Watercooler Talk Friday

The boss is out of town today, so there were several moments in the day where my ass actually wiggled out of the office and talked to the co-workers.

First topic of discussion was very important. I sent a co-worker to go look at the movie trailer for The Love Guru. Clearly an Oscar-nomination worthy flick coming out in June--and if anyone should get the Oscar nod, it should be Justin Timberlake, who is going to be the sole reason I'm watching this flick. Plus the site had the quite memorable quote of the day: "If you're happy and you know it: think again." That's my mantra, baby, right there.

The rest of it...well I was *going* to talk about but it got too long, too heavy, and displayed way too much of my ignorance about China-US relations. Clearly though I prefer to not worry about the direction the boat (America) is headed and will just play my fiddle to the best of my ability until the damned thing hits an iceberg and sinks itself.

The question of the day boiled down to this: when it comes to November and you head to the polls are you going to be voting FOR someone? Or are you going to do what most of us will be doing, "I'm not voting to FOR someone, it's more like I'm voting AGAINST someone." None of us knew who we wanted to voted for. All the options frightened us. And frankly I'm going to think it's a miracle if Bush doesn't get us in another war before he leaves office.

Revelation Monday

I found out I'm not a pessimist.

Look.

"Philosophical pessimism is the similar but not identical idea that life has a negative value, or that this world is as bad as it could possibly be."

I do not believe the world is as bad as it could possibly be. I have the utmost faith and belief that it can and will get worse.

Happy Monday!

Old Obession Thursday

Normally I don't write on my personal blog so often, but clearly I'm procrastinating on...well, everything.

And the Daylights Savings Time has totally #(%)*#()$#* up my week.

So I was up till 1 am finishing Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows--there is a certain point of the book where you literally can't put the book down, you have to start doing stuff one-handed and hope you don't, oh, crash your car and stuff.

So I've finished up the annual "Christmas" read of all the books, which is basically what I've done since I've started the series. Harry Potter is very...well, Christmasy in the way. Christmas is a big deal to him--so I read them at Christmas.

I read The Goblet of Fire for what, the tenth time? I honestly don't know; and in book 3, Harry acquires a map. In Goblet of Fire, a professor BORROWS this map and doesn't return it. Seriously. I realized suddenly he doesn't have his map back by the end of this book; and in book 5, when Harry is clearly holding the map once again, there is no explanation HOW this occurred?

So I'm calling out to other fans, does anyone *know* how he got the map back? Did I misread my 10th reading of book 4 and my whatever reading of book 5 and he did get it back?? Please help me. It's been driving me mad, and MuggleNet Staff won't return my emails.

New Obsession Tuesday

Yippee! The Young Riders Season 1 came in the mail last night.

This lovely show was on TV from 1989-1992. I went through a mourning period when it went off the air, being I was madly in love with The Kid (and frankly, Buck, Jimmy, and Cody.) Now granted, since nearly (dear God) 20 years have passed and my ability to suspend reality ("Are you kidding? How in the heck did they all just happen to end up there to rescue each other?") has dimmed since I've gotten so old; I find I'm not so old as not to enjoy watching them set fence posts shirtless, their tanned beautiful skin rippling under the Wyoming sun.

This was back in the days that Stephen Baldwin still looked hot; Josh Brolin was an unknown (but damn, what a cutie!); and Ty Miller was my future husband, though he didn't know it at the time.

It's still worth a watch if you get the opportunity. I realized my main attraction to The Kid (who'd I'd typically call The Beta) was because he had the best looking horse of the outfit. Obviously during my adolescence when horses mattered as much (if not more) than men.

If you don't mind your historical not very accurate (and hey if you watch any Hollywood historical, you do); your plots as holey as Swiss cheese; and your men young, ripped, and earnest--this is your TV series.

Anyone else used to watch this show? I could have been the only one.

Talladega Nights Friday

I was in the mood for some movies quotes...and Will was just speaking to me.

Ricky Bobby: Here's the deal I'm the best there is. Plain and simple. I wake up in the morning and I piss excellence.

