Last night Jesse and I went out and saw two local musical acts, the Gora Gora Orkestar and The Widow’s Bane. Both groups are completely fucking awesome and comprised of incredibly talented musicians. I was going to save this write-up until I’d finished the chapter I’m working on, but then I turned on my The Widow’s Bane album and was like, I need to write about these folks right now.
The Gora Gora Orkestar was the sort of opening act you wouldn’t mind being the main event. Holy shit. They had maybe ten or eleven people onstage, playing everything from an accordion (one of my all time favorites) to an antique flugelhorn. There was also an alto horn (!) and a euphonium (!!), as well as instruments no less pleasing for being more common, like a deliciously-noodly clarinet and an alto sax. Also a tuba. Yes! A visit to their MySpace, where you can hear them play, would be a waste of no one’s time. I think my favorite one up there is “Mundo Cocek,” which, I must say, for all it being a rad recording, is not a patch on how wonderful the Gora Gora were live. These folks are the jam. They reminded me quite a bit of my all-time-favorite band, A Hawk and a Hacksaw, who I saw in Denver last October. Woo! I am so totally stoked these folks are local, I plan on attending more shows in the future because if there’s one thing I love, it’s eclectic Balkan music. The super-neat thing about the Gora Gora is that their original compositions were very bit as good as the standards, so I can’t wait to see what all they do in the future.
Seeing the Gora Gora would’ve made my night by itself, but seeing The Widow’s Bane right elevated the experience from incredible to transcendental. These guys. I guess what I should warn people about right up front is that these dudes are pretty dangerous–they are, by their own admission, the Devil’s house band, all carnivorous zombies out to extract revenge upon the wives that murdered them and anyone else that gets in their way. So be careful. The violinist in particular, I’m told–a fellow by the name of Rictus Corpum–made a deal with the Dark Lord that turned his blushing bride into the violin he plays, “so he could control her whining, instead of the other way around.” Yeah. Again, eclectic instruments are always a good decision, and The Widow’s Bane had the aforementioned violin, an upright bass, an amplified acoustic guitar, an accordion (!), a glockenspiel (!!), and the drummer also played banjo. WHAT. Yes!
Their music is up for a listen on Google/lala and on their MySpace. Number one favorite of mine would be “Burns” which made me all misty-eyed when they played it last night. The MySpace has the advantage of containing tracks from their CD and two live recordings–one a video of them covering “Sixteen Tons” which they did last night, and also “The Wedding Song” which I hope is on their forthcoming album which I will buy the moment I hear it’s out. Geez. Joking aside, I adore how complete their stage personas are–the lead singer in particular takes his business of being a zombie-pirate-guitar-player really seriously, and nothing is more awesome than watching people who are into performing (and genuinely good at it) perform. The best thing about The Widow’s Bane is that I would go and see them do their stuff even if they weren’t spectacular musicians, because they have fantastic stage presence. Fortunately, however, they are a spectacle for the eyes, the ears, and the mind. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful. What else can I say? Just, I suppose, that it makes me happy to know that since by every possible standard I’m up for damnation upon my death. . . and at least now I’m assured the music in Hell will be really fucking good.
Jesse linked me to this review of Running with the Pack, from prolific and awesome reviewer Nancy (AKA temporaryworlds on LJ) in which. . . OK, you know what? This is my first sale and my first review and so I’m going to selfishly pull out the pertinent quote and just put it up in all its glory:
“In Sheep’s Clothing” is a sci-fi/dystopian short story about the downfall of our society, and what happens after that. Reading this story reminded me a lot of “The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson. The werewolf aspect is not obvious at first, but it’s done quite well. Tanzer has created a fantastic voice in “In Sheep’s Clothing,” and the twist at the end is really well done. If you’re going to only read one story in this collection, read this one. I think it’s my favorite. Five stars.
Tag this under “totally thrilled” because. . . well, OK. I mean, you read it.
