My "Suburban Psycho" script that I optioned last year was just produced today in Los Angeles! I still can't believe it; it feels so surreal. I know it's not a huge Hollywood production, but it's my very first and will be shown on channel KXLA. Perhaps most importantly, I will receive a DVD of the production as well as a check. The check won't be enough to do any damage, but it'll keep me in computer paper for a year. I can't wait to see how the actors interpret my words. After I see it, I'm going to have a screening party with my friends. Not to boast, but this is something I've worked supadupa hard for and I want to share it with those who understand my passion.
Of course, as soon as I found out the awesome news, I emailed the Delafantastika Street Team (they're not really a street team; just my homies). My former editor from Hawaii emailed me back with congratulations and told me that I was "doing Hawaii proud". I have to admit, that got me a little misty.
Another reason this production is so important to me is it fulfills one of my two writing goals for 2008. As a refresher: my two goals were to a) have a stage play or screenplay produced and b) get an agent. No luck on the stage play yet, but hell if I didn't get a production! And you know what? I'm not even going to worry about agents right now. Right now, in this moment, I'm going to allow myself to bask in the knowledge that I'm doing the damned thing.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Monday, February 25, 2008
flu musings
Have you ever had the kind of diarrhea that just keeps coming so that by the end of the whole thing, you're basically peeing out of your butt? That's where the day finds me. After several hours of shooting brown water from my tuchas, I took the day off so I could rest my weary and very dehydrated body. Of course, my son was sick at the same time I was, so the day wasn't quite as fruitful as I'd hoped. Still, I got some writing done, watched a couple of sitcoms for research and have now retired to the office to prep my submission mailings for tomorrow.
UPS bastards didn't bring my Hollywood Directory. I should stop calling them bastards because I checked my receipt today and got a humbling surprise. As it turns out, your friendly neighborhood cheapskate opted for UPS Ground shipping to shave a whole $2 off the shipping price. So if I don't get my directory before Chinese Democracy hits the record store (or China, for that matter), I've got nobody to blame but me.
My newest story is now on offer in the "Delfantastika Elsewhere" section to the right, just in case you haven't read it yet. The acceptance letters have been slow coming, but I promise to update when necessary.
Did you know that "Mac" means "son of" in Scotland? That's why so many surnames start with Mac there. MacDonald, MacHenry, MacMillan... It's truly amazing what one can learn when one is nearly bedbound and the remote is waaaaaaaaayyyyyy the hell across the room.
UPS bastards didn't bring my Hollywood Directory. I should stop calling them bastards because I checked my receipt today and got a humbling surprise. As it turns out, your friendly neighborhood cheapskate opted for UPS Ground shipping to shave a whole $2 off the shipping price. So if I don't get my directory before Chinese Democracy hits the record store (or China, for that matter), I've got nobody to blame but me.
My newest story is now on offer in the "Delfantastika Elsewhere" section to the right, just in case you haven't read it yet. The acceptance letters have been slow coming, but I promise to update when necessary.
Did you know that "Mac" means "son of" in Scotland? That's why so many surnames start with Mac there. MacDonald, MacHenry, MacMillan... It's truly amazing what one can learn when one is nearly bedbound and the remote is waaaaaaaaayyyyyy the hell across the room.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
what's my DJ's name?
What's my DJ's name? Cut Creator!
It's been a Georgia minute since I've written,so let me fill you in on all the juicy juice. I've been a submitting fool this last week, mailing off no less than three play scripts to three different contests and/or playhouses open to unsolicited submissions. Unsolicited, by the way, means you can just send them your play without going through the query letter dance. The unsolicited submission is my favorite; it bolsters my submission quota.
For those of you who may not know, I am governed by self-imposed submission quotas. I keep monthly stats and try to beat those stats the next year. Last year, I ended February with eight queries. This February, I'm poised to end the month with no less than twelve. That's a coup. Actually, a coup would be to have an agent, but beggars can't be represented.
Speaking of agents, I have ordered my new Hollywood Representation Directory. It should be here any day now (hear that, you UPS bastards?) and I'm a little stoked. I need to see which junior screenplay agents have stepped on the scene and who also worship at the altar of the unsolicited submission. Last week, I called five agencies in Los Angeles. I got four answering machines and one hang up. Yep, you heard me right. I got halfway through the ol' speech when *click*. Guess they're not open to new clients...
This week, I also had an idea for another play. It's called "Easy Listening". I'm about halfway to figuring out what exactly the play is about- usually the characters will let me know as I'm writing the abstract. I'll keep you posted on how all that goes, too.
As for queries/agents/playhouses, I haven't heard anything else. After the double one-two punch from the BBC and the KK Agency (can't say the name), there's nothing screenplay-wise out there. I've allowed myself to focus on playwriting, but now it's time to get back in the game. Time to make some calls, rattle some cages, beat those bushes. As much as I hate it, it's time to get back on the phone.
