Saturday, January 30, 2010
Specifically, Los Angeles.
I'll miss Montreal and everyone here, of course, but more time I spend here, the more I'm convinced that I'll never do much of anything here. And quite frankly, I am far too young to be having existential moments about the rest of my life. Seriously, at this age I'm supposed to be drinking too much, and eating junk food and not worrying about my future (or lack thereof) in my current environment.
Anyway, I might need a little help here: If anyone knows anything about all the hoops I have to jump through in order to properly immigrate, or they have tips on moving from the north-east to the south-west, or if they know anything about Los Angeles I should know about, or if you'd be willing to help me apartment search or even put me up until I have one, that would be great. Sooooooo...Help me please!
Thursday, January 28, 2010
There's a saying in my family that goes "Never let the truth get in the way of a good story," and if anything, this might be the best way to encapsulate Carrie Fisher's autobiography, Wishful Drinking. It may seem paradoxical to wish that someone would stretch the truth in their own life story, but, well, it's a little more complicated than that.
You might recognize Carrie Fisher as Princess Leia from Star Wars, her stand up shows, or (If you happen to have a fetish for hairbuns and golden bikinis) your masturbatory fantasies. Admit it: If you grew up in the 70's, you totally fingerblasted yourself to Leia.
Anyway, in Wishful Drinking, Fisher delves into her past, retelling stories about gay men dying in her bed, Hollywood inbreeding, growing up on Broadway, becoming a Pez dispenser, marrying/divorcing Paul Simon, bipolarity and electroconvulsive therapy, getting an intervention from Cary Grant and, of course, Star Wars (and to a certain extent, why you cannot wear a bra in space, lest you be strangled by your undergarments.)
Now, it's not that any of these stories are boring, or that she's not a good writer (the fact that her book, Postcards From The Edge, was adapted into an Academy Award winning movie has proven this,) it's just that she doesn't really add much else to the story. It's a delicious dish without the spice; Perfectly good, but there's no added zest to it, nothing that really separates or distinguishes it from the others. I enjoyed it, yes, but I enjoy a lot of things; What makes it so special? Length is a bit of an issue to. There's nothing wrong with a quick read, but the short length of the book doesn't really give Fisher much time to establish much of a unique voice to her work.
Think of it this way: If you're going to spend a day at the beach and you need something to read and finish by the time you head home? You can't go wrong with some Carrie Fisher.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Easily one of the most frustrating books I've ever read, John Dies At The End is either the most brilliant or the most shitballs fucking stupid book I have ever read, although I'm not ruling out the possibility that it may be both. Whether it's a story that uses seemingly random and overtly sexual symbolism as a way to tap into darkest taboos of your subconscious or one long drunken clusterfuck of a dick-measuring story is entirely up to you, because quite frankly even I can't tell, and I READ the motherfucking thing.
The story begins with David Wong (Yup, that's also the name of the main character) and a group of other soon-to-be-very-fucking-dead twenty-somethings be infected by a mysterious black substance known as soy sauce, brought into a Rastafarian named Robert Marley. Yes, he actually has a Rastafarian character named Bob freaking Marley. Just roll with it. Eventually, people start dropping dead, which means he, the titular John, a couple other eventual corpses and Wong's love interest, Jennifer Lopez (...), go to Vegas to get to the bottom of it.
A year later, the soy sauce returns when it starts infecting people, driving them to full-on fucking murder people and generally just acting bananarama batshit insane. So of course, we go through it again. Another year passes, and David and John find themselves being watched through their TVs, and are forced to travel into another dimension filled with biotechnology to kill the being behind the soy sauce.
Despite being ridiculously funny, an innate ability to get under your skin, and being one of the few legitimately scary novels I've ever read, part of me couldn't help but feel like I just paid good money for what is essentially a really good drunken bar story. Between the numerous characters named after celebrities, the fact that the author is the main character of his own book and the sheer fucking absurdity of the book, the entire affair just borders on masturbatory fantasy.
Even worse, the three stories are barely even connected at all. Aside from a few tenuous strands holding it together, the stories really have very little, if anything, holding it together. Hell, even the writing style seems to change with each story, and the overall plot just wraps things up with a series of loose ends.
As comedy, John Dies At The End is hysterically funny. As something to scare you, it succeeds whole-heartedly to freak the shit out of you. But as a collective work of fiction, it just feels sloppy. It's just so loosely tied together that everything good and unique about it just got buried in my own frustrations with it.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Saturday, January 23, 2010
This is in no way helped by the fact that I have a fear of doctors exacerbated by both (A) a complete lack of seeing them for over half a decade, (B) The fact that this was one of the last thing's Clyde and I did, and (C) I fear of blood. But whatever, I'm biting the bullet and getting myself fixed up so that my bathing suit area will, for once, resemble that of a normal human being.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Thing That Sucks #1: My Feet
I hate my feet. I honestly really do. I stub my toes on an almost regular basis, they're always sweating for some reason, and the way I walk puts all the pressure on the ball of my foot so that I always end up getting a hole in the back of my sock. What the fuck, feet? Who gets holes in their socks that quickly? Gag, you are just the worst feet EVER.
Things That Suck #2: Chloë Sevigny and her stupid Umlaut
Seriously, how the fuck did she even win the Golden Globe for Best Supporting Actress? No one even watches her show anymore and her dress looked like a giant Maxi Pad. Also, an UMLAUT? Really, since when do people even use UMLAUTS anymore, unless they're being a total pretentious dickbag. Fuck you and your umlaut, Chloe.
