Sometimes there comes a moment in people's lives where they are forced to look destiny in the eye and shout to the heavens, "No further! We draw the line here." I assume this goes double when children are concerned, not that I'd know given how much I've spent on doctor's and lawyers to prove I'm not the baby daddy of any of those kids (you all know who you are).
So when Denise Richards tweets (Twitter? For the love of...) "If you caught 'GMA' today..FYI.. No 'adult film star' will be babysitting our kids!" I'm likely to believe her. I'd hate to be the porn star trying to get between a mother and her child, especially considering what Ms. Richard's character was capable of in Wild Things (no, not the champagne scene... which may be one of the finest in cinematic history).
Standards are not dead, except for those of the people who create a twitter account and say to themselves "I think I want to keep my finger on the pulse of Denise Richards' moment to moment existence." I take that back, I'm sure if I spent 30 seconds on twitter, I could find a former reality TV star whose only current claim to fame would be twitter posts and "I want a baby" headline interviews to US Weekly.
That said, Ms. Richards still looks fantastic, may need to bust out my Wild Things/Starship Troopers Laser Disc twin pack.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
The day my world shattered.
That day is today, and it's because of left-wing media agendas such as this:
When is Beef not Beef?
The American media has always had it in for one of the staples of my diet, Taco Bell, and now they are going after Taco Bell's "beef" tacos. The fact that I now have to put Taco Bell "beef" inside quotes sickens my stomach, but that's the media for you.
Apparently some socialist decided to call Taco Bell's bluff about what they actually put inside their food and found out that the product Taco Bell uses to fill its "beef" taco doesn't meet the federal requirements necessary to call something beef. The USDA requires products called beef to contain 40% actual beef (seems like they are setting the bar a little high just to prevent competition) and Taco Bell's taco filler only gets to the 36% mark. Honestly, what's a measly 4% among friends? Just think how many American successes occurred throughout history because we weren't a bunch of clenched-ass hall monitors quibbling over 4%.
Sure, the labels used on Taco Bell's internal packaging meet the guidelines -
- but if I wanted to know exactly what I was eating, I wouldn't be standing in a Taco Bell Drive-Thru at 3am because that's the only part of the store open when I'm batshit hallucinating and need a snack. In fact, just to show my support, I'm going to mix the most there-is-no-God hallucinogenic cocktail I can muster and hit up a Bell right now.
Screw all of you muckrakers and go back to 1985's Mother Russia. As a side benefit, this will also get me out of having to fill in the gap in Chapter 1 that I left in my last blog post. Writer's block came on hard and fast.
When is Beef not Beef?
The American media has always had it in for one of the staples of my diet, Taco Bell, and now they are going after Taco Bell's "beef" tacos. The fact that I now have to put Taco Bell "beef" inside quotes sickens my stomach, but that's the media for you.
Apparently some socialist decided to call Taco Bell's bluff about what they actually put inside their food and found out that the product Taco Bell uses to fill its "beef" taco doesn't meet the federal requirements necessary to call something beef. The USDA requires products called beef to contain 40% actual beef (seems like they are setting the bar a little high just to prevent competition) and Taco Bell's taco filler only gets to the 36% mark. Honestly, what's a measly 4% among friends? Just think how many American successes occurred throughout history because we weren't a bunch of clenched-ass hall monitors quibbling over 4%.
Sure, the labels used on Taco Bell's internal packaging meet the guidelines -
- but if I wanted to know exactly what I was eating, I wouldn't be standing in a Taco Bell Drive-Thru at 3am because that's the only part of the store open when I'm batshit hallucinating and need a snack. In fact, just to show my support, I'm going to mix the most there-is-no-God hallucinogenic cocktail I can muster and hit up a Bell right now.
Screw all of you muckrakers and go back to 1985's Mother Russia. As a side benefit, this will also get me out of having to fill in the gap in Chapter 1 that I left in my last blog post. Writer's block came on hard and fast.
Monday, January 17, 2011
So it begins...
