I forgot to tell you guys....

Something rad happened a while ago.  I don't know, a couple of weeks?  A month?  Time?  Fuck time.  

At any rate, Annie was here visiting me and we were ruling at leisure time, like we always do.  Annie and I love ourselves a good crossword puzzle because it makes us feel wicked smart. We'd picked up the Globe and we were all set up on the beach, fully prepared to perpetrate some verbal wizardry when we came to the crushing realization that we were without writing implement.  Woe is motherfucking us.  We lapsed into a disappointed silence, I ate a bunch of crackers and I think Annie fell asleep.  A little while later  I was squinting out at the ocean trying to decide if I wanted to go swimming or not, considering the recent outbreak of jellyfish sightings.  As I looked at the water a shape began to materialize and I thought it was just another piece of flotsam jettisoned from one of the schooners, junks or yachts which call the waters off of Lambert's Cove home.  When I took a closer look I was shocked to realize that there, floating in the ocean, directly in front of where Annie and I had set up our beach shanty town, was a motherfucking Bic pen.  I leapt up from my ex-company sponsored beach blanker and charged into the briny in order to retrieve this prize.  It was pretty funny that some old pen had floated in front of us just when we were talking about how much we needed a pen.  More funny still?  The pen worked.  We were able to actually DO the crossword puzzle with this pen which we had fished out of the sea.  

I just thought this ruled because I'm sure I was laying on my towel thinking "Man, I really want lots of money, a rad boyfriend, a good job, fame, notoriety, approval, liposuction etc."  And along floats a pen.  Just what I needed.  

The words of a great Rolling Stones song immediately came to mind. 

No, guys, not Honky Tonk Woman.  No, it's not Gimme Shelter either.  Beast of Burden?  You're like, not even close.  Guys, did you pay attention to my story at ALL?  

Agreed, B of B is a great song.

No, I'm not mad at you.   

  

Yes, we're okay.

I love you too.    

If Blogging Were an Olympic Sport I Would Have Quit in Middle School Because I Hate Changing in Public.

I haven't been feeling too bloggy lately.  Basically I've got nothing to write about.  I just don't feel that strongly about anything in my life right now.  I don't hate anything or anybody, which always makes for a great blog post.  I mean, Crocs kind of bother me, but I'm even starting to feel a little fondly towards them because they look pretty cute on little kids and when hot guys wear them they're not a total deal-breaker like a Teva or a Birkenstock would be.   I haven't been consuming any media lately so I don't have any celebs to talk about and I don't have any friends so I don't go out and drink a lot so I don't embarrass myself (except for the the average fist-pump-in-the-grocery-store-because-of-coupon-for-free-cup-of-genric-brand-yogurt kind of way) so I don't wake up in the morning with overwhelming fear and loathing which causes me to want to think (or write on a blog) about ANYTHING aside from my own fucked up, retarded life.  Essentially, I'm good for now.  And "good" does not for interesting bloghorreah make.

So I sez to myself I sez "Self, you've got to got out and get yourself some FEAR!  Where in the world can you come up with some LOATHING?  Hmmm.  Let me think.  Oh yeah, MOTHERFUCKING GOTHAM!!"  When I moved from NY to Boston I had developed such a massive case of fear and loathing that I believe it actually took control of my body and physically propelled me out of the Tri-State area.  The last thing I remember of being in New York was sitting on my brother's couch, paging through my outgoing text messages with horror and revulsion and the next thing I know I'm trudging through a snow drift outside of South Station.  My fear and loathing infested body somehow managed to get my decroded ass and 5 bags on a Fung Wah bus without the involvement my semi-psychotic  brain.  Nice job, Fear.   

So I figured, what better than a couple of days in the N to the Y to the C to get my brain riled up enough to spew out some garbage on this self-involved shit pile I call my blog?  Also, and the main reason for the trip was that Bob was on the Eastern seaboard for a couple of days and you know I'm not going to pass up an opportunity to see him whilst he was state-side.  Bob:  Your spectacles are magnificent.  But things didn't work out as I had planned.  When the morning of  my departure rolled around I was expecting to wake up at like 3:30am in the fetal position, with my eyes wide open, staring at nothing. (that's my F & L pose.)  But I didn't.  I woke up.  Oak and I drank coffee.  I got on the train, and by Ashton Kutcher's wife beater, I was sad to be leaving.  I wasn't fleeing the scene.  I'd managed to have a visit to NYC without leaving in a hail of bullets.  Fuck.  WHAT AM I GOING TO WRITE ABOUT NOW???

