Showing posts with label Humor. Show all posts
Who died and made this crook
the Quote of the Day?
I woke up with Red Peppers on the brain. Not the kind suitable for eating, dear Readers; the play.
I recall my mother telling me about performing in Red Peppers. It is a warm, fuzzy memory, the likes of which make you immediately think, “wow, why in the hell did I grow up?” The topic came up during some sort of play that I was working (or perhaps it was one of her productions that I was acting in?) We lived in California at the time. Perhaps my father was still employed at Paramount, perhaps he had moved on to Hannon Engineering. Who is to say? I can’t recall it. I have no intention of calling Mum to ask. Much too early in the morning (two hour difference between us.)
Let’s jump into our Way, Way Back Machine, preset to the 1970’s or early 1980’s. She hands me the tattered remains of what was once a working script. Noel Coward’s name is fading from the cover and the pages themselves bear the brunt of an actor’s touch.
There was a feeling of connectivity then, standing in their library and grasping something that my mother once used in her Younger Days before she gave up her career to raise me (promise to God, complex, to be explained someday.) Her lines were not highlighted. There were notes scribbled in the margins as well as blocking. It had the scent of old makeup and cigarette smoke. The paper, aged and soft, had the occasional gritty speck stashed between the pages. I imagined a much younger Mum, the sort that would toss the script onto the apron during a rehearsal thereby permitting the particles to embed themselves.
Wow, my mother performed this, I thought to myself, and then added for good measure, in front of people in a theatre.
I recall my mother telling me about performing in Red Peppers. It is a warm, fuzzy memory, the likes of which make you immediately think, “wow, why in the hell did I grow up?” The topic came up during some sort of play that I was working (or perhaps it was one of her productions that I was acting in?) We lived in California at the time. Perhaps my father was still employed at Paramount, perhaps he had moved on to Hannon Engineering. Who is to say? I can’t recall it. I have no intention of calling Mum to ask. Much too early in the morning (two hour difference between us.)
Let’s jump into our Way, Way Back Machine, preset to the 1970’s or early 1980’s. She hands me the tattered remains of what was once a working script. Noel Coward’s name is fading from the cover and the pages themselves bear the brunt of an actor’s touch.
There was a feeling of connectivity then, standing in their library and grasping something that my mother once used in her Younger Days before she gave up her career to raise me (promise to God, complex, to be explained someday.) Her lines were not highlighted. There were notes scribbled in the margins as well as blocking. It had the scent of old makeup and cigarette smoke. The paper, aged and soft, had the occasional gritty speck stashed between the pages. I imagined a much younger Mum, the sort that would toss the script onto the apron during a rehearsal thereby permitting the particles to embed themselves.
Wow, my mother performed this, I thought to myself, and then added for good measure, in front of people in a theatre.
To this day I have but one regret: I have never seen my mother perform. She was instructing and directing by the time that I came along. She has recited lines for me (such as the Red Peppers moment) and I always found myself to be dumbfounded by her knack of getting quickly into character, to step into a role that she had not embraced in over “a million” years. I was immeasurably proud of her during those moments.
Accents. “A Southern accent is infectious and can ruin an entire show.” It is sage advice from a woman who understands her craft better than most people know their own navels. My mother ran through a few lines (by memory) using a flawless Cockney (or East Ender) accent. The script begs for it. I was duly impressed as I stood in her library.
This is the point where I would insert a bit of dialog in order to give you a peek into Red Peppers. I would like to. I can’t find the lines anywhere.
Pickabook offers: Thisitem is not a usual stock item, but we can try to source it. Our price includes a finder's fee of £2.00 per copy. The usual dispatch time is 4-6 weeks.
No shit, Sherlock. I spent a good hour Googling in hopes of finding a snippet of lines from the script. Class and wit have been replaced by talking vaginas and cuckold men (my apologies to my NOW friends and family.)
Samuel French did have a copy and a short synopsis of the play.
One of the "Tonight At 8:30" series produced in London and New York. Doing a song and dance act in a vaudeville theatre are George Pepper and his wife, Lily. They also have a genius for picking quarrels and insulting co workers. When the house musical director, Bert, comes to the dressing room to bum a cigarette and a beer, they chide him for accompanying them in the wrong tempo, call him a drunk, and oust him. Mr. Edwards, house manager, comes to defend Bert, and he is insulted. At the following show Bert had his revenge when he plays the accompaniment so fast the Peppers get frantic and finally fall down. Lily stalks off the stage after heaving her hat at Bert. Also published in Tonight at8:30.
FEE: $35 per performance. Sheet Music (2 songs), $1.25 each.
La te da, Samuel French. (It's located in Key West. No, not Samuel French. La Te Da.)