With scotch in hand, I bantered back and forth yesterday with my writing partner. I wasn't sure how adding an extra person to the mix would play out, but that tactic has always proven effective in the bedroom so it seemed like a safe bet. The process, heated. The results speak for themselves as I will show you in a minute.
But what about the process of letting someone into that protected space that is your creativity? At first, I approached it like I assume a marriage would be based on the razor sharp situational comedies of CBS. That worked well for a while, but creativity - at least my creativity - comes from inner storms and unrest. Before long, shouts, tears, foxhole embraces through an unceasing horror and promises that we would make it through to the other side. When those clouds broke and I saw what I had written before me, I knew every step of the journey had been worth it
That is, of course, until my driver, The Register, found me doubled over the toilet inducing myself to vomit while a voice from Poison Control could be heard shouting through my cell "stay with me, dammit, don't close your eyes!" Turns out in my bleary-eyed state, I accidentally poured myself a full three fingers of some cleaner from under my sink and in the ensuing hallucinations, embraced a somewhat tacky lamp as my writing partner.
Regardless, let me debut the embers from which my conflagration that is my novel will emerge, like a Phoenix rising from an Arizona...
So there you have it. I figure I just need to fill in that little gap there and I've got the first chapter of my opus in the bag. Many thanks to The Register for knowing CPR, Mandy from Poison Control, and the lamp in my upstairs bathroom shaped like a bottle of Tabasco sauce. I couldn't have gotten this far without all of you. A heart-felt thank you.
But what about the process of letting someone into that protected space that is your creativity? At first, I approached it like I assume a marriage would be based on the razor sharp situational comedies of CBS. That worked well for a while, but creativity - at least my creativity - comes from inner storms and unrest. Before long, shouts, tears, foxhole embraces through an unceasing horror and promises that we would make it through to the other side. When those clouds broke and I saw what I had written before me, I knew every step of the journey had been worth it
That is, of course, until my driver, The Register, found me doubled over the toilet inducing myself to vomit while a voice from Poison Control could be heard shouting through my cell "stay with me, dammit, don't close your eyes!" Turns out in my bleary-eyed state, I accidentally poured myself a full three fingers of some cleaner from under my sink and in the ensuing hallucinations, embraced a somewhat tacky lamp as my writing partner.
Regardless, let me debut the embers from which my conflagration that is my novel will emerge, like a Phoenix rising from an Arizona...
King Rex toiled sweatily in the dank asteroid corridors of PC-1208, the dankest hardcore penal colony this side of heaven. King Rex used to be a king, and now look at him, kingly was the last word I would use to describe him. Every muscle tightened and throbbed as he worked the electro-pick-axe against the tunnel wall, and she noticed. A piece of mineral rocket fuel fell. King Rex grunted and sweated as he lifted the fallen rock into a nearby mining gravity cart. She noticed the horse noises King Rex made as he did this as well.
(To be filled in later)
King Rex and Hotina Fox tore at each other passionately. To say they made love would be an insult to all those middle-aged suburbanites that have their boring sex. No, King Rex and Hotina Fox made beast, and after a few days of healing, they would have the scars to prove it. Their beast-making was the best in the history of recorded time, Hotina loved that she made this man make the same horse noises as lifting a heavy rock.
"Hi, my name is Hotina Fox."
"And mine is King Rex, should we save the galaxy?"
So there you have it. I figure I just need to fill in that little gap there and I've got the first chapter of my opus in the bag. Many thanks to The Register for knowing CPR, Mandy from Poison Control, and the lamp in my upstairs bathroom shaped like a bottle of Tabasco sauce. I couldn't have gotten this far without all of you. A heart-felt thank you.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Irony
Another three-alarm hangover, so just a quick checking in.
I thought that maybe I was jumping into this writing thing a little too en fuego, so I decided to back up and start a little closer to the beginning. I can read and write at a fourth grade level, so that already gives me a leg up on some newspapers and internet news sites, but I soon came across something that has been the bane of many writers.
Irony.
And let me tell you, the one person I definitely would not want to explain irony to me is Saint Peter, as he will unfortunately have to do for these poor people:
Westboro Baptist Church Agrees Not To Protest Arizona Shooting Funeral
Alright, back to a steady regiment of Advil, bloody Mary's, and Domino Pizza side dishes.