Things That Suck #3: The alcohol content in white wine
Maybe it's just me, but white wine doesn't get me anywhere NEAR as hammered as it used to. What the fuck, white wine? I used to drink half a freaking bottle and get completely shit-faced, and now an entire bottle and I can still type semi-lucidly? Man, what the eff?
Alright, you're turn; What petty little thing makes you angry for no reason right now?
It's currently something like 2:20 in the morning right now, and I can't sleep. Actually, make that 2:21. It's not for a lack of effort either; I've been lying down for almost half an hour so far and so far, nothing.
I'm not by any stretch of the imagination an insomniac or anything. Usually by two I'm out like a light. It's just that I made the very, very, very stupid mistake of listening to Esthero's "Bad Boy Clyde" to try to lull me asleep, and it's had the exact opposite effect on me: Now I can't.
It's just that for the first time, when I closed my eyes and tried to go to sleep, usually Clyde will cross my mind, but tonight, I've started noticing that I can't remember him as well as I used to anymore. I mean, I can still remember his face and his voice, the tattoos and the things we did together, but now it's getting hazy. I'm forgetting him, and quite frankly, that scares me. I don't want to forget him.
But part of me knows that that's not possible, because eventually it's just going to be too long. I'm going to lose pieces of him whether I like it or not (probably the latter) and I'm not ready for that. I've been having some pretty massive mood-swings lately, and the result (or cause, I'm not sure which) has been the fact that I'm thinking about him more and more.
The worst part is, I'm starting to feel like I'm running out of words here. There just aren't enough out there to even begin to describe what this is like. I want to move on but I don't want to forget him. I told myself that I couldn't live without him, but I am. He said he would never let anything happen to me, but I couldn't do that for him; if anything, I sometimes wonder if maybe he'd still be alive if I just did something differently. Maybe if I kept him at home the night he went off, or if I hadn't been there the night he cut open his foot and had to go to the hospital. I know it's a stretch, but maybe it's not so crazy. Maybe this is my fault. And now I just want it to stop hurting, but I'm afraid that if it ever does it won't mean anything.
I recently got asked the question about if there was a fire and you only had a minute, what would you save? All I could think about was the box of little things Clyde left behind in the closet. Collectively the entire thing is probably worth ten cents. I have a standing mixer worth almost $500 for Christ's sake, and the only thing I would take with me is worth about as much as a coin you find on the ground. But other than my memories of him, that's all I have left of him. And now my memories are fading. So...What now?
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
#10 - Sherlock Holmes
#9 - Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby
#8 - Aqua Teen Hunger Force Colon Movie Film For Theaters
#7 - American Pie
#6 - Crank
#5 - National Lampoon's Van Wilder
#4 - Happy Gilmore
#3 - The Jerk
#2 - Animal House
#1 - Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy
Also, occasionally her hair will turn into a gigantic demon that will tear apart angels and drag them into Hell. BAD. ASS.
As if you need anymore convincing, here's what I can only describe as the single gayest video game opening ever. Even gayer than that one Zelda game for CD-i that no one ever played. You know the one.
Alright, shameless geeking over. Feel free to return to your regular, non-dorky lives.
Monday, January 18, 2010
So basically, there are a few big-name but STRAIGHT stars who are kinda mucking about right now, going in and out of "retirement" (which is pretty much code for "I'm going to take a break until people care about me again, then come back") and it's pretty much reignited the Gay4Pay debate: Whether or not straight men should be allowed to make gay porn.
Personally, I can kinda see why people would be against Gay4Pay: it's a matter of identity, about supporting people who support us. But I also know that ultimately, no matter how you dress it up and no matter what you call it, it's a paycheck. A rather unusual and non-typical paycheck, but a paycheck none the less. Anyway, here are a couple talking points that sort of express my view on the matter:
Porn is about selling sex, not sexual orientation. Porn is sex. On occasion, it's artful sex but still, it's just sex. It's about laying pipe, going balls deep, getting your dick wet, getting your rocks off...Whatever the kids are saying these days. It is not a discussion about who the stars are schtupping on the sidelines. In fact, NO job is about who you're giving it too in the privacy of your own homes. If anything, gay men should know this better than anyone. Members of the LGBT community can still be fired from their jobs based on their gender or sexual orientation, the most obvious example being the Army's Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy.
Which is why it seems a bit disingenuous that while we are trying to obtain job security, some are perfectly content with telling Gay4Pay guys to go suck a fuck. It's not the exact same thing, but when it comes down to it, what's the difference between a lesbian getting fired from an office job or a model getting fired because he happens to like the pussy? Other than the job description, not much.
Furthermore, classifying people as straight or gay is, for lack of a better term, fucking stupid. Human sexuality has time and time again proven to be more fluid than it is solid. No one is ever 100% gay or straight, and if anything, it's a gross oversimplification of a immeasurable trait with no real absolute. Everyone is at least some degree bisexual, with the terms "gay" and "straight" being more often than not short-hand estimations of a person's orientation. If you were to ask someone who likes women if they would name a man they would sleep with, you will usually get an answer, and likewise for people who like woman. I mean really, while I identify as gay, I would still totally give it to Helen Mirren. Seriously, Rrrrrrrowr. Girl has got it going on in all the right places.
You know you would hit that.
When it comes down to it, the basic ideal behind the hostility toward Gay4Pay models can be boiled down to this: "THEY TOOK YOUR JERB!" "DEY TURK YER JERB!" "DURK A DURRRRR!!!"