I'd like to know some of the lines. I'd like to touch upon a memory. There is only one thing for it: Call Mum.
“Hello,” says my mother and I detect a hint of curiosity in her voice. It’s noon
here and I am actually out of bed. Did the house catch fire? Am I in the hospital dying from typhoid? Did we win the lottery?Detour moment:
I never call her early in the day. I always manage to call her towards the end of the day, as if she were nothing but an afterthought to my busy (NOT) day. This is not the case, dear Readers. My mother is not an afterthought. She is writing a book and I do not wish to disturb her. Also, Better Half drives me nucking futs during the day and I seem unable to string two words together without him shouting at some animal or another.
“Nutmeg! NUT meg! NUTMEG! Get DOWN. Down. DOWN. DOWWWWNNNNNN!”
Jebus Crisp, Better Half! “Better HALF! BETTER HALF. Shush! SHUSH! SSSHHHUSH, I’m on the damned phone”. Thus go my days.
I have a sweet friend who also is cursed with oft-impish fur children. He will politely say, “Simba, get down. Mummy’s on the phone.” So elegant. I sometimes dread calling Michael for fear that Better Half will spontaneously explode from the sound of his own voice.
“Nutmeg! Nut MEG! NUTME… KABLOOM!”
I would then have to apologize to Michael and offer to pay for his now-ruptured eardrums, hang up the phone and grab the mop and towels before the neighbors notice the red goop trickling down the walls.
Back to my mother:
“Hello,” says my mother and I detect a hint of curiosity in her voice.
“Hey, do you remember Red Peppers?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t you and Dad do that one?”
“Yes”
“Wasn’t there a song in there?”
“Yes… hmm.” She sings some lyrics.
I laugh. Her memory is phenomenal. She goes into lines.
George: Now then.
Lily: Now then what?
She runs the dialog too quickly for me to type out beyond that. She runs it with the Cockney accent (very soft but still there), accurately portraying both characters as they react to each other. She laughs; she can’t remember any further.
“If Dad were here, we could run the lines for you,” she adds. (He is at the dentist today.)
I can feel her smiling as she says, “I directed your Dad in New York [City] with Peggy, and then I performed it with Dad in California.” It has been forty-two years (at the very least) since they performed ‘Red Peppers’. She still remembers.
“Nutmeg! Nut MEG! NUTME… KABLOOM!”
I would then have to apologize to Michael and offer to pay for his now-ruptured eardrums, hang up the phone and grab the mop and towels before the neighbors notice the red goop trickling down the walls.
Back to my mother:
“Hello,” says my mother and I detect a hint of curiosity in her voice.
“Hey, do you remember Red Peppers?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t you and Dad do that one?”
“Yes”
“Wasn’t there a song in there?”
“Yes… hmm.” She sings some lyrics.
I laugh. Her memory is phenomenal. She goes into lines.
George: Now then.
Lily: Now then what?
She runs the dialog too quickly for me to type out beyond that. She runs it with the Cockney accent (very soft but still there), accurately portraying both characters as they react to each other. She laughs; she can’t remember any further.
“If Dad were here, we could run the lines for you,” she adds. (He is at the dentist today.)
I can feel her smiling as she says, “I directed your Dad in New York [City] with Peggy, and then I performed it with Dad in California.” It has been forty-two years (at the very least) since they performed ‘Red Peppers’. She still remembers.
I cast my mind about for lines from any productions that I’ve been in, reaching far back into my thirty-seven year old memory cache. It’s not impressive compared to Mum’s cache. (I have a hard time remembering what I ate for breakfast, where I left the dog and my own age.)
Lines? I have the ability to remember those. Perhaps it is a gift from Mum.
My first thought is The Decision. I remember the entire script, and I do mean the entire script. Every line. It’s a three-act play. Three hours of lines. I was in every scene; my father initially played the role.
This trial is one of great decision on your part. The accused is not present at this hearing. I have been assured by his counselor that the defendant will be watching these entire proceedings.
I am prepared to present to you many witnesses to prove the accused is guilty of having misled and confused millions of innocent people. In actuality, it is not so much the defendant who is on trial here, but rather it is his lunatic ideals that his followers have plagued mankind with…
I remember things from high school and earlier – first grade at St. Rose of Lima Elementary, we did a production called The Five Stones. I played the part of Martha. I think my husband was Zack. I can recall grabbing that young actor’s arm and delivering an irritated, “Come on, Zachary!” before dragging him stage right. Is this just some sort of floating dream? I reminiscence about a scrapbook and of an old photograph published in our local paper. It depicts that exact scene. Therefore, I can assume that either my memory is foggy or that I am actually remembering the lines.
