Tag Archives: write

Conspiracy To Chicken-Dog & Other Things

6 Sep

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Conspiracy Theories.

…It’s one of my favorite things.  I thought maybe I’d share a couple with you and then if you agree, we can form a team and do secret Op investigation on it all.  This has nothing to do with what I’m watching on T.V. lately, btw.  All I know is, if I suddenly go missing (or this blog does), and you only faintly think you remember wasting time reading something resembling this entry… you’ll know I was on the right track and they had to silence me.

My theories are in no particular order:

* KFC chicken isn’t really chicken, that’s why they did the whole new marketing name change in the 90’s.  So what animal with tiny bones are we actually eating then?  I have it down to Chihuahuas imported from Mexico.  And the thing is…I totally still eat there sometimes.

* The term we have come to know as “Aliens” is only the evil kind that they keep covering up, so we don’t freak out all the time. The good kind of Aliens have already adapted into our society, so we can’t really tell the difference.  But I can.  Here is a listing that may help you figure out their patterning:

 Good Aliens                                 
– Elvis                                                                                                                    
– Shakespeare                                               
– Helen Mirren                    
– Abraham Lincoln                                      
– Bill Gates                                                      
– Whoever invented coffee                        

Bad Aliens
– Simon Cowell
– Whoever wrote Beowulf
– Ann Coulter
– Rasputin
– Bill Gates
– Politicians in general

* Almost every disease known in the world already has a cure, but the pharmaceutical companies make more money for endless treatments, versus a single dose of “fix it” meds.

* Somewhere, a CIA agent is reading this blog right now, because it just got dinged as “suspicious” due to the tagging contents. They totally agree with at least half of the things on this list, and prob’ly could add to them.

* Reality TV has nothing at all to do with “Entertainment Programming.” It’s only a monster syndicated product placement program. The joke is totally on you for investing in it emotionally. Even a little bit. All they really want is for you to buy their stuff.

* Secret Agents actually break into your laundry room routinely in order to steal your left socks. This is so you will spend all your time wondering on where they disappear to instead of things like “the government” and real conspiracy theories.

* All advertising is actually in a special code that allows people to sell you old or compromised versions of things that didn’t sell the first time, but without getting sued for it. Here are some of the codes I’ve broken so far:

– All New! = (We painted, dyed, or repackaged it.)
– Fat & Sugar Free = (We pumped that shit with toxins to make up for it’s total lack of flavor.)
– Four Out Of Five Specialists Agree! = (One or the other group we asked about this is right, we aren’t sure which one, so we are covering our asses by including them all.)
– Extra Strength = (Trick advertising. Nothing comes “regular strength” anymore, and hasn’t since sometime in the 50’s.)

* Stupid people herd in groups in hopes of lessening their individual weeding out. This is why when you have “one of those days” where it seems like every person you communicate with is a total asshole or idiot: they actually are. Your aren’t imagining it.

* On another planet in another solar system right now, a little kid version of their world-rulers are looking at us through a microscope, being told that what they are seeing has been dead for thousands of years. And we probably are, we just don’t know it yet.

* If statistics can be applied to patterns, and patterns can be applied to coincidence, and coincidence can be justified by choice, and choice can be based on averages and averages go into the making of statistics, then your life span is totally computable, and “fate” is real because whatever choices you make already have a mathematical path of possibility. (I’m just totally making shit up now, but it sounded like a real thing at the moment, didn’t it?)

~D

Fingers, Feet & Fetish

5 Sep

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After a long day back at work, with month-end closings, and Holiday sells analysis and blah-blah-blah-blah…how about we get back to the basics? A few flashes into the rest of m’day, to carry with you:

Long walk looking at posh houses with Ma.  I think they have their lawns cut with hair clippers. They also all have mullioned windows breeding like ancient rabbits. If you wanna make a lot of money, you should move here and take up window washing.  It could be very lucrative. Or maybe I will.  Shut up. I told you nothing. It was my idea the whole time.  I have it in writing, so remember that.

…Eating warm falafel pieces with homemade tomatillo salsa, from The BFF’s oven.  This is my second dinner for the night, so I guess it’s good that I did all that walking before.  Chickpeas are yum, but I like their other name “Garbonzo beans” better.  I think cuz it sounds like Gonzo. Which is both my favorite kind of journalism and Muppet. A coincidence?  I think not.

…On a whim, we suddenly decide on the frozen yogurt bar.

She picks pistachio. (She’s wrong, but I love her anyway.)  I get the vanilla and caramel mix.  With marshmallows.  She saves hers.  I eat mine like it doesn’t matter how much shit I’ve already consumed for the day. 