That's all it is really: a petty, us v. them discussion because we feel that ultimately, those jobs are rightfully ours. They're not. No one is ever entitled to a job simply by the virtue of who they are, but rather, what they are capable of doing. If you're hot and you can lay pipe with another guy while making it seem hot, by all means, be a gay pornstar. But unless the person they are fucking is you, who a star sleeps with in the privacy of their own homes is not your business.
And just to wrap up my point...One of these is a G4P pornstar. The other is an actual gay. Which would you rather sleep with?
Sunday, January 17, 2010
8:05 - Call it people: We have our first Jay Leno joke. Wow, only five minutes? Did that seem kinda short to anyone else? Oh well, Nicole Kidman is out now, wearing a ribbon you can barely seen so that the nominees can feel like they've actually done something worthwhile with their lives. Way to make a difference!
8:06 - Mo'Nique, to the surprise of absolutely no one has picked up the first award of the evening. Apparently, Mariah Carey never quite learned to clap. Poor girl looks like she's about to pull a cranial hernia slapping one hand against the other.
8:10 - We are now moving onto Best Actress in a TV Series. No jokes, no stilted jokes between the presenters, just going right into it. Apparently, they're worried that at any given moment Jeff Zucker will burst into the room and have them all moved back to 12:05.
8:13 - Toni Collette won for United States of Tara, because of fucking course she did. No offense, but if it's a Diablo Cody vehicle that is NOT Juno, my give-a-shit-o-meter runs pretty low.
8:18 - Best supporting Actor in a TV series goes to John Lithgow, who I actually thought died after 3rd Rock from the Sun. I would make a joke saying "It was just his career", but considering he just picked up a trophy, I can't exactly use that one anymore. Also, poor Michael C. Hall...I know he's in remission, but seriously? Cancer smells and has fat ankles.
8:20 - Paul McCartney is out to present an award for Best Animated Theater, and God help me, the man could charm the bitchface off of Gwyneth Paltrow.
8:22 - Ummmmm...gasp? Pixar won another award. In related news, the Earth continues to revolve around the sun, chocolate is still delicious, and Tila Tequila's vagina can still be used to house the entire Duggar family.
8:28 - Kate Hudson, who is a great rom-com actress but absolute shit in everything else that isn't Almost Famous, is here to pimp out Nine....And it's over. Moving on!
8:30 - Felicity Huffman is here to give a speech about how The Golden Globes staff is compromised entirely by angels who feed the homeless and sing orphans to sleep. And she fucked up ROY. ALL. EE. Yowza.
8:32 - Neil Patrick Harris and Jane Krakowski are onstage and are so far proving to be the only watchable parts of the show. Well, that and Michael C. Hall finally winning a long-awaited award for Decter. Seriously, Golden Globes? Took you fucking long enough, you fucking assholes.
8:36 - Aaaaaaaaaand moving right along to Best Actress in a Dramatic TV Series. Seriously, they're probably backstage just going "You know what? Fuck it. Let's wrap this up before NBC fires us". Also, who is this woman and what in God's name is she wearing? She looks like the top of her dress is made out of red masking tape. Although I do give her props for one very subtle jab at NBC. Nice job.
8:42 - Harrison Ford is onstage, looking crotchety as hell. Honestly, he sounds like the old guy who yells at you to get off his lawn.
8:44 - Cher is seriously rocking the Morticia Adams get up, while Christina Aguilera looks like she was just hit by a truck carrying cotton candy and sluttiness.
8:46 - Crazy Heart just won for best song, so, you know, yay for them. I bet a certain Miss Beckyloo must be quite happy right now. Score one for you, doll.
8:48 - Karen O did not win for best score. Therefore, this awards show is stupid and whorish and has no friends. Fuck you Golden Globes. You suck donkey chode.
8:56 - Grey Gardens won for something or another and oh my god who even gives a shit? For a category I honestly couldn't care any less about, these people will just not stop talking.
8:58 - Here's Tom Hanks going on about Julie & Julia, A.K.A. Meryl Streep in two hours of food porn.
9:00 - Colin Farrell is onstage to give out the award for Best Actress in a Comedy or Musical, and it's taking every ounce of willpower not to assault my television screen with my penis. Anyway, Meryl Streep and her two hours of food porn wins it, which saves me from having to eat a delicious piece of hat. And of course, she's charming as hell and she's making me laugh my ass off.
9:09 - Ho. Lee. SHIT. Seriously, Helen Mirren has got it going on in ALL the right places. Girl's got more curves than a winding road. Rrrrrrrrrowr.
9:11 - Sam Worthington is onstage, and once again I am poking my TV with my boner.
9:14 - Drew Barrymore won an award, and why the fuck does she have what appears to be a giant pipe cleaner on her shoulder? Oh who am I kidding, she's gorgeous and I love her. Take notes Lindsay; It's not too late.
9:21 - The announcer guy just said the words "The star of Shrek Fourever After", and I just tried to kill myself. There is no God.
9:23 - Here comes Racel from Friends and that bloke from 300. Oh God, if I have to watch King Leonidas in an on-again/off-again relationship, someone is getting shanked. Also, Gerard Butler needs to fuck me already.
9:26 - Oh joy, Ashton Kutcher is onstage. I thought we banished this asshole to the internet? Wasn't he sacrificed to the Fail Whale? Oh well, Alec wins, although kudos to him for blowing off the Globes for a charity event, and Maggie Gyllenhaal looks pretty goddamn amazing.
9:32 - Samuel L. Jackson (The biggest badass on the face of the earth) is here to talk about the most badass film of the year (Inglourious Basterds).
9:33 - Sophia Loren ladies and gentlemen. What's with the bad glasses? They look like something even Elton John wouldn't wear.
