Monday, November 29, 2004
PitNickins
J. G. Wentworth...advertises cash now for annuity settlements. J. G., you're probably a nice man, you may be an excellent businessman, but you SUCK as a spokesman. Hire somebody attractive and female. Soon.
Hollywood casting error: Know who would have made the Ultimate Galadriel, Elf-Queen, in "Lord Of The Rings"? Charlotte Rampling. Yeah, I know, she's not one of Hollywood's young hotties, but I think Galadriel was about 1,000 years old or so anyway, and Charlotte's still a hottie, maybe always will be.
I'm avoiding anything rectal or scatalogical this time. Kevin has plumbed his depths with the usual thoroughness, and said all that needs to be said. If I ever rediscover that medical surplus group that was selling used black and white colon cameras, I may purchase two and send him one. We could be on the verge of a new art-form, or some "Indiana Jones" action as he races the camera ahead of a nasty growler on its way out.
I had an incredible Creative Writing teacher in high school. Fresh out of college herself, so young looking that girls laughed at her when she tried to bust them, she was totally unprepared for the hotbed of creative madness she'd stumbled into. When I had nothing to write, I'd often write up my weekend and turn it in. I got "A's" every time.
Later, when she'd moved to Alaska, we reconnected after a few years. She asked me in a letter, "Just before we moved, I heard that you didn't dream up all those partying papers you turned in, that you really lived like that. I should have FLUNKED you! Was that true?" I had to assure her that yes, indeed, though there were some embellishments here and there, that's how I lived.
My 49th birthday was Nov. 10, and perhaps the best gift I received that day was this email from her:
Yo, Surfer Dude,
You do realize, I am sure, that today actually marks the first day of your5th decade on the planet, or in street language, "over the hill." The good news is that it's pretty sunny here on the other side! We built a home onOverhill Drive! So how are you celebrating your special day? Dad whipping you up a chocolate cake? Girls hanging on each arm? Hanging ten for old time's sake? You have been to the abyss and back, dear boy, and I call you a true survivor. This should be a wild day for you ("wild" in the sense of the wind in your hair and the trees growing up around you). Today I celebrate you! You are one of a kind. Don't ever change.
BJ
Don't forget the soldiers today. Think good thoughts, or pray for their protection.
During the Skylab experiment, a local writer stayed in a Winnebago the whole time that Skylab was manned, and we often spent late nights sitting on the grass outside the Winnie talking to him. His name was Jerry Green. I think he's with some bigtime newspaper now, sports writing. He does that very well, too.
Often as not, though, somewhere in the report would be something like, "and the girl I was hitting on earlier was lying on a couch passed out. I stood over her, brushed the hair back out of her face, gave a sigh, and headed home. A girl I knew promised to watch over her and get her home safely."
Or, "I suddenly felt this need to breathe in more oxygen than was available in the house. Smoke was streaming around in various shades of gray, some so thick you couldn't see through it. It was actually beautiful to look at, the way it flowed in patterns, but it wasn't conducive to clear thought. I got outside, leaned against the door, took a few deep breaths, a huge hit off my Heineken, threw the bottle in the trash, and walked down the sand pathway to the beach. In the bright moonlight, I found a torn plastic sail some sailboarder had abandoned, spread it out, and sat down. I lit a cigarette, typical good thinking from someone oxygen-deprived. As I stubbed it out, I felt a profound sense of sleepiness, so I lay down on the sail.
I woke up with the sense of almost floating. I half-opened an eye, and two obese and obnoxious girls, both redheads, were busily working on undressing me. One had my hips and lower back off the ground, holding me up by the belt while trying to figure out how to unbuckle my belt. Her co-conspirator was tugging on my pants. I knew, at last, why I've always liked belt buckles so confusing that James Bond would have trouble with them."
Both true incidents. Not a lot of creativity to it, just remember and record. That's what she was ticked about. That and being fond enough of me to hope I'd live to see twenty. She wasn't the first to tell me I have a talent for writing, but she was the first to push, pound, yell, red-line and demand that I actually CREATE.
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