Edward Lorn's Blog, page 116

Voodoo Drummer On: The Fart Game

E. here. I’m a huge fan of Voodoo Drummer’s blog. While working on my next novel, I thought it would be fun to offer other bloggers a chance to Ruminate On a few topics. I gave Voodoo free reign, because I know his talent: Random Blogging. Voodoo finds the subtleties of life interesting. Even when he tackles broad subjects, he debates them logically, without buying into verbosity. He has a unique gift for telling it like he sees it. Any of you that are fans of my blog will see Voodoo and I have a shared view of the world. If you’re brain damaged, we’re apt to tell you…while talking about ourselves in the process

 

Voodoo Drummer On: The Fart Game

 

This is the part you’ve all been waiting for.  I can tell.

A funny thing happened to me on the way to work this morning. I realized I had work this morning, DOH!

Kidding!

A funny thing DID happen to me while I was at work though.  I had this random thought about the way people perceive themselves and others. It came to me when I was remembering one of the many stand up comedians with whom I became acquainted in my adolescence.  There was a joke that Eddie Murphy told in one of his stand up routines that really got under my skin for some reason. I’m talking about a joke from his “Delirious” stand up routine where he basically tells a laughing audience that “everyone wants to smell other people’s farts.” Look it up sometime on youtube under Eddie Murphy’s “Fart game” routine.

Yet  I’ve been thinking about the reality that this joke is based on.  I’m not going to sit here and say we all want to smell other people’s farts. I don’t even want to smell my own feet after a workout. Talk about the power to wilt flowers at fifty paces! But something in what Eddie Murphy was joking about raises a question regarding the human condition. If we’re so hell bent on avoiding embarrassment to ourselves, why do we have a ball embarrassing others?

It’s a trick question, really.

Anyone whose watched the Jerry Springer or Maury Povich “Who-mah-bebe-daddah” or “whachoo-be- doin-sleepin’- wi’- my- F(bleep)- sistah” shows knows the power of watching other people embarrass themselves. These shows are the paragon of our society’s incredible ability to profit from train-wrecks. They  also do something  very important for humanity. They deliver unto us a sense of perspective. We could BE the ridiculous, pathetic people on these shows if our lives had gone differently in some way.

In short, we can always be the one in the room who farted.

But there is something about celebrity or infamy that seems to double what I like to call the Simpsons “ha ha” factor in our culture. I began to think of this when I picked up a copy of a book written by the widow of Bernie Madoff.  I abhor celebrity gossip shows, and I detest shows that shove the scandals of criminals down our throats with the same vehemence.  Nancy Grace is a shrew that can suck a cock (just not mine). Yet as I picked this book up and scanned it as a “return to publisher,” I had to wonder what the widow of a man so surrounded by the public scandal of his thievery could say about him. I wondered if she would put him in a positive light, or if she would damn him. Life is never black and white, and neither are relationships. I would be willing to bet that there were many elements of normal family function; of normal human life.

But the Springer voyeur in me also kind of wanted to know how she reacted when she realized what he was being accused of. I wondered if she could confirm the truth of any of it.

I felt vile, but somehow my curiosity was awakened.

And this may in fact be the curse of celebrity that so many of us don’t get. Could it be the reason that celebs like Charlie Sheen decided to push the envelope? Is there a pressing need for us to get involved in the lives of Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt other than to catch the moment when one of them somehow proves to be “imperfect” (preferably while under a wide angle lens). Let’s face it, a lot of us were fucking drooling when Janet Jackson accidentally flashed a boob during the Superbowl  a few years back.  I admit I might have been salivating because, well, motherfucker, it’s JANET JACKSON! But others of us were sort of pointing and laughing at a nationally televised “wardrobe malfunction.” The words “wardrobe malfunction” became a household term in this country. There is something both sad and oddly titillating about that fact.

And if sex sells, the only thing that sells more is celeb mistakes. Just ask Lindsay Lohan.

I would have asked Jerry Seinfeld today if my co workers are right and he in fact WAS in my Midtown Manhattan Barnes and Noble store today trying to buy magazines..

I started to write this post while I was writing in sort of a marathon fashion with several of my friends. I admit, the voices of my characters can be very strange, especially when I want to write. I can hear them growing impatient.

My characters were starting to sound VERY odd by the time I posted the following on skype:

[9:57:39 PM] Angel Vargas: WE AINT IN NO HURRY TO SOUND NOT>>EDUMACATED AND SHIT

[9:58:03 PM] Angel Vargas: DUDE< YOU BE TRIPPIN

[9:58:13 PM] Angel Vargas: GeT YO BITCH ASS ON DE CAMPUTAH

[9:58:27 PM] Angel Vargas: AND TYPE US REAL FUCKIN’ WORDS!