Cal Naughton, Jr.: I like to think of Jesus as a mischievous badger.

Cal Naughton, Jr.: I like to picture Jesus as a figure skater. He wears like a white outfit, and He does interpretive ice dances of my life's journey.

Cal Naughton, Jr.: I like to think of Jesus like with giant eagles wings, and singin' lead vocals for Lynyrd Skynyrd with like an angel band and I'm in the front row and I'm hammered drunk!

Susan: It's because it's what you love, Ricky. It is who you were born to be. And here you sit, thinking. Well, Ricky Bobby is not a thinker. Ricky Bobby is a driver. He is a doer. And that's what you need to do. You don't need to think. You need to drive. You need speed. You need to go out there, and you need to rev your engine. You need to fire it up. You need to grab ahold of that line between speed and chaos, and you need to wrestle it to the ground like a demon cobra! And then, when the fear rises up in your belly, you use it. And you know that fear is powerful, because it has been there for billions of years. And it is good. And you use it. And you ride it; you ride it like a skeleton horse through the gates of hell, and then you win, Ricky. You WIN! And you don't win for anybody else. You win for you, you know why? Because a man takes what he wants. He takes it all. And you're a man, aren't you? Aren't you?
Ricky Bobby: [pauses] Susan, I've never heard you talk like that... Are we about to get it on? Because I'm as hard as a diamond in an ice storm right now.

Ricky Bobby: [television commercial] Hi, I'm Ricky Bobby. If you don't chew Big Red, then f-*bleep* you.

Chip: [to Ricky Bobby] Are you just going to let your sons talk to their grandfather like this?
Ricky Bobby: Hell yes I am! They are winners! That is how winners talk!
Carley Bobby: If we wanted two wussies, we would have named them Dr. Quinn and Medicine Woman!

Lucy Bobby: So how was your day driving with you father?
Ricky Bobby: Well let's see. I got mauled by a cougar, my Crystal Gayle shirt is ruined, and I didn't learn dick about driving. Other than that, it was great.

Ricky Bobby: [running around on the track in his underwear] Help me Jesus! Help me Jewish God! Help me Allah! AAAAAHHH! Help me Tom Cruise! Tom Cruise, use your witchcraft on me to get the fire off me!

Cal Naughton, Jr.: Please don't let the invisible fire burn my friend!

The Written Word

I'm not a very good journal-keeper. I like to collect them, mind. I have a stack of 70-sheet notebooks, a number of leather-and/or-cloth-bound journals, and post-its to myself everywhere in my room, in my purse, in my car. But I'm loathe to commit anything personal down, anything really personal.

Now mind you, I have a desire for immortality, and what is more immortal than the written word? Would we know a guy named Shakespeare if he hadn't written down those eternal words: To be or not to be, that is the question. Maybe, but maybe not.

The written word is viable. Imperative. We wouldn't have know the Golden Rule if someone hadn't taken the time to write it on papyrus. But I hate committing my little treasure-trove of Hellionisms to journal entries. Well, perhaps I don't mind the outrageous ones. But I do mind writing down the stuff that journals are actually made for. The vulnerabilities. The "I hate Jane Smith, that two-time, double-crossing snake that stole my boyfriend!" or "My boyfriend Tom kisses like an eel." Or my personal favorite Hellionism: if I had an opportunity to run over Chris Roberts, I would. Then I'd back up and hit him again. Rat bastard.

There are lots of things people remember about me that I don't remember at all. Seriously embarrassing little anecdotes that I would have been content never remembering at all until they showed up at Happy Hour and decided to share that tidbit with all my new friends. Perhaps it would be easier if I'd quit just doing embarrassing things, then nobody would bother to remember them at all. But that's not likely to happen.