I thought that maybe I was jumping into this writing thing a little too en fuego, so I decided to back up and start a little closer to the beginning. I can read and write at a fourth grade level, so that already gives me a leg up on some newspapers and internet news sites, but I soon came across something that has been the bane of many writers.
Irony.
And let me tell you, the one person I definitely would not want to explain irony to me is Saint Peter, as he will unfortunately have to do for these poor people:
Westboro Baptist Church Agrees Not To Protest Arizona Shooting Funeral
Alright, back to a steady regiment of Advil, bloody Mary's, and Domino Pizza side dishes.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Damn you, Interwebs
As you can guess from my early entries on this blog, I'm a bit of an internet neophyte, and I'm constantly amazed that I can instantly stream some really tasteless, hardcore stuff with a picture quality that puts my vast, but aged, VHS collection to shame.
What I find difficult about internet video is how frequently a clip ends just as it gets to something interesting. With the aforementioned streams, I can usually sate my curiosity by entering my credit card number, but I'm at a loss when I run into a situation like this:
Obviously I have an interest in writing, which implies an interest in a narrative as a general concept. Here we have a situation established... family at the door eavesdropping. A mailman arrives to allow a character the chance to verbally explain the entire set up which otherwise makes no sense and strains all logical credibility. As a fan of allowing characters the chance to have to explain everything going on to salvage any sense, I applaud this ad's efforts.
Then my nightmare begins. The video feed cuts off, no one asks for my credit card number, and now I'll never know how this well-meaning family resolved their nonsensical dilemma arbitrarily created to shill products that I could very well want to defecate money away on. I have a lot of money, I like to defecate it away whenever I can, and nothing has proven more valuable to that pursuit than TV advertising.
So I say to the interwebs, please... if you start to show something, have the stones to see it to the end. At the very least, let me pay you to have the stones to see it to the end.
The clip also had a brief mention of my nemesis, Sarah Palin, before that charming family vignette began. Before I started this blog, I never expected to side against her, but she's embraced two things I've talked about here before, fat chicks and Facebook. I'm not sure what she had to do with the unspeakable tragedy the gentleman in the video was addressing, but since Sarah Palin often has nothing to do with anything that she shoves her uninformed, social-media fueled thoughts on, I thought a little unfair tit for tat was in order.
You want to use Facebook (seriously... what self-respecting politician - eh forget it) to make hay out of fiction like Death Panels? How about we use Facebook to make a little logically unfounded hay for you?
As a champion defender against the dangers of strawmen, I'm sure you'll appreciate a little taste of strawman vengeance.
What I find difficult about internet video is how frequently a clip ends just as it gets to something interesting. With the aforementioned streams, I can usually sate my curiosity by entering my credit card number, but I'm at a loss when I run into a situation like this:
Obviously I have an interest in writing, which implies an interest in a narrative as a general concept. Here we have a situation established... family at the door eavesdropping. A mailman arrives to allow a character the chance to verbally explain the entire set up which otherwise makes no sense and strains all logical credibility. As a fan of allowing characters the chance to have to explain everything going on to salvage any sense, I applaud this ad's efforts.
Then my nightmare begins. The video feed cuts off, no one asks for my credit card number, and now I'll never know how this well-meaning family resolved their nonsensical dilemma arbitrarily created to shill products that I could very well want to defecate money away on. I have a lot of money, I like to defecate it away whenever I can, and nothing has proven more valuable to that pursuit than TV advertising.
So I say to the interwebs, please... if you start to show something, have the stones to see it to the end. At the very least, let me pay you to have the stones to see it to the end.
The clip also had a brief mention of my nemesis, Sarah Palin, before that charming family vignette began. Before I started this blog, I never expected to side against her, but she's embraced two things I've talked about here before, fat chicks and Facebook. I'm not sure what she had to do with the unspeakable tragedy the gentleman in the video was addressing, but since Sarah Palin often has nothing to do with anything that she shoves her uninformed, social-media fueled thoughts on, I thought a little unfair tit for tat was in order.