Red Peppers. Mum and I enjoyed an hour on the phone. We talked about her old haunts and jobs. We discussed the university. We laughed over Vatican II nuns, communist lists, foolish Cardinals and the degradation of the Theatre Arts.
Today is my Grandfather Frank’s birthday. He passed when Mum was sixteen. I know it’s a poignant day for her. I am certain that her memories of her father are just as fresh as the lines that she so easily recollected over the phone. I think of the future Autrice and where I will be in forty years, when I am as old as my Mum and recalling loved ones. I also think of where my Mum was when she was my age. Both are bittersweet thoughts. I have not achieved as much as she did by her mid-thirties. I have not slain dragons or taken on the world with the same determination and fervor as she.
My hope is for my memory. I want to be able to peek over my shoulder and recall things such as soft scripts and Mum’s voice giving lines. I want to be capable of journeying down Memory Lane and seeing all the splendors with my mother’s same accuracy.
Red Peppers. Mum and I enjoyed an hour on the phone. We talked about her old haunts and jobs. We discussed the university. We laughed over Vatican II nuns, communist lists, foolish Cardinals and the degradation of the Theatre Arts.Today is my Grandfather Frank’s birthday. He passed when Mum was sixteen. I know it’s a poignant day for her. I am certain that her memories of her father are just as fresh as the lines that she so easily recollected over the phone. I think of the future Autrice and where I will be in forty years, when I am as old as my Mum and recalling loved ones. I also think of where my Mum was when she was my age. Both are bittersweet thoughts. I have not achieved as much as she did by her mid-thirties. I have not slain dragons or taken on the world with the same determination and fervor as she.
My hope is for my memory. I want to be able to peek over my shoulder and recall things such as soft scripts and Mum’s voice giving lines. I want to be capable of journeying down Memory Lane and seeing all the splendors with my mother’s same accuracy.
I can overlook some things. If you have never called a living and breathing human being in Canada, you might not know that you can dial the number just as you would any long distance phone number, using only 1+area code. Please do not try to place a call to Canadians who are not living and breathing; the dead tend to ignore the phone’s ring. Another misconception: Canada does not have “states”. Should you ask a Canadian what state he lives in, he will probably think, “a state of hell, having to deal with yet another inept American.” Canada is a federation of ten provinces and three territories. They have a PM (Prime Minister, which is not the same thing as prime rib) rather than a president. We will not even touch the clueless American who became rather perturbed upon hearing that Niagara (pronounced nye AH grah by the bungling) Falls has a “Canadian side”, how dare they! Les Chutes du Niagara cascading down from the Niagara River surely must belong to the Americans. It never occurred to her that there was more to Niagara than a single cataract of water.
July 1st – a relaxing day. Not only is it my birthday, but also the day that Canadians celebrate the birth of the man (Oscar Canada) who discovered their great land. I’m told that they hold dog sled races in the deep July snow to commemorate the occasion, replete with lumberjack competitions and RCMP formation drills. The PM, Stephen Harper, was on hand to help judge the moose beauty pageant. The moose (or “mooses” if you are from the any state in the deep South, USA) must sing the national anthem (dedicated to Mr. O. Canada) with perfect pitch least they be disqualified.
My wonderful Canadian friends are going to kick my ass all over the Internet, to be sure.
I had a friend “back in the day” that honestly thought that Cinco de Mayo was held in celebration of the “man who discovered Mexico”. His name, of course, was Cinco de Mayo (no relation to Oscar Canada or even Oscar de la Renta.) The mistranslation of “Fifth of May” to “this guy’s name” undeniably stymied her attempts to date a Hispanic male. It didn’t surprise me one iota when some foolish person refused to believe Canada Day was about the enactment of the British North American Act. I am not going into detail about the “how and why” of it. Google and learn.
How sad is it that Americans seem clueless with regard to their neighbors to the north and south? Are we nothing more than a nation that saturates itself with prime time talent contests, baby daddy talk shows, and hyperbole as it pertains to our self-estimation? (Be forewarned, the next generation was weaned on Fruit Roll-Ups, Starbuck’s burnt coffee and Go-Gurt. I don’t expect much in the way of vigorous brain cell activity. God forbid they reach their 40’s and suddenly discover that Canada is not the 51st state.) 
Canadians enjoy indoor plumbing, paved roads and buildings comprised of materials other than ice. They drive in the same sort of vehicles that you would see in the United States. Most do not finish every sentence with “ay”, although there are some that do. Contrary to popular belief, Canada has a military and space programs. Mounties do not ride yaks (the Royal Canadian Kilted Yaksmen are Ren and Stimpy fantasy.) 
My birthday (I did not discover Canada) was splendid. Better Half treated me to the new Disney-Pixar film, Wall-E. We had a lovely dinner out and enjoyed a wonderful cherry cake.