Anyway--I have all these leather journals that no one would ever see and I won't even commit my own follies for my own eyes (I figure I'll have enough of Hellion This Is Your Life come Judgment Day, you know?)--and yet some people use their blogger to post their real vulnerabilities out there for all web-eternity. (I don't mean the pre-teen who's despairing about That's So Raven being canceled. I mean: My husband is a cheating scumbag and his new girlfriend, my former best friend Jessica, is a cheating whore type blogs. Or work woes blogged, using real names of bosses and co-workers.) Doesn't that seem dangerous to you all?

I don't know if it's stoic-father or what, but isn't there something dangerous about expressing every single emotion that filters through us before we've had a chance to digest it and figure it out? I don't know. It just makes me think of Tom Riddle's diary from Harry Potter. Little Ginny Weasley poured all her feelings into it, and it talked back to her, justified her feelings, soothed and petted her--and in the end, it turned out really badly.

What do you think? Yea or nay? Does it matter this is a wide-world forum? I mean, technically, now many people are likely to read your inner-most thoughts, right?

For Irish: Blasphemous Wednesday

Since Irish reminded me of it, I'm going to post some of my favorite quotations from The Life of Brian. Don't worry. You won't go to hell for laughing. Unlike some of His creations, God has a sense of humor. You should see the dates He sends me out with. Seriously.

Coordinator: Crucifixion?
Prisoner: Yes.
Coordinator: Good. Out of the door, line on the left, one cross each.
[Next prisoner]
Coordinator: Crucifixion?
Mr. Cheeky: Er, no, freedom actually.
Coordinator: What?
Mr. Cheeky: Yeah, they said I hadn't done anything and I could go and live on an island somewhere.
Coordinator: Oh I say, that's very nice. Well, off you go then.
Mr. Cheeky: No, I'm just pulling your leg, it's crucifixion really.
Coordinator: [laughing] Oh yes, very good. Well...
Mr. Cheeky: Yes I know, out of the door, one cross each, line on the left.


Suicide Squad Leader: We are the Judean People's Front crack suicide squad! Suicide squad, attack!
[they all stab themselves]
Suicide Squad Leader: That showed 'em, huh?


Reg: [arriving at Brian's crucifixion] Hello, Sibling Brian.
Brian: Thank God you've come, Reg.
Reg: Well, I think I should point out first, Brian, in all fairness, we are not, in fact, the rescue committee. However, I have been asked to read the following prepare statement on behalf of the movement. "We the People's Front of Judea, brackets, officials, end brackets, do hereby convey our sincere fraternal and sisterly greetings to you, Brian, on this, the occasion of your martyrdom. "
Brian: What?
Reg: "Your death will stand as a landmark in the continuing struggle to liberate the parent land from the hands of the Roman imperialist aggressors, excluding those concerned with drainage, medicine, roads, housing, education, viniculture and any other Romans contributing to the welfare of Jews of both sexes and hermaphrodites. Signed, on behalf of the P. F. J. , etc. " And I'd just like to add, on a personal note, my own admiration, for what you're doing for us, Brian, on what must be, after all, for you a very difficult time.

(This is my *favorite* scene)

Matthias: Look, I don't think it should be a sin, just for saying "Jehovah".
[Everyone gasps]
Jewish Official: You're only making it worse for yourself!
Matthias: Making it worse? How can it be worse? Jehovah! Jehovah! Jehovah!
Jewish Official: I'm warning you! If you say "Jehovah" one more time (gets hit with rock) RIGHT! Who did that? Come on, who did it?
Stoners: She did! She did! (suddenly speaking as men) He! He did! He!
Jewish Official: Was it you?
Stoner: Yes.
Jewish Official: Right...
Stoner: Well you did say "Jehovah. "
[Crowd throws rocks at the stoner]
Jewish Official: STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP IT RIGHT NOW! STOP IT! All right, no one is to stone _anyone_ until I blow this whistle. Even... and I want to make this absolutely clear... even if they do say, "Jehovah. "
[Crowd stones the Jewish Official to death]


Judith: [on Stan's desire to be a mother] Here! I've got an idea: Suppose you agree that he can't actually have babies, not having a womb - which is nobody's fault, not even the Romans' - but that he can have the *right* to have babies.
Francis: Good idea, Judith. We shall fight the oppressors for your right to have babies, brother... sister, sorry.
Reg: What's the *point*?
Francis: What?
Reg: What's the point of fighting for his right to have babies, when he can't have babies?
Francis: It is symbolic of our struggle against oppression.
Reg: It's symbolic of his struggle against reality.


