The Progressive Loneliness Of Insanity

There's a title for ya. I wonder who is reading this today, besides my lawyer. Oh, if only I really had a lawyer, or even an intriguing reason to have a lawyer. Say, maybe I was a key witness for the murder trial of the century. But, that happens so rarely. And methinks that's a good thing. Although people have always killed each other and alas and alack, always will.

With THAT cheery thought I tell you that it is so hot outside I should be wearing shorts. These days, it's hard to know how to dress. I have also not imbibed my morning cup of coffee (drank? thrown down? slurped?) so will need to do that soon, which means trekking back to My Lonely Room and The Landlady. I have decided to write a book (maybe a novella, who knows) and call it The Landlady. It will be based on my experiences, and in the end she will die a hideous, tragic death involving leeches and some form of drain cleaner. I never said I was nice!

Literary revenge. Ray Bradbury apparently once took literary revenge on John Huston, who did something nasty to him. If memory serves correctly I think Bradbury wrote the screenplay for Huston's film version of Moby Dick starring Gregory Peck. Something transpired and Bradbury got even by writing something crappy about Huston and the entire experience. Not sure of the goodies there, but Bradbury is a genius of a writer and is one of the most interesting people I've ever had the pleasure to read about. His introduction to Farenheit 451 still serves today -- he writes about censorship and the madness of our times. Wish I could find my copy, but it's moldering in my paren'ts basement somewhere. This is akin to trekking to Norman Bates' house, as in, it may molder there for some time!

At my pseudo-home I will dig out the spring clothes if I WANT TO LIVE! Yippity-Gods, it's hot out there. I foresee a future in which we all run around with umbrellas fending off that lethal hole in the ozone, dressed in space suits. A chilling thought, no?

This will be blissfully, briefly short! I have just detected that my deoderant is not working! Why must I be smelly, Lord? Why?

Have a happy, odor-free weekend. For you Canadians, I will write odour. 'Cause I think you add "u" to everything, much like the English. I wish I knew more Canadians and Britishers, because Americans are gettin' on my nerves. Or it just me gettin' on my nerves?

Be well.

I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream For Ice-Cream

Here I am again! It's a gorgeous day in ye olde New England and even my spirits have been temporarily lifted by this orgy of sunshine and flowers popping up here, there, and everywhere. Even the landlady (I lied! I mention her again!) has taken some sort of rest from her dragon-breathing tendencies and appears Oddly Mellow. Yes, I am the Pretentious Blogger Who Capitalizes! Me and James Frey, apparently.

I was reading an article about popular books that are really badly written and Frey made the list, the reviewer taking him to task for capitalizing shit. I read the excerpt mentioned and his capitalization did seem a bit odd -- I guess he capitalized stuff like Rehab Center. At least I don't do that, people! I would still like to read Frey's book because I think in a weird, horrible, adolescent way it's great he made half of it up. The pseudo-adult part of me is horrified, of course -- I mean, come on, ya gotta tell the truth, even in this age of Hocus Pocus Morality. But the sixteen year old in me is screaming Attaboy, James! You go! You make up that sucker and cash in, baby, you cash in! What can I say, catechism didn't take me very far. Of course, this blog IS written for entertainment purposes. Meaning my tongue is usually in my cheek. But you knew that, Gentle Intelligent Reader, already.

So there ya have it. Now I am in the library after consuming a sandwich at Subway, where I am now on intimate terms with half the servers there (are they servers? or just clerks? I don't know what to call them...mere employees?), as I could not stomach staying at home in the afternoon while Fraulein Dragonlady's granddaughter runs around. This child is incredibly unfriendly (it must run in the family! Good to know, mother-------!) and I decided to leave, eat, come here, and send out another resume to fool myself into thinking I'm doing something with my life.

