4/26/11

The New American Idol

Here is another of those lovely Snarkipedia videos I'm co-writing. You can tell this one's co-written by Dennis, as it has his perkiness written all over it. I'm not nearly as optimistic that the American Empire is in his final days. Plus, there's Cassandra Bang who makes the imperfections perfect.

4/23/11

Climb up a Tree, Fall Out, Repeat

whoa cheetah,

let's make excuses.  getting 10 months of pictures off my phone today.  that's what I did that made my back stiff and my mind glazed over like a donut melting in your mouth.  

never enough time to clean it, parse it, devour it.
sink in hard.  grind it down to the nub.
set it afire, so we can inhale the fumes
and pretend they fill us up.
that's not really smoke leaking out of the holes where you poked me with your prickles.
it's not.

never enough perfection to last.
get filled up again and again and again and again
and you still have to do it again and again and again.
is that good or bad?
ask the sage writers of words on tea bag paper.
that's a job with pressure, lives in the balance,
perhaps.

where do I put this sublime offering?
I neglectfully held it for this long and forgot the procedure.
step one: breathe.
step two: breathe
step three: breathe harder
step q: let it consume you.
at least, that's what the tea bag says.

this is the part that must surpass all that other previous inadequacy.
it all comes down to this moment.
I must meet it, friendly or no;
it and I must meld and martinize my mind with vulcanic precision.
instant results fizzing up to the brim....
breathe, sink, repeat.  breathe, sink, repeat.
no pressure.

I let the glaze melt in your mouth,
let it all wash away.
my back and this steel blend,
so I am stronger,
even if less concentrated than before,
able to embrace the contradiction
it seems this is so long as I forget the steel is me.

groovy book pic from here.

4/19/11

"Hark," the Harold Angel Sings.

Look, I know I have good taste in the pics I steal, and I'm sorry I've gotten so callous about it.  I have, in the last day, (which is a lie, but only for this sentence's sake): 1) put a post back into draft status because it was generating the majority of my views (yes, the whipped cream pic) and 2) stolen yet another picture from I have no idea where from I don't know what (clearly obscure absurd-- that was the search term) movie.

All that aside....  Oh, hey.  How are you?  I'm feelin' pensive over up in here.  Me-n-my sheep.  I am supposed to finish my dishes and clean out my closet, so I can put my stuff in there for The Future President (Austin Tennis Champ extraordinaire) to have my soon-to-be former dresser. Oh, contain your excitement, will ya?  There's oh so much more I am trying my darnedest to say without going off on something shiny, and yes, I haven't eaten dinner, so I probably should go do that and all the things between here and there that catch my eye.  Baaaaa.

So, when Randal said (you would know where if you were a good reader) ....  Wait, what'd he say? "Oh, I would suggest one of those writerly plot spreadsheet template things, but that's just way too publishing conglomerate orderly for such a artistic spewing." And, that's how he said it, in those tiny letters that require big black glasses this sheep lady should be wearing.  I listened to him, you know, and, well, one thing lead to another, as things on the intertubes are wont to do and we were making out I found a "What type of plot are you developing?" spreadsheet thingy and then bladablah I was referred to this book that you should go peek inside.  NOW!  Seriously.  It was saying everything I was just realizing or just needing to know for this very early early stage of my book that I think is a movie (which sucks in some ways because I know book, not screenplay, but I'm just going to see what it becomes).  Basically, what came to me is a thing that happens to two people and to summarize the peek I took inside the book, my story (which is the gist of what I saw in my dream) is what develops when outside events (plot) happen to the characters (who are slight variations, assumptions, extrapolations, and fictionalizationings of people i know in the meat word) based on who they are.  I found that profound, but I'm pretty sure that online English II course I took a few years ago probably meant to say it, but yea for ears that can hear 'cause they want something.  This helps me to know what is pre-determined (character) and what can be steam of consciously created (plot).  A really rad chick I know decided to buy me that book after I was talking about it, so there will be 1500% more profundity on this blog in weeks to come.  (Than what?  Ask the sheep.)

I know I promised the mockings of how scientists might go about measuring disenchantment, but your patience is part of my own in-depth study on the matter.  In the meantime, you should know that all of this is perfectly synchronous with the fact that I am now a professional writer.  Seriously, but you don't have to watch The Secret to find this out.  You can just watch this video.  (I mean the one that will come at the end of all the words that remain in this post.)