Nancy reviews each and every story in the anthology and gives it an overall ranking of four and a half stars (which means, according to her system, “very enjoyable book. Any flaws were minimal and did not diminish enjoyment). I have to say, from what I’ve read so far, I have to agree. In particular, I have to say that Jeffrey Ford’s “The Beautiful Gelreesh” and Jesse Bullington’s “Blamed for Trying to Live” are worth the cover price alone.
I’ve been holding back on talking about RwtP until I finished the anthology, but I had to jump the gun as a result of this review and thus am certainly neglecting some worthy stories. But, uh, I couldn’t resist.
Thanks to the efforts of two awesome people, my site is pretty much up and running! First off, my dawgg Mason set up the initial WP site, and he is awesome and dealt with my complete craziness and utter ignorance of what I needed or wanted. You should go check out his charity.
The absolutely gorgeous banner is courtesy Stephen at Reakt Design. Stephen’s work speaks for itself but he is also a super-nice dude which made working with him fun on the “omg look at my adorable site!” level as well as the “hey you are a fun dude, too!” level. Woo!
Apparently Boulder (my fair city) is doing its part to ensure that no business trips to Arizona can or will be taken by city employees. Regardless of how I feel about the ban, I must say I enjoy the way they’re going about it. To wit, this email exchange (procured by my local newspaper under the Colorado Open Records Act) between a Mr. Markewich, president of the Markewich Financial Group (located in Colorado Springs), and Boulder City Councilman Macon Cowles.
Mr. Markewich’s initial email: I am outraged that the city of Boulder would waste time denigrating the state of Arizona’s attempt to control what is going on within its own borders. We are asked for identification upon boarding planes, using credit cards and other daily activities. The (Arizona) law does nothing except give the police the ability to identify illegal aliens.
The response, from Mr. Cowles: Jeff, you must not be much of a Buffs fan! We’ll miss not having you visit Boulder. If you are looking for a good substitute destination for you and your family, I recommend Focus on the Family, which is quite close to where you live and work. I know they have a lot of white people working there. I am not sure where they get the lettuce for their salads, though.
Thanks, Boulder City Councilman Macon Cowles. And thanks for your quip that you’d been receiving “hate mail” from “people who think racial profiling is just great.”
Apparently some folks in my state (like Republican state Senator Dave Schultheis–also from Colorado Springs, which is, also, the home of Focus on the Family, the organization mentioned above that brings the world such amazingly coherent theories of transgenderism as (and I paraphrase), “because in Genesis God separates light and dark and male and female, transgender people and those who support them are deconstructing God’s order”) are unhappy about the Republic of Boulder’s general attitude toward Arizona, and have called for a boycott of Boulder because we act as a “sanctuary city” for illegal immigrants. I am quite fine with this, as it means more seats will be available at my coffee shop that has the cool biodegradable cups and fewer assholes shoving me out of the way as they try to get to the samples of roquefort-stuffed olives at Whole Foods.
I do wonder, however, as Boulder is more obviously a sanctuary for Objectivists, not illegal aliens (at said coffee shop there is someone who has a car not only sporting a bumper sticker asking “Who is John Galt?” but also has the vanity plate “SHRUGED” of all things, and even if he/she isn’t getting a latte when I am, I see at least one Galt-themed bumper sticker a day around town, on average), if there will be any cases of “wingnut flight” in the area (wingnut flight, if you’re unfamiliar, is a social phenomenon far less common than white flight, studies say, since there is nothing a wingnut likes to do than dig in his or her heels over an issue). Probably not. After all, with the property values being what they are it’s safer to bide and sell when the economy recovers, and I’m pretty sure most folks in Boulder are still genuinely shocked when they see a non-white person. . . even with the city being a “sanctuary city” for immigrants.
I suppose, though, there’s a chance these folks are talking about illegal immigrants from England? Or Germany? Or Switzerland? Maybe so. It’s a problem. There’s so much to attract them! Like the REI, and plenty of good hiking.