*click*
It's been a Georgia minute since I've written,so let me fill you in on all the juicy juice. I've been a submitting fool this last week, mailing off no less than three play scripts to three different contests and/or playhouses open to unsolicited submissions. Unsolicited, by the way, means you can just send them your play without going through the query letter dance. The unsolicited submission is my favorite; it bolsters my submission quota.
For those of you who may not know, I am governed by self-imposed submission quotas. I keep monthly stats and try to beat those stats the next year. Last year, I ended February with eight queries. This February, I'm poised to end the month with no less than twelve. That's a coup. Actually, a coup would be to have an agent, but beggars can't be represented.
Speaking of agents, I have ordered my new Hollywood Representation Directory. It should be here any day now (hear that, you UPS bastards?) and I'm a little stoked. I need to see which junior screenplay agents have stepped on the scene and who also worship at the altar of the unsolicited submission. Last week, I called five agencies in Los Angeles. I got four answering machines and one hang up. Yep, you heard me right. I got halfway through the ol' speech when *click*. Guess they're not open to new clients...
This week, I also had an idea for another play. It's called "Easy Listening". I'm about halfway to figuring out what exactly the play is about- usually the characters will let me know as I'm writing the abstract. I'll keep you posted on how all that goes, too.
As for queries/agents/playhouses, I haven't heard anything else. After the double one-two punch from the BBC and the KK Agency (can't say the name), there's nothing screenplay-wise out there. I've allowed myself to focus on playwriting, but now it's time to get back in the game. Time to make some calls, rattle some cages, beat those bushes. As much as I hate it, it's time to get back on the phone.
*click*
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
my inner Limbaugh
I'm beyond sick of fat people! It's their flipping fault that I go into a Target and can't find my size anymore. It's not like the powers-that-be in retail have decided to stop manufacturing size 4s. Quite to the contrary. My size 4 is now a size 0 because we don't want to hurt the feelings of the bigguns. Hurt em, I say! If you're not trying to do anything about your situation, then it's your own damned fault. Stop ruining my shopping experience.
Boo-hoo, the piggies whine! I’m going to wear my medical bracelet that says I have FFS “Fat Fucker Syndrome”. Pay for my diabetes, creaking joints and other self-inflicted ailments with socialized health care. So what if couldn’t push away from the table and now my butt cheeks hang down the back of my thighs like a set of fucking flapjacks?
Boo-hoo, the piggies whine! I’m going to wear my medical bracelet that says I have FFS “Fat Fucker Syndrome”. Pay for my diabetes, creaking joints and other self-inflicted ailments with socialized health care. So what if couldn’t push away from the table and now my butt cheeks hang down the back of my thighs like a set of fucking flapjacks?
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
another rejection
Got the rejection I've been waiting for this evening- the big time Hollywood agent that decided that my romantic comedy wasn't nearly as romantic or comedic as I originally thought. All this rejection is why I need my surgery. I have no talent, no prospects, no nothing. You're looking at a person who is not particularly smart or funny or witty or good at much at all. In fact, the only thing I'm halfway decent at is looking good. So, if I'm going to look good, then why not go full throttle? If I have to face myself in every morning, I can take seeing a failure, but not a fat failure.
lose weight, gain confidence
The consult went great, thanks for asking. The procedure will take less than an hour, I'll be put to "twilight sleep" and be back on my feet in a couple of days. My husband threw our bathroom scale in the trash last night while I slept. It's taking every fiber of my being not to run down to the dumpster and dig that little beastie out. It was flawed and it mocked me, but it was mine. Goodbye *sniff sniff* old friend.
Tonight we're taking my ungrateful son to see Linkin Park. It was a Christmas present that he has since proven himself unworthy of. Wow, ending sentences in prepositions. Literacy, thou art missed!
Usually, this blog would contain a lot more, but I'm going to sign off in the interest of getting some honest-to-mergetroid writing done. Originally, I'd planned to complete episode four of DT this weekend, but this didn't happen, so I've gotta go back and try again. And that's what it's all about in the end, right? Getting back on that horse and trying again. Of course, it'll be so much easier to get on that horse being a couple pounds lighter, too, eh? Ka-chow!
Tonight we're taking my ungrateful son to see Linkin Park. It was a Christmas present that he has since proven himself unworthy of. Wow, ending sentences in prepositions. Literacy, thou art missed!
Usually, this blog would contain a lot more, but I'm going to sign off in the interest of getting some honest-to-mergetroid writing done. Originally, I'd planned to complete episode four of DT this weekend, but this didn't happen, so I've gotta go back and try again. And that's what it's all about in the end, right? Getting back on that horse and trying again. Of course, it'll be so much easier to get on that horse being a couple pounds lighter, too, eh? Ka-chow!