Considering that the characters of my current book are all demons who hail from neither a ghetto or a trailer park, I had to wonder why I kept hearing them speak like this to me. I still don’t have an answer to that. However, I was thinking about  the meaning of fame when I was writing my book.  If by some miracle my book were to be the inception of a meteoric rise to fame as a writer, how would I even begin to react?

I’m not sure I want to be the most famousest of hobbits .. I mean writers, and yet the allure of being known for my writing is not lost on me.

I know I’ve expressed my interest in adding the power of my literary voice to the beauty of the world. But I cannot even begin to do that if people never know about it. I have to put myself out there to be read; to have my voice be heard on some level.

And that all happens  if I can’t get lots of voice acting work for other people’s audio books! But that’s a story I’ll save for another time .. Muahahah.

So I may be thinking of celebrity in lieu of some fantastic fantasy that my books will reach the world.

May any future marriage of mine last more than 72 hours!

Voodoo out .. (Simpson’s laugh) “HAHA!”

 

You can find Voodoo Drummer’s blog HERE: 

Taking A Break…Again

Trying to knock out this new book, so you guys are going to have to bear with me. I’m taking a break from Ruminating On for the next week or so. There may be a guest post or two, but other than that, you’ll have a sabbatical from my mind-numbing meandering. 

LYF,

E.

Forget This Mess O’ Clock

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Lyrics:

Spend all day on Disney

Trying to find some new cartoons

All they show is reruns and real life

Maybe nickelodeon has some toons

Watching my little pony on youtube

Cause I’ve seen all the monster highs

R.L. Stine gives me goosebumps

All the way from 1989

Man, it’s forget this mess o’clock

Can’t find the first episode

Of my show Gravity Falls

Oooo a new episode of A.N.T. Farm

That show provides plenty of lulz

My babysitter’s a vampire

Someone please call my mom and dad

While Dr. Doofensmirtz catches Perry

And Phineas and Ferb make Candice mad

Man, it’s forget this mess o’clock

Waverly Place is full of wizards

What kinda trouble is it today

Good luck Charlie, you’re gonna need

Hey Jessi, Mr. Kipling ran away

I’m too old for Dora the Explorer

And Spongebob Squarepants is just too weird

Where’s all the shows for 7 year olds

These programs bore me to tears

Man, it’s forget this mess o’clock

Words and Lyrics by Edward Lorn and Autumn

“Fuck This Shit O’Clock” by Edward Lorn

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Follow the bouncing ball:

Spend all day on facebook

Posting thoughts and sharing memes

Screwing around on twitter

Trying to pick just the right theme

Just sent this dude some klout

I hope sends some of it back

Don’t understand how linked in works

And tumblr users are on crack

Man, it’s fuck this shit o’clock

I uploaded to youtube

Shit only got five fucking views

92 hours wasted

And only five fucking views

My reddit accounts been hacked

That’s not my kiddie porn

And I don’t get it digg it

And where the hell has myspace gone

Man, it’s fuck this shit o’clock

WordPress seems to be down

How am I supposed to post this blog

Tried to share a picture on flickr

Why does an upload take so damn long

Bought some cologne on ebay

Now my chest smells like piss

Last fm only plays shitty songs

How’d the internet end up like this?

Man, it’s fuck this shit o’clock

Much thanks to Jessica Manion for her inspirational post on facebook. She may not have come up with the phrase, “Fuck this shit o’clock” but she posted those words at just the right time.

Words and Music by Edward Lorn.

Daily Ruminations: Day 20 – Kids

Kids: Do you have any? How many? If you don’t, do you want kids? Why, or why not? Do you think other people’s children are aggravating little hellions? Are all children innocent and precious? I want to know your honest opinion. Here’s a tidbit of honesty: I don’t like many children aside from my own. It’s not any one thing, I just feel uncomfortable around them.

Kid-around in the comment section below.

E.

Bad Cover #2

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Where I cover something. Badly. Feeling a little Pinkish today…

Elizabeth Michaud John On: Finding Horror

For those of you that don’t know who Elizabeth is, I’d like to introduce you to her.

“Elizabeth Michaud John is a first-generation Haitian-American living in Atlanta, Ga.  She writes both poetry and fiction and dabbles frequently with different characters, genres, tones, and ideals, but her favorite writings typically have a dark slant to them.” ~From Amazon.com. 

“Darkness…in a Flash” is her first collection of dark stories. You can find it on sale at Amazon.com and Smashwords. 

