Imperfect Momentum

Watching I.D. TV: Confessions of a True Crime Addict

2012-02-03T10:30:00.000-08:00

I’ve enjoyed nonfiction, documentaries, and crime drama over the years – love Prime Suspect, Cracker, CSI - then came ID. Yes, I am an ID Addict, though a selective one: a Selective ID Addict, a S.I.D.A. I guess.

My favorite programs are Disappeared and Escaped. Escaped is a riveting show – usually well re-enacted! This most harrowing episode of Escaped is unforgettable. I think that serial killers are more etched in the modern psyche than ever, thanks to media – not to mention in the hearts and minds of the families and friends of victims.

A recent ID show re-chronicled the Adam Walsh story – with new information about a determined detective who found and studied forgotten evidence – coming to the horrific conclusion. It was a sad and compelling chronicle. I followed that story in the eighties and was deeply affected by it.

However, chillingly, many crime victims know their attackers – thus taking away some of the bogeyman effect of alleged predators.

The missing: Disappeared offers haunting mysteries which are beyond tragic, beyond sad. Predators are obviously nothing new, though awareness of them has obviously skyrocketed. The nineteen-seventies come to mind, when young people hit the road, unknowingly sharing it with serial killers that would infamously be remembered by three names.

On a snarky note: I think there is a mentality of Female Victim ‘Porn’, that some venues get off on seeing women suffer, and suffer punishment. I think that the programs Deadly Women and Scorned have bogus premise – and the clichéd narratives are delivered in a judgmental, melodramatic tone, becoming unintentionally hilarious! Evil women. Bad women. It couldn’t be negative female stereotyping, could it? Who knew?

Paranoia Strikes Deep: My IMDB List of Shows

2011-12-31T10:45:00.000-08:00

Pacific Northwest, dancing midgets, acerbic FBI agents, trust no one, Scully and Mulder, technology run amok, wetwired, inbred breeders, Frank Black, soylent green is people, government induced disease, crime scene fu, Walt White, meth and melancholy . . . it's all here.

Paranoia Strikes Deep

I Babysat David Duchovny

2011-12-22T13:00:00.000-08:00

I babysat David Duchovny.

The time was the late nineteen-sixties. The place was David’s apartment in NYC. It was summer, a hot time in the city. The back of my neck was getting dirty and gritty.

David was an intense, serious and precocious child, but had his light moments. He could be a challenge, my little charge. Not content to simply watch cartoons, he enjoyed discussing philosophy. Dissatisfied to eat cereal, he craved gourmet deli. Unenthusiastic about Monopoly, he chose to take apart clocks and build models with the parts.

David was easily bored. He mocked Sesame Street. He whined and quoted Nietzsche and Kant.

"God is deeeaaad!

"I believe in Freeeee Wiiiiilllll!

"Existentialism makes me nervous!”

"Hey. I think someone needs a nap."

"Oh . . . okaaaay." Dissatisfied with my stories, he’d read himself to sleep with abnormal psychology tomes.

He had his moments, and liked to pull pranks. He’d order pizza for the local police precinct. He’d call bars and ask "Do you have Prince Albert in the can?" I eventually had to unplug and hide all of the phones. He just built new ones, using things that he had around the house. "But mom said I could!" He’d slyly claim.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" I perkily asked him one day.

"Oh . . . I don't know! Now please don't ask me these worrisome questions. I have enough pressure!"

He’d give me meaningful looks, while formulating questions. "What do girls wear under their clothes?"

"Silly. Girls wear underwear. It's just a little different than boys' underwear, that's all. Of course, you must consider that not all people wear underwear. People are different. Their behavior is different." I believed in being frank, as did his mother.

"Oh." He seemed to ponder this. “Don’t call me silly.”

Our sessions would come to an end when his mother got home from work. He and I would say our goodbyes.

"Bye for now, David. Give me a hug?" Failing that I would try to kiss his cheek.

"Eeeeeeewwww . . . don't do that please!"

"Oh. I'm sorry. Truly, I don't mean to invade your personal space."

"Oh . . . okaaaay. But could you tickle me like last time?"

I always had a feeling about David. I knew that he would go places. But little did I know that I would end up watching him on TV every Sunday night.

I knew him when.

The Patchouli Incidents

2011-12-12T17:13:00.000-08:00

I like patchouli. But less is more.

That special essence of patchouli: for some noses it triggers a walk down memory lane - assuming said person has retained his or her sense of memory.

For virgin noses, it can be a breath of fresh air, and a potential alternative to expensive commercial fragrances. Used in many designer fragrances, patchouli is also available at a reasonable price at health food stores and head shops.

Many noses may run screaming from the room, if the wearer has applied too much of this potentially pungent fragrance.

For some noses, it can be an subliminal general attractant. When I wear patchouli, complete strangers practically chase me down the street. Well, they at least follow. I get the same response whenever I wear coconut essence.

Once in my office a customer begged to borrow a drop or two of patchouli oil; failing that he wanted me to rub my scented forearm on him. I had to pass. "Hey, I'm workin' here. Got no time for rubbing."

Once as I went through a checkout line, the clerk visibly sniffed and looked around. "What is that perfume and who is wearing it? That stuff is turning me on!" He loudly exclaimed. Mum was the word.

Just the other day, a woman and I passed in the supermarket. We smiled at one another. A look of recognition seemed to come over her face. We continued on our separate ways.

As I walked down the pet food aisle, I heard a voice behind me. "Excuse me! . . . excuse me!"

I turned around. It was Smiling Lady that I had passed just moments before. She had a really down-to-earth, genuine appearance, and seemed to be truly friendly, unlike the many snotty Stepford Wife-types in tennis dresses that usually overran the upscale supermarket.

"I have to ask you, what is that perfume you are wearing?"

"Oh. It's patchouli."

"Yes! I love it. I used to wear it in the sixties. Where do you buy it?"

"Rainbow's Natural Foods. Check them out."

"Cool. Nice chatting with you. Bye!"

"Yeah, nice. Bye now!"

Another memorable Patchouli Incident occurred at Blockbuster Video.

Passing a woman on a narrow aisle, I thought that I noticed her staring at me. Generally, when people stare at me in public I tend to feel that there could be negative ramifications. Is my tube skirt misbehaving? Do I have post it notes stuck to my mid-section? The possibilities are frightening.

The woman approached me. Tall, thin, she had long, thick, naturally silver gray hair, which contrasted nicely with her tan. She wore sandals, tie dye, long, dangly antique earrings, and glowed with health and energy. Her long-maned boyfriend wasn't too shabby either.

"What's that fragrance you're wearing?" She seemed quite enthusiastic and extroverted and up. Sparks of light seem to shoot from her big brown eyes. I wondered, was she on Ginko Biloba or what? Blissed out on one of those weird energizing herbal blends that drive people up the wall, as it increases mental concentration and causes urges to rearrange furniture? Hmm . . . perhaps she was just extremely healthy or coming off a juice fast.

"It's patchouli oil!"

"Mmm . . ." She said, a wild look in her eyes.

"Well, thanks! Nice chatting . . . I have to go now. Bye." I said, backing away, being a person who needs my space.

Patchouli should perhaps come with a warning label: Use With Caution: May Affect Innocent Bystanders.

Buy some today. But be prudent. Less is more.

Cinema Dreams

2011-12-12T13:57:00.000-08:00

I have a recurring dream about searching for film rentals. In the dream I expectantly shop the movie rental stores in hope that a certain film will be available. In the dream, I am looking for a film that does not exist. I've however constructed an elaborate film plot, cast, and location in my head. I believe that I've actually seen the film, and that I vividly remember it. I loved it and must see it again! It was so very unique and special.