A few films I’ve watched over the past few weeks have inspired me to break the radio silence on the blog. That, and the fact that apparently my awesome uncle Glenn got his copy of Running with the Pack that he had pre-ordered, so yay! I’m going to talk about the book more extensively after I’ve read a few more of the stories so for now: it is beautiful (I got my contributor copy), it is filled with awesome stories. Woo!
Sherlock Holmes: I went down to visit my parents recently and had a really good time doing all sorts of things, including watching a few movies. Of the three we watched, Sherlock Holmes was the only I hadn’t seen previously, and I have something to say about this film: it is fucking awesome. I say this having read every story/novel Doyle wrote about Sherlock Holmes, as well as a few spinoffs. Honesty compels me to note, specifically, that whilst in the throes of an early teen obsession with The Phantom of the Opera I read a mashup involving Holmes and the Phantom solving crimes? Or something? Anyways, that book wasn’t so great, but this movie is amazing. John was ambivalent about it; my parents were baffled but amused (I think). I loved it. It had just about everything I want in a movie: explosions, vaguely steampunk sets, occult weirdness, homoerotic tension, Robert Downey Jr. with his shirt off punching people sweatily. YES! It certainly took its liberties with the Doyle character, but I’m OK with that. I love Basil Rathbone and Brent Spiner aping Basil Rathbone as much as the next nerd, but it was really nice to see something different. Downey Jr.’s Holmes is just as insightful and brilliant as more canonical representations of Holmes, but I really liked the decision to play up the fact that Mr. “The Game Is Afoot” is kind of a fucking mess: drug-addled, reclusive, emotionally stunted, immature, messy, mixed up over Irene Adler and Watson, and willing to use both his tremendous intellect and tremendous strength to, say, beat people up viciously. Sure, it’s a big dumb blockbuster, but it kept me engaged visually and mentally: like the Star Trek reboot, there is plenty to make fans cheer without delivering the same old same old. The dynamic between Holmes and Watson is excellent, the decision to turn Irene Adler into a steampunk Fujiko amused me, the action sequences and patented Guy Ritchie “let’s speed things up and slow them down to make them look more awesome” was frankly dazzling. So, so good.
Gentlemen Broncos: Jesse convinced me to watch the latest from the Napoleon Dynamite team. While I thought Napoleon Dynamite was brilliant I disliked Nacho Libre intensely, so I was a little suspicious. No need: it was pretty fucking rad. The A.V. Club panned it for reasons passing understanding. . . well, I suppose they are right about the lack of plot, but I don’t really care if aesthetics trump action (I just re-watched 300 on blu-ray, after all). It’s especially good if you love pulp sci-fi and/or visit the Good Show, Sir! site once in a while (or more often). Gentlemen Broncos is worth watching for a number of reasons: the dude from Flight of the Concords does this spot-on Tim Curry impression, as well as doing an amazing job holding court at a broke-down writers’ workshop; Sam Rockwell plays Bronco/Brutus, a sci-fi hero in a series of cutaway scenes with simply amazing visuals.