Well I'll tell you what I'm going to write about, and it's Olympic Racewalking.  This. Sport.  Is.  FANTASTICAL!  (With a capital testicle.)  Yes, I know.  God, you're all very predictable.  You're wondering how interesting or competitive a sport which involves walking can be.  Well. shut the fuck up.  This shit is real.  I only watched the women, because I think the male competition would have cause one of the aneurysms which obviously riddle my brain to explode like a blood-bloated mosquito feeding from a diner, lingering too long about the outdoor buffet.  (That sentence either deserves a Nobel Prize for Literature or made you queasy.  Either way, I rule.)  Okay, I'm not even sure where to begin.  I can imagine you've all inferred from previous entries that I idolize the thin.  Usually female athletes, although technically shapely, are too beefy for my taste because my ideal body weight ranges from infant - 34 lbs.  The athletes which compete in racewalking are just my cup of underweight tea.  These bitches is SKINNY.  The chick who won the competition weighed 94 lbs.  I mean, how can you walk wicked fast for like 2 hours, weigh 94 lbs., and not be dead?  That's mental toughness if I ever saw it!  And the actual form of the racewalkers is totally impressive as well.  I guess the name of the game is to walk as fast as you possible can, without actually running at any point.  There are judges all along the race track that hand out flags when you break form.  If anyone runs they can be disqualified.   Apparently, this involves swinging your arms about frantically and swiveling your hips in a figure eight motion thus propelling your tiny stick figure along at a rapid pace.   As a noted social and sports historian noted of the form "They look like drag queens sashaying down the catwalk."  Well played, Historian.  So basically, this sport involves wee, thin women, walking wicked fast, wearing tiny amounts of  clothing (at one point I think a chick pulled her uterus and you could see it from the outside), swinging their arms and swiveling their hips down a race track.  (Insert "Victoria Beckham at a half-off tanning salon sale" joke here, I suppose.)

I'm trying to figure out a good way to live out the rest of my days without having to get a real job.  (With all these aneurysms it shouldn't be too long.  *SIGH*.)   When I saw these brave women swaying swiftly down the race track in Beijing, dollar signs filled my mind.  I immediately began to think of how I could cash in on this phenomenon.  There has to be money in this.  Skinny bitches don't do shit unless there's money involved, right?  (The world of the very thin is shrouded in mystery for me.  At some point I'd like to spend a day in their shoes but my feet are too fat and they haven't yet invented a suit that can make that happen.  When they do I'm going to steal it.)  So my wheels begin to turn and I start to think of how we can send this competition commercial.  We'll obviously have to have a reality TV show about a novice racewalker who trains and competes until they're at the Olympic level.  Next thing, who do I know that is tiny, mentally tough, able to go long periods of time without food while displaying remarkable stamina (ie day-long drinking binges and hung-over walks from Soho to the UES).  Who's got incredibly pointy elbows that can cut a competitor down with one slash?  Who, at very word "contest" immediately begins to figure out what she's going to do when she wins because losing ain't in the vocab?  

Jen, when you get back from London we've got to start filming a pilot.  Mona, feel like playing the fierce competition who we want to hate but can't help but respect?

Note:  If anybody is actually reading this blog and doesn't now who Jen or Mona are, get a job or read a real blog.  Or offer me money to stop blogging.  All of the aforementioned options are acceptable.          

                 

I May Need to Invest in a Night Light

I wrote the screenplay for the next blockbuster horror film.  Im my head.  Whilst in bed, paralyzed by fear.  If I'd had to pee, I would have peed.  Right there in  my bed.  (Was that iambic pentameter?)   

I live right next to a farm, so nighttime animal noises are par for the course.  In the course of an evening I'll hear cats, dogs, cows, pigs, horses, chickens and roosters.  There are actually several roosters, none which actually sound like roosters, or at least what you would imagine a real rooster to sound like.  The roosters that live next door to me sound more like a combination of the following: the beginning of that Janet Jackson song "If", the grinding of a clutch in a standard and the noises which would come from one of those wiffle-balls-to-the-junk videos if the stupid soundtrack wasn't covering up the actual sound effects.

Last night I heard a noise which did not come from a farm animal.  I don't know that it came from any Earthly creature of which I am aware.  The sound I heard could maybe be compared to the fucked-up roosters, but add a child screaming and multiply it x 1,000.  It was terrifying.  And it ended very abruptly, so I wasn't exactly sure I'd heard it at all.  Once I was fully awake I laid there and imagined what could be out there in the  night making those noises.  And thus my screenplay was born.  

At one point in my life I was kind of a horror movie aficionado.  I fucking loved them and was always searching for my next big scare.  This all started with The Blair Witch Project.  That movie scared the bejeesus out of me, and I've been hooked ever since.  It was that kind of scary that at the time you totally wish it was over and that you could leave, but you're too scared to move and when it's over you want it back.  (It's right here that I wish I could build a metaphor for some great love story I've been through, alas I've only gotten to Chapter 2 of my relationship book: "He's Just Not That Drunk Anymore.", hence I really have no frame of reference upon which to build such a metaphor.)  

In my experience I find that 9 out of 10 scary movies begin to falter about 40 minutes into the film.  I think the biggest mistake made by filmmakers is showing the bad guy / monster too early or at all.  They are rarely well done, and in many cases it's kind of funny when they are finally revealed.  Take for example, M. Night Shamylan movie "Signs".  He didn't show the alien until the last 15 minutes so it didn't completely ruin it for me.  But when he did finally show the alien the movie went from pretty effing scary to "UM, Is that some tall, gawky dude dressed in a camo body sock?  Is that the outline of his package?  I feel uncomfortable".  I think the problem is that the filmmakers haven't spent enough time lying in their bed, alone, listening to bloodcurdling noises coming out of a pitch black night.  One notable exception to this rule is The Descent, in which a bunch of chicks decide to go spelunking in some cave in Appalachia and encounter seriously fucked up shit.  However, the scariest part of that movie is actually one of the female leads and her ability to both hook up with her best friend's husband and also kill shit. I highly recommend this film, and I didn't totally ruin the plot twists there.  Just sort of.  If you need to borrow a copy I totally own it.    

Another mistake which filmmakers perpetrate is trying to give horror movies any sort of logical plot.  Like when they try and give the monster some sort of sad, sordid past which seeks to explain why he's eating everyone's brains.  Or that it's the Republican party who caused the  release of the toxins that turned everyone into zombies. Horror movies need to be inexplicable.  That's what makes them so scary, for me at least.  You can't rationalize it.  Rob Zombie does a really good job of making movies that are scary simply because you can't explain why they're happening.  The victims aren't rich thoughtless assholes, or even sexually promiscuous hippies.  They're nice normal people.  The bad guys don't have some horrendous past that is causing them to be this way.  They're just evil and like torturing and killing people.  And they're not going to stop when the police come.  They're probably going to kill the police.  And maybe eat them.  With cutlery.  Terrifying cutlery.    

My horror movie is going to start with an environmentalist goes out into the forest to live as he tries to find out why a particular species of moth is dying.  Good guy + deep forest = awesome scary movie beginning.   He's out there for a week and eventually befriends a squirrel (0r some other forest creature) who hangs out and keeps him company.  (Note:  There will be very little to no dialogue in this film.  One great way to fuck up a scary movie is by letting some hack actor run all over the place throwing out pearls of retardation.  Also, I suspect I'll be paying a hobo to be the hero of this film and my type of hobo needs to keep his trap shut lest he get all excited and vomit up the contents of last night's glue and malt liquor bender aka Cast and Crew Party.)  Needless to say, aforemetioned cute forest creature ends up dead.  Like, really dead.  Hero is super bummed, but it's the deep forest, this stuff happens.  Then weird stuff starts happening while hero is asleep, and he starts to hear strange noises (Like clicks.  Clicks are wicked scary.) and find evidence of something fucking around in his vicinity.  There will be several scenes of Hero lying in bed in complete darkness and silence. (Script notes: Hobo has fallen asleep or died.)    Then Hero tries to contact the proper authorities.  I'm not going to do any of that formulaic shit where the cops don't believe him and leave him to die, thus proving some bullshit point about the American justice system.  In this movie the cops come out, and search the place and act like cops and do a really good job.  But they don't find anything.   Hero starts to believe that maybe he just imagined it all, but even so he's going to get ready to leave.  Fuck the moths.  He just needs one last night to pack up his stuff and get out of there.  As he's laying in bed that night he starts to hear the weird noises again.  (Scene of him lying in bed breathing loudly / chocking on a little bit of puke.)  Then we hear the distinct noise of what sounds like tearing nylon.  Like tent nylon.  And then the brush of something passing through or against nylon.  Hero is lying on his side in his bed, with his back to the tent.  There is about 6 feet between he and the far wall of the tent.  It would take about 4 seconds for something to move across this space.  1 second....2 seconds....3 seconds.....4 seconds.  Hero is still lying there.  Most likely  paralyzed with fear / delrium tremens.  Finally after about six seconds he starts to slowly sit up in bed.  His breathing is ragged now, and that's the only sound.   He knows there's something else in the tent.  As he slowly turns around the darkness of the tent is only slightly broken by the moonlight coming in through a slit in the nylon wall.  He squints to try and adjust his  eyes to the lack of light.  As his pupils dialate he thinks he can just make out the outline of something else in the room, but mostly he just senses its there.  Until it begins to move.  It's movement is slight, and it sort of bobs in place.  It's back is turned to Hero but we can tell it has a vaguely human form.  Hero catches his breath.  The form stops moving and seems to tense.  It begins to very slowly turn.  We make out that it's about 4 feet tall and has a now obviously human form.  We can discern a head, shoulders, torso, legs, feet.  As the form turns the hole in the tent wall is stirred by a breeze and more light is let into the room.  Some of this light falls across the front of the figure and we can see what it looks like.  It has a bald head and a massive brow that hides where it's eyes should be.  Where we would imagine a nose there are two holes and below that a perfectly round maw, circled with wrinkles and teeth.  It's head rests on a short neck, below which extend two arms that end in hand-ish things which are tiny wrinkled and hairy.  The torso is humanoid and below that two legs.  The legs terminate in feet, which end not in toes, but instead in a sharp, pointy claw that reaches at least a foot from the thing's ankle.  As we get this full picture of the creature it turns to fully face Hero and zeroes in on him.  Then faster than we can see and much faster than Hero can act, the creature turns and begins to close the space between itself and the cot on which Hero sits.  Then the movie's over.  

So folks, this is what I was thinking about lying in my bed this morning at 3:39am as I listened to a raccoon skull fuck a squirrel.  I have almost exactly copied the plot of Blair Witch except left out all the running through the forest and getting lost and shit.  Mine may actually be more of a horror short than a feature length film.  And in my movie I've incorporated my personal nightmare creature who has elements of all that which I fear in life:  a small child, an elderly person, a midget, an uggo and excess body hair.  

It's going to make billions.      

I guess I'm going to have to get a job this fall after all.   

Martha's Vineyard Directions

This is copied and pasted from an actual set of directions which people are supposed to follow:

"Go west on State Road past the in-town supermarket, past the
out-of-town Black Dog, past the Tashmoo Overlook and tke first
right,on LAMBERT'S COVE ROAD.

Go perhaps 200 yards past Tashmoo Farm and turn right onto a big
dirt driveway just past a set of  about two dozen mailboxes on
Northern Pines Road (actually it's Chappaquonsett Road, but the
Northern Pines people can't handle that, so we try not to rattle their
cage).

Continue on Northern Pines Road [sic] about 3/4 mile, past the
Thompson's farm on the left.  If the hogs are loose, don't get out of
the car.

Just beyond there will be a fork marked by trees with multiple signs
attached including signs for the POND HOUSE and the SWINDLE. Take a
right angle turn to the left there on Army Road (built by the Army in
the 1940s when they used the area for amphib landing practice).

Follow Army Road and it's famed "Six Hills" until it enters a
clearing.  Do not go left to Hilly and Nancy Thompson's house.  Bear
right, following the signs for the POND HOUSE .

About 200 yards beyond will be the 2nd drive to the right to a
two-story cape visible through the trees. Voila! You have reached the
POND HOUSE.

If you can see the water you have gone just a little too far."

I wish Mapquest was kind enough to tell you what to do in the event of hogs.  

A Joke

A mother was sitting on the couch reading a book when one of her children walked up to her and said, "Mummy, why is my name Petal?"

The mother replied, "Because when you were born, a petal fell on your head."

The next baby walked up and asked, "Mummy why is my name Rose?" she replied,

"Because when you were born, a rose fell on your head."

The last baby walked up to her and said, "BLAS CLAFLAS YIFRASSAM TASSM POONNFFFIINRTY."

The mother replied, "Please be quiet, Refrigerator."

Truth or Dare

I just realized that all of my blog posts read like an episode of The Simpsons.  The opening segment never has anything to do with the actual plot of the show, and about 23 minutes into the episode you're like "Wait, what happened when Principal Skinner found out that Bart blew up Springfield Elementary school with the help of the Scottish janitor?"  (See that boys, I like The Simpsons.  I'm a 'guys girl'.  Endeavor to date me.  Kthx bai.) 

I'm also starting to realize (after my brother told me) that this blog reads like a big case of digital diarrhea.  (We'll call it Blogarrhea.  It's the word the New York Times will use in the review.)  I'm not really one for "grammar" or "punctation" or "completed thoughts" or "appropriate use of words".  I can imagine that it's kind of hard to read.  Sorry.  Have  a cocktail.  Should clear up that headache.  I'm not fixing any of it.  