You want to use Facebook (seriously... what self-respecting politician - eh forget it) to make hay out of fiction like Death Panels? How about we use Facebook to make a little logically unfounded hay for you?
As a champion defender against the dangers of strawmen, I'm sure you'll appreciate a little taste of strawman vengeance.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
On The Eve of... The Eve of 2011
So how has my holiday been so far? Let me put it this way, I just woke up and noticed it snowed a little bit here in New York City. Last thing I remember was shouting "who are you to judge body types, Santa, you thyroid-forsaken, godless, Mason!" and then falling face-first into the glass door leading to my rooftop view. As my crushed left cheek squeegeed down the glass, I gave into sleep. A phone call from my Amex Obsidian rep woke me up to ask if I had tried to order any endangered species over the phone. Seems like that fell within the realm of holiday possibility, so I told her everything was fine.
That's when I realized the bright whiteness filling my vision wasn't the interrogation lamp of a rendition hideout, but snow. Finally gathered my wits enough to look out across the city and take in the snowfall that had covered the city like a down comforter. I'm sure something similar happens in other cities, but I'm still always shocked by how quiet and still New York becomes after a snowfall, as peaceful as standing in a tranquil wood. And for just those few days, every ding and dent in the city's topography gets covered with beauty.
I'm not sure why this always stuck with me, but one of my first memories as a kid involves a snowstorm here in the city. I'm with my father, brother, and sister sitting in a small restaurant or cafe in the West Village. It's dark outside and the snowfall has just begun. We brush what little stuck to our coats off as we sit. Being the youngest, I whine, insisting on the window seat and everyone capitulates just to quiet me down. My seat almost presses against the wall, and to my left is a bay window with a forced hot water radiator under it. On the window's sill sleeps the most contented cat I've ever seen, oblivious to the restaurant's bustle around it. As I contemplate petting the cat, I take a moment to look out the window and notice the evenly spaced cones of orange light pouring out from the sodium vapor street lamps. In those cones, I see large snow flakes falling at an alarming rate, but once I get to the hard edge of light, darkness like any other night. It's as if not even weather dare exist outside the scope of a New York street post.
Of course my Mother wasn't there. She called anyone who lived south of Central Park "them" or "they" like she was talking about how she wouldn't clean up the mess of a dog belonging to someone else. The only good people south of the park were those who actually lived uptown but had to travel to the financial district as an "occupational hazard." She would often make vague comparisons to Beirut. In fact, the whole reason I picked Soho was a cheap passive-aggressive shot at my mother. I figured she couldn't resist visiting her youngest offspring indefinitely, but we're still waiting to see who wins that game of chicken.
I think back to that little boy, contentedly watching that contented cat. Then I think about the man he became, blacking out face-first against a sliding glass door that luckily didn't break, sparing me from dying of exposure. Drunk-dialing Nigerian black marketers hoping to score some crazy endangered pet and probably shouting my credit card number at them... I don't think that's who that little boy in the West Village alcove would choose to be.
You know, I didn't expect to end up here when I poured my medicinal good-morning scotch and sat down to recount my holiday glory. I didn't expect to question myself the way I now am, and maybe that's the first real lesson I've learned about writing since I started this process. Maybe I should go all the way back and question the motivation for this entire journey. I started by saying I wanted to write in order to meet scores of women, but maybe the truth is I wanted to write in order to meet just that one.
A safe and happy 2011 to all.
That's when I realized the bright whiteness filling my vision wasn't the interrogation lamp of a rendition hideout, but snow. Finally gathered my wits enough to look out across the city and take in the snowfall that had covered the city like a down comforter. I'm sure something similar happens in other cities, but I'm still always shocked by how quiet and still New York becomes after a snowfall, as peaceful as standing in a tranquil wood. And for just those few days, every ding and dent in the city's topography gets covered with beauty.