Monday, February 18, 2008
Lake- Big Lake
Hertzliche Geburtstag, Molly Ringwald! Today is America's favorite teenager's birthday. I don't care that she's about eighty-five years old, to me she will forever be the girl who pined over Jake Ryan and who brought sushi to detention.
Today's a short blog, as I am positively teeming with creativity this morning. I did want to tell you that the legion of haters against Delafantastika has grown. It seems that nobody wants me to get this surgery. All together now: FUCK EM. My neighbor weighed in on the issue yesterday. People get so used to you being a certain way, that when you make moves to change, all hell breaks loose. That's their problem, not mine.
Today's a short blog, as I am positively teeming with creativity this morning. I did want to tell you that the legion of haters against Delafantastika has grown. It seems that nobody wants me to get this surgery. All together now: FUCK EM. My neighbor weighed in on the issue yesterday. People get so used to you being a certain way, that when you make moves to change, all hell breaks loose. That's their problem, not mine.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
back in the saddle
Talk about the shortest retirement in recorded history! After the soul-draining, blood-letting, confidence shattering experience with the BBC yesterday, I'm back at the old keyboard researching markets, prepping submissions and, of course, creating. Besides the BBC, I still have a few big irons in the fire.
Iron 1: Hollywood agent reading my romantic comedy
Iron 2: Nickelodeon Fellowship
Iron 3: The umptisquat number of playwriting contests/festivals I have entered across the country.
Speaking of playwriting festivals, the results for the one in Washington, D.C. were supposed to be posted yesterday to the website, but they hadn't been posted as of last night. I'll check again and get back with you.
As an aside, I'm wearing a new shade of lipstick this morning. I can't remember what it's called; I won it at a Mary Kay event last weekend. When I first put it on, I looked a tad "To Wong Foo", but it's growing on me. It's just a little more pink than I'm used to. Of course, your girl's been wearing the same shade of lippy since the first George Bush was in office. Uh-huh. Like Bob Dylan once garbled, "The times, they are a-changin'".
Iron 1: Hollywood agent reading my romantic comedy
Iron 2: Nickelodeon Fellowship
Iron 3: The umptisquat number of playwriting contests/festivals I have entered across the country.
Speaking of playwriting festivals, the results for the one in Washington, D.C. were supposed to be posted yesterday to the website, but they hadn't been posted as of last night. I'll check again and get back with you.
As an aside, I'm wearing a new shade of lipstick this morning. I can't remember what it's called; I won it at a Mary Kay event last weekend. When I first put it on, I looked a tad "To Wong Foo", but it's growing on me. It's just a little more pink than I'm used to. Of course, your girl's been wearing the same shade of lippy since the first George Bush was in office. Uh-huh. Like Bob Dylan once garbled, "The times, they are a-changin'".
Saturday, February 16, 2008
calling it quits
Just received my long awaited rejection from the BBC. This particular "fuck right off" took forever to come in the mail, so I was thinking/hoping/praying that this script at least got past the first set of gatekeepers and onto the feedback stage. Well, that's what I get for thinking/hoping/praying. Instead, I got the same bunk-ass form letter that I got with my cooking show. Never mind that the comedy in Damn Tracy is streets ahead of any of the stale, crappy one-liners in Bix and Kenz. Needless to say, my world has officially crumbled.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
all you need is love
The calendar swears that it's Valentines Day, although if I didn't know any better, I would say that it was Thursday. In honor of the day, I'll listen to some Beatles: All You Need is Love. Such a divine, naive message. Anyway, I'm telecommuting today, as the idiotic school system has decided to cancel school for the HINT of snow on the ground, so I have to stay home with the monkey. I'm more upset because it's donut day and I'm not too keen on missing my weekly pastry.
Writing has been slow going, but it's been going. My submissions for the month of February have been low. I'm talking two submissions, compared to last year's nine. But now that I've decided to relax my rules on playhouse entry fees, things should pick up. In fact, when I get finished with this blog, I'm diving back into the webisphere to suss out more opportunities.
On Friday, the results of another playwriting competition I entered will be announced. This festival is close to home, so it would be an especial coup to make it. I'll let you know how that turns out. Be easy.
Writing has been slow going, but it's been going. My submissions for the month of February have been low. I'm talking two submissions, compared to last year's nine. But now that I've decided to relax my rules on playhouse entry fees, things should pick up. In fact, when I get finished with this blog, I'm diving back into the webisphere to suss out more opportunities.
