To All the Bloggers I've Loved Before

I haven't been posting so much, I know. Just when I was starting to have a loyal following too. Someone even linked my blog to an amateur porn site, which got me more hits than a George Bush pinata and my date with the crazy Moroccan combined. And how do I say thank you? I come and go without warning. I fail to tell you how much you mean to me. I arrive throwing sparkly things everywhere, and yet, I never quite commit. And I sometimes drop hints about writing for other people. Don't worry, I'm not morphing into a man. But I have been seeing other websites, and I've even gotten out of the house. The truth is that I want to see what else is out there.

I started this blog under orders from an academic advisor who told me I might not have what it takes to break into social work -- namely a high tolerance for hopelessness. Plus, there was this simmering artist alter ego of mine that kept popping up. My idea of group therapy is drawing a comic book version of my life and then performing it, preferably with interpretive dance and pagan rituals. Not exactly Touched by an Angel. So, I dove headfirst into the blogosphere, not really caring what I wrote except that it made me and my cousin laugh. And that made me forget for five minutes that I was broke and in desperate need of a new career.

Turns out that letting your artist self do the talking can turn your whole five year plan on its head. The blog led led me to pick up where I left off in my unfinished degree in media studies. That led me to wind up in a screenwriting class, which led to meeting other writers, which led to studying film more seriously. I woke up today and realized that yes, I really do need to find a way to fit that unpaid intern position into my life. The one that isn't practical at all -- unless I am taking myself seriously as an artist. (Gulp.) So, that's what I've been doing, and it leaves me less snippy and less available to blog. (In addition, I am this close to finishing my endless online course in statistics. I've been the prison bitch to this class for the better part of a year. The probability of me blowing a statistically significant fuse is quite high.)

So, I am here officially thanking you guys for reading. I also want to thank the people who wrote to me and told me how much they like my blog. If I didn't write back it was more likely due to computer illiteracy than snobbishness. If I am not here as much it is due to two possible reasons: 1) I finally did end up homeless, penniless and without hair conditioner, and I can't figure out how to hack into the wi-fi at the shelter. or 2) I am hard at work on writing a variety of projects that will someday allow me to make some kind acceptance speech that does not include the words "the serenity to change the things I can." To whet your super loyal appetites, I am working on a piece entitled: Sensei and Sensibility: A Spiritual Girl's Guide to Dating. I will also hopefully be participating in some local film festivals this summer. If they think I am qualified to pour coffee, that is. Maybe I'll see you there.

Birds Gone Wild

Blue Jays have issues. In fact, Blue Jays are straight-up psychotic. To be clear, I am talking about the birds and not baseball or basketball players. I'm talking about birds gone wild, birds who have overestimated completely my cat's ability to raid a nest. It's a take-no-prisoners stand off between us and them, with blue jays dive bombing both my cat and my front door on a daily basis. I am afraid. And I am really pissed that no one is filming this. We're the stars of When Animals Attack, and no one is watching. No one is protecting us either.

It started without warning one day last week very much like Alfred Hitchcock's classic movie The Birds. I was minding my own business, maintaining my cute hairstyle (much like protagonist Tippi Hedron), when I heard what sounded like women screaming with mouthfuls of broken glass. When I looked out my front door I was face-to-beak in a stare down with what I assume was the Big Bird on Campus -- a sleek, beaked pecking machine with an attitude. She made a point to look past me into my door to glare at my cat who was sleeping off a morning of plastic bag shredding. Then she looked back to me. "What's the problem?" I asked, knowing that my cross eyed cat is such a bad hunter that she once brought home a hot dog with the tip bitten off. Surely, my long term cat companion was no threat to anyone, bird or otherwise. The bird was not amused. Her answer was a high pitched screech that was ( I swear) just like those dino-bird things from The Lord of the Rings. And then she tried to fly into my house to kill my cat.

And things have been more or less like that ever since. Daily dive bombings have rendered my cat somewhat of a shut-in. If she so much as steps onto the porch, fighter birds are immediately scrambled and assembled into maximum strike position. Sometimes they fling themselves into the lattice that fronts my deck. They do this kamikaze-style with so much force they could break a wing. It's a very effective technique of communicating: "Look how crazy I am. I will take out all of us to make my point. What you got?" I got nothing. And they know it.

It is truly disturbing to be summoned to the front door by a bird who has a bone to pick with your kid. Especially when it's Jerry Springer style. "Talk to the wing cuz the face ain't listenin'..." She really said that, complete with the requisite head swiveling. And so my cat and I wait, like prisoners, for the day the babies learn to fly. And people whine about pit bulls.

Snippy Little Author Endorsement

I watched the Brad Pitt/Edward Norton movie Fight Club three times this week. Once like a normal person with a bowlful of popcorn and a pale ale. The other two times I watched two different commentaries, and tomorrow I will watch at least one more. (Shut up, I took a very tough statistics test last week.) Anyway, I realize that I am embarrassingly behind the times in recommending this movie. And while I do give this film two snips and a Hallelujah Chorus, I am not writing about this gem of a film to make anyone watch it. I mention this film to encourage people to check out Chuck Palahniuk, the writer who wrote the book that the screenplay was based on. If you've been reading my posts for a while and you haven't been offended one time, then you will probably dig him. My edge goes down like lemon drops compared to being skewered by Palahniuk. Personally, I am in love. And I plan to start stalking him as soon as possible.