Stan: It's every man's right to have babies if he wants them.
Reg: But you can't have babies.
Stan: Don't you oppress me.
Reg: Where's the fetus going to gestate? You going to keep it in a box?


Spectator I: I think it was "Blessed are the cheesemakers".
Mrs. Gregory: Aha, what's so special about the cheesemakers?
Gregory: Well, obviously it's not meant to be taken literally; it refers to any manufacturers of dairy products.



Brian: What will they do to me?
Ben the Prisoner: Oh you'll probably get away with crucifixion.
Brian: CRUCIFIXION?
Ben the Prisoner: Yeah, first offense.



Lead Singer Crucifee: [Dying on the cross] Cheer up, Brian. You know what they say: some things in live are bad. They can really make you mad. Other things just make you swear and curse. When you're chewing on life's gristle, don't grumble; give a whistle, and this'll help things turn out for the best. And... always look on the bright side of life...

Email Forwards Demystified

You’ve gotten this email, haven’t you? You probably have sent it to me. And yet every time I read it, I’m always slightly disturbed by it.

1. There are at least two people in this world that you would die for.

Easy: Jack Sparrow and…and…Shoot. I’ll come back to this one.

2. At least 15 people in this world love you in some way.

Awww, that’s nice. *starts counting on fingers* I can only think of 14, but whatever.

3. The only reason anyone would ever hate you is because they want to be just like you.

Unlikely, and since this should work in reverse, I don’t want to be damned bloody thing like Keith Schawo or Chris Roberts. I hope everyone is clear on that.

4. A smile from you can bring happiness to anyone, even if they don't like you.

I suppose this is reasonable. Smiles do make me feel better, even if they’re from the executioner.

5. Every night, SOMEONE thinks about you before they go to sleep.

This is the one that bothers me. Anyone else thinking about a guy on cell block 5, who as he goes to bed at night, thinks, “13 more months and I’ll get murder the little bitch.”?

6. You mean the world to someone.

Yes, apparently the guy on cell block 5.

7. You are special and unique.

Just like everyone else.

8. Someone that you don't even know exists loves you.

Again with the guy on cell block 5. (Just what did I do to him anyway?)

9. When you make the biggest mistake ever, something good comes from it.

Uh-huh.

10. When you think the world has turned its back on you take another look.

I do like to face the people I’m flipping off. Has more meaning.

11. Always remember the compliments you received. Forget about the rude remarks.

And it’s always this one that makes me laugh hysterically that I received the forward. Come on. It’s like you guys don’t know me at all.

A Pirate's Life For Me: A Year Later

If you scroll back to Feb 2007 (Feb 9) to be exact, you'll find this post below. I have been feeling melancholy and pissy and weepy and all accounts depressed.

I'm also been feeling a need to dust off my resume and move somewhere far away.

Funnily enough, a year ago I felt the exact same way. Only, I don't want to work in retail...and I don't want to go back to school. I'm not exactly cut out for office work, where I'm currently miserable; and the more I try to write, the more I think maybe I'm not cut out for that either.

How do you figure out what you're good for?

As I sit at my desk, trying to get out of doing folders (story of my life), I look down at my little desk companion, Captain Jack Sparrow Bobblehead, and I think, God, what I wouldn’t give for a Miami Vice right about now. (Miami Vice being the name given to a Carnival Cruise drink that was a layered drink of half pina colada and half strawberry daiquiri. Rum is a beautiful thing.) *taps Jack’s braids and he agrees with a bobble nod*

If I had my druthers, I would be sitting on a beach in Grand Cayman with my Miami Vice and my bobblehead doll (the real Jack Sparrow is temporarily unavailable), and I soak in the warm delicious sunshine, blind fellow beach combers with my pasty white skin, and dream about being a pirate.