He hath arrived, the Chickenman. He emerges from the depths of the tunnel system and prowls the hospital campus subterranean corridors, guided by his flattened nose. The waft of cooked food causes this behemoth to present itself for inspection under pale neon lights; his eyes seek only the dark golden brown of fried meat poultry and haven’t a glance to spare for any people in the vicinity. It is not as if the creature were blind, although one would suspect some visual impairment as they attempt to locate the eyes, which themselves are small, watery and partially concealed behind hillocks of flesh surrounding the ocular opening.
He slips between steam tables like an H2 easing into a compact car parking spot. Small salt and ketchup packets maintain their geocentric obit around his mass before being thrown briefly out of trajectory as a meaty fist swats them away. Food service workers slowly curl their hands into fists, in much the same way that a zookeeper would protect stray digits from the maul of a carnivore. Small children, sensing imminent danger, fly to the safety of their parent or grandparent, and survey Chickenman warily as he makes his way to the chicken counter.
The Chickenman is not to be trifled with. 6’ 5” and weighing in around the same as a VW Bug, his size intimidates other canteen patrons. He grunts and snatches a large Styrofoam take-out container in one hand and a large plastic dinner plate in the other. He assaults the stainless steel “dark meat” chicken bins, leaving only crumbs in his wake. It is nothing short of chicken brigandage.
Into the container go every last moist and tender thigh and leg. It is packed beyond capacity, bulging in protest to the unnatural amount of cooked carcass parts encased therein. Onto the plate goes the same, and the plastic moans ominously under the hefty burden.
Chickenman waddles to the cashier, who seems apathetic toward the (daily!) event and she “rings him out” to the tune of $40. VAMC Canteen chicken is slightly less expensive per piece than the average gumball at your local convenience store. Chickenman rummages through his pockets and locates a thick was of cash, neatly peels a few “tens” from the roll, and fumbles once again to pocket his valuable money.
Chickenman ambles towards a booth and squeezes his mass between table and bench. His generous frontage, be it man-breasts or displaced belly meat, mounds over the lip of the small Formica table. His breath comes in grunted puffs as he situates himself, rolling left to right in an effort to situate the bulging rolls of fat on his thighs and buttocks. The bench creeks ominously and then Chickenman rests, the lower portion of hit gut overlapping his kneecaps and the upper portion taking up too much space on the table top. Chickenman doesn’t care.
He sets upon the plate of chicken. He eats at an alarming rate, dark lips and yellowing teeth pulling breading and flesh from bone and sucking them into a cavernous hole. The air is peppered by west smacking and slurping sounds, and small food particles scatter across the table. Chickenman finishes a thigh, carefully gnawing the last vestiges of cartilage from the ends of the bone, and then dabs each greasy finger on his tongue. He starts on a leg. The activity is indecent.
In less than twelve minutes the carnage has come to an end. Twenty stripped bones lay bare on the plate as Chickenman noses about for anything that might have made a bid for freedom. A fat finger presses down on crumbs, forcing them to stick to the end of the digit so that they might be easily lifted to the mouth. Satisfied that nothing edible can be had from the bones, Chickenman’s shoulders lean back and he proffers a growling, gritty belch of chicken-flavored air.
He heaves himself out of the booth and departs, clutching the carryout container possessively as if daring Frodo to snatch it away from him and throw it into the cracks of Mt. Doom. Back into the darkened tunnel system he goes, taking refuge in the crumbling underground network connecting all the buildings on campus.
This is his existence, this phantom of the canteen, this freakish creature of Highland Drive. I see him depart and I take inventory of my own fingers and toes, and vow to only consume salads from this day forth.
I confess that I have never been a Sesame Street fan. My mother was a woman who did not rely upon outside sources to teach her infant about words, shapes and numbers. I was utilizing fully structured sentences by eighteen months of age (as in “Yes, more milk” instead of the proverbial “baaaaaaaa” that some babies and toddlers scream in order to procure a sip of liquid.) By the time I was two, I could not only differentiate between the “yellow ball” and the “purple triangle” but could spell those words.
Perhaps it is due to my mother actually using the phrase, “Honey, can you differentiate between…” or perhaps it was because she always spoke to me in a mature fashion?
Suffice to say, I never watched Sesame Street in my own home. I found it dull. I could not comprehend why the characters on the idiot box (I called it a “tell vision” because I continually told it the answers but it kept asking the same stupid questions) did not grasp the very basics that I had already mastered.
My Sesame Street experience stemmed from those odd times when my mother had an important errand to run. I was left with our next-door neighbor and her children. Dall and I were both four, while his sister Allison was much younger. The very memory brings to mind sweetened apple juice bottled up in those damned Tupperware primary blue- and red-coloured sippy cups. (I had been using a regular glass since being weaned.)