…We sit at The BFF’s house…me: flipping through a 1930’s intelligence book on fingerprinting as The BFF picks at her feet.  She has monster calluses from Kickboxing.  I have monster interest in old paper and weird research fetishes.

Me: (from behind book.) “Did you know you can’t permanently destroy your fingerprints?  Even with burning and acid?”

The BFF: (frowning at her foot in closeup as she picks.) “Huh.”

Me: (still behind book.) “The ridges just grow back.  Six months later. Here, look…there are totally pictures.”

…I don’t even show her the page.  Why should she get to see all the good stuff just cuz I find it?  Even if it is her book. 

She grabs some scissors.

Me: (looking up at the flash of metal.) “Um, what the hell are you doing?”

The BFF:  “It’s just for the dead stuff.  It’s crazy…feel my calluses.  Feel ’em!  Feel ’em!”

…She waves her Flinstone feet in my face, which I refuse to touch on principle.  They are all gnarly on the bottoms like she has a third career in firewalking.  Which she might.  She does a shit-ton of things on a daily basis, and I can’t possibly be responsible with keeping up on ’em all.

…”I have nothing to blog about tomorrow,” I say, while returning to the book.

“You can always talk about me picking at my feet, while we listen to Tom Waits…”

(P.S. We are listening to Tom Waits. On vinyl.)

…”That’s just stupid,” I say, turning the page.  “Why in the hell would I write about that?”

The BFF shrugs and I start reading about this one guy.  It’s all about fingerprint ageing, following this one dude from twenty, through forty and into eighty.  They all look exactly the same.  “These fingerprints all look exactly the same,” the book says.

…And this gets me to thinking.  Mostly about how to get the skin cells on fingertips to replicate all over the body…cuz then we would never change in appearance or age.  Ever.  I consider making this research my new career for the good of all mankind.  Then I remember my first period Chemistry class in High School, and decide that if it’s up to me, mankind is basically just fucked.

…Unless you guys wanna get in on this. In which case, my fee-cut is a very reasonable 20%.

Me: (putting down the book.) “Doesn’t your Kickboxing class start in like five minutes?”

The BFF: “Twenty.”

…I sigh heavily as I lay there exhausted, from looking at pictures, and curing aging and rich people’s dirty windows.

“I need a nap,” I announce, as I heave myself from the couch.  “Call me later.”

…The BFF answers without looking up, with a sound that I know means, “sure/maybe/whatever,” as I walk out the door.

Once home, I put on “Alias” again. Because I can’t help myself.

Season two.  Near the end.  Don’t spoil it for me or I’ll have to kill you.

…I turn abruptly, and bang my fucking knee on the the same fucking edge of the fucking coffee table that I do every goddamn day.  The bruises have never healed since I first brought the fucker home, six years ago.  In the end, it’ll prob’ly be the thing that cripples me.

…I take it out on a pillow.  He takes it like a man. I plow into the couch, and press “play.”

As the last episode wrap-up begins, I look at my laptop in the corner there, and my brain begins to chant.

My Brain: “what-to-write, what-to-write, what-to-write…?”

I think of a finger, dressed like Sherlock Holmes, who solves crimes primarily via errant prints. Maybe it’s a children’s series.  Or something like Sponge Bob which applies to grown-ups with dependency issues.  This would double my viewership, easily.  Then I think of The BFF picking her feet to Tom Waits poetry.

I take the lesser of two evils and just fucking commit…like a Gonzo journalist should.

…Sometimes, it’s all you have.

…That, and a whole lot of expletives.

~D

Art And Its Wonders

1 Sep

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* A highly informal essay. Just because.

Gram was an art teacher for over twenty five years, and because of this had an entire art room set up in the house that was the wonder of our childhoods. 

…Eventually there would be thirteen grandkids who would pass in and out of it’s doors, gobsmacked with the infinity of possibilities it held.  Every pen, pencil, crayon, marker and craft item in existence, was housed within it’s closets, cabinets and shelves. The gigantic table could sit three butts deep on one side, easily…as we would all lean over our work with tongues poking out the side of our mouths in deep concentration, comparing creations.

It was a breaker of rules, that room.  Just passing it’s threshold, entered you into special “time laws,” that could suck away six or eight hours within the blink of an eye…so consuming and enticing it’s possibilities.  It should be no surprise then, that I would naturally want my own version at home, and after a couple of trial and errors, managed to finally create a serviceable mock-up.

Gutting my tiny bedroom closet…leaving only the naked light bulb on a string, and all my clothes crammed in the far corner…I inserted a mini fold-out table, squished in a kid-sized folding chair, and VOILA! My very own art studio, just like Gram’s.

…Only mine came without windows.

