by mg at 11:08 PM on April 25, 2006
If you've been wondering where I've been the past month or so (hell, the past year), I have great news to share.
I started this site almost six years ago, long before it got fashionable to have a blog, so as you might have guessed I've always had some aspirations to be a writer. I've thought of myself as a writer, but something has always come up to stop me.
For the past six years, this site has even stopped me from writing, as weird as that may sound. I mean, why write the Great American novel when you can write some pithy fake news articles on a website that five people read?
As I'm getting older though, its really nagging that I haven't done much with my life (you know, besides having children - something really good). So, over the past half year or so I've really focused myself and gotten rid of distractions and excuses and just wrote. All that work to stop myself from doing other work has really paid off because I actually finished a script I've been thinking about for more than a decade.
And, not only did I write a script, but it's been optioned!
I can't talk too much about it yet, like studio, director, or star, but I can say it's a sequel (yeah, I know, but this was a movie that really deserved a sequel). I'll fill you all in on things as I learn more, and maybe I'll blog the whole experience, but if not look for "batteries still not included" in summer 2008!
I have writer's block. And some dog inside my computer keeps going woof and then these pop-up things come in droves. I think it's called the Blackberry Virus. My son caused this problem but he can't (woof) fix it. So I can't shoulder (woof) the posting load here. Here's (woof) my challenge to you: Are (woof) you a writer here? Post something, anything, right now. Are you not a writer? Then post your post by adding a long comment to this one. C'mon everybody! Take one for the team.
1984, Brave New World and I, Robot all rolled into one, fully realized. Pogroms. Ethnic cleansing. Mass graves. Drive-by shootings. Age-old vendettas. Vigilante justice. Stoning. Fisting. Hate crimes. Date rape. Torture. Carjacking. Fatalism. Hot teachers defiling boys. The unspeakably offhand depravity of rich-playboy-turned-pious-bore Osama bin Laden and his sidekick Doc Zawahiri. Torrid Plus Sizes. Pre-teen blowjob artists. Anal virgins. A president who claims to be misunderestimated. Human trafficking. Data mining. Terrorists at every turn. Recreational genocide. Snipers picking off citizens at random. Hip-hop. Castration videos. Restless Legs Syndrome. Naked human pyramids. Anthrax. Rampaging pit bulls. Dick Chaney, armed and dangerous. Happy Slapping (smacking a random person around while transmitting cell phone images.) Ornamental lap dogs. The Emiril (throwing a handful of semen into someone’s face while yelling, “Bam!”) The annual Running of the Gays. Bumfights. Much-ballyhooed drugs and their revolting side-effects. This hubbub. That hullabaloo. Voodoo. Snuff films. Mexican America. American Iraq. Identity theft. Human cloning. Heroin chic. Forlorn Ted Williams hanging from a meat look. Enemy combatants thrown down a legal black hole. Predator drones. Rude Hellfire missiles slamming into living rooms. Roadside bombs. Road Rage. The Houston 500. Plague. Pestilence. Bird Flu Pandemic. SARS. HIV. HADD. HDTV. ACLU. O.J. on the loose. Online auto-fellatio clubs. Muslims and Christians at each other’s throats. Ancient Buddhist shrines no more. Taliban no more. Taliban back. Secret gulags. Heads a-rolling on the net. Al-Jazeera. All stark facts of “life” here in this 21st and final century AD---perhaps the direst point in all of human history. This is evolution? With this litany of social ills it seems more like we’re rats trapped on a sinking ship---or D-list celebs trapped in an endless episode of The Surreal Life. I’m reminded of that old Deanna Carter song For This I Shaved my Legs?. And one can’t help but ask: whatever became of all that heady hope and promise in the air on 12/31/00?
When I met my wife I knew instantly she was the one for me. Problem was, she didn't seem too interested in me. At the time she was raising two young daughters in a tiny house. She'd taken a roommate to share expenses.
I figured the best thing would be to try and impress her with my wealth, or at least the wealth of my family and friends. Unless you're trying to hook up with a golddigger like Anna Nicole Smith this isn't such a great idea.
I made a point of bringing her to my parents' country home, with its acres of immaculate lawns, 26 rooms and Olympic-sized swimming pool. She didn't seem so terribly impressed.
Along about that time my boyhood pal Whore Hey was to marry Cum Meal, from the New York Meals. Both of them came from families with money and he had earned quite a bit for himself through the import/export business he had going with some Columbian friends of his. I had a decent job and rented rooms in another of my parents' houses so I had very little in the way of expenses. I also did some odd jobs for Whore Hey, which paid very well. For a 20-something slacker I was doing alright, thank you very much.
I invited her to the wedding, which was lavish to say the least. Dom Perignon was served at every table. Mimes pranced about. A string quartet played. Waiters sashayed by with trays of such Greek treats as stuffed olives and some kind of sausage thing wrapped in grape leaves. A full multi-course dinner was served with aplomb, culminating in surf n turf with filet mignon and lobster or shrimp. Dessert was a delectable cheesecake.
Not that anyone else ate any of it. For most of the guests and Whore Hey and Cum Meal were openly using copious quantities of pure cocaine, carelessly snorting it off their fists and spilling half of it. His parents were, shall we say, less than amused. I showed her his money-counting contraption. Again, less than impressed.
She'd come from what I'll call quiet money. Her parents were pretty well-off, but never deigned to talk about it. In fact, it's kind of considered gauche among her family to even discuss funds or possessions let alone flaunt them. So nouveau riche, don't you know.
What, you thought this was leading somewhere?
Years later, when Whore Hey got sent to prison, she said she knew it was just a matter of time. He was too obvious. He talked too much. And damned if she wasn't right. Turns out that her original boyfriend in New York came from a family that---wink, wink--- ran a drycleaning empire. Mobbed up to the max. Omerta.
And that's what's wrong with today's mobsters. They don't understand the Sicilian code of silence.
But I'd be more interested in hearing from our female readers, assuming we have any left. What ridiculous ploys have guys tried to get in your pants?