My (non-consensual) love affair with Palahniuk started a little over a year ago when a man-child I was actually having an affair with led me to his work. Said man-child's poor sense of direction regarding the clitoris and post-punk sensibilities aside (tough-looking man purse), the guy could write and he had a wicked sense of humor. So I took his suggestion, took out two books from the library and never looked back. In short, Palahniuk puts the freak in freaky-deaky. He walks a twisting, jagged line between the beautiful and the absurd, the dark and the lovely. And the man makes me laugh -- hard and with disgust and recognition. In the book Invisible Monsters the protagonist is a former model disfigured by a gunshot that renders her unable to speak and requires her to wear a veil to conceal the fact that she has essentially no face. The girl is so bitter she spikes her ex-boyfriend's drinks with hormones until he starts developing breasts and weeping spontaneously. And the transvestite diva/nemesis Brandy Alexander makes breaking all kinds of laws and taboos seem like just another day at the office.

Another favorite of mine is Choke. Not for the faint of heart, faint of heart meaning you are offended by the idea of a man faking choking in restaurants to win friends and influence people. This book will make you say "Oh my God" out loud almost as much as Geek Love, a book that redefined jaded and force fed it to the jaded. Those who made it to the end felt like they'd made a pilgrimage to the devil's butthole. We were grateful just to have survived. Palahniuk's books are like a game of limbo stick on very bad drugs. How low can you go? It is Palahniuk's creepy invitation to explore just that very question that keeps me coming back. Consider me R.S.V.P'd.

Being palatable in a Laura Ashley-FDS-soccer-mom kind of way (with or without Prozac) can take some of us only so far. To quote Fight Club's Tyler Durden, "You're not your fucking khaki's." Some of us want to know where the stinking black ooze is coming from. Some of us can't help but notice how weird we all are, despite (because of?) our flat screen TV's and our obsession with celebrity stomach stapling. I once made a greeting card that read: Happy Extreme Make-Over. I want to mass produce it in shades of pastel with an aromatherapy insert and maybe a few bars of Whitney Houston's I'm Every Woman. If I sneaked them into a Hallmark store at the mall I might do very well. Or I'd get shot. It's pretty much one or the other these days. I am all for a little sacred cow tipping. And that's where Palahniuk comes in. He's running one messed up rodeo, for sure. But damn if I can take my eyes off him. You may find yourself drawn to stalk him also. Just try to keep it to the library like I do.

Deep Thoughts

Tonight I watched a stupid movie. It was foreign. One of those foreign films. The kind where even the extras have their black belts in smoking as an art form and everyone is casually, ruggedly, poignantly beautiful. Ugly people in tattered scarves smolder with not-from-the-US sexiness, and even the dogs seem deep. Makes me want to put on a heavy wool sweater, not comb my hair and stare pensively in my shabby kitchen with excellent coffee -- smoking. Unfortunately, the movie was crap. And as I am learning, even one class in screenwriting can forever alter one's perception of what makes a good story.

Is it a bad thing that I adored the movie The Break-Up? Do I have pedestrian tastes or am I right in thinking that Jennifer Anniston is a fine comedic actress? And Vince Vaughn? I think I have dated about three different incarnations of that guy. (The one on coke was the funniest.) So, it's fair to say that I have a bias toward razor sharp humor. But people either love or hate that movie. There is no in-between, as I found out when I realized that both my sister and a good friend haven't quite forgiven me for recommending that movie to them. Others swear loyal allegiance to my flick picks, in part because of that one film. And if you've seen it, you know that that movie is worth seeing solely for Michael Higgins singing Owner of a Lonely Heart at the dinner table. And Judy Davis is a freaking goddess. I would watch her on QVC.

Still, last week I made friends with the Criterion Collection. The name alone suggests that everything in the collection has the potential to make me smarter (or at least up the chances of getting slapped at the next party I attend.) Brain Viagra? Well, I guess that depends on who you hang out with. Most of my friends couldn't care less about Ingmar Bergman. And as of this writing, I am the only person I know who watches the DVD commentary for every film she watches. Sometimes twice. And you know you got it bad when you watch both the actors' commentary and the director's commentary for a film like How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days. (Kate Hudson is actually very good at turning crap into crepes, for the record.) Listening to a director or writer discuss what she intended to convey scene by scene fascinates me even if I didn't enjoy the movie. And when the actors talk they reminisce about who gave the performance of her life with walking pneumonia. You also get to find out who is really stupid in real life. GED on the set, my ass.

Tonight's cinematic selection was lovingly suggested to me by Netflix. They want to give me the impression that they follow my film preferences so carefully that they feel confident in picking them out for me. Reminds me of when well-meaning friends try to fix me up with dates, forgetting that I don't date men whose necks are wider than my thighs and that I don't actually consider Vicodin a hobby. Occasionally, I get a nice cup of tea out of it, but usually I am left resenting an evening away from whatever book I'm reading. At least this time I didn't have to leave the house or shave my legs. Still, it was a pretentious film with a boring story full of characters I didn't care about, no matter how cool they looked at the bar being vague and intense about going to Rome. And thanks to a beginner level class in screenwriting I heard my teacher's disapproval in my head the entire time. "Nope. That's not story. Doesn't tell us anything at all except you didn't do your job as a writer so you threw in a montage and a voiceover." And damn if he isn't totally right.

The film was so bad that I wouldn't have watched the commentary even if there had been one. My attempt to gain insight through watching an interview with the lead actress only turned me off further, so I turned her off after a minute of her existential propaganda. Of course, it is possible that the great meaning of this film simply sailed far above my vapid little head. I won't tell you the name of it because maybe you've seen it and you loved it. Maybe you'd write to me and tell me what a superficial mosquito I am. But I don't think so. I'm the kind of dork who takes two subways in freezing rain on my day off to see The Trials of Henry Kissinger -- on the big screen. Seeing that in print makes me realize that I am a sick person. And now I am a sick person with just enough film knowledge to make me a little dangerous. Like a sultry smoking ingenue who walks the streets of Stockholm in fine boots with great purpose and very messy hair.