The movie rental store environment is often oddly designed. It has an illogical construction of multiple turnstiles. It stocks a ridiculously implausible assortment of movie titles, which have vividly designed covers. But they never have my movie!

Interpretation: it seems to be a dream about yearning, and about wanting to repeat perfect moments and experiences. What better images and terms with which to represent the concept of yearning, than the pretext of film and our genuine love of it?

Musings on Writing

2011-12-04T16:37:00.000-08:00

Sit, preferably at a computer keyboard. If no computer is available, always keep paper and pen handy. You never know when an idea might strike. Be ready. Write it down before you forget it. You will forget it, but it may re-surface at three AM one morning. Keep a pen and notebook on your night table.

It can be said that without inspiration there can be no truly exceptional writing: that is, except for those ultra prolific scribes who seem to, by rote, while wearing a white lab coat and latex gloves, consistently churn out massive quantities of sterility.

Give yourself permission to think and dream: open up yourself to strange and unusual thoughts. Consider them. It's true, some ideas should be immediately suppressed, or stomped upon and killed. Others should be utilized, and will take off like wildfire. The trick is to know the difference. This takes intuition, practice, and feedback. Be sure to keep plenty of these around.

If as a writer you are feeling restless or stuck, try multiple projects and see which genuinely engages you. One practical philosophy: let the words/art age. Put them/it aside for a while. Come back to them/it. Have they/it improved, or do they/it stink'eth? The aging process may reveal such.

Not a few writers have gotten their start via internet exposure. Message boards, web sites, and writing groups can prove a training ground. Positive feedback and rejection are a post, or an email, away.

When the words have moved through your head and fingertips, you might experience the Compulsive Need To Post. Take a deep breath and count to one hundred. Are these words ready to be shared with the world? Sure, the Instapost feels good now, but in the morning you may feel differently. And since there is no 'Take It All Back Now' clickable icon, what's done is done - unless, of course, your work is TOSed.

The words, sentences, paragraphs, and chapters are now posted online. What kind of response are you getting, and how do you feel about that? Or, have you received no response? Don't take it personally. One's quality writing can be seemingly ignored. Can most people relate to the piece, or not? Does the tone or subject matter of the piece possibly make some people uncomfortable? Good.

The responses to your posted writing are coming in. You are getting a buzz, and making new friends. But beware the Post Posting Blues. It's inevitable for writers to experience this syndrome, when the enthusiastic responses cease. The sad truth is that the writing jollies cannot last forever, we must work for that next fix. Get a grip. Focus on the work.

Why are you writing? What are you writing? Do you choose a genre, or does a genre choose you? Having previously written primarily humor and essays, I joined a well known erotica writing group and marveled at the talent of its international membership. I gained insight and lost inhibitions. I began to write stories that I could not have earlier imagined. Experience and networking eventually led to print publication.

Erotica is out of the closet and into the mainstream. The erotica market booms. Sex sells. From drek to literature, every level of erotic fiction is a mouse click, or drive to the bookstore, away. It's said that literary erotica is on an upswing. We sometimes seem to forget that eros was excised from many classic works. Consider the content that is now being openly published and marketed. Consider that it's not a bad time to be a writer.

You have decided to submit work to print publishers, so that your words might exist in a real book that exists on a real shelf. One must now research the markets, not a difficult task in this age of informational overload. Know the market, but don't let it intimidate you. Don't lose your original voice and inspiration. Forget about set-in-stone genres, go for joy and originality. Write about what you know and/or love: my first print publication was a short story parody of the film Thelma and Louise. I love film. Good energy went into the piece. I was lucky that the editors also happened to be film lovers. If you strongly feel about a potential writing subject, be willing to do research if necessary. Don't dwell on the negatives of the struggle to publish, and be willing to accept uncertainty. Do consider what type of work you'd wish to be known and remembered for.

It is believed that to be published in our vast, glutted market of diverse writers, a writer should likely possess a few of the following qualities: excellence, originality, unique perspective and a common touch. And don't forget luck. Sometimes a little luck is the best plan. Let's don't forget connections. Do all these factor in for you? (Ahem) Please have the decency to be quiet about it.

Over time my favorite authors seemed to consciously and unconsciously teach me, filtering into my soul as if by magical osmosis. Things went click in my head. I had flashes of intuition that I too, could be a writer - and flashes of extuition: "Silly! you could never do THAT!" said my internal dream-stomper. It would be a while before I gave myself permission to assertively express myself on the page. The upside is that I gained life experience before I naively wandered into cyberspace and struggled into print. I'm glad that I waited. I think.

Now go write something!

- 2002

THE SIXTIES & SEVENTIES: Fiction, Essay & Vignette

2011-12-04T14:02:00.000-08:00

THE SIXTIES & SEVENTIES: Fiction, Essay & Vignette

TWITTER and FACEBOOK

2011-12-03T11:48:00.000-08:00

Visit my Twitter and Facebook pages.

Murder Can Be Critical

2011-11-03T13:38:00.000-07:00

I’d heard that film critic Rex Braverman would be in the audience tonight. Well, so would I.

The movie theater was crowded and smelly just as I had predicted. There were more unsupervised kids than I could shake a stick at. There appeared to be a Mary Kay convention down front. There was a group of Elvis impersonators on the East side of the theater. I had a feeling that my new shoe leather might stick to the floor. That my big gun might get clogged with chocolate. That my head might implode from chewing caramel. Sticky.

But I had a responsibility. A person had gone missing. It was my job to go looking. Rumor had it that he might be here tonight.

Most seats were taken. I sat in the front row center, between an incessant babbler and a chewing gum snapper. Later my neck would hurt as if in a hot vise. As if impaled by a voodoo pin. As if impacted by a night of hot romance. You get the picture.

I saw a lot in this job. Sometimes I saw too much.

The event was a Woody Allen film festival. One had to ponder the diversity of the crowd. The theater was packed. Many had come in only to get out of the rain. Many sought Schwartzenegger. Many had no want for Woody. Made no whoop for the Woodman. Thought the Woodster a wimp. They were wrong.

I had been retained to locate a missing person, by an anonymous source who had paid in cash by proxy. I was on a loose leash. I knew a good deal when I found one.

It was a simple missing persons case, which would soon blossom into a murder investigation.

I was seeking Braverman. Rex Braverman was a legendary film critic and social butterfly. But now harder to find than a Dan Quayle IQ at Mensa. Than a bear in winter. Than a New York style pizza in the deep South. Than a sock mate. Face it, the man was scarce.

Usually spied tromping from theater to restaurant to theater, he wore a trench coat and fedora, summer and winter. Rex cut a suave path. But face it. The man was eccentric.

Braverman's film reviews had angered many. The man would argue genre and quality till blue in the face, a becoming color. Actors and critics gave him wide berth. The public loved him. His bosses loved him.

"It's not a comedy-drama, it's a drama with comedic undertones!"

He would cut filmmakers no slack if he thought that they were slacking."This is no historical epic, it's a soap opera with swords and swine!" He would opine.

Controversy generated popularity. But the man made enemies.

As the screening of Play It Again, Sam flickered, I discreetly eyed the filled theater seats, looking for a fedora-clad head. I was amazed to notice a group of Humphrey Bogart look-a-likes seated near the front west exit. My search for Braverman was becoming complicated. More complicated than a solving a Rubiks Cube in the dark. Than making pastry on a humid day. Than juggling dates on a busy week. Not simple.

BLAM! BLAM! Gunshots rang out. I checked my gun. It hadn’t accidently gone off as in an unfortunate previous incident. I was relieved.

People began to scream. Mr. Fetzer, the theater owner, had fallen to the aisle floor, clutching his chest. Spectators gathered around the prone victim, as he tried to speak.

"It was . . . it was . . ." Mr. Fetzer managed to choke out, before he collapsed, dead.