A Nightmare on Elm Street (Orig. and Remake): I had, seriously, made it to 28 without seeing A Nightmare on Elm Street. I’d seen parts and been alarmed by a too-young Johnny Depp, but that was it. Raechel has an obsession bordering on the unwholesome with the series (“I’ve seen the original probably over 100 times,” she said, and then added “and the rest of the films probably 8 or 9 times apiece.”), so she was super-stoked to see the remake. After copping to my ignorance, we watched the original last Thursday, which I found genuinely enjoyable, and then the remake on Friday, which I was somewhat less enthusiastic about. I thought some things about the remake were OK. . . but the decision to cast Rorschach as Freddy made the experience kinda surreal. Jesse and John spent probably 15 minutes after the film trading lines pretending to be a mashup of the two characters to my delight (“Saw a dead teenager today. This city’s going to hell.” That kind of thing). I guess what impressed me most about the original was how groundbreaking the special effects were and how good they still looked (but I will forever curse overuse of CGI in films); the new one, by contrast, pushed no envelopes. . . that said, there are some really nice visuals. I dunno. It’s just that thing with horror where my mind rebells at utter nonsense. Not perhaps so much things like “he was burned to death and so comes back to kill them in their dreams” which, admittedly, makes no fucking sense whatsoever, but I’m willing to suspend disbelief for occult weirdness (or gorgeous aesthetics, like in the aforementioned 300). I mean more how they decided in this remake (spoilers, I suppose) to have Freddy be. . . the gardener at a preschool? OK, sure, he looks like a creep but whatevs. . . then we get to the fact that he lives? Under? The preschool? In a dungeon with a dirty mattress and drawings done by the kids? Sure! Whatever! And a parent who participated in the mob justice administered on Freddy (where? This. . . uh. . . warehouse! Sure!) admits to never finding the kiddie porn cave or whatever, but two sleep-deprived teens find it with a flashlight in like. . . three seconds? Because they moved a corkboard? OK! Sure! Meh. That kind of thing just makes my brain move too much on its own to be really scared by any of the content of the film. I mean, it’s easy to make me jump–I’m the twitchiest motherfucker imaginable–but I need more convincing acting, dialogue, and plotting to really scare me. Or maybe not, as the Tom Cruise War of the Worlds gave me nightmares for months, but whatevs. I am irrationally frightened of alien invasion. SHUT UP!
That’s all, folks! Except for the tremendously wonderful news that my dad’s been feeling pretty OK during his chemo (he emailed me to say he’d eaten pizza and salad for dinner one night! GO DAD!) and the fact that I’ve written damn near close to half a novel in three weeks, things have been quiet. Probably going to see Kick Ass and the new Iron Man soon. I’ll review when/if that happens. Much love everyone!
Well! News! OMG! “Films of High Adventure” has been picked up by Fantasy Magazine! Now, on the last Wednesday of each month, Jesse and I will run roughshod over the childhoods of many a film-watcher for the Fantasy audience. Our first go-round for FM will be Legend, so fear not, we will indeed deal with the devil soon enough. We’ll still be running the column weekly on our blogs, but our more fantasy-movie fodder will be over there, and our fantasy/sci-fi/adventure/whatever movies will be right here where you’re used to, save we’ll be doing this nonsense on Wednesdays to match up with the Fantasy slot. Anyways: ONWARD!
The Film: Tank Girl (1995)
Also Known As: Lori Petty, Lori Petty, Oh Lori Petty (2010)
Also AKA as: The Film that Ended Multiple Hollywood Careers (1995)
WHOSE RESPONSIBLE THIS??? Original comic book by Jamie Hewlett and Alan Martin, screenplay by Tedi Sarafian (the Christopher Lambert/David Arquette picture The Road Killers). Direction by Rachel Talalay, who has done nothing but television since—a waste of cinematic talent, as her previous two films, Freddy’s Dead: The Final Nightmare and Ghost in the Machine, were nothing short of. . . well, two films that got made in the early 90s. Tank Girl also marked the last real starring cinematic role for Lori Petty—surely it must be a coincidence that the director, screenwriter, and star didn’t work in pictures much after this. Awesome soundtrack by a mid-90s teenager’s compact disc collection—L7, Veruca Salt, Hole, Bush, Bjork, Belly (Molly still owns both albums to this day), Portishead, Stomp (!). Oh, and also Ice-T, Devo, Joan Jett, Iggy Pop, Isaac Hayes, and on and on and on—definitely from an era where the runtime of the soundtrack was roughly the same length as the movie itself. Not-at-all-hammy acting from Lori Petty (A League of Their Own), Malcolm McDowell (more of a Star Trek: Generations performance than A Clockwork Orange here), Ice-T (uh, Johnny Mnemonic, Law and Order: SVU), Iggy Pop as a pedophile listed in the credits as “Rat Face,” and an adorably earnest Naomi Watts (Mulholland Drive, I <3 Huckabees).
