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Welcome to my non-blog blog. You won't find CSS feeds or Blogger or trackbacks or any of that stuff here, because I don't want to learn them. This is my simple place to rant and rave, especially about the life of an independent author. |
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Don't let the scary pic of Jeff on the home page fool you; some good writing in here. Warning: liberals and slack-jaws beware! Cindy Lynn Speer serves up a huge helping of writing tips, resources, book reviews, and original writing. Gary Goude: Honest, profane, working class poet. His f****d up life will make you appreciate yours. Jonah Lissner's new site spotlighting the "pulp fiction" genre, including detective and wild fantasy stuff. Random bloggings; a little bit of everything. Brandy's blog about life in Oklahoma. A place with Hot and Cold water towers can't be all bad... Not a blog. A compilation site of all that is suppressed, hidden and secret, from alternative energy to fantastic inventions. A labor of love by a guy who seems to want nothing for his trouble. Well worth a visit. ___________________ _______________ Be sure to go to Blogarama and rate my blog! _______________ Neighborhood theater at its finest.Visit my friends Rick and DeeAnn Blair in Hurst, Texas for an evening of fun. Family-friendly musicals, comedies and dramas run all year in a clean and classy theater-in-the-round. _______________________ Want to advertise on this blog? Cheap rates, minimal exposure, and no respect. What more could you ask for? Email me for details. ___________________ |
September 5, 2007 Git-R-Done Yeah, yeah I know. Haven't posted in awhile. Like a month. Or more. Sorry. I'd say I was busy and all that but you really wouldn't believe it/care/etc. Anywho, just got back from a little jaunt to Missouri to see my mom. Always a nice thing. While I was there, saw and did a few things: I stared into the face of my mortality. Meet Buster:
Buster is my mom's new dog. He wanted to tear my head off. But that's okay; I kinda like him around my mom when I'm not there. He loves his momma. Saw some half-ass Amish people.
Not these in particular; these are some pretty upright and faithful Amish/Mennonites, whatever. I sneaked the picture of them through the windshield; sorry for the bad clarity. Seems they don't like having their photos taken. Some sort of aborigine-type belief, stealing the soul or whatever. Maybe, I don't know. The ones I really wanted a picture of were the girls in their Amish bonnets and long plain dresses, riding their bicycles to their electricity-free house to churn some butter, yacking on their CELL PHONES the whole time. Yes, I speak the truth. I really wanted proof of this, but I was afraid of getting my ass whipped by some Amish farmer boyfriend type who decided to break his own Amish vows by taking ju jitsu lessons. I guess these girls were like some of the Amish men who drive cars, but only if they paint them black first. Like the carriages. Saw some cows.
That's about all I have to say about that. Oh, yeah; these are eatin' cows, not milkin' ones. I think. I learned about the social values and mores of a small, traditional rural community.
Note the name of this fine establishment. As a flea market & sales emporium, it isn't much. But as a statement on the sorry-ass state of corporate America and government ineptitude, it screams at us. You see, this place was a gas station. Last year, the area experienced a horrific ice storm that completely shut off power and road travel. The community came together and took care of each other, sending food and water out to those trapped. Stores without electricity (and cash registers) let the few people who could get out buy supplies on pencil-and-paper credit. The grocery store gave away all its frozen and refrigerated food before it spoiled. Mom and pop stores and volunteers saved the day. Then there was this place. The owner decided to jack up the price of gasoline and other supplies, gouging the locals. After the storm was over, word spread fast of what they had done. A total boycott and picketers followed. The station owner went bankrupt and closed the place, and quietly got the hell out of town. Damn right. If the entire country would get together and do this with the petrochemical industry over their shameless profiteering (during wartime, no less), and held the politicians accountable for not doing a damn thing about it, it would be a great day indeed. Got a boo-boo kissed.
Yeah, I'm 45 years old, but it's never too late to have your mom kiss a boo-boo for you. Thanks, mom! Love you! ***** June 22, 2007 Looking for my Igor. I've often thought, and maybe said, that creating a story, especially the characters in that story, was like having children. I have no children of my own, so I guess that making imaginary ones is as close as I'll get. But it isn't like having real children. It's more like creating people out of nothing. Kind of like this guy:
Writers create these people and sometimes they're monsters and sometimes they're saints. I guess that's half the fun of it; plucking that little piece of one's own soul and using it to grow a new soul. Like a rose. All roses are merely offshoots of other roses; they don't reproduce. All roses are clippings from other roses. They only grow in their own way at the behest of the people who handle them. Characters are like this, too. They're all just offshoots and mutations of the writer's mind. From deep in the Id. I like what Yeats had to say about this:
Sent to walk the earth...I like that. It's the absolute truth. Lawrence Durrell refined this axiom a bit more, and it really fits what I'm doing right now:
The first two are easy. ***** May 19, 2007 One of those people... ...who change lives. I know he changed mine in many ways. His name was Paul Wesson Carlisle. Funny, I didn't know his middle name until I just read his obituary. I remember him as "Mr. Carlisle." That's it; just "Mister." Paul Carlisle was my elementary school principal. He was also my father's closest friend. He died this Saturday after a long illness. I didn't know much about him, really. Just stories my dad told me. He was a kindly soul, a person who could read you like a book, and a person who could ease any pain you may be having. He was a man who cared about kids. He spent a lifetime caring about them. When he said, "This is going to hurt me more than it will you," right before he spanked a kid, he really meant it. I knew he was a World War II veteran. A war hero, actually; two Bronze Stars and other medals from combat in Europe. I remember walking up to him one day and asking him if he had driven a half-track. I don't remember what he said, but I still remember to this day the "I-don't-want-to-talk-about-that-time" look on his face. Didn't understand then, but I do now. That look went away when I asked my follow-up question: "What was it like back then, you know, when everything was in black and white? And when did the world turn into color, anyhow?" I'm sure he called my dad and told him I was watching too many old movies on TV. One of my proudest days was when he came strolling down the hall one day before school. My friend Stuart Richmond and I were loitering about in my third-grade hallway; our parents worked and we got to school early. He asked us if we would be the flag boys for the school. Stuart and I never dreamed of being a flag boy; we had always assumed this was a role given to third-grade boys who had passed some secret test or something, like earning a hundred Boy Scout merit badges. We certainly couldn't be flag boys; we weren't even Boy Scouts. Certainly you can, he told us. Flag boy was an honorable title, one we needed to take seriously. We did; every day we got out of class fifteen minutes early to take down the flags, carefully folding them in proper fashion (we asked a Boy Scout how to do it). And every morning, we got to school a half hour early to raise them. One day, we dipped the American flag on the ground. We took the flag to Mr. Carlisle and announced in a dire and melodramatic way, our sin. We told him we would burn it, as the law decreed, and he could relieve us of duty if he wanted. We hung our heads in shame. Mr. Carlisle, as he probably concealed a smile, told us that we had done our duty, and the law allows for little mistakes like that. There was no need to burn the flag. Now kids burn them for fun. He taught us a lot of things like that. But the irony of it all is that he taught my father the very same things when he was my dad's high school basketball coach. As my dad says, if it wasn't for Mr. Carlisle, there's no telling how he would have turned out. For you see, Mr. Carlisle was an encourager. A mentor. He told you that you could do it, and he had the highest expectations that you would do it, no matter what the odds. Twenty years after he elevated my father, it was his turn to elevated my father's son. He also was the same shining light to my older sister and brother, who attended the same school. I wouldn't be writing this, or writing anything of substance, if it wasn't for this man. He staffed his school with the best of the best teachers and insisted on old-fashioned basics: grammar, writing, spelling, and reading. No one got to slide, no one got a free ride. By the time I left 5th grade, I could write at the level of a senior in high school; I read at the level of a college sophomore. This is no reflection on me; we could all do this - perform beyond our years. Because of him and the teachers and programs he put into place. So on this day when they buried this great man, I wish to thank him again for his life. I am fortunate that I got to thank him before, just a few years ago, for what he did for me and my family, and the countless thousands of lives he touched. ***** March 13, 2007 A senseless massacre. My new neighborhood has a surprising amount of wildlife. Thousands of ducks cross through here at this time of year on their way south. Possums at night and squirrels during the day make the place seem like a campground. But there's one animal here that you didn't see in my old neighborhood. Rabbits. Lacking any natural enemies, they seem to be doing pretty well. However, one came a bit too close la hacienda. It was awful. I took a photo for those who aren't squeamish:
Yeah, don't get in Mr. Boy's way when he's jonesing for chocolate. This guy was actually lucky; his ass tasted like crap so he only got partially eaten. Happy Easter. ***** February 28, 2007 The new digs. Sorry I haven't posted anything in awhile. Just busy. My new house requires me to commute over 70 miles a day, round trip. With good traffic, this eats up about an hour and a half of my day. Instead of getting home in ten minutes, it now takes 50. And that's with normal traffic. Add a wreck and it can easily double. The heaviest traffic is actually heading in the opposite direction from the way I'm driving, or else it would be a three-hour commute at the least. It seems I live in a place where people want to work, and I work in a place where people want to live. Anyway, to make sure I miss the heaviest traffic, I wait to leave town about an hour after I get off work. Better to piddle around someplace than to sit in my car for that hour, burning gas. But, this also decreases my off time after work another hour. So I don't have a lot of time to myself in the evenings before I have to get up at 5 am and make the trek. But I can't (and am not) complain. I got a new house out of this deal, and it's a real humdinger. I took a few pics after finally digging my camera out of a box:
Here's the living room. The house was built in 1981, so it's festooned with classic 80's architecture. I had the hardwood floors put in while the house was empty; the carpet that was there smelled like cat pee. And this is the kitchen:
Someone who lived in the house before me thought he was Bob Vila. His nifty DIY work can be seen in the tile work. The wood on the cabinets is actually solid and real. This is the breakfast nook, and the ceiling of the breakfast nook:
Practitioners of feng shui will notice the ceiling is a paqua: an eight-sided polygonish thing. Very auspicious. Others of you will note the cheap-ass Master lock being used to lift the lamp chain. This was not my work; I suspect Bob Vila again. I guess I'll have to buy a bolt cutter; the buffoon didn't leave the key behind. And this is the dining room:
I deliberately cropped out the ugliest New Orleans whorehouse chandelier I have ever seen. When I scrape up the cash, it's history. And last but not least, the bar. Yes, the place has a wet bar. Very 1980's. Miami Vice.