Some of you know Dennis as Davis Fleetwood, The Hermit, a Dennis Kucinich-lovin' son of a gun.  Others of you know him because you stalked him with Lit 101 submissions.  Others of you know him from his blog, which has had several incarnations.  Well, for those of you who don't know of him, you're just in time.  He's doing this really awesome project, Snarkipedia, with Cassandra Meow Bang and it may and/ or may not be true that yours truly helped to write the script for one or more of the entries (one that's out/ more to come).  My favorite part is the part I wrote.  Can you guess which part that is?  Though, where it went after that went above an beyond what I'd envisioned The Donald capable of....  I think Dennis already read the book and, knowing The Donald's character, pontificated where he's going with this whole presidential reality show schtick of his.  Be scarred America, and scared.

 

4/16/11

Where do Tamales Come From, Mommy?

Snaggletooth: "What kind of plant do tamales grow on?"
Freida: "Um, they're made by people, Snaggletooth."
The Genius: "I was wondering the same thing."
Freida: "Yeah, they're prepared and then baked in the corn husks."
The Genius: "I was wondering how the chicken got in there."
Something very poignant should go right here ________________.  Matters of great import only are allowed to follow such reverent matters.  Two paragraphs of complaints have already fluffily disappeared, but since Facebook Scramble won't load up (in either Firefox or IE), you may be in luck yet.

Did I tell you I was going to have dinner with a friend last Saturday?  Oh, I haven't really blogged in weeks, so how could you know?  Smart ass.  Well, I did, and during the discourse of the evening, I mentioned my interest in writing a book, and then she had the balls to ask the $24,000 question, "Do you have an idea?"

"Uh, well, yeah, um, I guess not specifically."  I went on to explain that the narcissistic memoir idea had spun off into about 4 different first 12,000-word variations, which left me wanting to go the fiction route more than ever, but uh, yeah, no.  I didn't have a clue about what I would want to write a book about.  A story, I suppose.

It was depressing, to tell you the truth.  Not the dinner itself, but this aspect of it... in a sense.  Like the fine procrastinator that I am, I thought, "I'll have to sit down and do that sometime."  Ponder ideas, that is.  Good thing for lazy me I work even while I'm sleeping and low and behold Thursday morning I awoke from a dream the last part of which I recognized as a brilliant last scene/ premise for a book/ movie.  Not that it is, but at least I see it as such.  Holy fucking cow.  I've always wanted to be so lucky.  I've always wanted brilliant ideas to come to me while I'm sleeping.  Can't we all, solve all our problems in our sleep?

So, now I have an idea.  It's bare-boned.  Or rather, it's the pelvis and coccyx of an idea that I have.  Fortunately, when I woke up that morning, I recognized it for what it was and wrote the basic gist in Google Docs.  Snaggletooth was there while I wrote it, asking me what I was writing, now able to read for himself.  It's actually rather PG, though I'm sure I will likely trash it up.  Though... it does have a teen novel appeal.  Nah, too boring.  But, it does have a huge potential for romantic tragicomedy, so be sure to kick me if I go there.  (Also, kick me if I support the bake sale at my work a third time today, please, and uggh.)

When Snaggletooth got home from school later that day, he asked me if I had written my book yet.  He's so cute..., but the prospect seems daunting.  Where do I go now?  Outline it, brainstorm it?  Develop characters, plot?  Stream of conscious it?  Holy fuck.  Maybe, I should read what others do.  Maybe, I should let my own (sic) genius be untethered.  Damn, maybe I should recall what others of you have said.  Well, anyhow.  A first millistep has been thought.  Miles to go. 

Yesterday, being Friday, no more school day, Snaggletooth's creative juices were a flowin'.  He helped me make some delicious shish kabobs after I told him I would buy skewers at the grocery store if he would.  Together we made the best freakin' shish kabobs I've ever had.  Pork, four colors of peppers, onions and potatoes with a delish roasted pepper olive oil, millions of tiny diced garlics, salt, paprika, and parsley.  After that, he made me the grooviest earrings ever out of paperclips (not just hooked together, but wired formed).  He then pursued to find two Bud Lite bottle caps around our apartment complex in his endeavor to make something out of them, but fortunately, he tired of jewelry-making before I was forced to wash,  hammer holes into, and wear Bud Lite bottle caps, 'cause you know I would.

