“You may not be her first, her last, or her only. She loved before she may love again. But if she loves you now, what else matters? She’s not perfect - you aren’t either, and the two of you may never be perfect together but if she can make you laugh, cause you to think twice, and admit to being human and making mistakes, hold onto her and give her the most you can. She may not be thinking about you every second of the day, but she will give you a part of her that she knows you can break - her heart. So don’t hurt her, don’t change her, don’t analyze and don’t expect more than she can give. Smile when she makes you happy, let her know when she makes you mad, and miss her when she’s not there.”—Bob Marley (via megamazing) (via crazybeautiful) (via bon-bon) (via endosymbiotic)
Here’s what I wrote about Louisville after MSU beat Kansas in the third round.
I was right.
I don’t want Louisville shaking in its boots. I want them comfortable, expecting to blow us out like we’re Arizona (a team that arguably shouldn’t even have made the tourney). I want them thinking we’re a poor man’s UNC, with our poor man’s Hansbrough (Suton) and our poor man’s Lawson (Lucas).
You can predict anything you want, but the Cardinals aren’t going to hang a hundred on us. We’re the real thing. They have to go from a 12 to a 2.
The Offbeat has chosen to publish both of the stories I sent them. I’m kind of excited about it, but they want my copyrights indefinitely. Being new to the biz, I’m not sure if this is a no-no or not. I think a couple of years ago the same mag wanted a year of copyright to the story they published. Why has it changed?
The contract allows me to ask get permission to print it elsewhere, as long as it’s always acknowledged as being printed there first.
Do any of my writer friends know if this is a good idea?
It wouldn’t be a big deal, but one of the stories I’m planning on printing and selling in comic book format at some point in the next few months.
The dance show finished up, turning out so the voting public kicked off Rebecca’s favorite dancer. She was visibly upset, and looked like she wanted to argue. Gray looked to the lampstand, and pulled an old issue of Reader’s Digest from the pile of magazines covering it. He flipped it open and pretended to read, nodding slightly and chewing on his lower lip, trying to look thoughtful.
“I know you don’t care, but these are real people. These are their real dreams getting crushed, and not for any good reason. Popularity. It’s all a popularity contest.”
“I know that. It’s not that I don’t care, it’s just…it’s a television show.”
“Not for them! And not for me. I used to be a dancer, too, you know. A song and dance girl. If these kinds of shows had been around when I was young, well. I might not have ended up where I did.”
“Something wrong with where you ended up?”
“Some days I think so. I’m married to a man who’s married to a train station. Tell me if that doesn’t sound unfair.”
He might have otherwise tried to placate her, to rise and comfort her, because this wasn’t about the dancing show. It was about him. But the package was drilling little holes in the back of his head and he couldn’t be bothered. She would get over it. He was impatient, desperately so, for her to go to bed. So he didn’t say anything.
She left the room in a huff, and he pretended to read for a good five minutes more, even bothering to turn the pages every once in a while. In his head, the package was being opened over and over again, and inside…he couldn’t imagine what was inside. Something dark. Something bright. Something dead. Something terrible. Something from the under layer. The demon lair. He could hear her getting ready for bed in the other room. She was making a point of everything, doing it all so he could hear. Pulling open and shutting drawers, running water, walking so that her heels hit the bathroom tile like rubber mallets. Aggravation, that old game. This time he wouldn’t bite. Wouldn’t stand up suddenly and yell out, “Quiet that noise, Rebecca!” He had more important things to worry about.
He would use a knife. He’d cut on the outside of it, careful not to stab into the thing in case whatever was inside could be damaged by stabbing. A serrated knife, then. He’d cut a seam, then grab hold of each side and peel it back, ripping the covering and letting the thing fall out. But he’d do it on the ground, so that it wouldn’t be damaged by the fall. Whatever was inside might roll out. Slide out. Pour out. He’d lay some newspaper, just in case. And then what? Once it was out, what would he do? He’d have some trash bags handy in case it was dangerous, and then he’d have to get rid of it somehow.