It even has one of those wine glass holder hangie-downie things. Very cool. So I'll leave you, my legion of fan, to not congratulate me on my good fortune. Instead, thank those people in your life who can make things like this happen for you. Then pass on the good vibes to someone you love. God even sent me a little message, saying he was happy for me:
***** February 6, 2007 Back in the saddle. Finally got moved in. Mostly. I'll post some pics of the new house when I can figure out in which one of the 67 unpacked boxes in my garage contains the thing. Sitting in my living room watching the Military Channel on a TV given to me by my dad after he bought a new plasma job. My old TV was a 90's vintage I found in my previous house when I moved in. My secondary TV has always been the one I got when I graduated from high school in 1980. No kidding. Panasonic, it still works like a champ. It's big drawback is that it has no remote control. In 1980, wireless remotes were considered big technology. Times change. The kid who installed my cable TV took one look at it and scratched his head (through a knit cap with some kind of skateboard logo on it). "Yes," I told him, "it's older than you." He said the cable wouldn't work with it unless I had another box, a special box. Of course, a special box that not only did he not have, but for me to possess would violate the "package" I bought and could not be obtained until AFTER the install. Great. Since I've had to wait a month and make a zillion phone calls just to get the cable installed, I guess I'll be getting my special deluxe box sometime in 2009. Until then, it's DVD's in the bedroom. My new neighborhood is in an area that is a hotspot of night life, with more restaurants and clubs per square mile than any city in Texas, maybe in the country. But the area where I live is secluded somewhat, off the beaten path just a few hundred yards. But even so, the place is as quiet as a tomb. Just a short distance away, thousands of people and cars converge every day and night, but here, the silence is like camping out. Very strange, but a welcome respite from my previous neighborhood, where sirens and gunshots occured all night. It will take a while to get used to the lifestyle around here. But I can count my blessings and my family who got me here in the first place and allowed me to start a new phase of my life. **** December 28, 2006 A few things I haven't done in awhile. Sorry for the lack of bloggery lately. Been in the process of moving and packing and moving and packing. I'm sitting in a field of boxes and mayhem as I type. Thought I'd jump on and give you a quick capsule of a recent family trip to sunny Florida, where I spent Christmas. While there, I did the Christmas and loved ones thing. Also did a few things I haven't done in a long time or have never done at all. Take for example: Got my ass kicked by a five-year-old. He challenged me to a game of this:
As the game's box cover notes, it is designed for "ages 3 to 6." When he challenged me, I took one look and figured I'd whip his arse soundly and completely. After all, I play to win. Certainly my keen and honed intellect would prevail. The game is simple. A set of fifty or so cards are laid face down on the floor. There only two cards of each cartoon character. A player picks one, then another. If they aren't a match, he shows them to the other player then places them back down. The next player picks one, then another and the process is repeated. The object is to REMEMBER where the cards went back. When you pick two matches, you keep those cards. It's a variation, I believe, of an old training technique the CIA uses to train secret agents. He beat me 38 to 12. I think he cheated. Anywho, after I threw the cards all over his room, he challenged me to this:
Those of you who grew up in the 70's will remember this one (the kid loves the classics). Well, to make a long story short, I used my superior knowledge of variations in texture and surface friction to beat him soundly. He threw the game all over the room. Sore loser. I had my brain tested. I haven't had a good brain exam since my parents sent me to a psychologist when I was in high school. So I jumped at the chance to test my intellect on a brain-power-honing program on a new PS2 gameboy type thing. The program is for adults and is purported to exercise one's brain in a scientific and neurologically sound way. But first, one must take a brain aptitude test to get a baseline. I went through the paces with the program and found out: I have the brain power of a 66-year-old. No kidding. Nice. Now I have to buy one of those PS2 gameboy thingies and that program if I want to head off an early bout of Alzheimer's. I ate a dog biscuit. Not on purpose, of course. It wasn't too bad. Kind of like a rather flavorless cookie. In my defense, here is what the dog biscuits looked like:
Note the one with icing, or rather, the one with icing that is missing. The dark spots, I found out later, were bacon bits. I didn't notice this particular taste, but the icing was good. I ate the whole damn thing. I didn't even realize what I had done until I saw someone throwing one to the dog. "Why are you wasting these on the dog?" I inquired. "Because, David, these were a present TO the dog." I brushed my teeth for a long time. The dog gave me the evil eye for the rest of my stay. I read a book. One would think that a writer would read a lot. Not me. The last off-the-rack book of fiction I read was in 1999 on a trip to England. It was James Elroy that time. This time, it was this:
Raymond Chandler's classic 1953 noir mystery The Long Goodbye. The main character of course was his Phillip Marlowe private eye. You should remember him from Robert Mitchum's portrayal in The Big Sleep or Dick Powell in Murder, My Sweet if you're a film noir fan like me. It's Powell's character that I pictured in my mind. This was such a good book that I plan to do a separate blog on it, with excerpts of some of the more choice prose. The great lines come at you like a hophead with a switchblade, or some such metaphor, simile, or whatever. ***** November 24, 2006 A David Kilpatrick of a different stripe. Got an email a couple of days ago from yet another David Kilpatrick. He's David Paul Kilpatrick, and I don't know if he's my cuz or not. He's the guy who owns the davidkilpatrick.net address. I thought about buying up all the davidkilpatricks out there, you know, the .net, .us, .org etc. so no one else could use them. Then I thought that would be kinda rude of me. So I didn't. It's a good thing, too. Other DK's out there deserve their little niche on the web, too. This DK is an artiste, too. A painter. I like his style. Except for the subject matter, his style reminds me of Eric Joyner, one of my all-time favorite artists. I like DPK's web site; very interesting and unique. His journals remind me of the journals of the serial killer guy from the movie Seven, but then again, he is a Kilpatrick so I'll assume he got the he's-a-little-demented gene, too. Well, me and the other DK have gotten together and decided to cross link to each other's sites, so I'll be posting his link on a permanent basis in my left-side column. Best of luck to this wacky artist from Oregon. Be sure and visit him! ***** November 17, 2006 Willie Foshizzle. Hey, it's me. Willie. Came to David's house tonight. He fed me some salmon.