9:35 - A film you didn't watch won an award you don't care about. What do you want from me, this thing is moving so fast my fingers are cramping.
9:38 - Amy Poehler and Zachary Levi are onstage to give out the award for Best Television Drama and to ensure that Zachary Levi will never again know the touch of a woman. Or a man for that matter. Mad Men wins it because Jon Hamm's jaw/Christina Hendricks' boobies are in it and because rich white people love Mad Men.
9:45 - Next onstage: Taylor Lautner, who is far too hot to be 17. To be fair, he'll be 18 in less than a month, but I still feel kinda weird for finding him attractive. Ew. Anyway, he presents (500) Days of Summer, which I love more than life itself.
9:47 - The award for Best Supporting Actress in a TV series goes to...WHAT THE FUCK?! CHLOE SEVIGNEY? You know what? Fuck it. Meet me at Camera Three, Golden Globes.
...Her? Realy? Jane Adams was easily the most vicious, brutally hilarious woman on television, and you gave it to the woman wearing a giant Maxi Pad? Nuh-uh. No. You do not do that because that is fucking STUPID. Seriously, all of you need to just jump off the tallest building you can find. Soon.
9:50 - Christopher Waltz and his many flawless accents wins Best Supporting Actor. Nice to see that Swastika on his head healed up in time for the show.
9:56 - Robert Deniro and Leonardo DiCaprio are here to give the Cecil B. Demille Award and oh my God, they're discussing his sex with a film roll. I just puked all over the fucking place. Anyway, from here on out it's pretty much going to be the closest thing to a reach-around the HFP will ever air, so settle in.
10:15 -Alright, we seem to be back now. And here's Mel Gibson, who looks AND sounds massively drunk right now. If this surprises you, you might be surprised that fire is hot and can burn you alive. Go ahead, try it out now. Anyway, James Cameron wins best Director for a movie that was 95% CGI because of fucking course he did.
10:20 - I know I should be aware of who exactly the fuck Olivia Wilde is, but honestly? Who the fuck is this bitch? Anyway, Glee won Best TV Comedy or Musical, which makes me ridonkulously happy. I love 30 Rock as much as the next guy, but Mark Salling totally makes me pop a stiffy.
10:25 - Hear to present The Hangover is, appropriately, the case of The Hangover...Only instead of Zach Galifianakis, we have Mike Tyson for some reason. Sure, why not. At least Tyson is easier to spell the Galifianakis.
10:27 - Reese Witherspoon is presenting the award for Best Movie - Musical or Comedy and it goes to...The Hangover? Really? Fuck man, I liked it as much as the next guy, but saying The Hangover is better than (500) Days of Summer is like saying that Sarah Jessica Parker is attractive; I can see where you might get the idea, but you're still a fucking idiot.
10:34 - When the fuck did the Governator win a Golden Globe? Was it for Jingle All The Way? Also, we're two and a half hours in and Mariah Carey still hasn't figured out how to clap. Seriously, ever see someone embarrass themselves so badly that YOU actually start to feel embarrassed for them? And then you sort of cringe visibly? Exactly.
10:36 - I said on Twitter that if Sandra Bullock won I would eat my hat...
10:39 - Still trying to get the taste of fabric out of my mouth. The Golden Globe for the Best Actor (Comedy or Musical) goes to Robert Downey Jr. for gaying it up in Sherlocke Holmes. If you play him off, he will fucking kneecap you.
10:46 - And we're back with Kate Winslet, here to give out the award for Best Actor in a Drama. Jeff Bridges wins it, which makes him the second Iron Man star to win a Best Actor award tonight.
10:55 - Here to finish finish this thing off like a pillow over the face of your sleeping Grandmother is Julia Roberts' gigantic mouth. Oh God, she will stop at nothing to drag this thing out...Anyway, Avatar wins it, despite Hurt Locker being the objectively better movie because of course it did. Well, whatever, it was entertaining and worth the money but BEST movie? Not so much.
Friday, January 15, 2010
So far, I have a good 12 pages done on word document, so I have no idea what that is in book pages. For now, here is the the sort of introductory chapter of the book. Feel free to tell me what you think about it.
The three things Claire Emmy Pepper loved the most were baking, berry-flavoured chapstick, and Pavement (not the hard ground, but the band; Especially their album Slanted & Enchanted.) Claire grew up in the small town of Cedar Park, Quebec, and only in the small town of Cedar Park, Quebec. You see, despite young Claire’s attempts to convince her parents that nothing could be half as lovely as a trip to Paris or Dublin, the simple fact was that Mr. and Mrs. Pepper didn’t have the money for traveling, most of it having been eaten up by the collective college funds of Claire’s four siblings.
Upon his departure to college, the fourth brother, Charley, left Claire his collection of LPs, a collection that would become her prized possession. She would sit in Charley’s room, the headphones cupping almost the entirety of the sides of her head, listening to Pavement, The Smiths and Dinosaur Jr. all day long. She found that the low fidelity rock music offered her something that her parents could not: a sense of freedom.
She decided that if she could not have an adventure, she would at least have the feeling of adventure. By the time she was a teenager, the walls of Claire’s room were lined with books. Books by Fitzgerald and Hemmingway and Rowling. Books about far off lands, murderous revenge and doomed love affairs. Books with hard covers and soft covers and occasionally books with no covers, for they had been ripped off long ago. Books a few pages long and books that, if dropped from three feet up, would crush a cat’s spinal cord (Claire would learn this the hard way.)
Each book that sat on her shelves was an adventure that Claire would never have.