Quote: “Lock up your sons!”
Alternate quote: “What the hell is that?!” “I think it’s Cole Porter, sir.”
First viewing by Molly: Gawd. I saw a spot with Lori Petty on some crap morning news-lite program wherein she recounted how she got the part: she was, allegedly, sent the script but instead of calling to say she’d take the role she shaved her head and burst into the office of the casting director and screeched “I am Tank Girl!” I fell promptly in love. My parents, however, refused to take me to a rated-R movie in the theater, but the moment it came out on VHS I rented it, so, what? 1995? 1996? Better question: why do I remember this chain of events so vividly? Oh, because Tank Girl is, in all seriousness, probably the most influential film I saw as a teenager. Feel free to take from that what you will.
First viewing by Jesse: I missed it in theatres but ordered it on pay-per-view.
Most recent viewing by both: Two weeks ago.
Impact on Molly’s childhood development: Severe. As I said, this was probably number one for Teenage Molly. (Number one for Small Times Molly will be our first spot over at Fantasy Magazine, incidentally.) But anyways: this film—nay, to young Molly, this was no mere film, but a cinematic masterpiece. I was enchanted from the very first moments, when the credits open with stills from the comic book; the first lines where Lori Petty is riding a weird post-apocalyptic ox or something, omg. Rapture! Her punky, homemade style; her shaved head (which it took me until college to imitate, but I was not a bold teenager); her attitude! Her filthy mouth! Her willingness (and ability) to use her sexuality to defeat opponents! Her remorseless inclination to just straight-up murder bad dudes; her really bizarre relationship with Booga the kangaroo-man! I loved Jet Girl, too (in subsequent viewings Jet became not the dark horse in the running but the Star of the Show for me, incidentally); actually, I loved everything. To be perhaps too serious about this, it was a model of femininity I had not encountered previously, and it fucked my mind in the tender, loving way a sheltered 14-15 year old girl should have her mind fucked [Jesse says: . . . Jesse doesn’t really have anything to say to that, actually]. I actually watched it the first time in two separate viewings as I started it with my parents when I rented it; they turned it off with the quickness, but I finished it the next day and there was no turning back. Thus I became the lone champion of this film in high school (or perhaps the one person who’d seen it) and showed it to all my bestest friends (one friend and I had a Malcolm McDowell double-feature as she’d never seen A Clockwork Orange, either; another loved it so much that we both went dressed as Tank Girl for Halloween one year). I also, and I just now remembered this, used Tank Girl for an art project I had in like, maybe 8th grade, wherein I had to design a movie poster for an existing film. So, yeah.
Impact on Jesse’s childhood development: Moderate. It got me into Bjork and L7, and I was deeply in love with both Tank and Jet for some time afterward. I remember thinking there could have been more animation (I was that kind of youth).
Random youtube clip that hasn’t been taken down for copyright infringement:
Molly’s thoughts prior to re-watching: I was super-excited, as I always am when I dig this movie out of my closet or wherever it lives (yes, I own it on DVD). I had mentioned a few of my favorite parts to Jesse and his baffled “that happens?!” reaction made me happy because it was clear he’d be experiencing the wonder all over again for the first time.
Jesse’s thoughts prior to re-watching: Molly’s played the soundtrack on roadtrips before, so I knew that would be going on—“Army of Me” is still one of my favorite Bjork songs, so I knew it would have that going for it, at least. And hey, I remembered enjoying it, and between Malcolm McDowell gobbling scenery and Ice-T dressed up as a kangaroo monster I assumed it would be good for a dopey dose of camp shenanigans. I was also, truth be told, curious to see the objects of my teenage double-crush again.