On Friday, the results of another playwriting competition I entered will be announced. This festival is close to home, so it would be an especial coup to make it. I'll let you know how that turns out. Be easy.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
interviews
We interviewed seven people yesterday for my position and none of them hit a home run. Only two of the seven showed up in a suit, one girl tried to give me a hug and another girl asked me if the people in my work didn't like black people. All in all, it was a very tiring day. I came home, had six hot wings and called it a night. Too mentally and physically exhausted to do much of anything else.
Gnarls Barkley's new song "Run" is good, if not a complete rip off of Timbox's "Beggin'" from the early sixties. The sound is very sixties in London- a take on the ol' Mark Ronson/Amy Winehouse trip. But I prefer the original old stuff. The feeling behind it is much more genuine. There doesn't seem to be a respect for the music they are biting nowadays. This is evident as the new stuff sounds like a bad copy, very tinny and hollow. Gnarls Barkley is one of my favorites, but you can almost hear the lack of soul.
Gnarls Barkley's new song "Run" is good, if not a complete rip off of Timbox's "Beggin'" from the early sixties. The sound is very sixties in London- a take on the ol' Mark Ronson/Amy Winehouse trip. But I prefer the original old stuff. The feeling behind it is much more genuine. There doesn't seem to be a respect for the music they are biting nowadays. This is evident as the new stuff sounds like a bad copy, very tinny and hollow. Gnarls Barkley is one of my favorites, but you can almost hear the lack of soul.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
fatty fatty nipple milk
That's right! Yours truly has turned into a fatty fatty nipple head/who drinks breast milk from Danish goats. While that's not necessarily a children's nursery rhyme, I did make it up just to tease myself. So, I'll be taunting myself all day today until I end up sobbing in the fetal position under my desk. People can be so cruel.
Today I'm interviewing folks to take my position at work upon my departure in May. It's a weird feeling. I'll have to tell you how it goes. As for now, gotta roll my fat, lazy ass out of bed and squeeze into some clothes. Days like this are when I need a moo-moo house dress.
Today I'm interviewing folks to take my position at work upon my departure in May. It's a weird feeling. I'll have to tell you how it goes. As for now, gotta roll my fat, lazy ass out of bed and squeeze into some clothes. Days like this are when I need a moo-moo house dress.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
my son the hero
I don't know what's up with this recent rash of good days I've been having, but in the interest of not looking a gift horse in the mouth, I won't dwell too much on it. Yesterday, I got a call from my son's school's "Behavioral Management Center". Just when I was planning to leave work to administer one of those special "beat the black off your monkey ass right here in school" beatings, the teacher on the other end said he had done nothing wrong. In fact, he had saved a little boy from choking himself. See, this kid apparently has emotional problems and was trying to strangle himself with his own belt. Well, my son told him that he needed to stop or he was going to hurt himself. The boy continued strangling and my son continued talking. The little boy then told my son "if you don't stop talking, I'm going to hurt you" (I can totally understand, as those very words have passed from my lips to my son on many occasion). Long story short- my son tells the (curiously absent from this whole ordeal) teacher, they remove the kid from class and hopefully medicated the shit out of him. I was so proud of my son! I'm usually talking smack about what a dirty/lazy/immature child he can be and I sometimes forget that he's basically a good person. Why a good person would continue to pee around the base of the toilet, though, is still a mystery to me.
On the writing front, I've had a change of heart. Maybe I'll relax my stance on entry fees for playwriting competitions. After all, if I want a production in New York and/or Los Angeles (the ultimate goal!), then I have to give something to get something, right? Or am I off-base and letting desperation slide in?
The good news is that, since the last major revisions for all my plays, I haven't entered any pay-to-play contests. Maybe this is the second chance I've been waiting for.
To hell with all your eggs in one basket! I'm completely and utterly stoked about the BBC. It's taken forever and I'm confident that my script has gotten a second read. If it gets a first read and is found wanting in the humor department, then you receive a polite "shove off" letter. This takes about two months. However, if your first read goes well, you're granted a second read. If that one doesn't go so well, then you get a shove off, as well as your script with reader notes and comments! But if the second read goes well, you are invited to England for possible development. Dude, I'm just hoping for reader comments at this point. If I got BBC reader comments, I would frame them shits and kiss them every night before bed.
I've already gotten the mail for today. Nothing from the BBC yet. The longer it takes, the better. Wish me luck!
On the writing front, I've had a change of heart. Maybe I'll relax my stance on entry fees for playwriting competitions. After all, if I want a production in New York and/or Los Angeles (the ultimate goal!), then I have to give something to get something, right? Or am I off-base and letting desperation slide in?
The good news is that, since the last major revisions for all my plays, I haven't entered any pay-to-play contests. Maybe this is the second chance I've been waiting for.