No, not the scurvy, short life expectancy parts. The interesting parts. Rum, wenching (can men be wenches? I mean I know they can be bas…oh, well, men-wenching), and freedom. I long for the dissolute life. Probably because I’m so damned Amish. The Other Side calls to me…Freedom calls to me. Bobblehead Jack agrees. Well, he should, he put the idea in my head, after all. He said it, tapping his rum bottle to Miss Swann’s, when they were toasting. “To Freedom!” Aye, to freedom.

And I admit there is a lure there. It cannot be denied as I sit at this desk, staring at folders, watching my single, all-I-need-now-is-a-damned-cat life unfurl before me as I continue to do folders and people please and defer. Not Jack. Not if you’re a pirate. You please yourself—and you make every moment count because you’re not going to live long enough to need a damned cat. (Though they do make good companions. Don’t get me wrong.) And you don’t even bemoan the fact you’re single and rootless, without family—because you have friends who are like family—and you have all the bed companionship you want once you hit port. Well, at least if you’re Jack. I imagine I could do all right if that’s what I sought. Show up naked and bring beer—I could have all the companionship a girl could want.

Plus I’d get to sail a ship and live on the ocean…and being a Pisces, that almost holds more lure than having all the rum we can handle, and I assure you, Pisces are horrible alcoholics. Where’s my rum?

If you could do anything else right now? Rock star, Vegas show girl, oh, hell, school teacher—what would it be—and why? How DO you figure out what career you should be in?

I Ain't Superstitious...

Okay, so maybe I am. Sue me. But I'm not the only one with this superstition, and if you had my childhood of adults over the age of 50 who kept dropping off like flies, you'd start believing it too, even if you and your entire family were healthy as oxen.

Death happens in threes.

I guess we figure if He's going to show up for one person, he should make it his while and come for #2 and #3, and if you have any sense, you find them quick before he makes you a designated hitter. By no means, do you want to be who Death comes for to round out his numbers.

So in mid-December, a co-worker, Pat, died. She was 77--and a spunky, wonderful lady--and gracious. She would always listen to what you said, and if she didn't agree with you, she's smile in a bit of sweet gentility and say, "That's nice, but this is how we're going to do it." And you did. You were glad to do it her way. She never said an unkind word--well, maybe she did--but it was nothing that the rest of us weren't already complaining about. She'd smile, exasperated, say something gracious and Southern, and then go about her business. She was a corker.

The first one is never really a pattern.

But then my great-aunt Lena died. She was 102 (almost 103) and granted, while she is older, she still was pretty hale for her age. And had all her mental capacity. And capacity for about a dozen or so of her relatives, not to make too fine a point on it. Opinionated, proud, productive, and a sweet-tart (no, not sweetheart--sweet-tart. If you'd been on the business end of some of her remarks, you'd understand)--she was a CORKER.

Okay, *now* we have a pattern. So we look for #3.

And now Heath Ledger is dead. Now I'll grant you I didn't know Heath personally. We're not what I'd call bosom pals or anything, but as with celebrity, you feel like you know them. You spend more time watching their films than looking at family photos--and you feel like they are your bosom pals, so it's a big deal when one of them dies. It's a huge deal when one of them dies and they're younger than you! Okay, younger than you *and* not of any disease other than possible stupidity and tragedy.

I know, I know. *throws salt over shoulder* Don't speak ill of the dead, but if it is a drug overdose, you rather have to question what was going on in his head at the time--and possibly the ones who are supposed to be keeping tabs on young, talented actors? (Britney, anyone?) You'd think they would have started monitoring the sleeping pill situation a bit when Marilyn died--but no....

Is anyone else superstitious about death? Anyone else floored by Heath's death? Anyone else suffer from the same problem as I do about celebrities--you think you know them better than most family members?