The bedroom door slammed shut. She was getting into bed. Knowing Rebecca, she’d lay there for an hour or more, steeling herself against sleep. If he snuck in and tried to roll up next to her, she’d make him sleep on the couch. He was better off out here, with the Reader’s Digest and the television. To be safe, he should wait until he was sure she’d fallen asleep, and then get to the package. Yes, that would be safe. He put down the Digest and his body pulled itself from the couch. He went to the kitchen and started inspecting knives. This one would do. This one, too. He took four knives and a hand towel to wrap them in. He went beneath the sink and pulled out two heavy black trash bags, wincing each time they crinkled. She wouldn’t come out to see what he was doing, she was too proud for that, but he knew she was listening just the same. He picked the newspaper from the train station up from the counter and tucked it under his arm. Then he went to his study and closed the door as quietly as he could. He flipped the lightswitch.
The package had moved from where he’d left it, wriggling out from under the desk into the open. It vibrated wildly, pulsating and changing shape faster than he could make out. He should wait, it would be safe to wait, but now that he was here with the knives and the trash bags and the package, he couldn’t imagine waiting. So what if she heard him - what would she do? Nothing. She might ask him in the morning what all the noise was, but she wouldn’t get out of bed. He wasn’t going to wait. Gray sat on the floor indian style, spreading the newspaper in front of him. The knives he placed to the side, and felt for all the world as if he were about to carve a pumpkin.
I’m posting all the writing I do every day, just to make sure I do it. I don’t care if anyone reads it. But if people want to, they can. This was from the first day. (WOO THREE DAYS).
“Gerald began – but was interrupted by a piercing whistle which cost him ten percent of his hearing permanently, as it did everyone else in a ten-mile radius of the eruption, not that it mattered much because for them ‘permanently’ meant the next ten minutes or so until buried by searing lava or suffocated by choking ash – to pee.”—Jim Gleeson
It’s always fun to see something live that you know everyone’s going to be talking about tomorrow.
Is it better when it might possibly ruin a dude’s career? Probably.
Jim Cramer, of “Mad Money” fame, went on The Daily Show with Jon Stewart and was interviewed. By interviewed, of course I mean, prosecuted to the full extent of the Comedy Central host’s ability. Which is A LOT. Stewart plays several clips in which Cramer is flippant about the failing markets and the ways they cheat the system, thereby killing all the saved capital by people who ACTUALLY SAVE MONEY. My favorite quote from the interview.
Jon Stewart - “Let’s run another one. 212.”
Cramer - “Yeah, run it. Oh, wait. Not 212!”
The interview is up on the Comedy Central site, but the word is people have crashed it.
Some of my favorite search.twitter.com quotes:
dbldn: Stewart just pants’d Cramer. Good lord that was BRUTAL AdamIss: Did Jon Stewart just destroy Jim Cramer’s career? DeDeindie: Did you are Jon Stewart? Kim Cramer had 2 aholes, one that he craps out of and one that JS live in!!!
“I have been one acquainted with the spatula, the slotted, scuffed, Teflon-coated spatula that lifts a solitary hamburger from pan to plate, acquainted with the vibrator known as the Pocket Rocket and the dildo that goes by Tex, and I have gone out, a drunken bitch, in order to ruin what love I was given, and also I have measured out my life in little pills—Zoloft, Restoril, Celexa, Xanax. I have. For I am a poet. And it is my job, my duty to know wherein lies the beauty of this degraded body, or maybe it’s the degradation in the beautiful body, the ugly me groping back to my desk to piss on perfection, to lay my kiss of mortal confusion upon the mouth of infinite wisdom. My kiss says razors and pain, my kiss says America is charged with the madness of God. Sundays, too, the soldiers get up early, and put on their fatigues in the blue black day. Black milk. Black gold. Texas tea. Into the valley of Halliburton rides the infantry— Why does one month have to be the cruelest, can’t they all be equally cruel? I have seen the best gamers of your generation, joysticking their MI tanks through the sewage-filled streets. Whose world this is I think I know.”—Kim Addonizio, The First Line is the Deepest (via thebronzemedal)
It was everything I hoped it would be and more, which is saying a lot because I’ve been looking forward to this movie for about a year now. It’s amazing to see individual frames replicated on the big screen. I already know I want to go and see it again to see all the little things I missed, like the side column stories on newspapers and the background characters (I want to find the crazy feminist chick).