To hell with all your eggs in one basket! I'm completely and utterly stoked about the BBC. It's taken forever and I'm confident that my script has gotten a second read. If it gets a first read and is found wanting in the humor department, then you receive a polite "shove off" letter. This takes about two months. However, if your first read goes well, you're granted a second read. If that one doesn't go so well, then you get a shove off, as well as your script with reader notes and comments! But if the second read goes well, you are invited to England for possible development. Dude, I'm just hoping for reader comments at this point. If I got BBC reader comments, I would frame them shits and kiss them every night before bed.
I've already gotten the mail for today. Nothing from the BBC yet. The longer it takes, the better. Wish me luck!
Friday, February 8, 2008
gym dandy
Before I recount yesterday's gym fiasco, I need to revisit a cruicial point. I have never thought of myself as "sexy". Sure, I have days when the light hits me just right and my belly fat looks slightly less marsupial. Cute? Okay. But not hot. To me, I'll probably always be that gherri-curled, Morrisey worshipping eighth grader.
So there I was in the middle of my mid-day workout. Me and T.I. running on the treadmill; on the road to nowhere and loving it. That's when he walked in. About six feet tall, smart haircut and muscles that said "I work out three times a week" and not "Sterroids have shrunk my balls into twin Gobstoppers". I saw him because I'd glanced up to see who'd walked in front of my mirror (I run in front of the mirrors- sue me) and just when I was about to rejoin T.I. in The Zone, he winked at me.
Huh? The wink wasn't flirty or necessarily friendly. It was more like an acknowledgement or telepathic dap. I wondered if he even realized he'd done it. The Morrisey worshipper went straight into denial mode: "He didn't do it on purpose," she said dismissivel. "We're not hot. We're invisible".
Sometimes I wonder if I'm as invisible as I think I am.
So there I was in the middle of my mid-day workout. Me and T.I. running on the treadmill; on the road to nowhere and loving it. That's when he walked in. About six feet tall, smart haircut and muscles that said "I work out three times a week" and not "Sterroids have shrunk my balls into twin Gobstoppers". I saw him because I'd glanced up to see who'd walked in front of my mirror (I run in front of the mirrors- sue me) and just when I was about to rejoin T.I. in The Zone, he winked at me.
Huh? The wink wasn't flirty or necessarily friendly. It was more like an acknowledgement or telepathic dap. I wondered if he even realized he'd done it. The Morrisey worshipper went straight into denial mode: "He didn't do it on purpose," she said dismissivel. "We're not hot. We're invisible".
Sometimes I wonder if I'm as invisible as I think I am.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Rick Revisited
In honor of Rick Astley's birthday, I've posted my essay about him called "Rick Revisited". So pull on your leg warmers, snap in that banana hair clip and Roger Rabbit down memory lane with me:
Everyday, lost love is rediscovered in the oddest of places. Sometimes, it’s sitting next to you on the red-eye into Philadelphia. Someone’s bumping into it right now in the frozen food aisle at Safeway. I rediscovered my very first love I had at thirteen years old last week on eBay. I bought his video hits collection and, today, finally got it in the mail. Rick Astley, along with the hairy Turkish man who sold vegetables and rock candy out of a beat up Toyota, form the epicenter of my childhood. Watching these low-budget music videos has prompted me to express what I never could before, certain humiliation be damned.
I spent four years carrying a torch for Rick Astley. It was a constant bone of contention for my family and clergy. School assignments and term papers were signed “Keisha Astley”. I swore to anyone who would listen that Rick and I were man and wife. I’d committed his birthday and the birthdays of his immediate family to memory. Ditto with the cassette tapes liner notes. Elaborate plans to meet him were laid in excruciating detail. Friends often reminded me of our ten years, four months and eight day age difference, but shrugged it off. Age was but a number and me? Cunning and mature beyond my thirteen years, thank you very much.
Rick set the standard for what was to become “my type” (that is, the clean-shaven crooner. The brooding, emaciated rocker came later). His soulful voice did things to me that nowadays require the aid of “AA” batteries. His wobbly leg-shaking boogie was just the right side of sexy. For a preteen crush, he was safe, practically sexless and quite debonair. Before the 90s, he was rarely seen without a suit. Always versatile, he could switch between the predictable shirt and tie to the less formal mock turtleneck and trench coat combo. But in the end, it was all about the red pompadour.
His music provided the soundtrack to my puberty. When he sang “Take me to your Heart”, I imagined him singing to a subdued crowd and making eyes at me in a smoky bar. In my daydreams, he would speak his lyrics in a poetic, climax-of- a-Hugh-Grant-movie sort of way. My favorite song was “It would take a Strong, Strong Man”. This ballad was a complete and welcome departure from anything else Stock-Aitken-Waterman was feeding him at the time. Although it was the junior prom song of 1988, true enjoyment was purely private. Lying on my bed in the dark, I listening to and rewound that song all night. How I wished he lived next door so we could exchange witty, double entendre over a round of UNO! The night would eventually end, but not without a kiss (insert loving sigh here) before he escaped through my open bedroom window. We were meant to be and it was only a matter of time before we were together forever.