Molly’s thoughts post-viewing: I vowed to be as critical as any other film we’ve done else with this movie, and I will, even though it is a rather bittersweet experience for me. I had very mixed feelings this time. I really can’t watch Tank Girl without part of me reverting to the utterly enchanted, socially-awkward, bespectacled, acne-riddled, shy, Pern-obsessed kid I was, and experiencing that sort of regression makes it difficult to be truly objective. But here it is: this movie is terrible. I understand more now why my parents turned it off, honestly. To young Molly, Tank Girl herself had a transgressive attitude and a bad-ass personality; as an adult, I am increasingly able to tear away the veil of childhood and realize that Tank’s personality is essentially a collection of one-liners and mid-90s outfits. Not that I don’t love one-liners and mid-90s outfits, but watching this movie these days leaves me wanting more—wanting to see what I saw as a kid. I type this, listening to the soundtrack (which has bridged the gap from CD to iTunes; in fact, it was one of the first I transferred over back in the day), getting, truth be told, a little sentimental. But as an adult, I see more of this movie’s flaws, I guess. Primary offense: the amount of attention the film pays to Tank’s physical body as an object of sexual desire works to strip her agency in certain ways; she is both subject and object, and while I believe that is OK for films to do, this film handles it badly most of the time. Counter-argument: I still harbor an unalloyed love of the scene (not on YouTube, unfortunately), where Tank is in the dressing room of Liquid Silver, the whorehouse, and a hologram is telling her how best to dress to be alluring to men. Tank, of course, ignores the advice to stroll out of the experience with a ton of earrings in her cartilage, wearing filthy combat boots and a slinky black negligee as a dress, holding a giant gun and smoking a cigarette whereupon she intones, “lock up your sons!” OMG. Secondary offences include, just to name a few, the sorta-kinda rape-revenge plot hovering around Jet (snooze), having Jet’s kangaroo love interest (an interesting statement in and of itself) make many sexually-inappropriate remarks and then actually hump her [Jesse says: seconded. I fucking hated that d-bag ‘roo, and not just cause he was macking on Jet], giving Tank a name (she doesn’t have one in the comic book, which I read so often it pretty much fell apart), other things.
But you know what? FUCK THAT NOISE. This film is awesome! I retract my earlier statement. Jesus! The scene where the adorable moppet uses her “danger ball” to send a host of spikes through Iggy Pop’s pedophile hands! The scene where Malcolm McDowell makes an unsatisfactory general walk across a floor filled with broken glass particles and then it is revealed HE HIMSELF IS BAREFOOT OMG HE IS SUCH A VILLIAN! The montage where Jet and Tank re-paint their vehicles to fit the mid-90s aesthetic of the film! The scene where Tank Girl tells the aforementioned moppet not to call people “butt smear” because “it’s not becoming; say asshole, or dickwad, instead”! The celebration sequence where the head kangaroo-dude (who is, incomprehensibly, a reincarnation of Jack Kerouac) plays the saxophone and recites the following poem:
Laugh, you butterfly
That dances in the mud
Laugh, you piece of dental floss
You burn, me toast.
Laugh, you pig that flies in the sky
With rainbow twinky fluid
And three litres of high-octane petrol.
AAAAHHHH! YES! YES! I AM TANK GIRL!
Jesse’s thoughts post-viewing: Welllll, this was one that didn’t hold up as much as I had hoped, and I doubt I’ll be able to match Molly’s enthusiastic response, but here goes. The plot, when it periodically pokes its head out of the sand, is terminally stupid—why does Malcolm McDowell do what he does? Why does anyone do what they do? Baffling. Perhaps it’s a good thing, then, that the plot spends most of the film hibernating and we are instead treated to a kaleidoscopic series of random episodes and inappropriate sexual humor (sample dialogue: “You gotta think about it like the first time you got laid. You gotta go: ‘Daddy, are you sure this is right?’”) As a kid I wanted more animation but upon re-watching it I think a good balance was struck between stills from the comic, live action footage, and the animated bits:
Director Talalay apparently did not get final cut—word on the desert is that the original cut didn’t have quite so much Tankgirl-as-sexual-object stuff, but the footage that’s there speaks for itself. There’s also no getting around the fact that the movie stars Lori Petty in full-on Lori Petty mode, and while I’m down with that some people will most certainly not be. Then there’s Ice-T in kangaroo makeup, which seems suitable punishment for his tricking me into watching the execrable Alyssa Milano vehicle Body Count—it had the same name as his metal band and starred the bastard, so I had every right to expect something more than a dull Alyssa Milano vehicle…right? Hey, say what you will about the ice man, he did good in New Jack City, though he was no Pookie.