I asked Elizabeth here today because I’m a fan of her blog. I cannot comment on her short story collection, as I have yet to read it.

FINDING HORROR

I wrote a poem today and it was horrific.

Not horrific in the sense that it was filled with typos, misspelled words, or a stupid message.

But horrific in the sense that I wrote it as a response of sorts to a picture of a terrible incident I found on the Internet.

The photo was of a picture of a lynching.  It must have been taken around 1920, I think it was, and it showed a young black man hanging.  Actually, the lynch-mob decided it wasn’t enough to hang him, so they doused him in coal oil and burned him while he hanged.

I guess they wanted to make sure the job got done right.

And yet, as horrid as this picture was, what bothered me most was the reaction of one man in the crowd.

He was smiling.  Smiling as if he was watching the greatest show on earth.

I guess maybe he was.

As I looked at the photograph, I kept my eye on this man, holding his shotgun, so smug and satisfied with the action taking place before him, deaf to what I’m sure was this young man’s pleas for mercy, immune to this same man’s screams and cries of pain.

The guy just stood there, smiling away, and I began to wonder about the kind of hate a heart must harbor in order for a person to stand there so coldly and yet so happily at the demise of another human being, especially a death of such a gruesome nature.  The more I looked, the more I pondered, and then before I knew what was happening, I had a Word document open on my desktop, and my fingers were flying over the keys.

I wrote and wrote and wrote and when I was done, I had written a poem in the voice of the smiling man.  A vicious, sarcastic verse about this postcard picture and as far as that poem goes, it does what it’s supposed to do.  It’s dark and ugly, filled with hate and vitriol and venom.  It’s filled with horror.

Because for me, this is where true horror starts:  In a postcard.  In reality.

This “postcard” is clear, hard evidence—one of many, unfortunately—of  the ugliness in human nature that leads to horror.  In that photo, true horror is presented in its rawest form:  in this case, a man smiling at the violent, senseless death of another.

What is my point?  My point is that frequently, people ask me:  “How do you do it?  How do you come up with this stuff?”

I don’t know that I ever just “come up” with anything.  I know what frightens me, and based on that, I look around and I interpret what I see.  Unfortunately, there’s darkness everywhere,  all around.  For me, I typically base my darker works—either stories or poems—in reality, because clearly, these things can, do, or have happened, and they are terror in their own right.  I don’t necessarily need to make up stories about lab experiments gone wrong, demons from hell, or aliens from outer space, when all around me, regular people are providing a narrative of darkness everyday.  When I weave my tales of horror, it’s the human animal I refer to and that provides me with ample fodder.  And because there is an element of truth and possibility in the storyline, I think it makes the story that much more frightening.

That’s how I get my ideas.

This isn’t to say that I won’t venture into the fantastic or the supernatural.  Not at all.  I don’t want to limit myself or my writing in that way.  But, for me, as a writer and as a reader, there is a kind of comfort that is derived from a tale that, when I put the pen down or the book away, I can easily venture back into the realms of reality knowing that the imagined words on the page will never come to pass.  I’m scared only for a moment, while in the moment, and then it passes. It’s over.  It’s gone.

But, in my capacity as a writer, a reader, or even as a casual observer of human behavior, the minute that realism is introduced, however it’s presented—through fact or fiction, in verse or in prose, through pictures or film, in actions or in deeds—then it stays with me, tormenting my thoughts, dictating my actions.  I keep my children a little bit closer, I hold my husband a little bit tighter.

When there is a hint of realism, of possibility, of probability, I know horror is lurking around the corner, waiting for me.  And as a result, as part of my creative process, I don’t need to look for “scary ideas”.  Horror finds me.

When I was on the computer today, surfing the net, I wasn’t looking for anything particularly shocking.  But somehow, in my many clicks, I wound up on that site, on that picture, and on the face of the smiling man.  To me, it was pure evil, when I least expected it, when I was least looking for it, and it scared me.

And then, I wrote about it.

EMJ

Thank you to Edward Lorn for giving me the opportunity to guest post on his blog today!

And thank you for putting in the time and effort, Elizabeth.

Click HERE to see the blog that prompted me to invite her over.

Until next time, everybody.

E.

Daily Ruminations: Day 19 – You

 

You: Here’s your podium. I want to know a little about you. Tell my followers about yourself. What are some of your pet-peeves, idiosyncrasies, loves, hates, all that. If you don’t want to go into great detail, how about a link to your internet presence. People should get to know you. You’re interesting as hell. At least I think so.

If you don’t comment, I’ll just assume that you’re the exception to the rule, and that you’re one of the boring ones. Them’s the breaks.

Explain yourself in the comment section below.

E.

There’s Gold In Them Thar Hills!

(Author’s Note: Once upon a time, I fancied myself a writer of comedies – to this day, some people find my work laughable, but for other reasons. The piece that follows is my best attempt at satire. This short story will always hold a certain place in my heart. There’s nothing new about it. I wrote the thing over a year ago, and I have learned much since. I hope you enjoy “There’s Gold In Them Thar Hills!” as much as I enjoyed getting my hands dirty writing it.)

There’s Gold In Them Thar Hills!

Somehow my sister, Rose, talked me into making her wedding cake. It wouldn’t have been that bad, if it weren’t for the fact that I, kind of, sort of, got talked into doing it for free. She was ecstatic, exuberant, elated. My emotions were expressed with different words, composed mostly of four letters.

“Jessica, this will be the most beautiful wedding gift ever. I just know it!” she cried over the phone. I held the handset away, as not to damage my already bad hearing. Needless to say, I would soon need a hearing aid, or I could just play the role my husband, Jules, plays.

“What was that? Didn’t hear you,” he’d say as he walked through a room where I was talking. Without waiting for me to repeat myself, there he’d go, still truckin’, mumbling to himself as if he was responding to what I was yelling behind him.

“What? Oh yeah, beautiful…gift…right,” I told Rose, smiling with my words, but cursing the day she was ever born in my mind.

Jules came by, passing through as he normally did about that time everyday, a granola bar in one hand. He smiled at me. I pointed at the phone and made circling motions near my temple. The universal sign of crazy. He knew automatically who was on the other end.

“Tell Rose I said ‘Hi.’”

And off he went, in his bathrobe, only boxers underneath, all the while digging said boxers from a no man’s land where I dare never tread—a far stretching crevice, hiding all kinds of wicked secrets.

Jules fancied himself a Hugh Hefner type. He was an author, and he paid the bills well with his imagination, but he also believed—in  some deep recess of his mind—that his profession gave him the right not get dressed for daily activities. He used to lounge, all day everyday, in his ratty robe and day old underwear. Such a man, my dearest love.

I cringed, Rose still hollering a foot away from my face through the speaker, I watched the father of my only child smell his finger.

Our two cat’s, Court and Jasper, ran down the hallway past him, meowing loudly. Court weighed at least fourteen pounds, and was solid white from tip to tail, so seeing her run was like watching a furry ball bound your way. Jasper, the retarded one—all speckled; a mix-up of oranges, blacks and tans—slid across the kitchen tile, right into their water dish.

“Rose,” I said, my sister still going on and on about how much this ‘gift’ was going to mean to her, cutting her off in the process, “I have a mess to clean up. Bye.”

*                                                            *                                                            *

A three hour trip to the grocery store and I had everything I needed to make this cake for my wonderful sister. Dropping the bag of supplies on the floor, I saw Court and Jasper eye ball the thing directly. Thinking better of the situation, I dumped the contents on the kitchen table and threw the bag on the ground. Court tackled it like a linebacker, well practiced and skilled. Jasper, on the other hand, sailed over the bag smacking head first into the cabinets below the sink. Shaking it off, he left the bag alone.

I was beat down, ready to throw in the towel, when my wonderful husband yelled from the study, “What’s for dinner?”

“Chinese…delivery…going to sleep…feed the kid…cat’s are in the bag…I’m done.”

“Kay!”

Our understanding of each other went deeper than just love.

*                                                            *                                                            *

Upon waking, I went into our master bath to wash the sleep out of my eye’s, and was welcomed to a horrid smell. The aroma wafting up into my sinuses gave most waste disposal plants a run for their money. With further inspection I found the source; and the culprit.

Jasper, muscles tight in concentration, was leaving a present in the kitty liter box. I turned my nose up and went about cleaning my face.

When I was done, Jasper nudged my leg, circled through, and popped out in front of me. The rolling half purr/half meow he was known for, told me something was up.

Inside the litter box, sat a nicely coiled rope of surprise. The handicapped cat hadn’t even bothered to cover it up. With his back arched in pride at its most recent accomplishment, Jasper led me to the box with a swishing tale. I followed, if for no other reason than to cover it up.

Something glimmered from the pile, shining in the light of my bathroom. I knelt down. Shock and awe overcame me. I found a little gold nugget sticking out the side of Jasper’s creation. I chanced a closer look and found tiny veins of gold running throughout the hill of excrement.

“Jules!”

“Huh!”

“Come look at this!”

Sanitation be damned, I scooped up the poop. Jasper looked at me as if to say, “Hey, whatcha doin’ stealing my shit!”

My robed husband, standing in the door to our bedroom, looked down at what I carried in my hands and took a step back. “Jesus, Jess!”

“You remember the goose that laid the golden egg? Well look what Jasper did!”

“Jess…” Jules said pinching his nose, “You might wanna look at something first.”

“Do you not see! Our cat crap’s gold! Look. Just have a look!” I shoved the pile further into his face.

He leaned back, revolted, as he dug in his bathrobe pocket. Jules pulled out a ripped and torn plastic baggie. He held it up for me to see.

Inside the baggie, gold flake cake decorating material sparkled in the lights of our bedroom, half gone, tiny teeth marks everywhere.

I looked at the bag.

I looked at my smeared hands, all brown and gold.

Jasper rubbed up against my leg, purring, meowing.

I dropped my head.

“Ah, shit.”

 The End

A Review of “Club Justice” by Mara McBain

I’ve been warring over doing this review for quite some time. My new publisher has told me on numerous occasions not to review other author’s novels—especially indies—but some rules need to be broken. That advice was not given to keep me mysterious, or make me seem holier than thou. The suggestion has merit. If I find a novel I can’t finish for some reason—bad editing, poor plot, drab characters, unreal dialogue—and I end up reviewing the book, it makes me seem like I know everything, or I’m a better author than the person I hold such a low opinion of. With that being said, I’ve only ever reviewed good books. So shoot me. But, with this review, I’m only going to focus on the bad parts.

Ready?

I hate this book…

…because I didn’t write it. Zeke and Ginny are flesh and blood. Mara writes Zeke real, with all the duality that lies at the heart of every man. I was shocked stupid by how well she got into a man’s brain. So much so, that I continually asked myself who Mara had molded him after in her real life. I think that is a true testament to the astounding skill of character development that Mara possesses. I found myself arguing with myself that Zeke must be real, because no one, I don’t care who you are, can write a character that damn good. I surmise she cheated. But only because I can’t do it myself. Jealousy is a bitch, ain’t it?

Now, what do I say about Zeke’s wife, Ginny. Well, more of the same I said about Zeke, but this character had more sass. As you read Club Justice, you will understand when I say, this book is, hands down, about family. You protect family, no matter the cost, and Ginny, the matriarch of the Brawer clan, gets that. Whether you’re blood, or not, if you’re allowed into her family’s world, you are part of the tribe.

Another thing I can’t stand about this book is, there are an abundance of characters. I couldn’t handle this many souls on a page if I tried. Pisses me off to see Mara do it so effortlessly. You have club members—Sambo, Bowie, Reaper, Tech, Taz—, Zeke and Ginny’s boys, who are, or will be club members—Rhys, Mox, Garrett—and the member’s old ladies—G.G, Kat, Amber and so on. Then you have the cops—Donovan, Kramer, and later, Murphy. You even get a town whore! There are more, but my brain is already hurting. You see, I just named all those characters by memory. I’m sure I missed some, but I got the ones I could think of right now. Not once while reading this book, did I get confused. Mara is just brain-numbingly good with her cast. Once again, I’m envious.

Every once and a while, you’ll come across a novel so engrossing that you can’t put it down. I’m a fast writer, but a slow reader. I could probably write this sentence faster than I could read it back to you. The reason for this is, I like to taste every word, every sentence, and see what ingredients they hold. I want to know how the chef made the dish. I’m nosey like that. I found myself playing hooky from my writing to read Mara’s book. Yep. You can blame the delay of my newest novel on Club Justice. Damn a good book! Damn it all to hell!

She had me laughing when I least expected it, and bawling like a toddler watching the end of Bambi in another scene. She scared the stains out of my shorts, then put new ones in their place, on more than one occasion. The bad guys are bad. The good guys are good, but sometimes in a bad way. Everyone else is along for a rollercoaster of a ride. Every single time I thought I knew where the book was going, Mara put a boot in my ass and shoved in another direction. The back story is fiery and integral to the overall thread of the novel. No one’s hands are clean here. Just the way I like it. Sorry, I forgot, I hate this book. Blah!

And sex! There’s sex. I can’t stand sex!

There really is so much going on in Club Justice that if I drop even a subtle hint at the plot, I will ruin the experience for you. Just go buy it. I’m sick and tired of typing. Either you’re going to read this and give Mara a chance, or you’ve already bought it. Because if you have no intention of reading this book, your brains must’ve leaked out of your head when you used the toilet this morning.

Full Disclosure: Mara and I know each other. She read my debut novel, Bay’s End, and gave it five stars. That fact has nothing to do with the review you just read. Club Justice is good. Deal with it.

E.