I also went to see my Local Priest earlier today to chat about my troubles. Guilt-deranged Catholics may be familiar with this phenomenon! It ended up going Absolutely Nowhere, although he did inform me that Eugene O'Neill had had a shitty childhood too, and look where he went! It actually did cheer me up to know I'm not the only one, although I do not claim Eugene O'Neill cult status. I'm an unknown writer personage and the dude is, like, famous. I realized after I left the gentle abode where the Good Irish Priest has his offices that my life has become very Our Townish. I know one of the local priests, I see a local cop everyday (I call him "Officer Happy") who runs around doing meter maid duty, and in general there is an entire cast of characters that, upon examination, is truly interesting. Maybe reason enough not to throw myself off the Brooklyn Bridge (I'm just kidding! I want to die in my sleep, surrounded by hunky Irish men! How kinky of me! Of course, we'd all just be wizened geezers at that point...sigh).

Now I just need to get out of my present abode, work again, and find my life's direction. That's all! No pressure here. To guide me in this process I read depressing articles in the paper about how this area is Uber-Crappy for meeting men and also ingest soy ice-cream with chocolate chips in it. What can I say, it's a true spirit lifter. The ice-cream, that is.

Should I have hyphenated Ubercrappy? Or just join it, like so? These questions keep me up at night.

I see that the sequel to "Basic Instinct" is on its way to local theaters soon. I saw the first one with my friend in high school and ended up feeling like I'd just seen my first porn flick. Basically, I had. I found the first movie pretty gross, actually. Michael Douglas is not exactly my favorite actor, and I don't know what to say about Sharon Stone. I don't really see her as an "actor" or even an "actress" but she was good in the movie. She's more of a personality -- a movie star -- than a thespian. But, don't tell her agent I said that! You know what these egotistical celebrity types are like! Suing people and such!

No, I think I'll skip the sequel. I wish they would make more movies like "The Good Girl" with Jennifer Aniston. That's a great little movie with such a good performance in it by Ms. Aniston. Poor Jennifer -- her husband ran away with the world's prettiest woman. Methinks she's better off without him.

Bet she had herself some soy-based ice-cream too.

Tennis, anyone?

Bean Soup

Life...is...strange. That's the first rule, right there, my friends. Very, very strange.

Last night I spent most of the evening staring in a vacuous daze at the television, that Harbinger of Doom, and intermittently had fantasies of throwing my landlady out the window. This is the last time I'll mention her, so rest easy. I am, however, very obsessive (in case you hadn't noticed!). It's a writer thing, I've realized. It's why you write, really. One of many, no doubt disturbing, reasons! And maybe some good ones, who knows. You writerly folks out there know of what I speak.

The president, in political news, is busy defending the Iraq War. Guess he didn't realize he'll be doing that for the rest of his natural life, for those of us against this particular war. I remember when the bombs first dropped and the tele was full of "shock and awe." It was shock and awe, alright -- that we'd sunk this low as a country and that our president would actually do something this heinous. It was really horrible to see -- all I could think about was innocent people dying, and die they surely did. I guess working for peace is so much harder than just waging war on other people. It's gotta take so much more effort. And maybe eight thousand radio stations playing "Imagine", over and over again!

Speaking of John Lennon, apparently Jared Leto gained 67 pounds to play the guy who killed him -- Mark someone or other (can't think of his name at present). I remember reading a long, long time ago in a galaxy right around here an interview with Lennon's killer in People magazine. It was very chilling -- he talked about satan possessing his mind and feeling like snakes were coming out of his mouth. I am willing to be anyone three million dollars he was possibly molested and/or physically abused as a child. Criminal behavior is inevitably linked to abuse issues -- I mean, people don't just wake up one day and say, gee, think I'll kill John Lennon! Or Bob, the Helpful Mail Carrier! I think as a society we are moving beyond a knee-jerk "eye for an eye" mentality regarding criminals. I think rehabilitation has got to be a part of incarceration, personally. Otherwise we're just animals locking up animals, aren't we?

Funny, back in my college days I had a major argument with a guy about the death penalty. He was a Fundamentalist Christian Perpetuating Stereotypes About Fundamentalist Christians And Their Viewpoints I Guess and he told me he thought all murderers should fry. I disagreed and we went at it. Later on he told a male friend of mine that "he had never thought of dating me, but now definitely wouldn't!" Thanks, dude, I've always considered that one of the better compliments I've received. He also had a problem with me sleeping over at the apartment he unfortunately shared with said male friend (I slept on the couch but apparently I, as a female, was a "temptation"! Ah yes, women really are just whores at heart!). I hope he's dealt with his issues with an incisive therapist. Yet, somehow I doubt it.