I came close twice (actually, “close” is stretching it, but in love, distance is of no consequence). The first time, my parents had decided to take a trip to London. “Eureka!” I thought. “Victory is mine!” Employing seventh grade logic, I figured I could slip away (320 kilometers away, to be exact) to Manchester while the parents were sightseeing. After my train arrived in Manchester, all I would have to do was hitchhike to Newton-Le-Willows. I would present myself at Rick’s doorstep, he’d take one look at me and insist we become one. White doves would take flight; violins would sing, we’d have a litter of babies, et cetera, et cetera. Never mind that I was stuck at Ludwigsburg Middle School until the summer or that my evil parents were hip to the plan from the very beginning. In the end, instead of finding true love in a quaint English town, I spent a week with aunt Patricia, a loathsome crone bent on blanketing the globe with a thin layer of second hand smoke. For seven long days, I sent out desperate, telepathic distress signals to my future husband.
My second chance arrived on May 8, 1988. My dad bought me tickets to see my man at the Stuttgart Scheyerhalle. I later found out that he bribed my sister with fifty Deutsch Marks so he would be spared of the experience. I donned my best outfit with matching hair scrunchie and off we taxied toward my destiny. Turns out, our seats were so far up, we may as well have been in Belgium. An anonymous angel lent me his binoculars for the night after explaining to him that that was my husband onstage. My mortified sister disappeared soon after and Rick and I were alone at last. I watched him do the wobbly dance and squealed with delight whenever he glanced into the rafters. Following the show, I found my sister and begged twenty marks off her for a souvenir shirt. I wore that shirt the following day and every day for at least half a year. When my mom finally forbid its public wear, I continued to sleep in it. The shirt literally disintegrated in 1993, but the remaining scraps are still in a British Knights shoebox at my mom’s house.
The music from his two post-teen idol CDs was solid, but Rick belongs to my childhood. Last I’d heard, he’d turned himself into a real person complete with wife, kids and pet. What a loss. Nevertheless, those first feelings were resurrected with this video collection. I popped in the DVD and bopped around the house. By “It Would Take a Strong, Strong Man,” I found myself laughing and crying all at once. Maybe I was crying for the deluded little girl who swore she’d marry Rick Astley. Or maybe I was laughing at the loser woman who still plans to visit Newton-Le-Willows someday.
Everyday, lost love is rediscovered in the oddest of places. Sometimes, it’s sitting next to you on the red-eye into Philadelphia. Someone’s bumping into it right now in the frozen food aisle at Safeway. I rediscovered my very first love I had at thirteen years old last week on eBay. I bought his video hits collection and, today, finally got it in the mail. Rick Astley, along with the hairy Turkish man who sold vegetables and rock candy out of a beat up Toyota, form the epicenter of my childhood. Watching these low-budget music videos has prompted me to express what I never could before, certain humiliation be damned.
I spent four years carrying a torch for Rick Astley. It was a constant bone of contention for my family and clergy. School assignments and term papers were signed “Keisha Astley”. I swore to anyone who would listen that Rick and I were man and wife. I’d committed his birthday and the birthdays of his immediate family to memory. Ditto with the cassette tapes liner notes. Elaborate plans to meet him were laid in excruciating detail. Friends often reminded me of our ten years, four months and eight day age difference, but shrugged it off. Age was but a number and me? Cunning and mature beyond my thirteen years, thank you very much.
Rick set the standard for what was to become “my type” (that is, the clean-shaven crooner. The brooding, emaciated rocker came later). His soulful voice did things to me that nowadays require the aid of “AA” batteries. His wobbly leg-shaking boogie was just the right side of sexy. For a preteen crush, he was safe, practically sexless and quite debonair. Before the 90s, he was rarely seen without a suit. Always versatile, he could switch between the predictable shirt and tie to the less formal mock turtleneck and trench coat combo. But in the end, it was all about the red pompadour.
His music provided the soundtrack to my puberty. When he sang “Take me to your Heart”, I imagined him singing to a subdued crowd and making eyes at me in a smoky bar. In my daydreams, he would speak his lyrics in a poetic, climax-of- a-Hugh-Grant-movie sort of way. My favorite song was “It would take a Strong, Strong Man”. This ballad was a complete and welcome departure from anything else Stock-Aitken-Waterman was feeding him at the time. Although it was the junior prom song of 1988, true enjoyment was purely private. Lying on my bed in the dark, I listening to and rewound that song all night. How I wished he lived next door so we could exchange witty, double entendre over a round of UNO! The night would eventually end, but not without a kiss (insert loving sigh here) before he escaped through my open bedroom window. We were meant to be and it was only a matter of time before we were together forever.