Loved the little treats that the filmmakers kept in for the fans (eg: S.Q.U.I.D.; newspaper guy & comic reader boy), loved how the film dealt with back stories (especially everyone’s memories of Comedian, including Sally Jupiter’s encounter). I agree with Jake C, the Hallelujah cover was a bit ridiculous. My dad really wants to watch this movie with me, so I think I’m going to create an edited version for him. :X
I think the whole beginning sequence was my favorite though, the news reels, how well everything was replicated—holy shit the Zapruder film?! And then the first page beautifully, seamlessly produced. Loved it. so much.
I feel like this movie is not getting enough credit for how freaking true to the comic it is (save for the ending, but at least that was a reasonable change that didn’t affect the meaning of the film). It had the characterization down perfect, the facial expressions, the exact poses! The photography of this film just exploderated my mind.
The people who made this film knew their shit, which is what the comic book genre has never really had before now. Bravo for not disappointing even the biggest of comic book nerds.
I wanted to write a review of this film, having just seen it today, but it turns out I don’t have to. Caroline captures my feeling exactly. I don’t get why this movie is being panned like it is by the media, but that will pass and in the future this will be looked back upon as a great achievement in film. My gripes were minor and insignificant in the face of what I was witnessing. I’m already excited about seeing it again.
Caroline, you can send my copy of the book back now. ;)
I think this might be the first time I’ve watched three movies in a row that have crazy amounts of nudity. Unintentially, I mean.
Last night: Broken Flowers on Hulu. With Bill Murray. By Jim Jarmusch. Good movie.
Today at 5: Watchmen. Do I even have to tell you how much nudity there was? Not to mention other uncomfortable images. However, the film is a masterful adaptation, and that’s all I was asking for. Very good, even great.
Tonight: Love Actually. Not as much nudity as I had expected. Cute movie. Well cast, strange character story arc collisions. Not bad, just odd.
I’m gonna take a ride downtown on a train, get some food. Hang out. Draw pictures. Read a book.
How does that sound, people of the earth?
I went to the bathroom at like 4:30 last night, opened the door and flicked on the lights. As I stepped inside and started shutting the door, a dark shape scurried out of the opening from behind the toilet. Too big to be a roach, too small to be a rat. A little mouse, perhaps. Weird.
I rewrote the beginning of the short story I’ve tasked myself to finish this week. It’s much more interesting now.
The jacket found Sabado Sanchez on a Saturday night in May. It lay against the sidewalk pavement, lapels bathed in damp moonlight, sleeves outstretched as if to embrace the sky. The streets in this part of Trampos were empty, and the deep brass sound of of jazz carried along on some thread of wind from downtown. A dog trotted by, carrying a rat in its mouth. The jacket waited. It wouldn’t be long now.
A few more nights like this one, and Sabado would starve. He would be one of the alley corpses, hiding under some crumpled newspaper and a garbage bag. The kind some little boy might find on a summer day, chasing a foul ball and retrieving a mummified husk of a man instead. He fingered the change in his pants pocket, and pinched out a coin. A penny. Who had tossed him this coin, this particular nothing? Could a man pity another so little? Sabado shuffled on, tossing the penny from hand to hand. If he couldn’t get enough money to buy even a bit of bread, he would have to find some other way. He would eat garbage. He’d done it, and would do it again, but there was nothing satisfying about it. As a boy he’d been certain that he would grow up to be someone, an important man with important things to say, and he’d looked at the beggars in Trompos with disgust and a measured amount of fear. Now that he’d joined their ranks, he felt only sorrow. The other life hadn’t happened. His disgust had curdled into a deep, ripping shame.
Lost in thought, Sabado stepped over the jacket and would have missed it entirely if not for a button that wedged itself into the sole of his shoe. His foot, caught with the weight of the thing, hesitated in midair and disrupted the beggar’s rhythm, nearly sending his whole body into a tumble.