It sure was tasty. I couldn't eat it all, so I left it for the possums. Charity begins at home. David made a big deal out of my new bling. He said I was a two-timer. I can't help it if my new owner put a flea collar on me. She must not know about the stuff you can squirt on my neck that works just as good. Some people don't keep up with technology. David said that I've had another owner for a long time; that's why I don't hang around much or eat very much of his food. Duh; I could've told him that. All he had to do was ask. He said I was Eddie Haskell. I don't know who that is, but he must be a pretty cool cat. Yeah, I got another crib down the street. They're nice humans. They take care of me just fine.
It's good to belong. So David doesn't have to worry about me when he moves; I'll be okay. I'm too damn good lookin' not to be okay, baby. ***** November 2, 2006 The ugly face of racism. Star-crossed lovers…they ran away in the dead of night to be together. Always and forever. Love as deep as the soul. But they had to get away. People couldn’t accept their love. For you see, he is black. She is white. In the south, prejudice still runs deep. They hid away in a secret place, their love fulfilled. They’d hide this way forever if necessary, on the run from those who sought to separate them. It was a wondrous time, but it soon came to an end. The hunters soon found them. Dragging them from their secret hiding place, they showed no mercy. He was sent back to his dark and cold abode, and she to hers. And in the mocking, sniveling way of these toadies, they snapped a photo of them. A trophy of their bigoted crime:
Yep. I've been looking for my black sock for months. Wife's been looking for her white one. In a dark, inaccessible place that is nowhere near any place these socks should have, could have been, I accidentally found them. Now the eternal mystery of missing socks is solved. That one weird missing sock that everyone has... I always thought it ran off to be with one weird missing shoe in the middle of the street, but I was mistaken. The socks actually hook up...maybe in the laundry hamper. I know these two weren't in the washer together; I'm a true blue southern boy who segregates his laundry by color. It had to be when I was folding them on the bed. They paired up, ran to their love shack and commenced to...fornicate. I'll never look at socks the same way again. ***** October 19, 2006 Tell 'em Willie Boy is here. Yeah, it's me again. Willie.
My old lady kicked me out of my new digs, so I'm back at David's again. He still remembers me. He's gotten rid of the horrible dry food he was feeding me. He feeds me chicken in a can. It sure is tasty. David sure is nice. He says I'm a real big boy now. He wants you to see my thick neck, so I posed for him.
I've been in a lot of fights around his house now that I've come back. David says that since I don't have any scratches or stuff, I must be winning most of 'em. Damn straight. That gray tabby is my beeyaaach now. He says the protein in the chicken will make my muscles big so I can defend myself. I don't know what protein is, but it sure is delicious. I show my gratitude by spraying my stinky juice all over David's house. I sure love David. He says I'm a filthy bastard, whatever that is. He sure is nice. I don't hang around long; just long enough for some chicken and a scratchin'. I got things to do.
***** October 14, 2006 A reprint of my annual birthday post:
No particular reason to post this newborn-David pic on my blog. Just ran across it today. I guess it's a tribute to my Mom. Hi, Mom! Poor thang. I weighed one ounce short of 8 pounds, and was only 19 inches long. A turkey. And to top it all off, it was 5am. Insult to injury. No C-section here; the reason I look like I just did a few rounds with Mike Tyson is because I DIDN'T WANT TO COME OUT, DAMN IT! I was kicking and screaming and gouging those $%$!ers who were trying to pull me out - with forceps. Man, I was laying there all fat, dumb and happy, then I get squeezed out into a room blasted with BRIGHT light, people hollering, then some &*%$!& slapped the crap out of me, and another one poured silver nitrate in my eyes, and another stuck my little foot with a needle. Then I got my foot printed with ink like it was ME who had committed some crime. My mug shot here was the final part of the book-in procedure, I guess. It only got worse from there; a few days later some Gestapo doctor came in and whacked off the end of my manhood. Like that's not supposed to hurt. But on the good side, I had a damn fine head of hair, didn't I? Still do. Thanks, Mom! I love you!!!! ***** October 11, 2006 Damn! Has it been this long since I blogged??? I gotta get my arse in gear. Just been a tad busy with a weird and spinning-out-of-control life these days. But I have managed to do one thing constructive, a literary review: This ain’t your little brother’s comic book. The Adventures of Earthgirl and The Atomic Adonis was just published by a pal of mine, one Melody Glass. Now, I’ve known Melody for awhile, and knew her to be an accomplished poet and screenwriter. She’s far more disciplined toward her craft than I am to mine of late. I knew she was into the comics as a fan and well, maybe even a fanatic. I knew she had dreams of producing her own comic one day, but those of us who have considered this know that getting a comic or graphic novel published is a tough nut to crack on many different levels. Levels that I won’t go into here. So suffice it to say that I was pleasantly surprised when I got the news that this little gem made it to print. The title of this piece lays its foundation; don’t look for something dark and morose like Sin City or X-Men. If I could compare it to anything, I’d think of the sci-fi TV series Lexx or Farscape. Campy and funny with a little I-know-she’ll-get-out-of-it-okay drama thrown in to make things interesting. Imagine dropping some acid and Viagra and watching an original Josey and the Pussycats cartoon. The ad copy for the comic was full of adult-material warnings, but in actuality, it was pretty tame. Perhaps the rest of the series will get more graphic, but if you’re looking for cartoon porn, you won’t find it here. With Earthgirl, you’ll get more yuks than boners. This story is a parody, really. A parody of sci-fi, sex and pop culture and our obsessions with them all. Earthgirl is a likeable character; Lara Croft in a ditzy blonde disguise. I haven’t quite figured out Atomic Adonis yet, but this is the first of the series and it’s hard to develop characters much in 22 pages. But Melody pulled it off quite well, kicking off the story with just enough persona and plot to make the reader want to read the next one, and the next one. This is what writing a comic series is all about. Melody’s choice in inker Adam Talley was brilliant; the