In high school, she excelled in geography, absorbing every minute fact about Italy and Brazil and Israel. By the age of fifteen, Claire could tell you the length of the Pennines in England (400 kilometers), how many species of reptiles there were in Australia (755) and where you could find the best gelato in Italy (Gelateria Creperia Ghignoni, or so she heard.) It would be this discussion about gelato that would spark her interest in baking, creating dishes from cities and countries she hoped to one day visit.
She used her culinary skills to raise money in the hopes of some day backpacking across Europe. And she would have to, had it not been for Jude.
The three things Jude Winslow Hepburn loved the most were soccer, apple trees and old zombie movies. Jude did not grow up in a small town. Rather, he grew up in small towns. Jude also grew up in big towns, medium towns, and the occasional city. Jude lived alone with his mother, a college professor in economics who had a habit of going through jobs the way most people would go through napkins or dental floss. The result was that Jude never stayed anywhere for very long.
By the time Jude was a teenager, he had familiarized himself with the pattern of moving from one life to another. He and his mother would drive from one town to the next, into a comfortably furnished home, and Jude would of course go to school, where he would be introduced by a teacher who would always ask “Hepburn? Are you in any way related to the actress?” The answer of course was no. It would always be no. It was no the first six times he answered it and it would be no the next nineteen times a teacher would ask.
His father, who had named Jude after the beloved Beatles song that Jude came to thoroughly despise, had long since left Jude and his mother to become a rodeo cowboy somewhere in South Carolina, albeit, not a very good one. He would send Jude letters and packages to say hello every now and then, and on the rare occasion they actually reached him before he moved again, he would always answer back with a courteous thank you letter.
Unbeknownst to his father, what Jude really wanted to say was “I hope you get trampled by a horse.”
But what Jude really longed for were the times of tranquility, the times where he was not being shuffled back and forth across North America like a bad penny. He longed for the moments where, upon moving in, Jude’s mother would plant an apple tree in the front yard, a symbol that meant they were home. He longed for the chance to play on his school’s soccer team, which never did all that well anyway. He longed for home, rather than a house that he would be squatting in for a few months.
It was when Jude and his mother moved to Cedar Park, Quebec, that he thought for once he had found a home; and it was because of Claire.
They met in line at a little bookstore aptly named “The Little Bookstore.” He was holding a copy of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. She was holding a cookbook featuring Mediterranean cuisine. She liked the dimple on his chin, the way you could still see his green eyes even when he squinted, and how he buzzed his hair so that you couldn’t tell if it was black or brown. He liked the caramel skin that she inherited from her black mother and white father, the loose ponytail that bobbed around on the back of her head, and the lips that sparkled with a thin coating of berry-flavoured chapstick, the tube buried snugly in the pocket of her coat.
Both did the awkward “I’m going to divert my eyes at a random stack object in the corner so that you don’t think I was looking at you when I obviously was” maneuver that so many people do when they first lay eyes on each other. Claire released a sharp breathe through her nose that Jude would later learn meant she was trying to suppress a nervous giggle.
Jude just thought she had something in her nostril.
Despite this, he decided to break the awkward silence that was now hanging over them like a socially uncomfortable Sword of Damocles. “Anything in there you have your eye on?” he asked.
“Um, yeah, there’s this crema catalane recipe in here that I’ve been meaning to try, and…I see you’re reading Dracula! I mean, you’re not reading it right now, but, you know, you’re gonna read it, right?” she said, wondering if the look in the stranger’s eye said “what a charming young woman,” or “Why won’t the crazy lady stop talking?”
“Yeah, it’s been out for, like, a hundred years so far, so I figured it was time to read it. Do you know if it’s any good?”
Naturally, she knew if it was any good, as she had read the now dog-eared copy she had received for her fourteenth birthday a grand total of eight times now. “It’s actually a really great book. It’s a bit heavy on the foreshadowing, but the language is still accessible and the writing style is impeccable.”
“I think there’s a coffee places a block over if you want to grab a drink and talk about it some more,” he offered, mentally repeating the words “Please say yes please say yes” in the hopes that she would please please PLEASE say yes.
Meanwhile, in Claire’s head, she was going over the sentence with a fine-tooth comb to figure out what he meant. Obviously, he did not mean “Let’s go get coffee and discuss this book,” because we all know that people don’t say what they mean because that would be foolish, right?
Claire knew that coffee was the delicious warm beverage of choice for people who want to get to know each other. And she knew that the coffee chop, a Canadian franchise named “Mugs” that was supposed to rival Starbucks but ultimately failed pretty miserably in that respect, was the quaint little café of choice for couples in the early throws of non-serious romantic bliss.
However, she also knew that of the couples that entered Mugs, approximately 90% would break up in an average of two months, give or take a week. It was a pattern she had studied for a project in her humanities class, a phenomenon she had referred to as “The Frostyccino Effect.” She decided that technically, they weren’t really a couple, just two people who happened to enjoy coffee and literature, and as such, were not subject to the effect.
This entire thought process took Claire exactly three and a half seconds. “Sure, let’s just pay for these books and we can head over there. Surprisingly, they kinda look down on the whole ‘shoplifting’ thing here. Who knew?”
Jude chortled, something that she found charming in its sheer dorkiness. “My name is Claire by the way,” said the now identified girl in this equation.
“Jude,” replied the male half of the story.
“Like The Beatles Song?”
“Yeah,” he said, trying very hard to mask the disappointment in his voice.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I actually kinda hate that song,” said Claire.
It was at this point that Jude realized that he might love this Claire girl before him.
Before you get your hopes up, I’d like to take this opportunity to remind you that this is not a story about love. Make no mistakes, Claire and Jude will fall in love. They will go on dates to nice restaurants, meet each other’s parents and go on nice strolls at the Old Port. They will kiss and cuddle and have sex. They will have lots of sex. Passionate sex, loud sex, angry sex, sex in the shower, sex in bed, sex outdoors, great sex, sex that was so-so, sex that was actually pretty disappointing for all involved…You get the point.
Claire will lie on the couch with her head in Jude’s lap. They’ll go see bad movies and make snide comments about it to each other while people shush them. They’ll settle into a comfortable routine. And that’s where it will all turns to shit, although they don’t quite know it.
Not yet anyway.
Claire will abandon her trip across Europe, but that’s okay. She’ll start to miss the feeling of adventure, but that’s okay. She’ll miss the freedom, but that’s okay. Jude will start to get bored, but that’s okay too. Jude will wonder if maybe this isn’t love, but rather, two people who happen to be alone together. That’s not okay.
This will go on for two years.
This is not a love story. It’s not a hate story either, if those even exist. It’s just a story about two people who just don’t love each other anymore. Sorry about that.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
This is not a story about love. Not anymore, anyway. This is not a story where a (boy/girl/whatever) meets a (boy/girl/whatever) and they date and go to the movies and fight and makeup on top of the (Eiffel Tower/Empire State Building/Roof of your local Denny's) and they all live happily ever after because of course they do. Granted, it's an extension of that story, but this isn't it. If you wish to read a story like that, by all means put this book down and head over to the romance section, where I'm sure you'll find one that prominently features a well-oiled Fabio on the cover.
No no, go ahead, see if I care...Jerk.
As I said, this is not a story about love; rather, this is a story about what comes after. When the love is gone. When all the things you like, or used to like, whatever the case may be, just don't make up for the fact that being around them is emotionally draining. When you receive less joy from giving them flowers than you do carving the word "WHORE" into the driver's-side door of their car. When you start to look back and see all the little hints that seemed to scream "Run, you idiot, run! Why would you purposely waste your time on someone who obviously couldn't give two shits about you?!"
This is not a story about love. Just ask Jude and Valerie.
Once again, I know it's not much, but it's something I scribbled down between slinging Budweiser at people. It's a start I suppose, right? Anyway, if I can get this done by the end of the year, that would be pretty amazing, wouldn't it?
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
I'm sure this must come as a great shock to most of you, but in real life, I'm nowhere near as big a bitch as I am on here or Litely Salted. As it turns out, that's really more of a thinly-veiled defense mechanism.
I'll give you all a minute to pick up your jaws from that unexpected bombshell.
Anyway, here's the deal: On top of my various other oddjobs, I also work as a bartender. As it turns out, if you start paying for a home and food and other shit like that, the government starts to wonder if something fishy is illegal and why they aren't taxing you for it. Hence, the cover job.
What the fuck does this have to do with anything? Well today was the equivalent of having people line up to kick you in the cojones. First, I had a customer who told me flat out that I (And I'm quoting here) "Dress like a dykey lesbian." I'm not sure if "dykey lesbians" wear turtle necks, but it's my work uniform, so I somehow doubt that going to management and saying that my outfit makes me look like Rosie O'Donnell is gonna fly with them.
Next up, I had a customer who left me a soiled napkin as a tip. No, really, a soiled napkin. When I ran out after him to ask him if there was something wrong with the service (which was basically a polite way of asking "What the fuck is your problem, you old sack of shit?") he flat out told me that I didn't deserve a tip because I had the gall (THE GALL I SAY!) to take a five minute break and read a bit.
No, really. I waited on the guy pretty much hand and foot. I cleared the table, I got him drinks and food, and I was never out of earshot from him, and he gives me a fucking soiled napkin as a tip.
After telling him to go fuck himself several times (I lost count after the ninth time), I closed up, went home and had myself a nice power-sob; basically, you bury your head in a pillow, vent for about five minutes, then come up for air. Quick and easy, and absolutely no mess whatsoever.
The point of all this? Despite the hipster lingo, the tattoos, the unusual jobs, and the constant promotion of how tough I am, I'm not bulletproof. I'm as far removed as stoically stony as humanely possible. I'm still the first one to break down at a funeral/wedding/bris, I choke up watching romantic comedies, I still get all quivery when I hear Maps, and yes, I still miss Clyde every day. I could say that I just have mood swings or that I'm having a bad day, but who am I kidding, right? I just can't get knocked down and pretend that it didn't hurt. I'm just not that strong here.
Monday, January 11, 2010
I regard classic literature the same way I regard women: Sure, I can appreciate their beauty and understand why people like them, but ultimately, I just don't really swing that way. It's not that I don't like the classics; Really, I do, they're just peachy keen. They're the bee's knees, the cat's pajamas, the gerbil's sensible high-heel shoes...But they just don't really DO anything for me.
Despite this, I would be lying if I said I didn't enjoy Dracula. The original vampire. Edward Cullen and Bill Compton couldn't even suck his dick. Even Buffy Summers herself, the motherfucking chosen one, would have to give her respects to the guy.
The plot takes place a long fucking time ago (because of fucking course it does) in Europe where Jonathan Harker is called to Dracula's castle for some estate business. He quickly realizes that something is severely fucked in that bitch, what with Dracula's propensity for climbing along the castle walls upside down, his three necromantic concubines and the fact that he's been taken prisoner.
Dontcha hate when that happens?
The story progresses from there as we trace the rise and fall of Dracula through interconnected diary entries, newspaper articles, letters, hasty scriblings, stickfigure drawings (Okay, maybe not stickfigure drawings), et cetera. A true test of an authour's writing ability is how accessible their prose remains over time, and considering the story is well over 100 years old, I'm honestly surprised at how well it translated into modern times.
That being said, the problem with most classics is that they've become so engrained in the public's psyche that you can pretty much see every plot twist from space. Think about it: How much better would The Sixth Sense have been if you didn't know Bruce Willis was a ghost? Exactly. The result is that nothing really seems all that surprising, and you realize just how thick Stoker laid on the foreshadowing; Listening to Harker talking about going to Dracula's castle and dinner is akin to listening to someone talk about going over to Hitler's for a delightful brunch.
While I may not be in love with Dracula, I still loved it. It's an incredibly well-written book, it has a surprising bit of dry wit added in here and there, and if you can move past its all-too-familiar plot, it's still a pretty gripping novel for one that was written before your grandparents were even born.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Anyway, here's a list of people I need to work with, naysayers be damned. And needless to say, but...
So not only is he fun to look at, but the man lays pipe a goddamn plumber. Seriously, the man knows how to give a hot dickin'. Also, he's kind of a dork, and I have the biggest boner for dorks ever.
Yes, another guy who fulls under the "Hot muscle bod plus a cock most fly" category. What? Shit like that gets my motor running. And by "motor", I mean "penis". And by "running", I mean...You know where I'm going with this, right? Right.
Derek Da Silva
...Well, I certainly have a type (He's on the left-hand side). Actually, he also happens to be an indie-rock nerd too, which is the equivalent of a bottle of wine and a handful of Viagra down my throat. Nothing gets me hot like a guy outside who has The Yeah Yeah Yeahs' "Maps" on his iPod.
Because shut up your face; he's pretty.
I just want to be all tattooed like he is eventually. Mind you, I'm doing pretty well so far, but I need more. WAY more. Also, once again, fucker throws the dickage. For reals.
Okay, so granted he's not a dog person, which means that the fucker cannot be trusted (*Glares*) but other than that? Nice guy, nice tats, overall badassery...Oh yeah. Word.
What can I say? It's the hair. I have a thing for the furry guys, so long as they don't have backhair. Or pubes that make it look like they have Diana Ross in a leg-lock. Point is, he has some kickin' body hair.
I am fully aware that Reese Rideout is, for lack of a better terms, crazypants. But he's the good sort of crazypants, like Lily Allen. And I like good crazypants. Also: Abs.
Oh come on, I'm allowed to fall for the more conventionally hot guys, right? Seriously, he's just hot no matter how you look at it.
Ben Patrick Johnson
Okay, technically not actually a gay porn star, but he's gay porn adjacent here, which is kinda close. Also, he did send me one of his books, so (to steal a phrase from Julie) "Isn’t he sweet? He’s one charm bracelet away from sticking it in your ass!" Needless to say, he has 24-hour anal privileges here.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
...But not just yet. For those of you wondering, this is a recreation of one of Clyde's tattoos. It's a very nice reminder. Which means that I reserve the right to punch anyone who dislikes it in the face until they die, or until they poop themselves. Whichever comes first really.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Step 1: Find a Producer
Most people and common sense would tell you that the first step would be to learn how to sing, take a couple classes on the various components of music, maybe learn how to play an instrument. But fuck those people. Just find someone with auto-tune and watch as your completely talentless voice is spliced and diced into a barely recognizable husk of it's former self while it is drowned in crappy instrumentals.
Now comes the hard part: You're going to have to write at least ten different songs about varying themes with recognizably unique melodies. But who has time for that? Here's what the basic track list should look like:
- Your first major hit.
- Your second single, which should be so similar to the first that most people won't even notice that the last song ended.
- Terrible song you spent all of 15 minutes creating.
- Another shitty song. Someone will eventually find some glaring similarities between this and a more popular song, resulting in a lawsuit.
- Your third single, indistinguishable from the first two. This is placed here as a sort of rest for the second half of the album, else the listener kill themselves.
- We now return to our regularly scheduled helping of auto-tuned vocals over an old sample from the Sonic 3 soundtrack.
- Shit once again, but at this point, it's to be expected.
- The fourth single. From an objective standing point, it's pretty solid considering, but since it strays from the first three singles, no one will give two fucks.
- The moment you lose all hope for modern music. Listening to this will only cause you to load your iPod with the sound of screaming babies, if only to drown out how just fucking awful this song is.
- The closer. Usually, they try to go for something "subdued", which is slang for "fucking boring." Some artists will proceed to add on a five minute delay along with a crappy bonus song, which is not only pointless in the age of MP3 players, but was fucking irritating back when people still bought CDs.
- Male Pop/R&B Artist: White shirt with a pair of jeans, a leather jacket, and a sexy-yet-non-threatening facial expression.
- Female Pop/R&B Artist: A cocktail dress, after-sex hair, a barely-covered vagina, cleavage
- Male Rap Artist: T-Shirt two sizes too big, necklace worth roughly the GDP of Africa, look of smug superiority
- Female Rap Artist: TITS OR GTFO
- Male Country Artist: Wife-beater, strategically torn jeans, a guitar you have never and will never play, Cowboy boots and hat, an American flag.
- Female Country Artist: Sundress, sunset, countryside, an "Aw, schucks, I'm just a smalltown girl at heart!" smile.
- Rock Album: The group members standing in a row, none must be looking at the camera, a city street, the lead singer in the center because absolutely no one cares about the bass player. He's only fooling himself.
You could let your music speak for itself, creating some initial-prelease buzz. Or you can go to parties, get arrested for a petty crime, date Tila Tequila, get into a feud with an artist with a similar style to yours, use derogatory slurs in public, storm onstage during an awards show, feud with members of your band, break up, get back together, announce a hiatus, slap your name on a product in no way affiliated with your album, and just generally act like a total D-bag.
Step 5: ???
Beats the fuck outta me.
Step 6: Profit!
Congratulations! Your album is #1 on both Billboard AND iTunes charts despite the fact that your talent couldn't fill a shot-glass. Enjoy your riches while objectively better artists languish in obscurity.
Monday, January 4, 2010
So a little while back, I was asked to do an interview for Gay Porn Blog (which is about as SFW as you think it is; Meaning not very), and of course I was thrilled. It was a great interview, and Jack Shamama was incredibly nice. Anyway, one interview later, the interview was posted and there was some positive feedback and of course negative feedback. Meh, take the good with the bad I suppose, right? Anyway, it wasn't until this message that I got just a teensy bit pissed.
My first reaction: What the hell did I do to piss off Cynthia Nixon's girlfriend so much? Seriously, there's mean, then there's just being a flat-out cunt. Let's take this apart piece-by-piece, shall we?
Just what we need: another sexually-inexperienced teenager...
Sexually-inexperienced? Nine months ago, maybe, but now? Not so much. Hell, I've probably had more sex (Hell, I've probably had BETTER sex) than you've had in your worthless little life. And I get money for it while you couldn't even pay for it.
...6 measly inches of dick.
That's in real-life terms actually. If we're going by porn terms, I could get away with seven inches easily. Maybe even seven and a half if we're gonna go all out. But I decided not to lie about my size, and considering that the average guy has about 4.5 inches dangling between their legs, statistically speaking my "6 measly inches" as you so put it so politely is probably a lot bigger than your sad little Baynis.
He's a "writer" too...
No, actually, that's just writer, without the passive-aggressive quotation marks. You see, I'm actually an employed writer for Litely Salted. As in, a real writer. Which is more than I can say about you. But seriously, this is fun. We should do this more often. Tearing down your cunty little ramblings is fun. I enjoy exposing you for the worthless little troll you are. But nice try though. Better luck next time.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Sorry, that wasn't very well explained at all, was it? Let me try that again...
You REALLY suck. Suck suck suck suck suck. If there was a prize for sucking, you'd suck it into the big, gaping hole of suck that you are. Wear you're sucky crown with sucky pride, Mr. Suck.
Here's the thing: It's 2010. We're so far into the new millennium that we don't even have consecutive zeros anymore. And you know what? We don't have any of the totally bitchin' gadgets you said we would have. We don't have cures for HIV or Cancer, we don't have flying cars that run on water, and robot monkey butlers? Don't even get me started.
And worst of all? We STILL don't have free downloadable pizza. I mean really, it's not that hard. You go on the internet. You go to http://www.iwantfreedownloadablepizzarightnowplease.com/ You download your free delicious pizza. You eat your free delicious pizza. It's not that hard! Mind you, pizzas are disks, and the internet is a series of tubes (If you happen to be an Alaskan Senator charged with making false statements concerning gifts received from VECO Corporation, but that's neither here nor there.) That can make free downloadable pizza distribution difficult. The solution is simple: Just roll it up into a little tube and then you can just put it online. Come on, science, you guys need to get on that shit yo.
But here's the thing: You can't just say you're going to be giving someone something really cool and then just not follow through, completely ditching them without a reason. Because that's a totally dick move. You guys have totally just been slacking off. You guys dropped the ball on this one. Run some laps and think about how much you guys totally failed.
I mean really, do you know how much cool shit from 2001: A Space Odyssey we have? None of it. And that was theoretically nine years ago! What the crap? You know what we have instead?
Seriously, this is like promising someone to take them out for lunch, then running them over with a pizza delivery truck; I can see how you might see a connection between the two, but you're still a total D-Bag who didn't fulfill their promise.
Point is, Science, you shit the bed on this one. I expect a full apology and my free downloadable internet pizza by tomorrow morning. And if I don't have either one of those things, I'm gonna gaysex your mom.
In your bed.
Consider this a warning.
Xox, Jeremy Feist
Friday, January 1, 2010
Point is, it's been a crappy year. I'm not about to discount the fact that a lot of good things have happened too, but all in all? Crap. Most people my age describe relationship troubles as arguments about going on dates or not talking enough; Mine is the fact that my love in some far off town in an indeterminate graveyard.
Not to mention the fact that lack of closure can lead to balding. And if my mother's predictions are true, I'll grow up to look like my Dad. If the bitch is right, I'll probably either off myself or dump a ton of money getting plastic surgery.
Although one thing I am happy about is that I don't have to write anymore end of year lists. I mean yes, they were fun at first, but after a while, the novelty sort of wears off. Needless to say I won't be condensing ideas into numerically arranged lists in descending order for a looooooooong time.
Also, one final thing: If I hear one more person use the word "Drama" to describe daily problems (i.e. "Laura J.'s not coming to the movies because Melanie C. owes her $5? I CANNOT HANDLE THIS DRAMA!"), I will not hesitate to claw their eyes out. When the hell did daily life become a bad MTV reality show? At this point, "Drama" to me has become synonymous for "I'm a douchebag with no grasp of reality; Please hit me in the face with a crowbar until this situation is remedied".
Jeremy Feist: Hitting you in the face with a crowbar since 2010.