Although I didn’t remember much of Tank Girl I at least knew what I was getting into—I cannot begin to imagine the effect it might have on someone who had made it to the year 2010 without being exposed. Incredulity would be a word that might come to mind. Perhaps the most damning element of the film is how good it could have been. I’m not really familiar with the source comic but given what’s on display here stylistically something could have been cobbled together plot-wise beyond the brain-dead chain of events that propels the action and offensive jokes. And this is coming from a fan of the Cannonball Run. Still, it has some amazing scenes and a fun atmosphere, and the exact dopey campiness I was anticipating. Plus it has Naomi Watts and Lori Petty changing outfits every two minutes, which is good news if you’re into crazy fashion or post-apocalyptic bombshells.
High Points: The costumes. The soundtrack.The willingness of the cast to participate in the silliest scenes imaginable. Case in point:
Final Verdict: 15-year old Molly votes this Best Film of the Millennium. 28-year old Jesse shakes his head and laments what could have been.
Next Week (Wednesday): Not sure yet. Feel free to make suggestions!
It’s been a while, so I feel like it’s time for a reasonably thorough update! Fascinating, I’m sure, are the following bullet points, but if you’d rather see pretty pictures, scroll to the bottom for some nature.
I am heading down to Tampa soon, to be with my family. I’m very happy about this, as I haven’t seen them since we heard the news. Though going there/being there will not yield the control I wish I had over this situation, it will be nice to be present.
I have decided, on the advice of folks far wiser than I, to let my Big Project rest a while. I was getting incredibly frustrated with the edits, and ignoring advice to take a break, step away, because I wanted to power through it and get it out to beta-readers, but I felt like I was twiddling my thumbs and maybe making mistakes. I have the first volume wrapped up and tidy, and it’s staying like that for a while. I broke when I realized I was most enthusiastic about the stuff I’d written months and months ago, which needed the most work but felt the freshest, and I was like– oh, well, duh. I haven’t even looked at this section since, when? October? November? So came the self-knowledge (γνῶθι σεαυτόν, Molly) of burnout. At first I was afraid if I left off before it was done enough to show to friends I’d never come back to it, but I know that’s not true because I still catch myself thinking about it and wanting to work on it, but I’m not letting myself.
In lieu of working on the Big Resting Project (BRP), I am tearing ass through the planning stages/beginning writing of a Smaller but still Big Project (SBP) I’ve been itching to work on for months now. I realized I was shooting myself in the foot by not tackling it right goddamn now because the major part of it will take place in Colorado in the spring/summer, which, OMG! I just looked out my window and indeed, it is springtime. Now I get to write from life, which is incredibly fun and rewarding, and I can already tell this project will be leaner, tighter, and infinitely more ridiculous than the BRP. I’ve learned a lot from said BRP and am not rushing into this one headlong without proper planning, proper thoughts on entryways into the novelette, proper understanding of What I Want, length, etc. Unlike other projects, I’ve mapped this out completely, I know where I’m going, I know the wordcount I’m going for, etc. I’m also, as a sort of mental exercise, not doing much book-related research beyond knowing the exact year so it makes sense, knowing a little bit about the premises, that sort of thing. Most of the “research” will be watching movies, actually, since I’m going for a sort of cinematic feel for this project. At any rate, babbling aside, I’ve been having a goddamn blast doing it so far and I’m more in love with it than I’ve maybe ever been with anything I’ve done. Likely this also has to do with the fact that the BRP is on Serious Matters and the SBP is–well, it’s pretty fucking ridiculous. Lulz.