“One of these things is not like the other” as the song goes. A screen split into four quarters, three quarters containing a similar theme. The odd corner was glaringly opposite. The child (or perhaps infantile adult) was expected to guess which “thing” was not the same. I can recall a sound spanking in punishment simply because I called Dall a “dummy” for totally overlooking the fact that three quarters were filled with bathing suit clad people whilst one quarter had a guy in a ski suit.
The Count was cool although I never understood why he was so proud of himself for reaching the predetermined number of the day. Even Big Bird could count that high if pressed. The Cookie monster was obnoxious. There was an animated typewriter that rolled across the screen (“Nu ne nu ne nu”) that would capture my attention at times. Kermit’s “Muppet News Flash” was always something to watch, as I loved the character (I later joined my father in becoming a devout “Muppets” fan.) I don’t recall cracking much of a smile over Oscar, Bert and Ernie (and for the record, I thought those “room mates” were like that nice couple of gentlemen down the street, with their white rugs and furniture and kissing on the lips.) 
If I have one gleaming thing to say about Sesame Street it is this: the show taught millions of American kids during a time when the average parent was too busy to teach their child anything. It helped them better their reading and reasoning skills. It entertained even as it educated. It presented everything from the alphabet to Mr. Hooper’s death in a way that did not patronize or insult children (unless of course they were children raised by my mother.)
In the 1980’s, Sesame Street jumped the shark with its introduction of the character “Elmo.” (For those who do not understand this term, it is a metaphor that denotes the tipping point where a show has surpassed its peak with viewers, or else a point where new plot twists are illogical when compared to everything prior to their insertion. The term originated with “Happy Days”; Fonzie was made to literally jump a shark whilst wearing water skis.)
I hate Elmo.
I loathe him as the ambassador of modern parenting. I loathe the high-pitched, unintelligent, singsong, third person, DUH! baby talk. I despise him as the bastard icon for the PC reason-with-your-child movement (“Now Johnny, you don’t weally want to stab mommy with that big sharpy sharp knifey, do you? Johnny, how do you think that wiwl make mommy feel? *Parent: please adopt melodramatic sad face to show child how unhappy you feel.”*)
Is it any wonder that the average child entering kindergarten can not read?
Kevin Clash has provided Elmo’s voice since he first appeared on Sesame Street. Clash is a rather handsome man with a pleasant expression and perpetual smile. It is hard for me to imagine him as a person whilst I watch a red demon spawned Tickle Me doll contort in a tonic-clonic (grand mal) seizure on the floor as the children clap their hands in glee. (I also wonder if his wife asks him to “do the Elmo voice” in bed.)
In its 33rd season (2002), Sesame Street underwent an obvious, dramatic makeover, apparently intended to address many of the current trends in children's programming, like more rituals and repetition, brighter, more cartoon-colorful real-life characters and sets, and more exaggerated, simplistic mannerisms in addressing the screen and seeking viewer interaction. Regular segments like Journey to Ernie are almost identical from one episode to the next, with only the fine details changing, and the Number of the Day always being presented initially by Count von Count playing up an organ keyboard until he finds it, sequentially. (He is still proud of that feat, even after three decades.)
This all seems an attempt to emulate the huge success of Elmo's World, an extremely ritualized segment presenting exactly the same routine every week.
To put it simply, after jumping the shark, Satan lifted his hind leg and produced a 15-25 minute segment of Elmo in a CG universe, and he saw that it was puerile, and he named it “Elmo’s World” and the peasants and slack-jawed children rejoiced. This time is taken away from the total Sesame Street episode length.
Elmo’s World occupies a large amount of “education time” yet follows the same basic patterns each week. I shudder to think of how Elmo’s fans behave when they reach school age and find out that not all things are structured and doled out in whimsical baby-chatter.
Why do our children require more repetition, more exaggerated and simplistic mannerisms, and why do they need more cartoon-colorful real-life characters and sets? 
A recent study published by the American Academy of Pediatrics states that each hour infants and toddlers (age 0 – 3) spend in front of a TV increases a child’s chance of developing Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD) by 10%. A child who watches three hours of television a day is 30% more likely to have this disorder. The rapid image changes affect their brain development. The AAP recommends that children under the age of two years should not watch television at all. Children older than two should only watch one hour a day, unless it is educational programming. Even with that, they should not watch more than two hours of television a day. Where does that leave Sesame Street? There is a lot of competition for that two-hour slot.
Couple bad television habits with the refined sugars found in most marketed children’s snacks and you have a recipe for disaster.