"Why do dying victims always repeat the subject and verb without getting to the object of the sentence?" A bystander asked no one in particular.

"I dunno. That's what they always did in the movies."

Movement suddenly caught my eye, fortunately not like last time. As I looked towards the exit, I saw him. Fedora cockily tilted over an intense face, trench coat aflutter, Rex Braverman ran for the exit. I gave chase.

I caught up with him. I then managed to disentangle my blouse sleeve from his coat buttons.

"Back off, sister! What's yer problem?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Rex! You practically stand before me with a smoking gun!" I exclaimed, perusing his gun area.

"Lady, who are you? Christ, a person gets a little fame, and look what happens! Nuts chasin' ya down the street! . . ."

"Rex, I'm no nut. I'm a private investigator. I was hired to find out your whereabouts. And now it looks like you're involved in murder."

"I’m innocent. I can’t stress this highly enough! We must talk. Care for dinner?"

"I could eat."

Ducking into Andiamo's, we took a booth and ordered drinks. Rex looked suddenly vulnerable, seemingly deep in thought, semi-collapsed against the red booth cushion. I felt a little vulnerable myself. Like a candy that's hard on the outside and soft in the center. Like a person who doesn't know whether to go or stay. Like a little deah sipping at the brook as the hunter splatters its little deah brains. Like that.

Our drinks arrived. We gulped to calm our nerves.

Rex made eye contact. "Oooohhh! Gross! Stop it! Put your eyes back in, silly!"

"Oh. Yes. Well, wait, just a sec. There. That's better. Sorry, I just couldn't resist!" He responded, shyly grinning. He was adorable.

He took a deep breath, exhaled, and looked into my eyes.

"Sheila. Listen to me. I did not kill Mr. Fetzer. You must believe me. You must help me. I was framed."

At this point in my career, I’d heard it all. Had my eyes deceived me at the crime scene? Was this hard boiled gumshoe gal getting soft in middle age? In any case, I had to get the facts, and go from there.

I interviewed crime witnesses. Their recollections were diverse. They had more versions than a politician in the hot seat. Than a software giant. Than a dalmation had spots. Lots.

"Elvis is back, and he shot Mr. Fetzer! I realize that the theater was dark, but I know what I saw!"

"The shooter was clearly a Mary Kay saleslady! She stood next to Fetzer on the east aisle. She cranked stick and popped lead in rapid succession."

"The killer wore a fedora and trench coat. He seemed to be very anxious, and paced the aisle. Suddenly he walked past Mr. Fetzer. He stopped and turned, facing him. He pulled a gun! He pulled the trigger! A little flag popped out of the gun barrel, that said 'BANG!' in big letters. He cursed and threw it to the aisle floor. He pulled a second gun, and shot Fetzer! He ran for the exit, slipping and falling several times on a giant banana peel. Then he was gone."

Big picture, suspect-wise: I didn’t believe that an Elvis impersonator would commit murder, risking a wonderful career. Ditto for a Mary Kay magnate. Not logical. But suspect number three raised my red flag. Tweaked my gray matter. Sent my deductive logic on a blue streak.

Why was theater owner Fetzer targeted for murder in the first place? How did film critic Braverman fit in, was he just in the wrong place at the wrong time? Clearly there was a cinematic theme here, and I didn’t mean the soundtrack to The Sound of Music. Or Jaws. Or Chinatown.

Later that evening I received a phone call at home. The voice on the line was male, and veiling controlled hysteria.

"Br- Br- Braverman killed Fetzer! If I were you, I'd look into him!" I tried to keep the caller on the line.

"Seen any good movies lately?" I cheerily asked him. This ploy seemed to work.

"Ha! You have got to be kidding. How would I even begin to find one in this sea of mediocrity?"

"You sound very negative. What would your analyst say?"

"He would say that I’m a perfectionist who feels inadequate . . . hey! wait a minute! . . . why am I telling you this? . . . and why are you asking me these things?"

"Silly! It's an old trick, to keep you on the line!"

"Gasp . . . REEEAlly?" He hung up.

I schlepped uptown. Arriving at last, I took a deep breath and knocked on the apartment door. I steeled myself. It was very uncomfortable.

He answered the door. Wearing horn rimmed glasses, a cashmere pullover, khaki pants, and a morose expression, was filmmaker Woody Allen.

"May I help you?" He suspiciously asked.

I quickly shouldered my way inside.

"Woody, the jig is up."

"REEEAlly? . . . um . . . what exactly is a jig?. . . where?" He asked, glancing nervously upward and around.

"Mr. Allen, I know that you murdered Fetzer and tried to frame Braverman.”

"ExCUSE me? . . . uh uh . . . I don't know what you're t-t-talking about!" He stammered, backing away. As I approached him, he took off his glasses, threw them to the floor and stomped on them. He made a run for the bedroom. I gave chase.

Catching up with him, I tackled him and began to tickle him. The old Tackle and Tickle technique, as they called it. Guaranteed to make a grown man cry. To beg for mercy. Just plain beg. Yup.

"Gasp! OOOOoooohhh . . . hahahahaha . . . hehehe . . . OOOOooohhh . . . please stop! I'm not only ticklish, I'm polymorphously perverse! Okay! I'll confess! Please stop!" He choked out, tears of hysterical laughter streaming down his face.

Woody gathered his wits about him, and began to talk.

"Fetzer was going to show colorized versions of Manhattan and Stardust Memories. I couldn’t allow this to happen, okay? And that Braverman! One of the few critics who doesn’t like all of my work! What does he know? Do you know what he said to me at a party once? 'Do you want to do humankind a real service? Tell funnier jokes!' . . . the nerve!

"And yes, I knew that Braverman would be at the Crest Theater that night, dressed in that ridiculous pseudo PI getup. I tried to use him for a fall guy, a patsy." He concluded.

"I know, Woody."

That night I met Braverman at Andiamo's for drinks. He’d taken a corner booth. We greeted one another as I slid in opposite him. Our hands brushed on the table, discharging static electricity. Startled, I accidently dumped the contents of my purse onto the table, seat, and floor.

"Oh Sheila! Let me help you with that." Rex sweetly offered, smiling and laughing. A true gentleman under his gruff, tough, wry exterior, I had the feeling that he held more surprises that a pinata. Than picnic potluck. Than Christmas fruitcake. Face it, the man was yummy.

"Sheila! What IS all this stuff? Have you considered cleaning out yer purse sometime maybe?" He asked in an exasperated fashion, holding up a partial banana, distastefully, between his right thumb and forefinger.

"Hey! Careful with that!" I reminded him as our eyes met over my big gun. He gingerly handed it over to me. Static electricity manifested once more, startling us, almost causing yet another of my little accidents. This relationship was clearly dangerous. More dangerous that Denis Leary on amphetamines. Than Bill Murray on live TV. Than lightning during a drought. Not safe.

"Sheila. I want to thank you for everything. Who would have thought this turn of events possible? To have been framed for murder by a major filmmaker? I realize that I’ve made some enemies with my film criticism, but this is ridiculous!"

"Rex, it's over. Put it behind you. And may I ask you a question?"

"Certainly. I imagine that we’ve achieved a certain level of intimacy at this point."

"Is Rex your real name?"

"Oh, Sheila! How did you know? No. Rex is not my real name. My real name is Spike. Braverman. Spike Braverman."

We finished our drinks, lingering for a moment, looking into one other's eyes and communicating a wordless goodbye. As he walked out, I wondered if I would ever see him again.

Who knows, I just may sense him in a darkened theater some night. And we'll always have Woody.

The Legend of Tocks House

2011-10-23T10:54:00.000-07:00

Three friends walked together eyeing the tree-lined street, the jack-o-lanterns’ orange orbs contrasting the dark.

“Let’s go to the end of Maple.”Cody suggested.