After a break, he was raring to go again, asking me, "What's something I'm not very good at, and need to get better at?"  I avoided his loaded question by answering it with a question (in proper teacher form), and drawing is what he resorted to (as usual), but it certainly doesn't fit that description.  He's one of the most amazing artists, even at 8, that I've ever known.  He is certainly a delight.  I already said that, didn't I?  Well, I'm looking forward to summer vacacay when I am with my children so much I tire of them.  Things are pretty good.

I've been a little down these past couple weeks, but I'm pretty sure that's from cutting back on my exercise (not intentionally).  I have only gone to run/ walk once a week for the last three weeks.  I'm wanting to jump back on the wagon there.  I thought I might even start my 10k training thing over again.  I liked it, but I only got to the 10th of 13 weeks, since the 10k happened at that point.  I already feel back to lazy, which reminds me of a blurb I heard on NPR on my way to work one day.

Offhandedly, some person, (scientist, sociologist?) referred to research that had been conducted in which "measuring disenchantment" had occurred.  Having, in recent years, taken Real Analysis more times than I want to admit (all about proving), having been drilled on the importance of taking people to (gentle) task to explain their thinking, having been compelled to emphasize the need for scientific hypotheses to be refutable, measurable, "measuring disenchantment" tickled my fucking fancy!

I have pondered how one might do this, but not yet in writing. Maybe, it should be a post unto itself?

To be continued....

(Ooo , I hate it when people do that!)

4/2/11

Momentum Stopper: Rainbows are Brown

Oh Nutball!  I haven't posted in you know how long and for some reason I'm going to once again make it wrong and then say, "I really should be doing something else besides blogging right now."

There's no winning on this blog, and that's probably for the better anyway, wouldn't you say, Mr. Green Jeans?  Don't get me wrong, brown is my favorite color, yes, but green is my second favorite, followed by blue, then purple, then red, then orange, then yellow.  Clearly it is for yellow I write this.  

Don't worry; this (and by this, I mean the mega-meta-cosmos which surely outlasts this little blip of an existence which we are temporarily experiencing as a sharp jab to the groin) is confusing me, as well.  Are we happy?  Are we sad?  Are we mad?  Are we joined at the hip, the mind, the genitals?  Via an Atari extension cord?  Tell me.

Did I mention my new haircut is meh?

Since we last spoke four score and seven 3.59 hour increments ago, I 1) ran/ walked a 10K with 23,000 other people here in Austin.  Sadly, I am by far not the weirdest amongst the weird, especially on the outside, here in Austin.  In fact, according to the finish line picture show I received from Big Brother in my inbox, after an hour and thirty minutes of running, I just look like I need a new sports bra and to turn my determined frown upside down, though, of course, I would say pshaw at that were I given the opportunity.

Did I mention I felt severely slut shamed this past week by someone I am very close to?  I flippantly might say it would be easier to take if the proverbial high heel fit, but I'm pretty sure since my ideal amount of slutty activity is less than my actual amount of slutty activity, instead I felt enough of a false sense of purity to discern the "alleged" from the "deserved," which, of course, is none, and just feel very upset.  If I could be vaguer about that, you know I would.  Suffice it to say, people need to get over their shit, especially if it's misogynistic, mmmkay.

What else?  What else?  There's stuff the about the parenting.  It's hard work, yo, but ain't they cute?  I just hope my now 18 year-old isn't the one who is the future care-taker of my cell-phone service, otherwise she'll surely be punishing me for peeing in my pants with intermittent service... for my own good.  She got a job though, yo.  Yo, yo.  The Genius was sick this past week, but he's getting so tweeny, it ain't funny and I keep thinking each time he's willing to snuggle might be his last.  Sniffle.  After the 10K, I gave myself permission to be a lazy bum (if you exclude the 14 straight days of working (aside from the day I ran the 10K)) and not run but once this week when Snaggletooth and I tried our now famous me running while he rides his bike.  It was a smashing success!  Also, The Future President now has a letter jacket and new trophy for her amazing tennis exploits, yo.  Things are pretty good.  I feel blessed, if by blessed we mean haggardly tired, like my house is a mess (srsly), broke, and horny as hell, yo.

What else?  What else?  Oh, there is the political.  Yes, I saw how the Onion April Fooled that the Republican Party is endorsing Barack Obama.  I also got the news that this peeping tom is sick of watching people watch tv.  See... politics.  Riveting.

Apparently, I'm free tutoring my co-worker now, who is early!  Here, let Sergio entertain you...