Snuffleupagus (or simply Snuffy), Big Bird’s imaginary friend, was finally proven to be real simply because the PC crowd felt that molested children would somehow assume adults would not believe them if they brought up being touched inappropriately by an adult. (Huh?)
On the positive side, the show did help children understand the devastation caused by hurricanes and 9/11. I can not mock it for that noble endeavor.
Instead I shall engage in a little insult in Elmo’s (dis)honor. They really should begin preparation for the growing stages of his fans. Perhaps a series of short stories and a line of toys is in order? Elmo can then chatter away in his childish voice as he explores the adult world that he is maturing into (have I mentioned that the character had been perpetually three years of age since his inception? Have I also mentioned that I was speaking with better syntax and self-awareness since the age of two?)
There are precious few children’s characters that irk me as much as Elmo does. Barney the Purple monstrosity comes close, as do the Teletubbies and those Veggietale beasties.
I did not pine away when Elmo was captured by insurgents,
Nor did I breathe a sigh of relief upon his return as he appeared before the press with a dazed look upon his face.
His short-lived mainstream “comeback” career was one stop short of the toilet. So too were his aspirations to star in the porn industry once his costar was identified as being an underage Muppet.
But I am sad to say that the scars of his time as a hostage, coupled with the downward spiral of his fame, lead to a decreased ability to function as a healthy and rational Muppet. He took his own life on April 1st, 2007. No suicide note was found.
This sabbatical has taken much longer than expected, and I apologize to my regular readers for leaving them out in the cold. Thank you for all the warm email wishes. At least I feel good. I feel much better than I did the day before. To feel good (to feel well) is to feel alive.
I would like to thank all the little people who made this wonderful event of "feeling good" possible, like Glaxo Smith Kline.
What an interesting topic. Alas, I shall not waste any effort to untangle the treacherous web of pharmaceutical manufacturers. I shall say that, in 2005, Old GSK's pharmaceutical sales accounted for 18.88 billion Pounds Sterling, with was roundly 86% of their total sales. 6.9 billion Pounds Sterling was their profit. Don't we all love those clever Brits? How about some shits and giggles? I found a conversion table: $33,883,192,823.84. "B" as in Billion dollars.
Billions. I think I will be sick. Excuse me whilst I go pop a pill. Never fear! It is a generic one, manufactured by Watson Pharmaceuticals, a humble little joint that provides us with generic formulas to better usurp funds from those tricky Brits at GSK. Watson does respectfully, and reports indicate that for the six months (ended June 30, 2006), total net revenue increased 12 percent to $917.6 million, as compared to $817.1 million for the first six months of 2005. Net income for the first six months of 2006 was $9.6 million, or $0.09 per basic and diluted share, as compared to net income of $79.1 million, or $0.67 per diluted share, for the same period of 2005.
Million. Much more soothing than Billion. I feel better scarfing my name-brand knock off poison now, knowing in soul that I am supporting good old American attitude. I shall now move to Canada to take advantage of the one thing our country can not seem to provide: socialized health care.
"Canada's health care system is a group of socialized health insurance plans that provides coverage to all Canadian citizens. It is publicly funded and administered on a provincial or territorial basis, within guidelines set by the federal government.
Under the health care system, individual citizens are provided preventative care and medical treatments from primary care physicians as well as access to hospitals, dental surgery and additional medical services. With a few exceptions, all citizens qualify for health coverage regardless of medical history, personal income, or standard of living."
Take that, GSK!
I have always wanted to live in Thunder Bay (that is in Ontario, dear 
readers), and dance upon the majestic shores as bald eagles and Peregrine falcons soar free over my head. I would, in all probably, dance myself off a damned rock and crack my skull on the ground, to be run over by a rogue caribou as I slip into unconsciousness. Not to worry, I will have free health care in Canada, and Watson makes generic hydrocodone to ease my pains.
I could save myself some trouble and move to England, another land of The Free Health Care System, but I'm deathly afraid of Routemaster double-decker buses. I know they were thinned out in the 1980's, but I just will not take the chance of walking near Trafalgar Square and having one jump out at me suddenly. People have been gruesomely mauled by Routemasters, and the 1208GMT 159 bus out of Marble Arch is know to be especially savage.
Aut? What are you on?
Please do not ask that again. You do know that I hate to share.
"OMG"
This phrase is reserved for those special moments in life when I am stunned by the asinine actions of another, I hear some bit of horrible or shocking news, or after the committing of miserable act brought on by my own stupidity.
I often mumble the words, "Oh my God" on those occasions. If it is an especially bad situation, I might pepper the minutes afterwards with expletives ranging from "crap" to the Big Gun F-word. (Words such as "shoot", "dadburnit" or "dang" have no place in my vocabulary. If one must cuss, cuss for the full effect. Don't play with baby words.)