artwork melded perfectly with the story. After my own experience – and failure – at this critical aspect of producing an illustrated work, I can see now that the choice of illustrator is as important as the story and characters. Graphic works like this are a triad: Story/Characters/Art. A novelist or screenwriter needs only to worry about two of these. Throwing in the art makes for a crazy and hair-pulling soup. I commend Melody and Adam for their collaboration on this project. I don’t want to reveal too much about the story; you need to get one yourself. At $3, the price is definitely right. So congrats to my friend Melody; hope we don’t have to wait too long for next issue. Be sure and check it out at Melody's comic site: http://www.elytracomics.com ! ***** September 2, 2006 Some things are better left to the imagination. I like to think I know women. A little. Well, not much at all but I try at least. The erotic fantasies of women are of course, of interest. Men's erotic fantasies are plastered all over every image-purveying device known to humanity: billboards, bumpers, TV commercials, mud flaps...if it can be painted upon or broadcast in some way, it's probably had a french maid or cheerleader image on it at one time or another. Maybe a hot librarian (my own strange fantasy, but I digress). You could fill the aether with the imagery of men's erotic fantasies. They are no big secret. Women, on the other hand, are far more private and dignified. To be honest, I have absolutely no idea what kind of strange erotic fantasies they may harbor. Sure, there's always the standard fireman motif, or maybe the kid in the backyard mowing the neighbor's lawn; "You look like you could use some lemonade, young man..." But are these really women's fantasies? Or are they just fantasies we men have projected on them? It's something to ponder, for sure. Until a few minutes ago, I was still in total ignorance of the darker yearnings of the better half of our species. Then, as if by a small miracle, a door was opened for me. The doorway to enlightenment. I was surfing the 'net, looking for a belt. Of course, if you've read my Underwear Manifesto, you know I can obsess on such things. I won't go into it here, but I'll just say I clicked on a link I shouldn't have. It looked innocent enough. I won't post it here, because my R-rated hosting company might kick me off for linking to it, so I'll just post the highlights. You see, this site caters to the erotic fantasies of women. Yes, that's right; they sell these fantasies to them. Prepackaged fulfillment. Now I know the truth. The secrets of the ages. Seeing what these products are...reveals the true inner fantasies of all women. So let's take a little tour of some of the finest in female eroticism.
This one is called "The Warrior." It's about 75 bucks, without the sword. I didn't see how much the sword was, but I guess I'd just make my own out of aluminum foil like I did when I was in kindergarden. I can see how the warrior or gladiator motif would appeal to women. What woman could resist the muscular, sun-baked masculinity of this Roman demi-god?
This one wasn't too surprising. Being swept off the yardarm by a swashbuckling hunk of a hunk of a man like this guy must surely cross the reptilian cortex in every woman a few times in her life. I think it's the patch.
This one was a shocker: "The Mailman." Sure, I've heard a lot of jokes about people who don't look like their fathers; "You must be the mailman's kid! Har Har." But I never imagined that lonely housewives were really pining for the guy. Lends a whole 'nother meaning to the term "Going Postal."
Now this one was really weird. It's called of course, "The Priest." I don't know if it comes with a bible or not. This is just too weird to even analyze.
But it's no different than this one, sold by the same company. Men and women do have some things in common, I guess.
I don't know what this one is called. I call it "Scary."
This one is a variant of The Warrior, I guess.
I wonder if it comes with the Cole-Haans or do you have to supply your own?
Yes, I'm serious. They are, too. This is their "Mario" costume. Super Mario the video game character...an erotic fixation. Damn, I don't understand women.
So there you have it. An introduction into the dark, sensual side of the female psyche. You women readers can email me and I'll send you the link so you can dress your feller in one of these hot 'n saucy costumes. Hey, wait a minute. I'm assuming that these costumes are designed for women to exercise a little of their feisty side on a cold, rainy September evening. But you know, these costumes could really be designed to appeal to...oh my God Jesus Lord help me. Logging off now. ***** August 21, 2006 Some assembly required. That's what the blurb in the online catalog said about the nifty behind-the-toilet cabinet thing that we ordered the other day. The box came quickly enough, so seeing as I'm a manly man who can do stuff like putting cabinets together and such, I unpacked the box and took a quick inventory to make sure all the parts were there. Here's Pile One:
Here's Pile Two:
Altogether, there were 27 parts and over 200 fasteners. I guess it would be safe to say this falls under the heading of "some" assembly. The instructions were written on three pages, with a few grainy diagrams. The second profundity I discovered in there was the statement: "May require a phillips screwdriver." Since at least 1/3 of the fasteners are not phillips head, I'd say this was uh...wrong. So I get into the parts to see if they're all there. The fasteners are separated into 15 little red baggies and are numbered well, as is every piece, so I can't complain. But in my inventory, I discover that one part is missing and one part is broken. The instructions have a 1-800 number which I call and they say they'll send me these two parts. So I put my piles to the side and wait a few days. This arrives on my porch:
A box with another entire behind-the-toilet cabinet thingie. I think this is the way things are done now; it's cheaper labor-wise to just mail a new one rather than dig out the extra parts. So, I dig out the two parts I need and commence on my project. Five hours later, this emerges:
Yep, I'm a handy mofo to have around. The next day, this arrives on my front porch:
It's my two missing parts. Now I have a complete behind-the-toilet cabinet thingie and no bathroom to put it in. The company doesn't want any of them back. Since I get charged for putting bulk items in the trash, I can't throw them out, either. None of my friends or family or neighbors (who speak to me) want it. So if any of you want to swing by and pick up this piece of nifty cabinetry, drop me an email. And no, I won't put it together for you. ***** August 8, 2006 Willie update. Yeah, I'm still around. Doin' okay.