…Sure, I had to crawl in under the table and do a chin-up off the lip at a specific incline, just to ease myself up into the chair. But it had plenty of space for all my art-making stuff…arranged according to size, shape and color. And it had it’s own door that I could hang a sign on, indicating it was a real studio and whom it belonged to.

I spent hours and hours in that “room”…sweating my ass off and nearly passing out from lack of oxygen. Jackson Pollock might have had more manic creation fever than me at that time, but that’s about the only person I can think of. I was totally fanatic about it…even keeping to specific “studio times” where I would lock myself in, staring into the abyss, just waiting for the muse to reach out to me. (This was sometime circa age eight through ten, btw…just in case you were wondering how far back my little anal-retentions actually reach.)

…Every once in a while, Ma would come knock on the door and peek in, just to check on me. The door itself, I kept insisting, had to be kept closed for privacy…”so I could think and things.” Even though I was an only child, with an entire bedroom just on the other side of it, that stood completely empty. Had Ma not done these occasional check-ins (annoyingly always leaving the door cracked open when she left), I prob’ly would have died from asphyxiation.

…Which is prob’ly the only time in all of History that a coroner’s report would have come back, “death by complication of intense coloring.” I could totally have been famous and things. But then, I hear posthumous fame isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I mean, lookit Van Gough, for instance.

Anyway…the point of this story was to ad more evidence to the fact that I am a highly disciplined person. Even when it comes to my creative work. But minus anything having to do with consuming food. I like it: taking stock of my creative self, holding me responsible to perform up to a certain standard, even if it isn’t really convenient, and I am the only person who ever knows about it or sees the results.

And even if that means literally shutting myself up in a closet in order to accomplish it.

It’s because of these kind of things that I think people often confuse “Artists” as freaks, hermits, irresponsible lushes, moody assholes, or just flighty scribes of bitchy wit. Possibly also, because we often “act” like it. But by and large, we are actually quite manic furies of creative energy, that occasionally just need to blow off steam after a long day of focus, concentration, and dedication. And, I think we’ve earned it. Look at the things we create and set free into the world:

Music is the only language without any barrier of class, race, age, political, religious or educational barriers, that has ever been invented…reaching literally every civilization the world has ever known.

Photography can speak in more silent words that haven’t even been invented yet, per square inch, than the whole of the Oxford Dictionary.

The written word has more power to change relationships, beliefs, theories, insights, affections, enticements…fuel anger, honor, regrets…infuse power, introduce change, and keep safe our History than any other artifact that a time capsule can possibly hold.

Performing Arts, are the lessons of our past, the hopes of our futures, the well-earned mini vacation after a long day. They are the window into our own personal souls, and the opportunity to share our cultures and experiences with one another. With heightened emotions, and physical intent, it empathises with our pains and pleasures. With immediacy and technique, it instantly shows all the limitless kinds of life journeys that exist around us and through all of time.

Culinary Arts, are built to experience every human sensory perception we own and explode them with the infinite possibilities of paired perfumes, textures, tastes, crunches, slurps, visual presentations, and new invented delights.

Architecture represents it’s people and time, with date stamps meant to last for the remainder of our existence…and whatever comes after. “We were here!” It will say in stone for thousands of years after we are all gone.

…And the collective of formal Fine Arts, bring us the ability to actually visualize our past, experience collective movements throughout history from the time they were recorded, see the dimple in stone, the stroke marks on canvas from another era made of berry pigment and indigo…burnt wood charcoal scratched on pulp from ancient trees, forming the yellowed paper where Michelangelo’s sketches cavort in various states of dress, work, love and play. And they give us the opportunity to record the “now,” for future generations to refer to.

…So sure, Artists are kinda “different” from the average guy.

We aren’t wired to accept the normal processes and aspirations of society as a main. We keep odd hours, dress different, think different, focus for far too long on minute details while totally ignoring the obvious. And, we can get depressed because, for whatever reason, we can’t re-create what’s in our head.

…Where a “good day” for a millionaire is making two more millions. A good day for an Artist is making a single perfected sentence that rings just right when spoken aloud. Even if it took twelve hours to accomplish it.

…A “normal person,” understands the concepts of corporate ladder climbing and building a decent 401(k). An Artist is an Artist until death…it isn’t a job description we can ever walk out on. It isn’t something you can “graduate” or “retire” from, just stopping one day and moving on with the rest of your life. When we try, it actually tortures us. When we “can’t,” we get drunk, fall into epic depressions, invent quests, become hermits, battle insanity, and in some extremes even kill ourselves.

Because, it is the only life we know.

…It is the greater part of who we are, the people we surround ourselves with, the things we believe in, and the sacrifices we have made for a life that could depress anyone who wasn’t in Holy Orders. It’s the whole reason that things like money and power and (sometimes self-respect) never seem to matter a damn to us.

Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not saying we are all on the same level, together. There are the wealthy of Hollywood, and Award-winners…there are the Intellectuals, and Politicians among our numbers as well. What I’m saying is: an Artist would do it even without the money, power and fame. Most of ’em do.

Here is what I think: An Artist is an idea in human form, birthed for the sheer purpose of inventing relatability, beauty, honesty, horror, hope and communion with one another, as a species. And it all starts with the passion of whatever the hell it is that you know you were put here on this earth to do. Because guess what? Art is everywhere. It’s in a prime number, a theorem, scientific invention, the planting of a garden…the technique of driving a race car, the swing of a golf club…the mixing of a really good Martini.

YOU are an Artist. Even if you don’t know it yet.

…Maybe not in the “conventional” way, (you rebel!) Maybe not with a box of Crayolas or a block of marble…but of something. I promise you. Whatever that “thing” is that makes life’s color seem a bit brighter to you…that is your Art. And you should make time in your life to dedicate to it.

If I learned only one thing so far, it’s this:

Art isn’t an “extravagance” in life. It is a necessity. And it has no “wrong answer,” because it’s expression is a representation from whatever time and circumstance in which it was created.

…From the first cave carvings, to your favorite movie…from architecture in Rome to an Olympian’s performance. From Betsy Ross to whoever sewed the flag that is flying right now on the face of the moon — Art is the only thing that links every human being to every other one…in some way, shape or form.

However you practice it, whatever strange disciplines it requires of you, however “inconvenient” it might sometimes be…make time for it.

Practice your Art.

Hell, practice all fifty of them!

Be brave and explore things.

It is the whole reason we’re even here.

~D

She’s Branding

28 Aug

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I feel like I just bought a cow and poked a searing hot branding iron at her ass.

She Writes A Little, now has it’s own dedicated Email and Facebook page with a line-up of materials coming your way should you choose to partake in them.  Mostly, I haven’t done this yet because I’ve been terrified since the last “outing,” that someone would sniff me out again.  But I think I’ve got the matter handled, secured and ready to launch out into the webosphere.

…The other “hold-back,” was what in the hell I’d do with a dedicated Email and FB page once I got them. 

This is the part where I drop heavy hints to people who might want to hire me to write things.  Don’t feel shy.  You should really give me a buzz and we can talk.  I can write serious, academic, literary, script and research article stuff too, you know.  I’d prove it by showing you my resume, but that would kinda blow my cover a little bit.  So you’ll just have to take my word for it.

…Meanwhile, as I anxiously await the many job opportunities blowing up my email inbox even now, I’d like to shift focus to the FB page a moment, if you will.

I’ve spent hours (2), tonight on my couch, deriving a cunning plan wherein scheduled materials will crop up on it, each and every day. Each day of the week will have a special post all it’s own, having nothing at all to do with the blog…(only sometimes)…and may or may not help me think of further writing ideas to expand upon, so as members you may or may not get a super special insider peek. It will be themed like this:

SWAL’s Facebook Datebook

Mon – Dames We Dig
(Dames we love and why. Inspiration in spades, these chicks got it to spare.)

Tues – Books To Read
(Book list favs from Hollywood, and bios and theatre and history. If I love it, you’ll love it…I mean, my God, we’re practically twins.)

Wed – Mmmmen We Love
(Famous fellas who get it done right, and why. With special emphasis on boys who have voices you could lick like a spoon. )

Thurs – Strange story of the day
(Weird but true news items or personal anecdotes in tiny blips. Like your own little Freak Show ticket, every week.)

Fri – Fetish Feast
(People, theatre, food, film, and lit within the fetish world. I am dedicated to searching it out…no matter what gross pop-ups thusly occur.)

Sat – Sins We Partake
(Bad-for-you or naughty favorite booze, places, delectable dishes, naughty reads, and “didja knows.”)

Sun – Saving Graces
(Quiet retreats, mental clean up, relaxing movies, books, happy place listings of “the greatest hits.”)

…At some point I’m prob’ly gonna need to come up with a better pen name, as well. Because “SWAL” prob’ly won’t sell a whole hell of a lotta books. It sorta sounds like the acronym to a disaster relief fund or hybrid disease or something. Maybe I’ll hold a contest to name me…like MGM did for Joan Crawford. And then I’ll thank the winner personally in my hypothetical book when it’s published. And maybe ship them some of this:
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…Because I’m a hell of a lot nicer than Joan Crawford ever was. All she ever gave out was sex and wire hanger welts.*

~D

* Note to self: Cross reference Crawford under Thursday through Saturday. And maybe Monday. I mean, lets be real.

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