Critique Groups Revisited

I have blogged about belonging to this fantabulous group called "The Sassy Scribes" which comprised me and two other engaging, funny, intelligent women who would drive to the middle of nowhere, where some excellent pie was served--and we'd discuss writing.

This was, by and by, the best critique group I've ever belonged to. Anything that has eating as a central subplot definitely helps with the feedback I get back on my chapters.

In September 2007, The Sassy Scribes disbanded, because one of our central members (the PUBLISHED critiquer--full of brilliant Mary Poppins ideas and a kind word) had to move to Chicago. We tried to talk her out of it. We tried to convince her to take us with her. We cried.

By September, I had brought a fourth member to The Sassy Scribes, a new hot writer who I knew as Sin and who knew me as Hellion. After the disbandment, we decided to press on. We met in our main home town (so about an hour closer) and held our important meetings at the local El Maguey's. Over the excellent cheese sauce, we'd discuss important issues like: the cheese dip stain I'd immediately get on my shirt, whether anyone noticed I'd tried to lick it off, and if the waiter looked like Ranger from the Stephanie Plum books. About two hours later, we'd eventually discuss our chapters, the fact our Muses were on vacation with no forwarding address, and how we wouldn't have this problem if Kris--the missing member--would come down her and flick the whip a few times.

Today though, I think we did a little better than usual. Sin bought dipping cheese from Walmart; we discussed her erotica; we discussed her series (both sets); and we discussed GMC. We ate more cheese. We plotted goals for 2008. We discussed the online critique group and what we needed to arrange as the rules so we'd be moderately successful at it. We discussed how to get cheese dip stains out of my shirt--and luckily no one cared that I licked it off.

Dynamics change. Sometimes you're forced to be more leaderish than you're used to. Sometimes you have to find more like-minded folks--they're out there--and start over again. You just keep plugging...and eating cheese dip. Eventually you'll win.

Christmas Procrastination

I'm the worst present giver ever.

I blame my parents. They were awful about presents too. I inherited it honestly. I shop last minute, if I shop at all; I usually tell you what I got before you get to unwrap it; and that's if I wrap it and it's not in a Walmart shopping bag with the tags still attached.

This year, despite my love of Christmas (I do usually have to decorate and make Oreo truffles and give out one wrapped gift), I haven't done jack shit.

Oh, I've bought stuff for me. Dec 4, POTC: AWE came out on DVD, and you bet your sweet ass it was pre-ordered back in October. Dec 11, HP5 came out on DVD, and I ordered that before you could say, "Expelliarmus!" and blast me away from the keyboard.

This is frustrating for friends who want to buy me things they know I like, but I beat them to the punch. On the upside, if there is a pirate or HP reference whatsoever on the item, I will bounce up and down, screaming like a lunatic, announcing to the world: "This is the best gift ever!"--and my friend will point out. "They're just pencils. Have you even looked at the other items? I bought you a Ferrari!" "Look!" I'll scream, "Will Turner's face is right there! Isn't he dreamy?"

But enough about my gifts. It's December 14--and have I shopped?

Yes.

Finally.

After weeks and weeks of procrastinating. I ordered some stuff. Only one item for me (don't worry, it wasn't on anyone's radar that I even wanted it; nobody would ever guess), and the rest for friends.

Family gifts, yeah, I still have to do some actual shopping. But that's not the point--the point is: I might actually have to put up my tree now.

Of course, this is a given. I have to hang my new Hallmark Keepsake ornaments of Jack Sparrow on my tree. With any luck of my obsession, I might round up an even dozen before the holidays are over! Imagine a tree with a dozen Jack Sparrows hanging from it.

Soul Mates

When I was a kid, I wanted to grow up and marry a country singer. Specifically: Johnny Horton. It wasn't until I about 9 or 10 I even realize the man was DEAD and had been for 15 years prior to me showing up.

My luck entirely. I find my soul mate and he's dead.