“Are you sure? Don’t you want to get back to watch horror movies? My parents are out. Or are you really into the procurement of candy?” Brittany asked. “We’re too old for this. The candymeisters will notice.”

“Yeah. I want to get back and check out Stephen Geoffreys in Fright Night. He’s yummy. I could like seriously bite his neck.” Swooned Chris.

“Let’s go to the end of Maple, guys.”

They trudged through affluent American Suburbia. People looked through their windows as Cody ranted. “Affluenza! As a zombie disease!

Need B R A I N S . . . and more stuff! Need G A D G E T S . . . aarrgghh . . .”

“Cody, you crack me up . . .”

“But what about me, Brittany? Don’t I crack you up?” “Well, of course, Chris.”

“Thanks!”

The three stood on the front walk. The house was ranch style, a mass of energy vibrating with consumption.

“What’s that smell?”

It was a sickeningly sweet smell that coated the tongue, inner nostrils, throat and lungs – burning mucosa cells – crossing the blood/brain barrier.

“Aaarrrgghh! The horror . . . the horror. It’s . . . it’s . . . clothes dryer exhaust! They still use dryer sheets! Noooo . . . we’ll be f*cked up for days!” Cody, Brittany and Chris began to stagger and moan and cough. A man opened the front door and wailed on his cigarette on the dark porch. “Hey you damn kids! What the f*ck are you doing on my property? I have a gun in my recliner. Don’t MAKE me go get it!”

Secondhand cigarette smoke drifted through the chemical cacophony, lazily mixing with the benzyls, ethyls and chloroform. In the haze, the kids were limp and uncoordinated – though gorgeously back-lit by streetlights!

The lady of the house appeared with a barrel of air freshener on wheels. “Ralph, I told you not to smoke, g*dd*mm*t!” Ralph put his respirator mask on over his cigarette as Mrs. Ralph pumped blasts of AirWicked Rosy Sweet.

“AIRWICKED ROSY SWEET?” The kids sniffed and screamed in unison, clumsily backing away and trying to run.

They leaned into one another as they walked back to Cody’s house. “I don’t feel so good. And I think I just lost I.Q. points.”

“Like dude, this is really f*cked up.”

“Yeah. Like, I can’t get this taste out of my mouth. My tongue is coated with weirdness.”

Cody used his key and entered the front door. “Come on in, you guys. Want some water or super-mega detox?”

“Sure. I could detox.”

“Yeah.”

As they entered the kitchen, Cody’s parents sat at the kitchen table drinking pseudo coffee, Mocha Foca Lite. “What’s the matter with you kids, anyway? Are you on drugs?”

CSI: Las Vegas - Malice Station Needs Help

2009-06-14T13:40:00.000-07:00

I caught CSI in syndication, having originally missed it in prime time. I'm absolutely hooked on it. A Helgenberger fan since China Beach and a Petersen fan since Manhunter, the show is a breath of fresh air in its intelligent, quirky characters that defy stereotype. Jorja Fox and Robert David Hall have also become faves. Melinda Clarke is interesting as Lady Heather (a writers' play on trendy names? The Heather-ization/Jason-ification Effect?). Grissom witticisms are to die for - I especially enjoy his philosophical summaries at episode's end. (A consideration: actual CSI squads likely aren't this witty.) A comment on set design: the LV morgue cannot be realistic I'm thinking. Its clean lines, tinted glass, dimmed lighting and bright multi-color orbs and jars on back-lit glass shelving might be atypical. But I LIKE it. I just may re-decorate in smoked glass and bright orbs and mount coroners' tools on the walls.

CSI: Las Vegas - Malice Station Needs Help is entirely fictional.

[Grissom and Willows proceed past check-in and concierge stations, through a gauntlet of marble and glass, to the elevators, up and out into a hall.]

Grissom: We have two VICs, a male and a female. Paul and Mary Blundt. Room 310. They checked in last night.

Willows: What’s that smell?

Grissom: Cheap disinfectant?

Willows: It’s like an alternate universe once you cross the elevator threshold.

Grissom: Yeah. Now let’s do it.

[Location: Room 310. Willows and Grissom peruse the scene]

Grissom: Innocents – an older couple come here on vacation to win a few bucks, see a show and eat inexpensive prime rib. Now they’re dead on cheap carpet.

Willows: It’s ugly, too. Worst color scheme I’ve ever seen.

Grissom: It’s all bad, Katherine.

Willows: Yeah. Let’s get trace. It appears that they struggled for breath, choked somehow. The dropped drinking glass – was the woman trying to get to the bathroom for water when she fell?

Grissom: Could be. We might be looking at ingested toxins of some kind. I don’t see human aggression or theft here.

Willows: Yeah. We’ll see what the team devines.

[Grissom and Willows proceed downstairs, through the lobby and towards an exit.]

Grissom: (Reads an employee’s name tag) Um . . .TREVOR. You have an awfully ritzy lobby here. The rooms are Dante’s Inferno. Malice Station can afford concierge service but not effective housekeepers?

Trevor: Yes, sir. Thank you. Have a nice day!

[Location: LV Crime Lab]

Grissom: Take a drive with me, Katherine.

Willows: Where to, boss?

Grissom: St. George. Cal’s giving us cooperation in seeing the Blundt residence.

Willows: Okay, but will we need protective suits?

Grissom: Nuclear tests . . .what were they thinking? Duck and cover, kids! Your desk and school binder will protect you.

[Grissom and Willows proceed east on I-15, taking Exit 6 to N. Bluff Dr.]

Cal: I can’t believe Paul and Mary are dead. They hardly ever went anyplace or took vacations. Now this.

Willows: You could practically eat off these floors. Or drink out of the toilets. They were good housekeepers no doubt.

Grissom: Yeah. Let’s check for prescription meds or other substances. Did they perhaps intentionally or accidentally ingest a slow-acting agent here, before they left for Vegas?

Willows: If they did and if it’s here, we’ll find it.

[Location: LV Morgue]

Robbins: The decedents have elevated levels of tryptase, which indicates they died during the night of anaphylaxis – an extreme allergic reaction during which the airway constricts. In this case the culprit would be . . . dust mites.

Grissom: Dust mites . . . could the VICs possibly have had compromised immune systems from living in a spotless environment?

Robbins: Could be. Things in moderation, my friend. Cleanliness in moderation. And how ironic is this? The Blundts survive a cancer hot zone, leave town, and ultimately die in a crappy hotel room because of dust mites?

Grissom: My philosophy of dust if you will . . . dust, what is it? Some ancients – perhaps fetishists - believed it to be magic – bottled it. We attack it with chemicals. In part it’s the cycling of life debris, cells shedding and degrading, to feed innocent creatures two hundred microns long. ‘Tis the food chain, my friends. Dust shall always be with us. [Grissom arches his brows, makes eye contact with Willows, slightly curls his lips. Scene ends on single violin note]

Fear of the Bogeymen: The Internet! Nudity! Pandemic! More . . .

2009-05-16T21:11:00.000-07:00

Yet another alarmist article has hit the media, warning us of the alleged dangers of the internet (people tend to forget that the internet is simply a tool - amongst other tools - all used in a number of ways)!

The article refers not to crime, nor violence, but to being exposed to a photograph of male nudity. Traumatized by the image of a penis - I suppose nightmares might ensue.

Of course, the person in question didn’t ask to see the photo (perhaps downloading the pesky attachment from an email entitled “Cutest Pet Pics Ever!”). I however imagine that the writer of the article likely grew up in a home with a resident male or two. Perhaps this was a family in denial – reminiscent of a Hayes Code film universe – in which penises didn't exist!