Hence, my afternoon began with OMG, and had experienced a light drizzling of follow-up "potty mouth". I had to simply walk away, and get my mind off the situation, before attempting to continue my work. (By the way, it is when I'm pissed off and don't cuss that you should be really worried - a horrid hurricane of anger is building to catastrophic proportions in those cases.)
What in God's name (you blasphemer!) are you prattling on with, Aut?
Please allow me to enlighten you: if you are not a Paleontologist, Anthropologist, or Dental Hygienist, the tediousness of the work might escape your imagination.
Up until ten minutes ago, I was hunched over a small table, the bright fluorescent overhead lights illuminated a work field of brown crumbs of debris. My hands ached as I guided a small curette (that is a sharpened instrument normally used to remove particles interproximally between teeth) over the surface of my project - I had to allow the tiny sensations guide me as I prized stuff out of the cracks and channels. Every so often, I would offer the project a puff of gentle air and a sharp whisk from a stiff brush - it is hard to see what you are working on when too much foreign material is in the way. Careful... careful... each movement was a controlled scraping of the stainless steel of my curette. I did not work in feet or inches, but in millimeters, one square part at a time. It is an agonizing job, trying to coax the actual object from its embedded tomb without damaging the object or the instruments. My neck began to stiffen, and my spine whined in protest, but holding myself steady was essential if I didn't want to damage the project too much.
Am I uncovering a juvenile velociraptor skull, or perhaps tiny bits of femur? Is it an ancient seed pod that lies caked in the concrete-like stuff? Am I on the verge of a whole new discovery, one that will put my name in the Paleontological journals on an international scale?
Oh Hell, no. I'm trying to degunk my pizzelle iron after I had (so stupidly) forgotten to grease it.
Trust me, opening that pizzelle iron was a complete OMG moment, followed by a stunned WTF - and about 45 minutes of F's, S's, and GD's. Very few things bring out the sailor in me. Sewing tapestry fabric of inferior quality, proximity to the ocean, and stupid Autrice Actions are the three things. A fourth might be Better Half pissing me off, but as that is a monthly occurrence (he can't help it, the poor dear. PMS sucks), I usually do fine if I avoid tapestries, boats and doing Stupid Things.
Here I am, fresh from recovering from a Tapestry moment (that was yesterday and I am pleased to report the project is done) when I go and do a Stupid Thing. It didn't seem to be a Stupid Thing at the time, though. I have never made pizzelles before, and so I am mastering the technique on a huge learning curve. I can usually think ten steps ahead, and thus avoid Stupid Things. However, who would have foreseen that my ten minute break (talking to my Mum, of all people) would mandate that I re-spray the pizzelle iron prior to dropping in two dollops of dough?
Better Half is downstairs working on it now. I promised to rip his lips off should he give up and dump the whole iron in water (it can't be submerged.) Oh, here he comes now with a progress report...
"It's my back. I got four rows done. That's it." 
Better Half best do more than four rows.
Now he's mad at me for saying that.
He really should learn to read my mind - he would be able to hear the silently thought expletives.
Those are not aimed at him, of course. After all, it was my own Stupid Thing.
I can not help it. It is my bitchy time of the month. I'm not going to rip my wings off over it, however. There is a bright side to all this:
1. I learned that pizzelle irons are evil, foul - ahem - that I must grease the iron if it sits too long.
2. Dogs enjoy burnt pizzelle crumbs.
3. Never call my Mum to gloat about how well I master something until I actually master it.
The pizzelles made before the Stupid Thing happened are absolutely delicious.
My head aches today.
It isn't the typical headache or migraine, but rather the dull ache of a brain that has spent the entire afternoon researching material that is needed for my novel (a written adaptation of a 3-Act play written by my mother.) Some of you are already aware of my current endeavor, although the actual material will (until publication) remain hidden. The play itself is powerful - a gold mine filled with things that will blow current trends out of the water. I guard it as fiercely as the angels guarded the Garden of Eden. My task is therefor to flesh it out into novel form; this is either a ministry, or a curse. I choose to think of it as the former. I am not an actual "novelist".
I enjoy writing, and I have a thirst for research. My Theological Quest is secondary to my Scientific Quest, and often those two pursuits smack into each other when anthropology rears her ugly head. (If you do not understand this, don't ask. The Bemused One is much too tired to expand upon that musing.)
Forgive me, Roadchick! - Autrice seems to have developed a taste for referring to herself in the third person! (I adore 'Chick's blog, for that reason!)
It stands to reason that my head aches today for no better reason than "brain drain". I've been thinking too much. A proper remedy is, of course, to step back from the project and allow the thoughts to settle into a recognizable pattern. Unfortunately, due to my lack of discipline (a necessary thing for any writer to master!) I tend to then put off working on current projects altogether, abandoning them as new concepts take shape.