Johnny Horton started my fascination with voices, though. My Dad's got the gruff somber Johnny Cash voice; and we all know what a sucker I am for Alan Rickman. Johnny Horton's got a voice to fall in love with. Deep, smooth, but within its cadence, a happy-go-lucky, wouldn't-we-have-fun tone that makes me want to ride around in a convertible with him and laugh.

My favorite ballad by him is called Miss Marcy. I *cannot* find the lyrics anywhere, but I remember being moved by the story as a kid. It's about a boy named Billy who's asked to recount what happened at the mill the night before (there was a dance)--and apparently Miss Marcy, who was his step-mom, was dancing a bit too close to "Uncle Will" and Billy's father killed or injured like three or four people. I'm trying to remember if he killed himself and Marcy too?--it was a DARK song, but boy, when I was 11, I knew EVERY word. *LOL*

My other favorite ballad by him: They'll Never Ever Take Her Love From Me. Difficult to find lyrics, but not totally impossible.

If today the sun should set on all my hopes and cares
There is one who's smiling face the Gods would see
Cause she'll walk along beside me up to golden stairs
Oh they'll never ever take her love from me
What a fool I was to go and break the trust she gave
And to see her love turn into sympathy
It's the one regret I'll carry with me to my grave
Oh they'll never ever take her love from me
[ strings ]
I'm so thankful for each golden hour of happiness
That we shared together in the used to be
Someone else's arms may hold her now in uncaress
But they'll never ever take her love from me
I thought I'd make her happy if I'd step aside
But I knew her love would never set me free
Even on the day that she became another's bride
Oh they'll never never take her love from me

Hellion Clothed

Ignore my hair. I didn't have a hat. But the duds are ones I sewed. I wish you could have seen the accessories: cat-o-nines, sword, gun (with real sound effects). I still need a hat. *sighs* But I'm not paying those prices for one! I'm not the only pirate on the internet.

Post Halloween Highlights

I went to Pam & Chris' house to hang out Halloween night. I slurped down a bowl of hot and sour soup and had just settled in for some lo mein when the doorbell rang. The first trick or treater!

Chris has already spent time laughing at us because Pam and I had seen a little Harry Potter roaming the back street behind her house. Between houses we could catch glimpses of his red and gold scarf. We bounced around, squealing like we had seen glimpses of Brad Pitt.

Between the hours of 6 and 8, there must have been at least 50 trick or treaters. While some folks might find this a low turn out, I hail from the country--and we never got trick or treaters. I've never seen so many costumed children since I was in grade school.

Harry stopped by, and I squealed about him then. He did not seem nearly as excited to see me.

There was a young bride, no more than 6 years, her father standing quietly at the back of the yard. Her pretty blonde hair was scraped back with a white rose headband/veil, and her lovely bridal gown swept the sidewalk. Very beautiful, very bridal. Wow, I thought, her father must have broke out in hives seeing her in this outfit. It was a very Father of the Bride moment.

A little later, a trio of trick-or-treaters came up. One as a princess; one as Spongebob Squarepants (clever paint job on a box), and the cutest of all, a farmer boy with overalls and a hat, "driving" a John Deer tractor (a box also cleverly painted) that hung from black straps on his shoulders.

The trickiest costume I saw was a 1940s bomber pilot. All of 7, he wore a miniature bomber jacket and one of those skull caps of the era with goggles on his head. He wore a bomber single-engine plane, painted a sort of grayish-green army color around his waist. I think his father spent a lot of time working on that. He looked extremely authentic. He nearly had an accident trying to turn his plane around on the tiny concrete porch and navigate down the stairs again.

Easily the trick-or-treater we enjoyed most was the little pirate who couldn't be more than 4. He was bold for his age--after an entire evening of very shy children who seemed very confused by this ritual of free candy--and he swaggered up in his red and white striped trousers, a red skull cap on his head, a 12-in plastic sword waving fiercesomely, and a twinkle in his eye. He arrived with a group of less confident children, and as Chris calmly told all the children to take one piece of candy, Little Jack reached in with one hand, snagged a piece, then with a gimlet stare right at Chris, snagged a second piece with his other hand. We adults all sucked in a breath at this disobedience of Candy Courtesy. Then Jack grinned roguishly, spun on one heel, and leaped off the porch like a pirate swinging from one ship back to the other. He waved his sword maniacally, screaming as he ran down the walk: "I got it! I got it!"