I came close twice (actually, “close” is stretching it, but in love, distance is of no consequence). The first time, my parents had decided to take a trip to London. “Eureka!” I thought. “Victory is mine!” Employing seventh grade logic, I figured I could slip away (320 kilometers away, to be exact) to Manchester while the parents were sightseeing. After my train arrived in Manchester, all I would have to do was hitchhike to Newton-Le-Willows. I would present myself at Rick’s doorstep, he’d take one look at me and insist we become one. White doves would take flight; violins would sing, we’d have a litter of babies, et cetera, et cetera. Never mind that I was stuck at Ludwigsburg Middle School until the summer or that my evil parents were hip to the plan from the very beginning. In the end, instead of finding true love in a quaint English town, I spent a week with aunt Patricia, a loathsome crone bent on blanketing the globe with a thin layer of second hand smoke. For seven long days, I sent out desperate, telepathic distress signals to my future husband.
My second chance arrived on May 8, 1988. My dad bought me tickets to see my man at the Stuttgart Scheyerhalle. I later found out that he bribed my sister with fifty Deutsch Marks so he would be spared of the experience. I donned my best outfit with matching hair scrunchie and off we taxied toward my destiny. Turns out, our seats were so far up, we may as well have been in Belgium. An anonymous angel lent me his binoculars for the night after explaining to him that that was my husband onstage. My mortified sister disappeared soon after and Rick and I were alone at last. I watched him do the wobbly dance and squealed with delight whenever he glanced into the rafters. Following the show, I found my sister and begged twenty marks off her for a souvenir shirt. I wore that shirt the following day and every day for at least half a year. When my mom finally forbid its public wear, I continued to sleep in it. The shirt literally disintegrated in 1993, but the remaining scraps are still in a British Knights shoebox at my mom’s house.
The music from his two post-teen idol CDs was solid, but Rick belongs to my childhood. Last I’d heard, he’d turned himself into a real person complete with wife, kids and pet. What a loss. Nevertheless, those first feelings were resurrected with this video collection. I popped in the DVD and bopped around the house. By “It Would Take a Strong, Strong Man,” I found myself laughing and crying all at once. Maybe I was crying for the deluded little girl who swore she’d marry Rick Astley. Or maybe I was laughing at the loser woman who still plans to visit Newton-Le-Willows someday.
Revelation 00:00
I'm going to stop focusing on my own successes/not-so-successes. There are millions of people in the world who have it so much worse than I, so I should try to focus on being a blessing to them instead of spending max energy on myself. That being said, I'll probably be back to my old self by lunchtime. This is just a reflection of my thoughts in the moment.
Monday, February 4, 2008
give sleep a chance
Spoke with a writer-friend last night and she dropped some interesting knowledge. See, she's presently experiencing a creative paralysis. Sure, we all go through this every once and awhile, but get this: she said she feels like she owes her characters more than she could possibly give them right now. Heavy. My characters and I usually don't have a relationship like that. In fact, they yell at me, I yell back at them. They tell me their motivations and I thumb my nose at them, tell them they aren't shit and I'll write what I damned well please, thank you very much. But that's only in the first draft stages. During subsequent drafts, my relationship with my characters tends to improve; still combative, but in a constructive way.
For example, my character Romo was very angry with me when I offed his Abuela. I couldn't understand why; it's not like I wrote him feelings or anything. But his anger gave me a glimpse into his psyche which then allowed me to flesh out his character. Twas fab.
And speaking of fab, Liverpool, England just opened their Hard Day's Night hotel. Rooms start at $370 dollars. WTF?! Gullible tourist types can also rent the John Lennon Suite for $1300 night. Listen, for $1300, they'd better dig up John Lennon's bones and let me sleep with them shits. For that much money, I expect to be able to spoon with a dead legend.
The next writing contest winners aren't announced until 15 and 16 February, so unless I hear from the BBC or the Hollywood agent-types, all should be quiet on the writing front. I know this is dangerous, but I'm starting to have a good feeling about the BBC. It's taking a while and that can only be a good sign.
For example, my character Romo was very angry with me when I offed his Abuela. I couldn't understand why; it's not like I wrote him feelings or anything. But his anger gave me a glimpse into his psyche which then allowed me to flesh out his character. Twas fab.
And speaking of fab, Liverpool, England just opened their Hard Day's Night hotel. Rooms start at $370 dollars. WTF?! Gullible tourist types can also rent the John Lennon Suite for $1300 night. Listen, for $1300, they'd better dig up John Lennon's bones and let me sleep with them shits. For that much money, I expect to be able to spoon with a dead legend.
