Tocantin. Okay, I’m not the biggest fan of this show and haven’t watched it since the first one. To be honest, I’m not sure why I’m watching it now. It was on when nothing else was, I guess, and it’s kind of fun to watch everyone get skinny and look better half-naked than they ever will again. Oh, and this is official: implants will outlive you. That’s all I’m saying.
Dr. Drew Pinsky: Rich, tired of the lies.
The other distractions that I like––Rock of Love Whore Bus, Celebrity Rehab: Sober, My Ass, and the American incarnation of one I used to love from the U.K. called “Ladette to Lady” which is now known as The Cum Dumpsters of Hedsor Hall or something, are in alternating degrees of hiatus and hilarious. Seriously, what is the logic behind a sober house? You get a bunch of ex-junkies together, put another ex-junkie in charge of them, allow them to come and go as they please, and watch one by one as each completely fucks up whatever ground they gained in rehab. It makes for great TV, but how far are we from “Celebrity Suicide House” or “Baby Daddy Stud Farm School for Wayward Video Ho’s”? The last time they scraped anything off the bottom of barrel and made it into something truly worthwhile it was called Grappa. And to be honest, it sucks, too.
Of course, I also consume it. Pay lots of money for the honor, to boot. But hey, I work hard and do lots of thinking at the same time. Why not come at the world in a completely stupid way every once and awhile to recharge. It’s MSNBC, Sports, and trash TV until my eyes bleed, so suck ‘em. At least I’m being honest.
That said, I’d like to leave you with a little video that is both cool, and something of a confession. Even though I liked it overall, I was a little hard on “True Blood” back when it was on, and now I have to admit I’ve started to miss it. Ain’t that always the way? You narrow-ass Gothic cowboys is always so stooopid!
Anyway, attached, please find the very cool opening title sequence accompanied by the even cooler theme song called “Bad Things” sung by up-and-coming patty flipper, Jace Everett. And until sometime next week, probably Friday, have a great weekend. Oh, and if anyone’s watching “Doll House”, let me know how it is, would you? I’m a fan of both Whedon and Dushku, but I’ve not been impressed enough by the commercials to sacrifice my Friday night. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, see the entry below this one. Heh.
Congrats, Mickey — R.I.P Loki
Master Distractor
February 20, 2009
So…I’m gently easing myself back into the blog thing. I think taking it slowly has been to everyone’s benefit, as I would have likely been a terrific bore these last couple of weeks and my focus here has always been to lift and stimulate others with similar interests. As it was, I was making people cry, and shoot, who needs that in the dead of winter, eh?
But for all of you who have shared your comforting thoughts here and elsewhere, I really can’t thank you enough. I saw my last entry as an explanation of sorts, and it turned out to be more of a eulogy. I probably had it in mind all along, and I’m glad it turned out like it did. If it did happen accidentally, at least in part, it turned out to be well worth it. There was an outpouring of support that propped me up long enough to take nourishment and an expression of deep appreciation is definitely in order.
In the downtime, I worked very hard on two things: one, querying sWitch, from which I received a request for a full manuscript (hurrah!), and two, mastering the art of distraction. Now, before you shrug that off as the collective habits of unproductive losers, hear me out. This won’t take long for reasons that will soon become very apparent.
What You’ll Need:
A television – any will do unless it has rabbit ears. Access to hundreds of cable channels is preferred, but if you’re on a basic tier, no worries. This part will only be cut shorter, with time lost to be made up later during other activities.
A computer – any variety, as long as you have Internet access. I suppose serious gamers need not worry about that, but you’re the exception here and I don’t play games anymore. Bonus points if you have a) a wireless router, b) a laptop, c) a 17 inch screen or bigger.
Speakers – these can be hooked up to your computer or to a nearby stereo, but having access to music through your desktop is preferable because it decreases the need for you to break stride. More on that in a moment.
Alcohol – teetotalers, skip this section and move on. The rest of you, listen up. Sure, you could substitute booze for another vice, but there’s nothing like a steady introduction of your favorite spirit(s) to move the night along. Those who have told their spouses or significant others that they’ll be home in an hour and end up being dumped out of a car the next morning know what the fuck I’m talking about.
Fancy lights – these are not essential, but if you have lots of cool glowing things around you, or at least a glut of gorgeously ridiculous artwork, they can come in handy not only to set the mood, but when you need something to ogle for a few.
Comfy clothes – again, another element that I wouldn’t qualify as critical, but if you don’t want to stand out as a rookie, a pair of broken-in sweats and a snug skully keeps you from needing to–ahem–adjust or be mindful of your appearance or posture. The point is to resemble a happy human slug by the night’s end, so we don’t need to be fretting over wrinkling anything but our lazy derrieres.
Okay, once all these elements are in place, lock the door, put the ringer on vibrate or turn it off entirely, and do as follows:
1) Turn on the TV. Pick something that you kind of want to watch, but preferably something that updates frequently like sports, an old movie that you’ve seen a bunch of times that you can sample from, or even a cable news network that will keep you informed through a bottom line. The point is to check on it when you need a stretch, not let it play you. You’re in control here, and for fuck’s sake nothing with subtitles.
2) Start the tunes. Assuming most of us listen through our computers, pick shuffle or a playlist that will keep the vibe alive for at least 45 minutes. Lately, because I’ve needed an extra lift, I’ve been going to the well for my favorite songs from English Beat and General Public. Which is all of them. That’s good, because the playlist will take a while and I don’t have to think about it again for a good long stretch of unadulterated, magnificent distracting.
3) Get your drink on. I like to crack open a beer (Guinness or Miller Lite–the libation equivalent of Rich Man, Poor Man) and prepare a shot. I’ve been on a tequila kick lately for it’s smooth, grinny buzz, but I’ll do a nice whiskey or vodka if changing it up sounds like fun. See, that’s the key: changing it up. It’s all about constant variety in stimulation, and just like our favorite physical act–that’s right, dancing–doing the same thing ad nauseam will put your ass back into your head and we do NOT want that. Remember: reality is the enemy.
4) Once you’ve got your shot ready, grab it and your drink and decide what it is you think could use a toast. I have several options: Arsenal Football Club (since this is mostly a Friday routine, they usually play the following day), my girlfriend (we’ve been known to do this via phone, which is an excellent way to keep in touch), my dearly departed Lucy which necessitates a visit to her mini-shrine in the back room, and any combination of friends, family, ideology, or, obviously, your own fine self.
5) Do the shot. Chase it. Good pupil.
6) Return to “home base”, which is at the computer but near enough to a TV where you can either look up and see it or a minimum of movement can put it’s wisdom at your disposal. That’s why you get bonus points for being wireless and portable, cause it’s easier to move around to make this so. Once you’re settled, again, it’s all about mixing it up.
Lately, I’ve been hitting writers forums and sharing pointers and opinions. Sometimes I go to my football blog and say obnoxious things that are hilarious to me at the time, and embarrassingly excellent to read back later. And like most people, I am frequently called to Ye Olde Book of Fayce for an update or to make fun of something someone just said. To make this easier, my 17 inch screen lets me have several windows/applications open at once, facilitating distracting maneuvers. Whatever you do, and I can’t stress this enough, keep the act moving and do not force yourself to be “responsible”. Serious is for another time, so wrap serious in a serious blanket and deposit it into the serious drawer. This is about following your muse/buzz/whims, not solving any of life’s great mysteries. That’s what college was for. We know better, now.
But that’s not to say it must be all play. Many times I’ll get some great ideas for my stories and jot them down. But notice I said “jot”. Do not confuse this with “draft”, or “compose”. You cannot take a long time to “jot”. By definition, to jot means to get the fuck out with it and then get the fuck on with it. And by “it” I mean mastering hardcore distraction. So put the pen down, Skankespeare, and get another shot. And make it quick before you miss that part in Sixteen Candles where Anthony Michael Hall is found trapped under the coffee table after everyone has left the party.
At any time in the above steps, please feel free to improvise. That’s an important part of escaping: escaping the escaping. Let your soul dictate where you go next. And don’t apply too many restrictions. Okay, streaking around the block may sound like a great idea but would your 90 year-old neighbor really appreciate it? To be safe, keep it inside. That’s why I had you lock the door. It wasn’t just so no one would come in unannounced to catch you bare-ass naked in the downward facing dog position.
At some point, you’ll forget everything. In fact, “you” will disappear entirely if you do it right. You’ll transform into a conduit of positivity and groovy sensation. Just be careful not to overdo it. You don’t want to end up a conduit of anything else. Will you fuck it up? Probably. But don’t give up. The mastering of hardcore distraction takes practice, but with a few tweaks here and there depending on your personal constitution, you’ll get it. And you won’t miss a thing but a chicken wing and an onion ring (this will make sense when you’re doing it right, so jot it down).
Oh, one last point: be sure to go to bed with a glass of water and a couple of aspirin. You may not need either, but why take the chance? Okay, that’s all for now. I need to do something else.
And hey…you’re all stars, those of you who came when I called. Bright, beautiful stars.
They Are Legend
February 6, 2009
I don’t think January likes me very much, and I’m not sure why. It takes from me with methodical precision, at least it seems that way, and that’s why I decided to boycott any blog entries until its heartless page was finally turned on my wall calendar. Believe me when I tell you that I stood watching the clock until it hit midnight. Once that bell rang, the year’s first born was cast into the cold and February welcomed with open arms like a POW greeting that first, tall, green liberator walking through the barbwire. And I’ll do the same thing every year until I get some answers.
Let me explain further, and I promise to make this brief. I’m not one to cry on a reader’s shoulder, but I feel you all deserve a few more details.
One bitterly cold January night back in 2005–it was the 8th, a Thursday–I was enjoying a phone conversation with my longtime friend and music writing partner, Danny. He told me he was going out and wanted to first confirm our getting together the following day for a writing session. I told him I was looking forward to it, and after a few jokes about freezing his nuts off, we hung up. Early that morning, Friday, January 9th, he was killed in a car accident. He was 39.
Suffice it to say, I was completely devastated. Danny and I were like brothers, but better. 
We’d known each other since our early teens and bonded over anything cool–and for an expert in that area, you need look no further than he. We drove across the country listening to the new Radiohead record, read and discussed Kerouac together, wrote dozens of songs and performed them for large crowds. He was funny as fuck, a folk hero, never a saint, and to this day there are things that pop into my head that only he would understand. Now that he’s gone, I’m forced to leave them there. That sucks.
Danny also suffered from neurofibromatosis, which meant he didn’t like to be hugged due to the pain it sometimes caused him. I don’t know why this fact bums me out more now than it ever did, but let’s just say I really, really miss him.
Flash forward to exactly four years later, January 8th, again a Thursday. I arrive home with a few bags of groceries in expectation of seeing my beloved cat Lucy greet me at the door as she has done for the past thirteen years. I’m a little apprehensive about it, as she’s been losing a lot of weight and having trouble eating. I’ve been laying out a virtual buffet for her each day in hopes I can find something that she’ll like, but nothing has really done the trick so I’ve already made an appointment to take her to the vet the following day. She having been a diabetic for the last six years of her life–requiring me to give her two shots a day, one in the morning and one when I got home–forced me to mentally prepare for further complications down the road. 
By this point, however, she had miraculously reversed the condition, so there was no rush for me to come home and give her insulin. Her weight loss, I gathered, was both the cause and result. She went from obese to climbing on the table, seeking my love with a fervor normally reserved for hunting voles. Times were good. Or so I thought.
When I arrived, she didn’t come to the door. After calling for her a few times, I dropped my groceries on the table and ran to the back room where she was known to sleep. I found her crouched in a daze and unable to raise her head. Then I did a very silly thing: I prepared yet another new meal for her in the hopes, perhaps, that the smell of good food at last would raise her from that well known and heart-sinking position. This after already having seen that she’d eaten more that day than days previous, so I pretty much knew she was satiated. Coming to my senses, I called the vet and in two minutes we were out the door. I don’t want to go into much detail at this point because it’s pointlessly hellish to recall, but once they discovered she’d had a cancerous tumor rupture inside her, there was barely enough time to say goodbye. With a kiss on her ear, I whispered that I loved her and watched as she took her last, labored breath. To say the least, I wasn’t expecting to lose my delightful roommate so abruptly. Taking note of the date and time on the long and tortuous ride home–it was shortly after midnight, so Friday had only just arrived– I maybe should have known better.
Since then, I’ve been climbing the walls a bit, crying at weird times, wrestling with guilt, accidentally anticipating tasks that are no longer necessary, and generally feeling a bit shit. You see, I live in a Jersey shore resort town where they lock the parking meters for winter, and the quiet can be both a writer’s blessing and a merciless curse. And I can’t stop imagining that horrifying moment in I Am Legend where Dr. Neville is forced to kill his own dog, who, at the time, was his best and only friend. Dramatic as that analogy might be, my heart and mind have been known to team up and pick on me at weak moments, and believe me, they’ve been a couple of real bastards, lately.
But back to my realization of the date and day of the week being nearly identical to when I lost Danny; I want to say my first reaction was to curse it. In truth, it was one of small relief. The coincidence carried with it a profound feeling of plan; there was more to the story, our stories, everything. Perhaps an agreement had been struck to which I wasn’t privy? Could it be possible that my “more dog than cat” Lucy and my buddy, Danny (who had a cat of his own, named Roger Clemens) were sending me some kind of message? I swished this posit around a few times in my mind, and a long breath escaped from my slackened mouth. Then, before the windshield had completely defogged, I snatched the notion back out of the air and slipped it into a secret drawer, fearing that if I worked on it too long I would manage to disprove it. It remains there to this day like an antique toy: one that you can play with for only a few minutes until you need to return it to safekeeping. After all, you don’t want to ruin something so valuable. They don’t make them like that anymore.
I’m hoping this entry will help me get a few things going again. My reserves of enthusiasm–challenged this time of year in the best of circumstances–have been dangerously low, and other than a couple of short stories I’ve the good fortune to have offered to me for publication (cheers, Ryan) I play with my other projects like cold vegetables on a plate. I know I’ll get around to them, eventually. Nothing’s changed about my dreams; they’ve only lost a little color. But if my awful coincidence separated by four years is indeed a sign, then I think it means that time is precious, and not cruel at all. Just use it well, and keep your eyes open for every opportunity of joy.
Hugs to you Danny, and a kiss for you, Lucille. Thanks to both of you for coming when I called, when you could.