Female breasts: how hypocritical can we be? Typically mammalian commodities, breasts usually raise no issues – unless of course there is wardrobe malfunction (in which case innocent children may be allegedly corrupted!). If the breast in question is dispensing milk in a public place, society can go medieval. So skewed are values that is more acceptable in film scenarios to hack off a breast than to kiss one.

The current Swine Flu concern is reminiscent of the Bush administration Homeland Security Department fanning the flames of human insecurities – remember the color-coded security warnings? There were several bright colors involved as I recall, possibly causing one to awake in the morning pondering “Is it yellow or orange today? Should I go out? Should I stay in?” Mutating viruses are no doubt a cause for concern – but sealing international borders and slaughtering animals seem extreme. Resort to common sense. Wash your hands. Keep your hands off your face. Cover your sneezes. We learned this before first grade, remember?

Vitamin X Prevents Cancer! Vitamin X Causes Cancer! Click here to buy Vitamin X. Oh, the alarmism and informational overload! Is it really necessary to take a plethora of nutritional supplements in order to boost one’s immune system? Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve dropped a lot of vitamins onto the floor, which roll under the fridge. I’m watching for giant mutant cockroaches to crawl out and threaten my dogs.

Now excuse me while I go lock up.

Goode Medicine: A Sitcom You Likely Won't See

2009-01-21T19:55:00.000-08:00

Brad Connor and Heather Corman, two pharmaceutical sales representatives, negotiate the Southern California freeway in a PT Cruiser convertible. They weave in and out of traffic, shadowed by walls of semi-trucks and tall palm trees.

Heather: "Damn, my Lipitor pamphlets just blew away!"

Brad: "You need to keep those packaged."

Heather: "I know, I know, it was an anomaly."

Brad: " 'Anomaly'? Sounds like a new drug. 'Anomaly: take occasionally . . . just because'."

Heather: [sighs] "The company's got to get me a rental, or get my car out of the shop."

Brad: "Like, truly. Sales territory issues. You wear that cheerleader's outfit and seem a bit conspicuous."

Heather: "Remember, Goode Pharmaceutical recruited me from the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders."

Brad: "Yeah, yeah. They recruited me from the Berkeley croquet team."

Heather: "Let's go pick up lunch for Medical Arts."

Brad: "Right."

Brad and Heather take an exit to find a restaurant. Naked human directionals advertise a car wash. They find a drive-through and order turkey sandwiches at the window.

Speaker voice: "Sir, this is a bank."

Brad: "I knew that."

Medical Arts Clinic is located next to Back Neck and Shoulder Pain in the Sunrise Center. The building is beige stucco, surrounded by palm trees.

Heather gathers pharmaceutical samples and sandwiches, walks to the entrance and enters the lobby.

Heather: "Is he in?"

Office assistant: "Go on back."

Heather walks down the hall to an empty conference room and enters. She sets up the freebie lunches, walks out and down the hall, connecting with Doctor Fear. She touches his arm, her pompom gently brushing his wrist.

Doctor Fear: "Good morning, Ms. Corman . . . this way, please."

In his office, Doctor Fear takes a seat behind his desk and crosses his hands over his lap. Heather stands across from him.

Heather: "I want to talk to you today about Vivify, the new drug for patients who are on multiple meds. [stretches out arms, shakes pompoms, kicks left then right, repeats]

"ViviFY! ViviFY! Works in seconds! Zaps the fog, starts the brain!

"ViviFY! ViviFY! Lasts for hours! Tweaks synapses, stops the pain!

"Open the bottle, caress the pill

"Wash it down!

"Vi vi FFFFYYYYYY!" [jumps; performs split]

Brad and Heather in car on freeway, yelling, with the top down.

Heather: "Sold him!"

Brad: [sighs] "Yeah."

Heather: "Next stop?"

Brad: [smiles] "Dr. Bronner at Sunset Plaza. We play croquet together."

[Pamphlets litter the freeway]

No pharmaceutical reps were harmed in the creation of this story.

Confessions of a Primetime Snob

2008-12-12T19:34:00.000-08:00

I've gone through periods of not watching TV for months or longer. I'd lost interest in typical primetime programming and developed Fear of Bad Sitcoms. I tended to not have hope about the quality of premiering series and didn't bother watching. Cable series such as Sopranos, Six Feet Under and Weeds provided entertainment - along with brit crime fare Prime Suspect, Cracker, etc.

Eventually, due to sleeplessness, satellite and syndication, I'm now hooked on CSI. The original CSI is amazing (CSI:NY is good as well, IMO). Petersen / Helgenberger (and Sinise) have long been faves of mine. The technical research, writing and acting are top notch. What an interesting creative team!

Fur And Loathing

Pirates of the Third Reich

Go To Hell

The Theory of Everything

petersen trivia
If you haven't seen Michael Mann's Manhunter, check it out!

Does anyone remember the 'new' Twilight Zone series from 1985? There was an episode with William Petersen and Frances McDormand solving a mystery in a small southwestern town. Very good. Looking back, the new TZ had some fantastic writers.

Defining Pronoia; Mass Psychological Training

2008-09-15T14:08:00.000-07:00

Paranoia has its place, can be self-protective - and can be the basis of interesting fictional characters. The concept of paranoia seems more well-known than its polar opposite: the perk and pep of pronoia. Pronoia is the belief that "the universe conspires to shower one with riches and all things wonderful". I've however noticed the universal effluvia coming my way isn't all roses and greenbacks.

Self help gurus and mass psychological training embody the pronoic mindset: that universal secrets magically transform one's life; that belief systems help you get "it" - until you get that there is no "it" to get. Me thinks the universe is showering seminar creators and motivational speakers with green.

Self Help Seminars: The McDonalds Of Psychiatry? Read a humorous account of my self-help seminar experience here.

Incense & Peppermints: Is Nothing Sacred?

2008-08-26T20:16:00.000-07:00

Goodbye patchouli, cedar, orange blossom, sandalwood, et al - do people really need to be breathing such volatile compounds/by-products? Apparently not. It seemed a good way to scent my environment. In retrospect, it seems one might best simply burn the herbs/essences in their natural form vs. stoking up a toxic, manufactured product.

Patchouli: FEMA has it listed! Apparently aging hippies might use it to overpower the citizenry (think Woody Allen in Sleeper overtaking a guard with limburger cheese)! It takes me back to the nineteen-seventies: a burning stick, a scented wash, a dab of oil. Cedar and orange allegedly have cleansing effect (as does sage). Not attracted to most commercial fragrances, nor sweet/flowery essences, I've always loved woods, spices and citrus.

Sigh. Could the pungent smoke plumes be related to my allergies, nausea, dizziness? Or to cancer? I think I'll bake cinnamon instead.

Remembering Vincent Price

2008-08-20T19:20:00.000-07:00

I adore the late Vincent Price. He moved through my childhood and through various film sets, his persona threatening, yet distinguished. In reality he would apply his culinary expertise in a relatively Horrific Food Era (high sodium, American cheese food sauce, canned sauces, iceberg lettuce, processed meats, bacon) - though he managed to use not a few esoteric cooking ingredients. Banana Pancake Flambe Stonehenge could have made for an exciting breakfast blast.

vincent price trivia
From St. Louis, Missouri, he was heir to a baking powder fortune - which allowed him to act full-time.

The classical actor began his horror film era in the early nineteen-fifties.

Director Tim Burton was working on biography of him, when Vincent died in 1993. Burton stated that he was often visited by Vincent's ghost at night in his bedroom (I hope that Vincent brought a nice dish for nocturnal noshing).

Vincent met his third wife, the late actress Coral Browne, on a film set - her character was guillotined.

He had a cooking show, which might be fun to compare to today's Food Network extravaganza.

He partnered with Sears on marketing the Vincent Price Art Collection. Hmm: Sears and art. Kind of a weird association. "Put on your Sunday best, kids. We're going to SEARS!")

Visit the The Vincent Price Gallery
See: Comedy of Terrors and Theatre of Blood

Shaken, Rattled & Rolled

2008-07-29T17:56:00.000-07:00

I'd never experienced a 5.4 quake until this morning. I was sitting at my computer when suddenly the floor and walls were ROCKED and ROLLED by awesome power. I had a WTF Moment. My monitors and CPUs bounced. Drawers were knocked open. Glass was broken. By the time the dogs and I ran outside, the quake duration of about 25 seconds had passed. We should all be thankful that the quake was not stronger.

That said, me thinks the media overplayed a bit.

Pulp Fiction: A Secret Life of Paper

2008-05-13T13:36:00.000-07:00

flash fiction

seedling
The seedlings grow in a seedling farm until they are replanted into sustained-growth managed timberlands. A timberland R. Lee Ermy prevails.

"I don't see you G R O W I N G ! What a bunch of P A N S I E S! I should send you back to your M A M A S right now! "

"Promise?"

"Are we going home?"

"I didn't know we were pansies . . ."

tree
"Look. They're bringing in a new bunch. Cute little sprigs."

"I don't see you GROWING! Whaddaya want, BOTTLED WATER? This here polluted groundwater'll put fuzz on your stems!"

chainsaw
"Today you become MATURE GROWTH! Don't blubber like little-bitty BABIES! You can TAKE it!"

mill
The discombobulated wood chips are mixed with water and hydrosulfites.

"We're MELTing . . . we're MELTing!"

"You're tearing me APART!"

office space
Reams of 500 sheet/20 lb are stacked in a retail administrative office. On television is The Wizard of Oz, then Poltergeist. As oaks move their branches and grab screaming human beings, stacks of paper vibrate.

"Power to the wood!"

recycling
"Do you believe in reincarnation?"

"Yes, I want to come back as a movie tree."

Industry News

2007-05-19T15:38:00.000-07:00

Carroll & Graf and Thunders Mouth imprints are to be discontinued.

Publishing Gets A Little Less Indie

Spalding Gray: Stories Left To Tell

2007-03-11T10:06:00.000-07:00

Stories Left To Tell: I like the way it's structured, with the various aspects/voices of Spalding. The "Spalding Goes To Hollywood" aspect makes me recall hysterical situations and dialogue: Spalding being interviewed for a gig on The Tonight Show; sleazoid producer 'Simon Balzner' ("Love you, LOVE you, LOVE you!"); 'idea lunches' with super healthy, hyper Hollywood people; Spald's answering machine pulsing with network offers. Makes me want to rewatch Terrors of Pleasure and Monster in a Box . . .

I remember Spalding sharing his being interviewed for a possible gig on the Tonight Show. (paraphrasing here)

Interviewer: "You keep going from light to dark! From light to dark! . . . Do you WATCH The Tonight Show?"

(Spalding admitted that he sometimes tuned in --- but would nod off. )

Spalding: "I don't own a TV, but I have access to one!"

Interviewer: "You have ACCESS to one, you have access to one, oh reeeaaally Mr. Gray . . ."

Zen and the Art of Influenza

2006-12-11T08:12:00.000-08:00

I hardly EVER get the flu. Not even once a year. Or so I used to tell people. Bad idea. I instinctively knew that bragging about my health could have negative consequences, but felt compelled to boast about my allegedly superior immune system.

"I've got a virus." This is a misnomer. There are many viruses, or viri, potentially at work. And the virus has me, not the other way around.

Viri are now having a party in my body, multiplying, moving and taking new ground. I can feel them. They muddle my brain and settle in my joints, sending zinging little pains up and down the length of my body. The viri keep me up nights. They are a rowdy bunch, having keggers and raves.

But there seem to be advantages to being sick. To wit:

Regular worries and phobias seem to take a back seat. A person lives completely in the now, becoming directly and intuitively meditative, groggily symptom-surfing away the days and nights. Influenzal Zen may manifest.

Illness can be a lesson in submission and tolerance.

Illness may provide one with attention and service from others. Or not.

Illness may provide a conversational incentive:

"Hey! You look terrible!"

"Hey! Why are you puking?"

"Wow. You should have seen me when I had the flu. My case was really baaaaaad." Hint: When people begin to compulsively compare symptoms, and attempt to outdo one another on the Symptom Severity Scale, it's probably time for them to broaden their interests and/or get out more.

zen and the art of contagion
It's all relative.

The body is a wet, pink factory with lots of traffic. It can be a host to many, many different forms of viri and bacteria. Microbes don't discriminate. They don't care who you are: they simply seek shelter and food in the form of a warm body. (Read Richard Preston's The Hot Zone. Wait. Don't.)

Consider that a person is lucky to not have a much more serious health problem, than flu or colds. We can't choose to live in a protective plastic bubble (unless one is into that). But it couldn't hurt to occasionally wash our hands and practice safe human interaction.

Proliferation (Essay Archives)

2006-12-10T10:57:00.000-08:00

Proliferation: sounds like a horror flick (practically Cronenbergesque!). Back in the day, I shuddered at the thought of reality television shows multiplying like cockroaches (consider that reality tv is cheaper to produce than series that employ actors and writers).

Reality TV: Surviving
(2000 archives)

Television writers and executives brainstormed.

"Hey, gang, let's put on a show! . . .

"We need something new and fresh and dynamic . . .

"Let's take a diverse group of people, 'real' people . . .

"Let's put them in a controlled environment for a fixed amount of time, and motivate them with money . . . throw in elements of desire and temptation and suspense . . .

"Hey! Let's put them in a haunted house . . . wait . . . no . . .

"On a boat at sea . . .

"On a polar ice cap . . .

"Wait! Let's put them on an island. Yeah, THAT'S the ticket. The skin factor alone should send the ratings through the roof!

"However, no ads or sponsorship for female birth control products or male condoms will be acceptable."

Survivor. Temptation Island. Only the beginning?

Clothing Optional Island
Okay people, we're overdressed here! Let's lose those thongs!

Weight Control Island
An extremely calorie-restricted regiment is utilized. Participants will be denied even rodents, bark, bugs, lizards and leaves. One can never be too thin. "Dahling . . . you look MAHvelous!"

Mass Psychological Training Island
Yes, it's the ultimate encounter group experience! No one is able to escape THIS self-help seminar! If only Werner Erhard had thought of it.

Death Island
Group members are selectively exposed to various deadly contagions. Who got the placebo? Who got the killer bacteria? Who will survive?

Gilligans' Island
Only those with the name of Gilligan need apply.

The Island of Dr. Moreau
Contestants are encouraged to bring their pets.

It's the future of reality programming, folks. Be sure to subscribe to TV Guide and set aside some viewing time.

"You've Got Red on You"

2006-11-20T21:47:00.000-08:00

I recently rewatched a few comedy-horror flicks, which I highly recommend . . .

Shaun of the Dead

"You've got red on you" is a clever bit of repeated dialog, and harbinger of things to come. 'The living dead': look closer for an analogy. Protagonist Shaun seems to exist in a 'dead' world. As he rides the bus to work, we become aware of the masses of soul-dead people slogging to work. If Shaun's a loser, he's about to become a hero. Will he get the girl? Again?

Brilliant dialog, slapstick, and satire stylize this quirky comedy/horror flick. The editing is brilliant: flowing yet abrupt scene changes keep us on edge --- along with the somewhat startling soundtrack. In the beginning of the film look for background scenes as characters manifest the onset of zombie metamorphoses. Note: film has shown us that zombies move extremely slowly, that they're not very bright and seem to be food-centric. Therein lie methods for coping with them.

I admit it: the so-called comedy/horror genre has long been a guilty pleasure of mine: An American Werewolf in London . . . Cast A Deadly Spell . . . Cemetery Man. Kudos to the excellent writers, director and cast! Brits Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg are now on my radar. http://imdb.com/title/tt0365748/

Dellamorte Dellamore (Cemetery Man)
In the comedy/horror film based upon the Italian comic strip, Francesco Dellamorte (Rupert Everett) is the guardian of Buffalora cemetery and is responsible for disposing of "The Returners", those dead who return seven days after being buried. Francesco is a busy man; I'd love to read his Day Planner (or Night Planner as it were). The film is artistically shot, wickedly funny, satirical, full of visual puns; erotic, violent and graphic. Not for all tastes. Very well done, though I have one gripe: some of the zombie make-up/special effects were very poor quality, out of sync with the overall excellence of the film.

Also recommended:

Frankenweenie http://imdb.com/title/tt0087291/
Cast a Deadly Spell http://imdb.com/title/tt0101550/
Popcorn http://imdb.com/title/tt0102690/

From the Archives: 'American' Film

2006-11-03T21:18:00.000-08:00

It's funny. At the video store I'd noticed lots of releases with 'American' in the title.

American Beauty
American Psycho
American Pie
American Pimp
American Movie
American Perfeck
American Virgin
American Women

It was tragic. Customers could get confused and rent the wrong thing. If you're in the mood for Lester Burnham, then Patrick Bateman just won't do.

Now, let's pretend we don't know the synopses of these films and write our own, shall we?

American Beauty (docu)
Defining the culture of American female beauty: pigmentation; fat distribution; jiggle and bounce.

American Psycho (docu)
Sociopaths and the women who love them.

American Pie (docu)
Apple, cherry, rhubarb, peach, pecan: sexual symbolism and baked goods.

American Pimp
Sex workers turn the tables on the sex business establishment.

American Movie (docu)
Film critics chronicle the declining quality of American mainstream film.

American Perfeck (docu)
On the educational system: why can't Johnny and Janey spell?

American Virgin (docu)
Hot dogs, apple pie and hymens: exploding the myths of virginity.

American Women
Broadway musical based upon The Kinsey Report: Originally titled Oh! Alfred!

Stories/Anthologies

2006-08-28T19:47:00.000-07:00

2011 ~ Maxim Jakubowski informs me that my story "Screen Play" will be included in The Mammoth Book of the Best of the Best New Erotica ! Publication is set for the end of January 2012. The story protagonist is a film-obsessed screenwriter. It was motivational being inspired by film -- it was satisfying weaving film tapestries therein.

December 2005 ~ An editor informs me that Leather, Lace & Lust has been re-issued by Berkley Books!

Screen Play is anthologized in Maxim Jakubowski's The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, Volume Five

Spring 2005 ~ In my biker story The Road Killers I created my first urban legend: the Interior Design Chainsaw Killer. Hated plaid and doilies . . .

My crime story Bodies of Water is anthologized in Amazons: Tall Tales of Strong Women.

May 2005 ~ I wrote a story set in New Orleans during hurricane season: Erica is a homicide detective who lives in the Quarter. More on this soon!

Spring 2005 ~ I received the news that my erotic story of a fantasy-driven screenwriter was accepted and will be anthologized in Maxim Jakubowski's Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, Volume Five.

December 2004 ~ My Marilyn piece is out, featured in Wicked: Sexy Tales of Legendary Lovers! I enjoyed getting into the period of the nineteen-sixties and speculating: what might Marilyn and Jack have been like in their personal lives? Did the love goddess like to read Dostoyevsky in bed? Did the president find a messy bedroom to be a major turn-off?

December 2004 ~ Cashmeres Must Die is anthologized in The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, Volume Four (Maxim Jakubowski for Carroll and Graf)!

Spring 2004 ~ Heads up for my erotic travel tale with a touch of the supernatural! It was fun and challenging to get into the characters and consciousness of spirits. In my piece Whitewood I particularly enjoyed writing the ghostly characters of Tennessee Williams and Truman Capote ( biographical film).

Summer 2003 ~ Cashmeres Must Die is accepted for Leather, Lace and Lust (M. Christian and Sage Vivant for Venus Books) and confirms that yes! the American nineteen-fifties was indeed a strange time (ahem, fetishes of course excluded).

Summer 2002 ~ My shocking first time: I receive the word that my Thelma and Louise parody Tina and Lucille was accepted for The Mammoth Book of Tales on the Road (Maxim Jakubowski and M. Christian for Caroll and Graf)!

Into the Night

2006-06-22T07:48:00.000-07:00

It'd been a long night and I'd gotten none. Well, I'd gotten some. But it wasn't good and it wasn't enough. Sleep! I knew the consequences. They were not pretty: nerves jangled, brain rattled, teetering on the edge.

I'd sailed through the previous evening, cocky, arrogant: of course I'd be able to sleep. WROnnnnnng.

Reclining in bed in the dark, I drifted, feeling my mind going . . . going. Absurd mental images were a sure sign that I was going over the edge into unconsciousness. Yup. THERE they were: I saw a computer screen. On it seemed to be book titles. Yes! I was writing a horror novel! The Burning.The Glowing.The Digging. EeeekK! Cliches all. Then a last title: The Sleeping!

'Ha. FOOL. IDIOT.' The imagery told me. 'You were on the verge of sleep. You allowed a self-conscious reference into your drifting. Now you are AWAKE! BWmmmmmm hahahahaHA!' it said.

In left fetal position I once again drifted, almost there. I could feel my mind once again begin to release. "Woof!" barked my bichon. It was just one woof. But one badly timed woof is all it takes to slam me into tense consciousness.

Insomnia almost always precedes unusual dreams, when I finally sleep. The night's imagery would be of a Steve Buscemi Film Festival/Roast. I'd sat in the first row.

Market THIS!

2006-05-21T08:27:00.000-07:00

Products! We need new products! Current US markets obviously don't provide sufficient consumer goods. We need MORE . . . we are Americans, after all.

Organic Honeysuckle Nectar
Organic Honeysuckle Nectar would be produced without pesticides, herbicides, or machinery. Naked Vegetarian Virgin Goddesses would plant and harvest Organic Honeysuckle under optimal conditions, by moonlight. Upon harvest, each flower would be gently plucked. The stem would be delicately and slowly pulled from the flower's center, and the very small quantity of oozing nectar caught in a stoneware container. The product would be edible; could be used as a fragrance; could also be marketed as a hair conditioner, aphrodisiac and immune system booster. Drawbacks: Organic Honeysuckle Nectar would be very time consuming and expensive to produce and would have a very short shelf life due to it's lack of preservatives. It would cost approximately $500.00 per the half oz.

Organic Cotton Balls
Is it really necessary to process the entire cotton crop? Since cotton naturally sprouts from the earth in the form of poofy little balls anyway, why not simply market them as is? Leave them in the hull, which would provide a natural protective covering. Cut the individual hull covered poofs from the stalk. Put them in a gift basket and wrap with brightly colored cellophane wrap and ribbon. Put in upscale retail stores. Charge an arm and a leg. Watch the product quickly disappear from store shelves. Drawbacks: There might be consumer litigation due to the fact that cotton hulls are extremely sharp and tend to cut through skin. The ever-present redundant consumer warning label would probably not prevent accidents and lawsuits.

Dog TV Dinners
The ultimate in convenience, nutrition, and variety for our cuddly four- legged friends! Flavors might include Beef Chunk/Peas and Carrots/Cherry Cobbler Medley; Turkey/Mashed Potato/Cranberry Surprise; Chicken/Pasta/Spinach Casserole. For finicky eaters, canine pheromone enhanced Dog TV Dinners would be available. Also: the I Just Rolled In Dead Fish Smell enhanced Dog TV Dinner. Soon YOUR dog can have a Pavlovian response to the sound of the microwave timer! Ding! Woof! Drawbacks: Your pooch may never eat the cheap stuff again.