I do my best writing in the wee hours of the night, when I can appreciate the silence of the house (and when Mr. DelDrago doesn't have those fucking Star Trek reruns blaring from the television.) People who know me personally will tell you that I am an absolute bitch when I'm in my "composition" mode - do not bother me, do not call me, do not pull me from my work, and - under no uncertain terms - do anything that puts your life in jeopardy. The world ceases to exist, when I write, and all things of the world no longer have any meaning. Time becomes immeasurable. I will sit down and proceed, only ceasing when duty calls or I need more water in my glass. One of these days I will have to stop suddenly as my over-crowded ashtray has finally caught fire. It would make everyone's life much easier if I would just become a night owl. However, we are taking classes through Jefferson County in order to qualify for the state's adoption program, and as those occupy our Tuesday and Thursday evenings (and all day Saturday), I can not shrug off the mantle of a diurnal animal and give myself up to my nocturnal desires. So, forced to work during the day, I become a pest to those around me.
The phone rings, and I toss the handset it to Better Half, growling "I'm not available."
The doorbell chimes, and I announce to Better Half, "I'm not home."
The dog comes over and hits my mouse button with her nose, thus deleting the entire chapter I had just completed, and I become a vicious beast, spewing forth a cloud of vile expletives aimed at the poor animal's questionable parentage.
If I want to make sure better Half remains in my life, it would be best to become nocturnal, I think. He really gets a lot of neglect when I write. It isn't that he doesn't know any better than to bother me... but I don't think he understands the mind set and focus of a writer as they work.
Writing has never been an effort or struggle for me. I do enjoy it. I wrote the "Monster" piece in under five minutes, simply because of the challenge of being among the top ten entries. When I set a deadline for myself, I launch whole-heartedly into my task. I have given this current novel a completion deadline of one year. The timeframe is not reflective of the effort of creating/fleshing out the new concepts that I am adding to the work, but it reflects the sheer amount of data (lines) and background that needs to be formatted to book form. (If I can ever manage get it published, you will understand why this is such a challenge. I will tell you that it is based in theology, historical texts, ancient cultures and customs, and factual figures - all of which require, on my part, solid research.)
On that note: I said "Get it published", not "publish it". Aspiring writers, please beware - self publication does not make you a writer. Anyone can "self publish", and once you do so, professional writers will never take you seriously. Never, ever fall into the trap of "self publication". You are simply paying money for some group to render your work into a form that can be circulated to the masses. You will end up having a basement or garage filled with your book, tucked away into boxes and growing moldy. If you are serious about your craft, you will work your ass off until you produce something so worthy that a major publisher takes notice and offers you a contract.
One other grain of wisdom to offer: the world has too many flimsy dime-store romance novels; any sorry sex-deprived housewife can write smut and get it published. No one will take you seriously if you write crotch novels, unless it is within the crotch novel genre itself. Very few people can pull off erotica without sounding cheesy. I know of only one author, personally, who can do it with seductive panache and not be forced to wear the "oh you're a romance novelist" tattoo on his forehead. He's a literary (and award winning) god who writes erotica and horror (or erotic horror, which is tasty) for magazines and anthologies while working on his own non-erotic novels.
Would Steven Spielberg be a household name if all he could direct was bad porno movies? So by the same logic, will you be considered a successful author if all you write about is flimsy various takes on the same lame plot: girl is beautiful/haunty/rich/poor/insert your daydream here, girl meets man/Fabio/beast/lord/knight/adventurer, man takes girl's virginity (in a rugged, passionate, highly sensual way - and she always climaxes the first time around!), girl and man overcome obstacle, girl wins? Pshaw. What a boring formula.
Here is my take on the dime store Romance Novel:
Lab mouse one tossed her wee white head back, the movement a proud display of the attention she knew she commanded. Lab mouse two stared at her subtly, holding back his urges to ravish her luscious form until she submitted to him in both will and desire. He would have her as his own, and she knew it. She would often imagine him peppering her mousy body with hot steamy licks of his mousy tongue, and she felt herself growing hot despite the warm lab lights that constantly glared above them. He leaned over, his nose nuzzling her neck, and she found herself caught up in desire. She turned towards him, his scent filling her nostrils and causing her bosom to heave as he pushed her trembling body to the floor, and then she screamed as the giant hand plucked him from beside her and began dropping Clorox into his eyeballs. The end.
See? As I said, the basic romance formula is easy to follow. Who needs talent to do that??
I've procrastinated enough for today. Mind, my experience isn't in novels and fiction, and I haven't really aspired to write one prior to now, so perhaps my advice is worthless in the long run.