Sooner, rather than later, I’ll be announcing something pretty cool here! So “watch this space” if you care to.
Running with the Pack is coming out sooooooooooooon omg!!
Fucking magnets, how do they work? If you don’t know what I’m talking about, Google that shit. Also, here is this inspirational cartoon on the same subject, for your inspiration of the day:
To round out this post, pictures from my last visit to Estes Park, which was amazing. We went there with friends David and Luke from Tallahassee, and ahhhhhh. Delightful.
me knee-deep in snow standing in the middle of a still iced-over lake
coyote!!
you know you wish you lived AN HOUR FROM THIS LIKE I DO OMG
Odd things have been springing to mind, unbidden, the past few days. I’m pretty sure I know the reason; I’ve been feeling queer in general ever since I got the news. I’ve been really tired, I want to sleep in and go to bed early. I’ve been more on edge emotionally, as well as feeling pretty reclusive. I’ve also felt drained, creatively speaking. I know it will return. Right now I’m more down with cooking meals and cleaning my house and snugging my cats than writing stuff. It’s OK.
But yeah, things springing to mind. I remembered today this weird dream I had while living in Turkey. One afternoon, I’d dozed off doing my Turkish homework, and I dreamed I was at home. My dad was making pizza. When I was a kid, Saturday nights were pizza nights at my house. My dad home-made his own dough, sauce (my job was to find the Bay leaf and pick it out), and it was awesome. We’d watch PBS while he made food, cooking shows and then This Old House. Honestly, to this day, I cannot hear the This Old House theme song without smelling pizza (paging Dr. Pavlov!). In my dream, we were all assembled, John was there, the show was on. When the buzzer went off, I woke up, frightened and disoriented. It was such a real dream, I was shocked to find myself elsewhere.
I don’t know why I remembered this today, but I did.
I know things have been ghost town-ish over here for a while. I haven’t felt much like updating my blog other than the odd ranting screed about a movie, because other stuff has just been too much to talk about. But I feel I should explain my flakiness, my long standing IOUs on correspondence, etc.
My father was just diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic cancer. This is his third time undergoing treatment for cancer. The first two were thyroid, which was described to me as “the sort of cancer you want, if you have cancer.” This is not the case with pancreatic cancer.
I know there are people who read this blog who don’t know my dad–or me, really, other than what I put up here for everyone to see–but I really hope that anyone who sees this could send some positive thoughts his way. He is an amazing guy. I owe so much of who I am to him. He traveled a bunch when I was a kid, but every night he was home he would read to me a chapter of a book, most of which impacted my young psychology, for better or for worse. Mostly for the better. We did The Hobbit, all the Narnia books, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, pretty much every Roald Dahl book in existence (and even some of his short stories for adults, because my dad is awesome like that), the Oz books, tons of Katherine Patterson (kudos for my dad for being totally cool about the scene in Jacob Have I Loved where the narrator gets her period!). He gave me my first book of classical mythology (a gorgeously-illustrated picture book of the more kid-appropriate stories from Ovid’s Metamorphoses). While who I have become as a grown-up is me, unique, the raw materials of my personality and my interests are largely due to my dad. And thankfully, those raw materials were pretty fucking rad.
We haven’t always gotten along perfectly; we’re too much alike for that–stubborn as mules, as set in our ways as cats, and probably a few other animal analogies. While that stubbornness often frustrated me as a kid, I know it will help him during the upcoming months, and so I’m grateful it’s as much a part of him as his ever-present Magnum P.I.-style mustache.
So, yeah. If I owe you an email or have acted oddly towards you in the last few weeks, it’s because we kinda knew about this a while ago, but have kept it on the quiet. Today was the prognosis meeting with his oncologist, and now that it’s official, I feel OK mentioning it here.
Just to put a face with all of this, here is my kick-ass dad looking handsome and in love with my gorgeous mom, at my wedding in 2006:
