Poppy Z. Brite's Blog, page 75
November 9, 2010
Crap Crap Crap
I have a sprung wing. Must have slept wrong on it last night, and have spent all day feeling like somebody planted a knife just under my right shoulder blade. Didn't do anything strenuous, unless bending my elbow at Commander's Palace last night counts. This week is all party, party, party (which for me usually translates to party/rest/party/rest), but next week I must try to
Argh. Whatever I was going to type has just been wiped out by a baseless and paralyzing wave of depression. I guess I should try to Be Here Now and not think about the future. This would probably be a good time to scoop litterboxes. Leaving crappy entry up for posterity (the posterity of how fucked-up brain chemicals can suddenly kick your ass, that is).
Argh. Whatever I was going to type has just been wiped out by a baseless and paralyzing wave of depression. I guess I should try to Be Here Now and not think about the future. This would probably be a good time to scoop litterboxes. Leaving crappy entry up for posterity (the posterity of how fucked-up brain chemicals can suddenly kick your ass, that is).
November 7, 2010
It All Depends Upon Your Appetite
A terrible part of my brain is trying to mash up Dark Tower 2: The Drawing of the Three with "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant."
{{{***beautiful piano***}}}
A bottle of red?
A bottle of white?
Perhaps a bloody firefight?
Meet you any time you want
At our Italian restaurant.
A bottle of white?
A bottle of red?
Or just your brother's severed head?
...
See, this is what happens when I don't have an outlet at home.
Recently I bagged up a bunch of my old girl clothes and donated them to Goodwill. Today I realized I needed a jacket for a dinner date tomorrow, as well as some other manly winter clothes, so I went back to Goodwill. Walking through the women's department on my way to the men's, I saw a bunch of the stuff I'd donated out for sale. Clothes have never been a real big part of my life, but it was still a little weird seeing items I'd lived in for years, items that have histories for me, hanging on the racks. They are nice things, though, and I won't be needing them again. (See, that sounds slightly like I died, which I haven't.)
But I got three sharp jackets (including a really snazzy black one with a thin, subtle red check I didn't notice until I got home) and some pants and shirts and S.K. hardcovers and a book called What's My Pee Telling Me? and a ceramic python hide (which started life as a wine bucket) and a single lovely dinner plate, and then had gravy fries at the Parkway Bakery. I'd never quite meshed with this popular po-boy destination before, but I think I've finally found my dish. They do the fries nice and crisp, then smother them in their roast beef gravy with debris. Add a good dose of hot sauce and it's as decadent as foie gras or bone marrow. It was enough to get me through the traumatic experience I had with potatoes (not ones I'd eaten) later in the evening, which gave me flashbacks to that autopsy I observed in Fort Worth in 199-.
{{{***beautiful piano***}}}
A bottle of red?
A bottle of white?
Perhaps a bloody firefight?
Meet you any time you want
At our Italian restaurant.
A bottle of white?
A bottle of red?
Or just your brother's severed head?
...
See, this is what happens when I don't have an outlet at home.
Recently I bagged up a bunch of my old girl clothes and donated them to Goodwill. Today I realized I needed a jacket for a dinner date tomorrow, as well as some other manly winter clothes, so I went back to Goodwill. Walking through the women's department on my way to the men's, I saw a bunch of the stuff I'd donated out for sale. Clothes have never been a real big part of my life, but it was still a little weird seeing items I'd lived in for years, items that have histories for me, hanging on the racks. They are nice things, though, and I won't be needing them again. (See, that sounds slightly like I died, which I haven't.)
But I got three sharp jackets (including a really snazzy black one with a thin, subtle red check I didn't notice until I got home) and some pants and shirts and S.K. hardcovers and a book called What's My Pee Telling Me? and a ceramic python hide (which started life as a wine bucket) and a single lovely dinner plate, and then had gravy fries at the Parkway Bakery. I'd never quite meshed with this popular po-boy destination before, but I think I've finally found my dish. They do the fries nice and crisp, then smother them in their roast beef gravy with debris. Add a good dose of hot sauce and it's as decadent as foie gras or bone marrow. It was enough to get me through the traumatic experience I had with potatoes (not ones I'd eaten) later in the evening, which gave me flashbacks to that autopsy I observed in Fort Worth in 199-.
November 6, 2010
Books
I'm going to spend the evening reading and go to bed early (fun things to do tomorrow if I only have the energy for them), but I wanted to make a note of the three books I picked up at Borders tonight:
40: A Doonesbury Retrospective by G.B. Trudeau. Couldn't really afford this massive slipcased compendium, but I somehow lost my old Doonesbury trade paperbacks about twenty years ago and have missed them ever since; they, the Beatles, and Harlan Ellison were a trio of huge formative influences on my commie-pinko-pervo underground-newspaper-publishing non-Pledge-of-Allegiance-saying teenage self. I've already found several strips I remember fondly, and puzzled anew over why the young Trudeau used to leave out his characters' mouths so often. Hey, at least I had my Borders reward card (40% off).
Weekends at Bellevue: Nine Years on the Night Shift at the Psych ER by Julie Holland, M.D. This is the kind of book -- anecdotes by ER doctors, forensic examiners, EMT workers, brain surgeons, and such -- I can snarf down faster than any other. They're like candy bars, only gorier and more interesting.
The Hair Wreath and Other Stories by Halli Villegas. I've had this Chizine publication bookmarked to buy online ever since the title and cover art caught my eye in one of![[info]](https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/hostedimages/1380442897i/1319734.gif)
jack_yoniga
's posts (I collect Victorian mourning art and jewelry, including hair wreaths), but I was so excited to see a Chizine book at Borders that I snapped it up. Looking forward to checking out a new (to me, anyway) author of dark fiction.
Other good reading of late has included Safe Return Doubtful: The Heroic Age of Polar Exploration by John Maxtone-Graham, The Whale: In Search of the Giants of the Sea by Philip Hoare (can't recommend this one unless you also like Moby-Dick, which I do), and a reread of Peter Straub's wonderful Blue Rose trilogy (Koko, Mystery, and The Throat). And of course there's that thing coming out next week ... I'll get too excited if I mention it, so I won't.
40: A Doonesbury Retrospective by G.B. Trudeau. Couldn't really afford this massive slipcased compendium, but I somehow lost my old Doonesbury trade paperbacks about twenty years ago and have missed them ever since; they, the Beatles, and Harlan Ellison were a trio of huge formative influences on my commie-pinko-pervo underground-newspaper-publishing non-Pledge-of-Allegiance-saying teenage self. I've already found several strips I remember fondly, and puzzled anew over why the young Trudeau used to leave out his characters' mouths so often. Hey, at least I had my Borders reward card (40% off).
Weekends at Bellevue: Nine Years on the Night Shift at the Psych ER by Julie Holland, M.D. This is the kind of book -- anecdotes by ER doctors, forensic examiners, EMT workers, brain surgeons, and such -- I can snarf down faster than any other. They're like candy bars, only gorier and more interesting.
The Hair Wreath and Other Stories by Halli Villegas. I've had this Chizine publication bookmarked to buy online ever since the title and cover art caught my eye in one of
jack_yoniga
's posts (I collect Victorian mourning art and jewelry, including hair wreaths), but I was so excited to see a Chizine book at Borders that I snapped it up. Looking forward to checking out a new (to me, anyway) author of dark fiction.Other good reading of late has included Safe Return Doubtful: The Heroic Age of Polar Exploration by John Maxtone-Graham, The Whale: In Search of the Giants of the Sea by Philip Hoare (can't recommend this one unless you also like Moby-Dick, which I do), and a reread of Peter Straub's wonderful Blue Rose trilogy (Koko, Mystery, and The Throat). And of course there's that thing coming out next week ... I'll get too excited if I mention it, so I won't.
November 5, 2010
Mad Ramblings
I don't know if I've mentioned that Chris and the Green Goddess are catering Neil Gaiman's 50th birthday party here in New Orleans next week. The party will be a blast, but the week leading up to it promises to be an intense time, and I am unofficially banned from mentioning two names (initials: S.K. and B.J.) during our conversations until after the blessed event. I guess I tend to get a little (read: annoyingly) obsessive about the stuff I like.
You know, if it wasn't for Chris, I'd probably be living in my mom's basement by now. Well, she doesn't have a basement, but maybe I could put up a shed in her backyard. Get satellite Internet, keep a notebook of secret theories connecting the works of S.K. and B.J. to the fate of the universe. There was a character like this in one of William Goldman's novels, I think. Living in his rich dad's poolhouse and making flowcharts about the Beatles for the massive revelatory tome he was going to write someday. I even remember that his name was Noel, but I can't remember the name of the book and am not even 100% sure it was Goldman. I've been reading disturbing things about the hippocampus that lead me to believe my memory really is damaged and that the damage is accelerating in some ways. If so, you can watch me deteriorate here in living color. I'll try to do it interestingly.
You know, if it wasn't for Chris, I'd probably be living in my mom's basement by now. Well, she doesn't have a basement, but maybe I could put up a shed in her backyard. Get satellite Internet, keep a notebook of secret theories connecting the works of S.K. and B.J. to the fate of the universe. There was a character like this in one of William Goldman's novels, I think. Living in his rich dad's poolhouse and making flowcharts about the Beatles for the massive revelatory tome he was going to write someday. I even remember that his name was Noel, but I can't remember the name of the book and am not even 100% sure it was Goldman. I've been reading disturbing things about the hippocampus that lead me to believe my memory really is damaged and that the damage is accelerating in some ways. If so, you can watch me deteriorate here in living color. I'll try to do it interestingly.
November 4, 2010
Cooks Source Megafail
If you enjoy publishing/copyright train wrecks of astonishing idiocy, don't miss the whole Cooks Source plagiarism scandal. "The Internet is public domain," y'all.
nihilistic_kid
's first post on the subject is a good starting point. Also, don't miss the fake, snarky, and hilarious Cooks Source Twitter, which is doing a good job of parodying cluelessness so profound that it must be hard to lampoon.
nihilistic_kid
's first post on the subject is a good starting point. Also, don't miss the fake, snarky, and hilarious Cooks Source Twitter, which is doing a good job of parodying cluelessness so profound that it must be hard to lampoon.
November 3, 2010
Snippets
Wireless service at our house is intermittent to nonexistent. Can occasionally access the Internet via iPhone, as now.
Thanks to the person who sent me Dan Simmons' Lovedeath from my Amazon wish list. Unfortunately, I can't thank you personally as I prefer to do, because Amazon (in a pretty major fail) doesn't let you know who sent you used/out-of-print books. I look forward to reading it, though.
Thanks also to RS, who kindly sent me a very special pencil.
A well-timed royalty check bearing the legend "Soul Kitchen - French publication" arrived from my agent today, so I assume the French translation of Soul Kitchen is in stores or will be soon. Thanks, French readers; you are loyal and awesome.
My St. Francis prayer: Make me a channel of thy peace. Help me to bear pain with grace. Untangle and soothe my mind. Help me to be quiet.
October 30, 2010
TRICK OR TREAT. PROBLEM???
I AM A GENIUS PUMPKINWRIGHT. One who clearly spends way too much time on the Internet.
PROBLEM?
FFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUU
U MAD?
PROBLEM?
FFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUU
U MAD?
October 29, 2010
Brains
On Tuesday, a demolition firm finally tore down the blighted house next door to mine. Wednesday and today, they spent clearing away the massive pile of debris. I salvaged some nice old bricks for the garden, but that's neither here nor there.
A little while ago, I heard some strange digging and rustling sounds from the now-empty lot. Zombies, I figured. They were buried under the house, and now that the earth has been disturbed, they're emerging. My fears were soon confirmed when an arm smashed through my windowpane, bone glimmering beneath the putrescent web of skin still stretched over its wasted muscles. Then another arm, then another. A hand's wriggling motion snapped the last shreds of tendon connecting it to its wrist. It dropped to the floor and scuttled toward me on greenish-purple fingertips. Cats ran away hissing.
Soon the tide of former humanity was too great and the window frame burst in under its onslaught. Zombies poured into the room, knocking over furniture, spilling the bong, reeking of rot and filth. "BRAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIINS!" they groaned. "BRAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIINS! BRAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIINS!!!"
I cowered in terror as they advanced upon me. The lead zombie grabbed me by the head and prepared to sink his teeth into my skull. "BRAAAAAIIIIIIINS! BRAAAIIII -- "
He stopped, puzzled, and sniffed suspiciously at the top of my head. Then he let me go and shuffled around to face the rest of the horde, hunger and sorrow apparent in his very posture.
"NOOOOOOOO BRAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIINS!" he informed them, and a collective, putrid sigh went up as they climbed back out through the smashed window.
Last I saw, they were enthusiastically chowing down on the brains of a neighborhood bum who used to drink Sterno strained through cheesecloth. I took down a few of them with my .38, but it was too late to save the poor man.
A little while ago, I heard some strange digging and rustling sounds from the now-empty lot. Zombies, I figured. They were buried under the house, and now that the earth has been disturbed, they're emerging. My fears were soon confirmed when an arm smashed through my windowpane, bone glimmering beneath the putrescent web of skin still stretched over its wasted muscles. Then another arm, then another. A hand's wriggling motion snapped the last shreds of tendon connecting it to its wrist. It dropped to the floor and scuttled toward me on greenish-purple fingertips. Cats ran away hissing.
Soon the tide of former humanity was too great and the window frame burst in under its onslaught. Zombies poured into the room, knocking over furniture, spilling the bong, reeking of rot and filth. "BRAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIINS!" they groaned. "BRAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIINS! BRAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIINS!!!"
I cowered in terror as they advanced upon me. The lead zombie grabbed me by the head and prepared to sink his teeth into my skull. "BRAAAAAIIIIIIINS! BRAAAIIII -- "
He stopped, puzzled, and sniffed suspiciously at the top of my head. Then he let me go and shuffled around to face the rest of the horde, hunger and sorrow apparent in his very posture.
"NOOOOOOOO BRAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIINS!" he informed them, and a collective, putrid sigh went up as they climbed back out through the smashed window.
Last I saw, they were enthusiastically chowing down on the brains of a neighborhood bum who used to drink Sterno strained through cheesecloth. I took down a few of them with my .38, but it was too late to save the poor man.
October 24, 2010
Winter of the Witch
I can't believe I finally found this movie. It was the Valley of the Dolls of my childhood. No, seriously. In my elementary school we watched ancient things called "filmstrips," and we saw this one at least two or three times a year. It still doesn't look right without the shadows of little hands waving on the screen during the opening credits. It really is Valley of the Dolls for children. Watch it and see if I'm not right. It has cheesy mood music, gimmicky shots and colorful effects (magic pancake dots!!!), an old witch, psychoactive substances, and the mom even looks and sounds a little like Barbara Parkins.
We always said the witch looked like our music teacher, and she did a little. But now that makes me think our music teacher must have been way more fabulous than I realized at the time.
We always said the witch looked like our music teacher, and she did a little. But now that makes me think our music teacher must have been way more fabulous than I realized at the time.
LOLornithology
Times-Picayune: OH NOES APPLE SNAILS
Rest of Louisiana: EWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!11111!!!!!
Louisiana bird geeks: OMG WE CAN HAZ SNAIL KITES?
Now my brain wants to go off on a tangent about a LOLcats' guide to birding ... and I have a crush on Trollface ... and I know about racial wank in fanfic about characters from movies I've never seen ... oh, God, internetz, what haz u dun 2 me ... Saturday night and I'm still hangin' around ... I can't very well sing the next line, but I should probably find a little hole in the ground for a while anyway.
Rest of Louisiana: EWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!11111!!!!!
Louisiana bird geeks: OMG WE CAN HAZ SNAIL KITES?
Now my brain wants to go off on a tangent about a LOLcats' guide to birding ... and I have a crush on Trollface ... and I know about racial wank in fanfic about characters from movies I've never seen ... oh, God, internetz, what haz u dun 2 me ... Saturday night and I'm still hangin' around ... I can't very well sing the next line, but I should probably find a little hole in the ground for a while anyway.