The next writing contest winners aren't announced until 15 and 16 February, so unless I hear from the BBC or the Hollywood agent-types, all should be quiet on the writing front. I know this is dangerous, but I'm starting to have a good feeling about the BBC. It's taking a while and that can only be a good sign.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
natural born hater
Would you believe that I am still high from my skinny venti white chocolate mocha no whip from last night? It should be illegal to sell that much coffee to one person at one time. It should also be illegal to sell it to twelve year old poser girls, too. But that's another story.
Last night, I began doubting my career as a playwright (again) when reality barged in. Fact: not counting that tale of 60's urban squatters, my first serious attempt at a play was last year. That's right! 2007 was actually the first year that I began writing plays in earnest. So, how can I get upset with my lack of progress when I'm still experimenting with the form? As for screenplays, I've been writing those for at least five years now, so it's about time for something to happen, right? Right?! You're gonna give us the notes, right?!
Fond as I am of joking about my hater status, I've discovered that I am, in fact, a hater to my core. Case in point- If I have to hear about that movie Juno again, your girl's going on a postal rampage! My beef with Juno is the writer of this movie is a young woman who NEVER had a screenplay produced and had never written anything before in her life. One fateful day, she's presented with the opportunity of a lifetime, bangs out a script and now she's nominated for an Oscar. That's MY Oscar. It's times like these when I think that my life is merely a cosmic teaching tool.
I'm taking a break from my latest screenplay to blog because I'm at a part that is very uncomfortable for me. See, the time has come to off a character and it saddens me. I'm such a chicken. Whenever people die in my screenplays, they expire. I rarely show the death (except the screenplay about the devil. When Satan kills somebody, that deserves screen time 'cause you know he's gonna bring da funk and da noize). But, since all good writing must cost the writer something, maybe I'll go there this time. I dunno. I'll try it and let you know how it goes. Watch this space.
Last night, I began doubting my career as a playwright (again) when reality barged in. Fact: not counting that tale of 60's urban squatters, my first serious attempt at a play was last year. That's right! 2007 was actually the first year that I began writing plays in earnest. So, how can I get upset with my lack of progress when I'm still experimenting with the form? As for screenplays, I've been writing those for at least five years now, so it's about time for something to happen, right? Right?! You're gonna give us the notes, right?!
Fond as I am of joking about my hater status, I've discovered that I am, in fact, a hater to my core. Case in point- If I have to hear about that movie Juno again, your girl's going on a postal rampage! My beef with Juno is the writer of this movie is a young woman who NEVER had a screenplay produced and had never written anything before in her life. One fateful day, she's presented with the opportunity of a lifetime, bangs out a script and now she's nominated for an Oscar. That's MY Oscar. It's times like these when I think that my life is merely a cosmic teaching tool.
I'm taking a break from my latest screenplay to blog because I'm at a part that is very uncomfortable for me. See, the time has come to off a character and it saddens me. I'm such a chicken. Whenever people die in my screenplays, they expire. I rarely show the death (except the screenplay about the devil. When Satan kills somebody, that deserves screen time 'cause you know he's gonna bring da funk and da noize). But, since all good writing must cost the writer something, maybe I'll go there this time. I dunno. I'll try it and let you know how it goes. Watch this space.
Friday, February 1, 2008
rainy days and fridays
With an active rain outside and Lisa Stansfield's music on the inside, this reminds me of school mornings in Stuttgart. It seems like it was always overcast. Or maybe that was just my attitude.
As in days before, I'm feeling quite optimistic. No reason. Yesterday wasn't quite as productive as I would have liked. I worked on my "Psych" spec script. Incidentally, it's not at all funny yet. I'm wondering how that's going to play out, seeing how it's supposed to be a sitcom and all. I'm throwing myself into these projects to quell the unrest I'm feeling about not hearing from the agents or the BBC. Last time it took the BBC two months to reject my show idea. I'm going on three now and it's making me nervous. What if the script was such a clunker that they chucked it without a second glance? Or- horror of horrors -they liked it and the script has advanced to the next level of reading?
Speaking of, the playwriting contest I entered that was supposed to let the winners know via email that they won by 31 January did not email me. Like you couldn't guess.
As in days before, I'm feeling quite optimistic. No reason. Yesterday wasn't quite as productive as I would have liked. I worked on my "Psych" spec script. Incidentally, it's not at all funny yet. I'm wondering how that's going to play out, seeing how it's supposed to be a sitcom and all. I'm throwing myself into these projects to quell the unrest I'm feeling about not hearing from the agents or the BBC. Last time it took the BBC two months to reject my show idea. I'm going on three now and it's making me nervous. What if the script was such a clunker that they chucked it without a second glance? Or- horror of horrors -they liked it and the script has advanced to the next level of reading?
Speaking of, the playwriting contest I entered that was supposed to let the winners know via email that they won by 31 January did not email me. Like you couldn't guess.
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