I think what's currently happening in my life is this: the Universe and I are locked in a low-stakes game of "Truth or Dare".  I used to suck at T or D when I was younger.  I'm a total chicken shit and abhor nudity so that basically left me to take care of all of the prank calls.  Which I did with gusto.  

Dear Danielle LaBarre, 

That was me that called your house and told you you should stop taking the steroids because it caused your bacne.  Little did I know I was foreshadowing your career in female body building. Congrats on that.  

Love, 

I.  Peefreely. 

In my adult years I'm a little better at T or D.  Better at D than T.  I still don't know Truth from a hole in the wall, so I'll be taking some dares thanksverymuch.  

Universe:  Truth or Dare?

Me: Dare.

Universe: Ummmm. Okay...Let  me think...shoot.  OH!  Got it!!  I dare you to quit your job without having secured yourself another job and completely change your career path!!!

Me: Done and DONE!

Universe:  Fuck.  That was too easy.  Okay, your turn.

Me: Truth or Dare.

Universe:  Truth.  

Me: UNIVERSSSEEE!!  You're such a goddam PUSSY!  Fine.  Okay, when will my career as a Rhythmic Gymnast really take off?  You're the one that dared me to change jobs.  

Universe:  Um, dude, like, never.  You're way too old and you can't even do a cartwheel.  Plus, that's not how you play.  You're supposed to ask me something about myself.  I'm not a fucking Oracle.  

Me:  WHAT?  WHAT THE FUCK?? Shut up, Universe.  I hate this game.  MY TURN!!  Dare. 

Basically I'm always sitting around waiting for my next Dare from the Universe.  Who's a big pussy and is always making me ask it Truths about itself.  "Is there an Intelligent Creator? Do I have a mortal soul? Is Brad the father of the twins?"etc. LAME.  I think my next Dare might have something to do with my plans for October and beyond.  OOrrr lack thereof as the case may be.  

My job is awesome, but  it's seasonal. I'm officially unemployed as of Oct. 15th.  Which kind of rules.  Once again, I ain't got shit to do, but some weird part of my brain is nagging me to get my shit together and come up with a plan.  (Oh, Hi Society.  It's you.  AGAIN.  Sure, you can come over and hang out but my show is on at 9 so you really have to leave around then. I'm not trying to say you always overstay your welcome, but the thought has crossed my mind.)  

Here's my list of possible options and the Pros and Cons of said options (in no particular order):

1. Seattle - I've kind of always wanted to live there.  Also, I'm currently training for the Seattle Marathon so I feel like I'll be too tired to leave when it's over.  

Pros:  It's a cool city.  I love the Pacific Northwest.  I have a ton of family there.  Gooey Ducks.  The Experience Music Project.  The plans for Whore Island West captained by the Arch Duchess of Whoredom ShaBOMB Galvin. 

Cons:  It's wicked Liberal.  I don't actually know what that means but all the cars have tons of bumper stickers and I think the women wear really comfortable shoes.  (Not you, Shabeezy.  I know your tiny feet hurt all the time because of your dope footwear, except when you get so drunk that a fisherman has to carry you home from the bar.) Weather could potentially be pooey. 

2. Boston - It's Home Base.  I might want to live there for a couple of months to save up some dough and then do something rad in February.  

Pros: Some of the best people I know live in or around Boston.  It's comfortable. I'm pretty sure I have a waitressing job waiting for me there.  

Cons:  Housing is hard to come by.  It's been done.  I've lived there.  I'm kind of looking for something new.  I could very easily settle in and live there forever.  Which isn't really what I'm looking for right now.  

3. Martha's Vineyard - I could get a job here year round.  

Pros:  Free Housing.  

Cons:  Every time I tell someone I'm thinking about maybe staying here year round they pull a face and ask me if I'm single.  When I reply in the affirmative the go "Oooohh, wow.  It's REALLY hard to  be single here in the winter.  REALLY HARD."  Now I didn't really know what that meant until I got Steve my computer guy to elaborate a little.  He said, and I quote "There are bad men here in the winter. Bad men.  Men that come here to escape from the real world.  Don't live here in the winter.  It's a bad idea."  This leads me to imagine a winter filled with sexually deviant male zombies.  (Is this really a Con?)  

4. "Fuck if I Know" Plan - File for unemployment and figure it out from there.

Pros: Everything

Cons: Nothing 

Universe:  Okay, Truth or Dare?

Me:  'Verse.  I fucking TOLD you.  DARE.  

Universe:  You are the BITCHIEST drunk.  Okay, fine.  Close your eyes.  Open up an atlas.  Point to a spot on the page you opened up to.  Move there.  Figure it out. 

Me:  Woah.  'Verse.  Toughie.