And moving right along...it is a warmer day here in Buttoned Down New England. I can hear a truck somewhere outside making those beeping backing up noises. I find them oddly endearing. I spent yesterday taking care of three thousand niggling details and was so efficient that now my brain is a little slap-happy.

American Idol is down to 11 contestants! Bean soup is tasty! There, I worked in the title!

May all your tomorrows be pleasant (Tina Fey, we salute you).

Send Her to Hell

Well, isn't that a catchy title! Pure blatant manipulation in advertising, because this blog will have absolutely NOTHING to do with ghosts!
I'm here in our fancy-dancy public library, the kind that comes replete with hand sanitizers at the check-out counter and a variety of dazed yuppies running around in various stages of dismantling their laptops and blackberries (or, as the spawn of satan, i.e. my father would say, a "blueberry"). It's a sad world when the yuppies come (and, sure as shit, they always will), but the library itself is an enchanting place. I have long loved libraries, and find the vibrations here to be almost as relaxing as a good massage. Which I wish, unlike yuppies, I could afford more often.
Now that I've kicked the shit out of those greedy 80's creations (hellspawn! hellspawn!), or at least given them a good whack in the solar plexus, I must move on to other, more pressing topics, like my landlady. Ah, my faithful 1.9 or maybe even 2 readers, did you THINK I'd FORGET about HER?? That would be like trying to lance a boil alone, and Thee Must Help Me! (Thine?)
The latest Thing I Did Wrong, Because Sure as Shit I Always Do Something! (is there anything more sure than shit, really? taxes, maybe?), was to Wake Her Up. Waking her up is a huge no-no, of course, on par with maybe waiting until she's asleep in her bathtub, then boldly removing one of her kidneys with a shiny silver knife. Then, of course, you put the kidney on ice and sell it to a black market person (it's best if they're Russian, naturally, or at least someone with a thick accent of some kind) and then Flee the Country. Mexico, here we come!
Anyway, last night, because I have learned to Live Like The Fox, I thought I HAD INDEED violated a noise law according to the evil creature. I think I made the mistake of not muting the TV and/or closing the door when I left my room to pee (her bedroom, unfortunately, is down the hall from mine -- yes, I rent a room, not a basement apartment, alas). And thus woke her up! Gee, I'm so crushed, really! She said something about it in her usual nasty tone the next day, the tone that has become like a rallying cry to my soul that says, Sweetheart! Get The Fuck Out! (If Only I Could! That involves information best left for my therapist. This is a blog, not a one-way ticket to boredom).
According to The Harpy she thought that "someone was trying to break into the house." Yes, of course, dear! That's what I would assume when I live with two other people! Then again, she is old and paranoid, and I honestly think only sees me in a peripheral way, like I'm one of those weird pads of paper that you flip open that perform a little dance (does anyone know what I'm talking about?).
The upshot of it is that I'd rather live with a ghost than Cruella da Ville. OK, I lied! I worked ghosts in here somehow! In fact I have started to hum that song when The Harpy is about, although she is blissfully ignorant. I don't think the woman watches many Disney movies. Too bad -- they might be Delicious Splenda for Her Soul!
So that's the latest saga. In the meantime, I am continuing to mourn the Death of America and am convinced I need to move elsewhere, say Amsterdam or Canada. I was reading about Amsterdam's very permissive laws (we all know you can smoke pot legally and have sex with prostitutes there) and apparently Amsterdam is a Happy Haven For Misfits. AH! Another rallying cry, since I've been a Misfit, and certainly felt like one, for Eons Now! EONS!! I'm sure I have some friends out there in Blogland who concur! If not, you're probably a yuppie (just kidding).
So I may next be blogging straight from Holland. I could live on a farm with a windmill, and grow tulips in my garden. Date some hunky man with a tragically sexy accent who is bewitched by my strange American ways.
In the meantime, I dream of having my own apartment once again. Ah, those were the days, the days of being able to do WHATEVER YOU WANTED!! AH! AH! AH! It's practically an orgasm! Right there!
Send The Harpy to Hell. And may all your days be merry, and your spirits surely bright.