I'm not sure why this always stuck with me, but one of my first memories as a kid involves a snowstorm here in the city. I'm with my father, brother, and sister sitting in a small restaurant or cafe in the West Village. It's dark outside and the snowfall has just begun. We brush what little stuck to our coats off as we sit. Being the youngest, I whine, insisting on the window seat and everyone capitulates just to quiet me down. My seat almost presses against the wall, and to my left is a bay window with a forced hot water radiator under it. On the window's sill sleeps the most contented cat I've ever seen, oblivious to the restaurant's bustle around it. As I contemplate petting the cat, I take a moment to look out the window and notice the evenly spaced cones of orange light pouring out from the sodium vapor street lamps. In those cones, I see large snow flakes falling at an alarming rate, but once I get to the hard edge of light, darkness like any other night. It's as if not even weather dare exist outside the scope of a New York street post.
Of course my Mother wasn't there. She called anyone who lived south of Central Park "them" or "they" like she was talking about how she wouldn't clean up the mess of a dog belonging to someone else. The only good people south of the park were those who actually lived uptown but had to travel to the financial district as an "occupational hazard." She would often make vague comparisons to Beirut. In fact, the whole reason I picked Soho was a cheap passive-aggressive shot at my mother. I figured she couldn't resist visiting her youngest offspring indefinitely, but we're still waiting to see who wins that game of chicken.
I think back to that little boy, contentedly watching that contented cat. Then I think about the man he became, blacking out face-first against a sliding glass door that luckily didn't break, sparing me from dying of exposure. Drunk-dialing Nigerian black marketers hoping to score some crazy endangered pet and probably shouting my credit card number at them... I don't think that's who that little boy in the West Village alcove would choose to be.
You know, I didn't expect to end up here when I poured my medicinal good-morning scotch and sat down to recount my holiday glory. I didn't expect to question myself the way I now am, and maybe that's the first real lesson I've learned about writing since I started this process. Maybe I should go all the way back and question the motivation for this entire journey. I started by saying I wanted to write in order to meet scores of women, but maybe the truth is I wanted to write in order to meet just that one.
A safe and happy 2011 to all.
Friday, December 24, 2010
A Holiday Thought...
Please pardon the typos, Ive had a couple seven drinks of my family's traditional holiday egg nog recipe. It goess something like this:
A good four fingers of scotch
Thats it.
Anything els goes in that glass and youre an animal. A splash of water "to activate the taste?" Why not just teabag the 25 year single malt, same thing.
But moving on...
As I sit here on the eve of the day a bunch of toga Roman dudes decided to celebrate Jesus' birth 1700 years ago, I can't help but wonder about what humanity has done in those 1700 years. That Roman empire that picked late December because it matched up nicely to sun worshipers and other pagan traditions fell, other empires took its place. They fell. The dark ages, Irish monk transcriptions saving ancient history, the plague, the Renaissance, stuff in China I assume, the Industrial Revolution, American independence and the start of American Exceptionalism that still totally exists so screw the haters, world wars, space, and now the internet. A marvel so wondrous that I can use it to both window shop escorts and watch NORAD track Santa.
Which leads me to this evening's thought. If NORAD's watching Santa... who's watching the Russians? Just try and have "and to all a good night" with that on your mind.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to try not to pass out so I can stand in front of my windows naked when the internet says Santa is over my apartment.
A good four fingers of scotch
Thats it.
Anything els goes in that glass and youre an animal. A splash of water "to activate the taste?" Why not just teabag the 25 year single malt, same thing.
But moving on...
As I sit here on the eve of the day a bunch of toga Roman dudes decided to celebrate Jesus' birth 1700 years ago, I can't help but wonder about what humanity has done in those 1700 years. That Roman empire that picked late December because it matched up nicely to sun worshipers and other pagan traditions fell, other empires took its place. They fell. The dark ages, Irish monk transcriptions saving ancient history, the plague, the Renaissance, stuff in China I assume, the Industrial Revolution, American independence and the start of American Exceptionalism that still totally exists so screw the haters, world wars, space, and now the internet. A marvel so wondrous that I can use it to both window shop escorts and watch NORAD track Santa.
Which leads me to this evening's thought. If NORAD's watching Santa... who's watching the Russians? Just try and have "and to all a good night" with that on your mind.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to try not to pass out so I can stand in front of my windows naked when the internet says Santa is over my apartment.
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