David's really nice, but I got things to do. I go around to his house every couple of weeks now, and he gives me some really awful dry food that tastes like crap:
But I eat a little bit of it just so he can feel good about himself. It's the least I can do. I don't need to eat a whole lot, because I found me another crib to crash at. I'd tell you where it is, but... it's classified. The food's pretty good there and I'm growing to be a pretty big feller. Not big enough to whip that demented gray tabby's ass that stalks me all over the place, but I will be soon. And vengeance will be mine, baby. After I eat my kibbles, I go roost on my favorite place:
David's Suburban. He says I look like General Patton storming across the Ardiennes at the helm of his command half-track on his way to battle the Hun at Bastogne. I think David dropped too much acid. But I'll keep coming around as long as he'll let me. Or until the other humans I mooch off of give me the boot. It's a jungle out here. And he says I still have my nuts...
...but I still don't know what those are, so I'll keep coming around 'til he gets rid of them for me. He sure is nice. ***** July 10, 2006 Lessons from our little animal fwends. I don't live in the country. Popular belief is that all Texans live in the sticks, but it simply isn't true. Only half of us live in the sticks. The other half, like me, live in the city. I, in fact, live only two miles from downtown. Big buildings. Night life. Electricity. Indoor plummin'. So there's not much chance in my daily world to commune with nature. Except in my back yard. There, one can find an occasional possum (no "O" needed, thank you), raccoon, roof rat, snake, etc. Testimony to the tenacity of nature, these critters haven't read the codes regulating wild animals within city limits. So, the other night I saw a few varmints out back and took a close look at them. There was something common in what I saw, and it took me awhile to figure it out. So I took my trusty camera and snapped a few pics. Here is what I saw, and here's what my little animal fwends taught me, and can teach you, too, about the life of writing. Or just life, period.
This guy is one of our local lizard/gecko things. Not sure what he is, but he is reptilian. They normally only grow to a couple of inches, but this guy is about six. He perches here nightly underneath a big mercury-vapor floodlight on my garage, unlike his brethren who skulk in the dark on the other side of the garage. Now, I realize this species has a brain the size of a tomato seed and probably doesn't have much reasoning ability, so I doubt he carefully chose this place because of the swarm of bugs that are attracted to the light. Rather, he probably just wandered into this happy hunting ground where his food practically walks into his mouth. Consequently, he hangs there nightly while his girth increases to Godzilla proportions. Nature's Little Lesson: Even your best-laid plans might end in very little return on the amount of effort invested. Chances are, this will be the way things go for us. Sometimes we just wander on the dark side of the garage, not realizing the bounty around the corner. But if we happen to accidentally drop into the middle of a really good thing, don't listen to the minions of mediocrity wandering in the dark: GO WITH IT. Then there's this little lady:
Every night, she drops from the cedar tree and weaves her web between the garbage cans. It's about five feet across. I watched her weaving one night, placing each strand carefully, round and round. Before she finished, this bug flew into the middle; you can see the web is only about half-done. She stopped what she was doing, went over and gave him a bite, wrapped him up, and went on with the web until it was finished. Then she returned to her meal. Nature's Little Lesson: Sometimes you have to delay gratification in order to get the job done. And finally, my kindred spirit:
Meet Mr. Cicada. These are the bugs that make that horrible screeching, siren-like sound during the summers. I'm sure there are varieties of these all over the country, but the ones in the south are particularly loud. They hatch below ground, where their mammas lay the eggs. There they wait for 17 YEARS. That's a long damn time. Then they climb out in pupae form, climb a short distance, metamorphasize into this insect, and fly into the trees. There, they make that awful sound, find a mate, do the big nasty, lay their eggs, and die. It's over in a matter of weeks. So when I saw this directionally-challenged guy trying to climb my garage - toward the light - I figured he would make it to the roof, put on his groove thang, and the cycle of life would go on. But as I watched him, I saw that he could only climb a few feet before he lost his grip on my glossy white paint. He'd hit the ground, roll over, and try all over again. He did this for 24 hours. You can tell by the picture that he's about worn out. I took pity on the little guy, so I picked him up and put him on a tree trunk, where he got a grip and took off into the branches. Why did I do it? I figured anybody who had waited 17 years to get laid deserved a little help. It's a guy thing. But what got my attention was how he screamed when I picked him up. If you think those things are loud a hundred yards away in the trees, think how loud they are about two feet from your face. It was LOUD. He raised this hell until I placed him on the tree trunk. Nature's Little Lesson: No matter how hard and long we try to claw and scratch our way to the top, sooner or later we all need a little help. And those of us who have clawed and scratched our way toward the top the longest are often the ones who protest the loudest when someone tries to help us. But all of our caterwauling doesn't mean we can't use, or won't appreciate in the end, any help given. ***** June 1, 2006 Turning a new phrase.
I was talking on the phone to someone at work the other day. Some woman I didn't know asking me to do something for her. I use a headset thing on my phone so I can do other stuff, especially type on my computer, while yakking. She asked me to do whatever it was, and I processed the request through my brain very quickly. I analyzed it for the following things: 1) Do I need to do this? 2) Will anyone care if I don't do this? 3) Will I get in trouble if I don't do it? 4) Do I know/like/give a damn about this person? 5) If the "yes" responses outnumber the "no" responses, I'll do it. If I decide to do it, I must decide when I need to do it. The next set of questions: 1) Will someone die if I don't do it quickly? 2) Will I die if I don't do it quickly? If the answer is "yes" to either of these, I'll get it done right then. If it is "no" to both, then it gets put in line; onto a long list of rather unimportant items that people want me to do for them. Usually these requests are from people who do very little, if anything, for me. "Okay," I told her as I began typing her information. "I'll get on it ASAP." "Uh, are you typing?" she asked. The insinuation was evident in her voice. I wasn't paying attention to her. I was blowing her off. "Yes, I am," I replied. "Oh," she said. "I'm emailing this to myself." "You're what?" "Emailing it to myself." Her bad vibes sizzled over the phone wires. "Dumbass," they said. "I see..." she said. "To remind myself." I forget many things. It isn't age or IQ; it's the simple reality that I have a lot on my plate. I faced this truth long ago; I do not have a photographic memory. And people shouldn't expect me to. I used to use stickie notes. At any given time, there were a dozen or more stuck all over my desk, monitor, in my pocket, on the door, in my car...you name it. Often these were lost, thrown away by the cleaning crew, etc. When we went high tech at work, I soon learned to use Outlook well enough to send these same notes, as emails, to myself. I use the little red flag thingie to put reminder pop-ups on them after I receive them from myself. Depending on how much of a damn I give about the task, I put a day or week or month or year on the flag, then close it and forget about it. Every day when I log on, I get the daily reminder popups of the little things I have to do. Yesteray, I had 37. I open these and scan through them, seeing if I give even less than the damn I gave about them before, then reset the little red flag date thingie. Of course, I actually do most of them (I do work at my job) and forward the rest to the future. A few rules I have: 1) If one the requestors calls me once to remind me to do their thing for them, they get a week added to the flag. 2) If they continually hump my leg to do this thing, or they express one molecule of "you owe me" in their voice or email reminders, they get the treatment: the big black "X" on the toolbar. "Oh, gee, I'm sorry; I must have accidentally deleted my email reminder." I love the Information Age. Of course, the little hiss you hear when you X someone's email isn't nearly as gratifying as the crunch of the shredder behind my desk while feeding a yellow stickie into it, but it is still satisfying. So to give this satisfying ritual a formal place in our Information Age, I coined the term emailurbation. Use it freely if you wish. Emailurbate to your heart's content. ***** June 25, 2006 Meet Willie.
I'm Willie. The ladies call me "Chili" Willie, but that's a long story. I came around to David's house the other day. He was on his way to work and told me to "beat it" and then "vamonos," just in case I was a hispanic cat...a gato. But I'm not. I'm orange. I'm not quite grown all the way; I think I might be a year old. He looked at me and told me he could see my backbone, I was so skinny. I was skinny because my human mother died awhile ago; they took her away in a big truck with flashing red lights that hurt my eyes. A bunch of men milled around the house awhile, then kicked me out and locked the door. I've been on the streets, so to speak, since. Well, actually, it's more like in the yards. He says he started to feed me because nobody should starve. He's rather gallant, he is. David says I'm a nice cat, and he's been feeding me cat food that comes in little pouches. He cusses a lot when he feeds me because the juice gets on his hands. He says after this box of pouches are gone, I'm getting that "dry crap that comes in a jug with the screw-off top." That doesn't sound near a tasty as the gourmet food I'm getting now, but beggars can't be choosers. I show my gratitude by rubbing on his legs, but he doesn't seem to like that, especially when he's wearing black pants. Or shorts. He hates cat hair. Yeah, he's a real asshole sometimes. But I like to hang out on his car and porch and stuff. I feel safer there because there's a lot of big boy cats around here who like to kick my ass all the time. I'm not too big yet, so I get scared. David runs off the big cats sometimes; it's funny to see him running and hissing like a cat himself as he chases them through the yard. I'd rather hang out inside his house, where it is cool, but he says I can't come in because he's allergic. And they call me a pussy. David says the male cats are after me because I still have my nuts. I don't know what those are, but if I can get rid of them to save me another ass whuppin', I'll do it. He put some stuff on my back that gets rid of fleas. That was real nice of him and I feel better already. Maybe he can put some stuff on my back to get rid of my nuts, too. David says that anyone who lives around here can email him if they're interested in adopting me. He says I'm a nice and affectionate boy who would make a good house kitty for somebody. He says he'll even pay the vet bill for my nut removal and shots. That's pretty darn nice of him, I think. ***** June 23, 2006 Ahhh...so THAT'S what art is. A little tidbit I found on Keelynet.com:
Nothing like the cold analysis of a machine to determine quality. Beauty and art reduced to binary code flashing through RAM. If the record companies can do this, certainly book publishers can, too. The scientists have already figured out how to analyze words to fit them into categories of intellectual ability; if you use Microsoft Word, try out the "word count" feature. It will give you a scale on which your writing is perceived by the reader, shown in grade level. It isn't a big leap from that technology to software that can analyze and predict popularity. And movie producers are probably working on the same type of system. If you've read a popular mainstream book lately, or seen a mainstream movie, you're probably wondering why you wasted the money on it. It was probably just a few elements off from a dozen other movies you've seen already or books you've read already. The phenomenon is called formula. The music industry fell utterly into the grip of formula quite awhile ago; I think you'll all agree that pop music - regardless of the genre - all pretty much sounds alike. It's the formula they're after, not art. If you've ever tried to write a screenplay under the tutelage of someone in the business, you'll find that it has to conform to a fairly rigid formula or it just won't get considered. Hell, if the formula isn't visible in the first 10 pages, it will get thrown in the trash. Literally. People are sheep, after all, and to appeal to most of the herd is better than a small portion of it. Pop art of all types is aimed at the white sheep, not the black ones. I'm sure the book publishers have a formula for novels, too. I just haven't bothered to learn what it is. Maybe I'm just recalcitrant. Maybe I just like having a day job, and doing my art on the side. Maybe. ***** June 13, 2006 A First. Got a paying advertiser for the site. Just a little bit of mula, but it's a start. I won't tell you who it is or where it is, but I wish him the best of luck in routing some business his way. ***** June 4, 2006 Hollywood and other ethereal objects. Talked for a long time last week with one of my people in Hollywood . My main person there. Big developments in a project of mine I'm doing with them. No big sales or such; not that kind of big thing. Just a different fork in the road my literary journey is taking me. Lots of what-ifs and maybes; the usual when dealing with the movie industry. I always feel like the inveterate gambler, throwing the dice once again and hoping for the Big Score. The Big Score that never comes. After many years of this, I find I have a rather "yeah, okay...whatever" attitude about it all, and I'm sure this shines through my negotiations. This is not a good thing; I should be a little more vigilant in protecting myself and my work. But it is really hard to maintain that level of defense for so long... So on my way home from work that day, I saw something that caught my attention, but I really didn't know why. After thinking about it a bit, I now see the connection. Normally, I don't stop and photograph things much, but since I started bringing my camera with me everywhere, I thought I'd stop and take a snap or two. So here it is:
You can't see it well, but it is a full across-the-horizon rainbow. The thing was actually quite brilliant but my camera was unable to capture the colors; another example of technology being unable to seize the ethereal. I don't believe in omens or other such things. We can read whatever we want to into anything we want. But I will take this rainbow as a symbol. A symbol of my quest for recognition and money. Not fame and fortune; just enough of these to write for a living full time. One comes with the other. And like my quest to become a professional writer, the closer I get to it, the quicker it dissolves into the mist. Just like this rainbow. ***** May 20, 2006 Beer, Beef, and Titties. Can I say "titties" on the Internet? They say it on TV now, so I guess I can. Anyway, here's a little bit of local color from my neighborhood:
I drive by this place twice a day, going to and from work. In the evening, there's always a million cars outside. Well, trucks, I should say. Lots of workmen's trucks like the ones you see here, whiskey dents and all. I used to think it was a good place to eat barbeque, or BBQ as it is notated around these parts. Or, it could be the specials they run on cold beer, or as they say around here, coldbeer. Pronounced KOHLbare: "I'm gonna go get me a KOHLbare." So I see this endless parade of blue collar and biker types going in and out of this place. They tell me the lunch crowd is thick with cops and guys from the district attorney's office, but I've never been to the place. When I go out to lunch from work, there's usually at least one woman with us. Maybe all wimmin, heck... But I've never seen a chick go in this place. Thought it was strange. Then I found out the story. You see, this is a little joint where manly men of all stripes can go get the three things they love, all in one place: Beer, Beef, and Titties. Yep, you can have your KOHLbare and your ribs served up by one a these little darlin's:
Or maybe this'n:
Or shoot, if you really want somethin' exotic, this'n here:
These ol' boys had Hooters beat by decades. They learned a long time ago that you can have the greatest food and location in the world, but what brings 'em in by the thousands is Beer, Beef, and Titties:
Even the strip joints and topless clubs have realized this simple fact. They all offer some kind of buffet at lunch and during happy hour. You see, the third leg (no pun intended) needed to complete the pyramid of emotional health of the American Male psyche requires not only the first leg (alcohol) and the second, sex (titties), it also requires protein (beef). Deprive a manly virile man of any of these staples of life and well, doggone it, he may just turn fag on ya. Yep, you heard it here first. Deprive a man of Beer, Beef, and Titties, and you'll have on your hands a limp-wristed, wallpaper-hangin' fruity two-shoes that'll be sittin' around listenin' to Celine Dion records before you know it. That's right. But give him a dose of this...
...and a brisket plate, and he'll be shaving twice a day in no time. So if you ever come down here to visit me, maybe I'll take you to this little hole-in-the-wall for a few KOHLbares, a chopped sammich, and a coupla warm...
Jalapenyers. ***** May 10, 2006 The Redneck Gene or... Why the Hell Am I Doing This? A few weeks ago, I noticed something weird. It came about when I had whacked my thumb on something, so it was sore for awhile. It's funny how the old adage is true; you really notice a sore thumb. You suddenly learn what your thumb is up to. Everything it comes in contact with, and how often. The little guy gets around. So it was then when I noticed I was doing this:
Yep; the ol' thumbs-in-the-belt maneuver. Walking around, standing around...the thumbs just started migrating to my belt. What's up with that? This is a classic cowboy posture. I offer as evidence:
Or like this:
Maybe even this:
I don't know what to make of this. Maybe there's a weird gene hidden deep in my chromosomes. Kind of like sickle cell or Huntington's Disease, some little splice of DNA is amiss, hardwired to manifest itself in my thumbs at age 44. Sure, one can say it's societal; I do live in cowboy country: "Where the West Begins" is my city's motto. Cowpokes are a dime a dozen here. But except for that awful period in the 80's after Urban Cowboy came out, when everyone was doing the country-western thing - in my case, I did it because all the girls were going to the C&W clubs - I never adopted the Cowboy Way. I consider myself anti-cowboy in many ways, leaning more toward the Renaissance Hepcat movement myself, so I can't understand why this is happening to me. Sure, I can take preventive measures, such as sewing razor blades into my belt, but I'd like to address the underlying psychology of it all. If any of you armchair therapists, or hell, even real therapists, have an opinion on the matter, let me know. And don't try to pin it on this:
I didn't even see the movie. ***** Copyright 2006 - All rights reserved. No use of any material on this site without express written consent of David L. Kilpatrick |