Diversified Fragrances
Why not be really creative, and add common, everyday scents to the mix of floral, spice, woods, herbs, fruit, and whatever else that happens to be in perfumes and colognes? Adding the scent of U.S. Currency to women's fragrances might attract men and drive them absolutely wild; adding the scent of chocolate to men's cologne could make women swoon; undertones of Mom's Apple Pie or Macaroni And Cheese Casserole would be a subversive addition to women's fragrances. The possible blends would be endless. Fragrances could be created to help the wearer achieve certain ends. It's Voodoo by Calvin Klein! Sniff! Not just for romance anymore! Drawbacks: Aromatherapy could be used for purposes of evil. Wait. Maybe it already is.

Miscellaneous Products
The Mega Fry And Dip From RonKo
It's the first combination deep fryer and hot tub! Perfect for those holiday gatherings! Fry up a huge vat of your favorite breaded hor d' oeuvres. Then simply drain your Mega Fry And Dip, refill with water, and have a relaxing soak with your friends! It's a must have item, from those innovators at RonKo!

The Clone-A-Matic Cloning Kit From RonKo
Would YOU like to achieve a greater sense of power over time, space, and other people? Would you like to create a whole new YOU? Confound your spouse, boss, and friends! The Clone-A-Matic Cloning Kit contains everything that you need to replicate! DNA Extraction Kit, Homosapien DNA Molecules, DNA Assortment Pak included. Added bonus: The RonKo Create-A-Fake ID Maker, including adhesive nametags (Hello! My Name Is . . .)

The Idiot's Guidebook To Idiot Guidebooks
What marketing genius came up with THIS series of books? See also: (insert subject here) For Dummies. Darn. I wish that I had thought of it.

Now go shopping already! You need more stuff.

My Phone Is Evil

2006-05-04T15:46:00.000-07:00

My phone is evil. It is quiet sometimes. I get a sense of mastery over my universe. Just when I think that I'm safe in my reverie, It bleats. It is unpredictable in ways. I am never sure just when It is going to ring. It is sneaky.

Its signal explodes into my environment, necessitating me to pick up Its receiver. With a sense of foreboding, I take the oddly shaped appendage into my hand, and cradle It next to my ear. There are words inside. Soon the words will be inside my head. My brain will be forced to process the words. I will then be forced to send words back. Is this really necessary?

The words are often trivial, repetitive and boring. The words are perhaps evil as well, becoming so through osmosis as they pass through time, space, and phone entity gods. The words bombard me. My voice mail is evil as well. It saves up the words that the phone brings. I hate it when this happens.

My phone and fax machine do not get along. Manifesting a power play, It tends to sabotage the other. Currently, the fax machine is out of order; the phone smirks. Can't we all just get along?

My phone is evil. Perhaps It impacts more than simply the fax machine. My adding machine and pencil sharpener have been acting up lately. It shares a work station with these other entities. Perhaps evil phone vibes radiate down into the desk counter , across, and up into other appliances. This could account for the mysterious electronic math mistakes, and for the violent destruction of number-two pencils.

Though my phone seems evil, It and I are heavily interdependent. I would not have a job without It. It lets me talk to friends. It lets me go to the internet. Life seems full of these little trade-offs. I think that I can cope. It's only evil, after all.

1999

Read Short-Attention-Span-Lit Online

2006-01-05T09:08:00.000-08:00

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Memories of New Orleans: Hotel Vagabond

2005-12-05T08:24:00.000-08:00

The inspirational spark for my short story Bodies of Water was a place: New Orleans. The characters later swam in my head and played on paper, changing over time. Protagonist Erica morphed from a private investigator into a homicide detective. Over time I was writing in my head, before I became so bold as to put my words on paper and expect people to read them.

In reality, I’d rolled into New Orleans’ French Quarter during a nineteen-seventies winter, finding a cheap hotel at Chartres and Dumaine, a couple of blocks from Jackson Square. Winter chill, wind and humidity was easier for me than those hellish, humid summers. The early spring would bustle with colorful characters and Tourist Hell as we watched from a sagging wrought iron balcony. It felt surreal when I saw Tennessee Williams on the street — dapper in his lightly-coloured cotton suit, Panama hat, and brown wingtips (the extreme humidity could induce Williamsesque ‘spells’ – I imagined dialog: “I’m feeling a bit faintish, could you fetch me chilled refreshment?” )

The hotel entryway led directly up a dark flight of stairs which took a sharp left turn. There was the check-in desk (with its overweight, sexually-harassing proprietor), which preceded a maze of wide, dark hallways. At the back of the hotel was a large communal kitchen where scavengers hung out. It was big and bare, with only the basic necessities. It was a good idea to label your foodstuffs or lock them up, due to the bands of roving residents suffering from the munchies, or genuine starvation, or both.

Large cast iron skillets sat on the ancient stove.Cast iron skillets: I always found them to be interesting: organic, funky, homey, decorative, and could be handily used as a weapon (see the film Eating Raoul). Cooking in a cast iron skillet could be exciting, as cast iron gets very hot. How does one time the cooking process? Meat could be black on the outside and pink in the middle. Can you say ‘trichinosis’? The Fried Breaded Stuffed Pork Chop Incident lingers in my mind. The huge pork chop stuffed, egg-washed, dredged in flour and bread crumbs, I managed to lift it, and ease it into sizzling skillet. The result was blackened on the outside and devoured by the kitchen lizards.

To the right of the kitchen was a hallway which led to many small, funky rooms. The rooms had old, leftover mix-and-match furniture. Some had fireplaces. My room was on the second floor, facing Dumaine St. It had french doors that led to a balcony. There were bathrooms down the cavernous hall. The bathroom near my room had a huge claw-foot tub; it paid to bring Comet or Ajax. Its large, bare window faced a small, neglected courtyard. I met lots of people here: not only at the bathroom or in the kitchen, but throughout the establishment. Appearing spaced-out, many milled about near the check-in desk and sat on the stairs. I made a few friendships; some were cemented by impromptu cross-country road trips. From New Orleans to Montana to Oregon to California to New York I went, growing and shedding new friends, like snakeskin. But the Quarter was special.

In May 2005 I completed the short story Bodies of Water. I had fun with my characters Erica, Rita, Nick and others. As I wrote the story, sinking cities of New Orleans and Venice played in my head — subsiding and eroding, moisture permeating and destroying. Nature can no doubt be brutal; the Katrina debacle is beyond comprehension.

Running With Pencils

2005-10-09T16:56:00.000-07:00

It must have started with crayons. Crayola, usually the small box, but sometimes the large economy box. The crayons smelled good, but not as good as PlayDoh. Melting crayons smelled good too.

Pencils were okay, kind of boring, and when sharpened, allegedly dangerous. Be careful with that, you could put your eye out! The pencils danced between blue lines on faded gray speckled notebook paper, letters into words into sentences into paragraphs, the user marveling that letters formed words which formed language, and that the human brain could process such things.

Pens were ballpoint or felt-tip or fountain type, multi-coloured inks flowing and exploding between journal covers in stream-of-consciousness rant. The pens illustrated the rant with peace symbols and palm trees.

Typewriters were heavy and metal and evil, causing young brains and fingers to produce clatter and noise and mind-deadening language - I knew this. I had friends who typed.

Word processors were somehow not as bad as typewriters, though either could take away the magic and rhythm of the organic flowing pen - typing somehow being out of tune with channeling.

Years ago in ink I used to write "A. F. Waddell" and draw peace symbols on my denim-covered cardboard school binder . . . Dear history instructor Becker, if you are not dead and are reading this, please return my confiscated journal. I need the notes.