Back in the house, we looked at Chris: "You just got pillaged, mate."

Happy Halloween all. Any good trick or treater stories where you lived?

Daily Smile

It's Friday. I already started out the morning in a crank-fest--badly behaving applicants, my names misspelled by people who don't read, self-doubt about my writing--all vicious contributors.

But then my boss was standing at my window and said, "Hellion, come look."

I went and looked.

Three adults were herding a group of children, no older than four years old, across the street. Each child held a part of a rope, and the lead adult led the way, while another adult followed to make sure no one lagged and the third adult flanked them on the left to make sure no one bolted from the ranks. All the children were smiling and excited about the adventure they were on, all clutching one grubby hand on the white rope.

Once they made it to the sidewalk, the children filed where they were supposed to--though taking time to bounce up and down on all the man-hole covers and grills, with such obviously enthusiasm my boss and I could practically hear the rattle of the metal grates even though my closed window.

Leaves are falling off the trees, whipping around them; their hair is windblown and their cheeks are rosy--and not one of them looked like they had any concerns whatsoever. They were just as happy with the journey as they were with the prospect of the destination.

My boss and I have been grinning ever since.

Fall

There are many notable things about Fall. It's not so bleeping hot you can fry eggs on the sidewalk. The leaves turn and it's gorgeous with the sunlight reflecting off the trees. The students are back in town, so the driving is abysmal. People start talking about football like I actually care.

And the movies start getting better.

Now, you say, "Hellion, how can they get better than POTC: At World's End?" Right you are. It can't. And you'll be thrilled to note the third movie will be making it's way to DVD on December 4th, what, 2 months away? It IS on my Christmas list if anyone is looking to bequeath me with the normal gestures of goodwill and generosity.

But after all, summer releases are really all about the male ages 14-25. Wedding Crashers. Spiderman. Harry Potter. Yes, even my beloved Pirates is designed with the "male ages 14-25" in mind. Which I find quite unfortunate because all the males I've ever known between those ages have no taste whatsoever in what qualifies as a great movie, with the notable exceptions of Pirates and HP, obviously.

But finally these goobers go back to school come Fall, and Hollywood starts catering to the rest of us--those not male and between the ages of 14-25. And who probably don't care for football.

For instance, Oct 12: Elizabeth: The Golden Age. This has Cate Blanchett revisiting her role (of which she rocked) as Elizabeth I. This time instead of rocking the bedsheets with Joseph Fiennes (God, he's hot), she'll be rocking them with Clive Owen (who's hotter.) I don't see a lot of males between 14-25 going to see this movie, do you?

Further out is The Kite Runner. Based off a book I'm sure I should have read and didn't--and it looks like I'll be sobbing into my popcorn at the end.

Way out, Beowulf. Finally I can know what happened in the story I never read. Either in high school or college. Looks actiony enough to draw the boys.

Some low brow stuff to amuse me: The Comebacks, Fred Claus....

Love in the Time of Cholera! Hey, that sounds promising as an uber-chick flick!

And finally, Enchanted...which looks hysterical, even though predictable.

I also really want to see: Across the Universe, which features Beatles' music and has a character named Jude. It's out now...I need to see it ASAP.

Any movies you're looking forward to? Anyone seen Across and can recommend or not?

Anger Management

I had a long blog, but it got too revealing, so I'm going to summarize:

From Coyote Ugly:

Lil: That's Rachel, you can learn a lot from her.
Violet: She just cut some guy's ponytail off.
Lil: Yeah, the court ordered her to take anger-management classes after she pummeled a customer for grabbing her ass. He pressed charges, I gave her a raise. Cheers!

Hellion: The Musical

In the movie, Singing in the Rain, there is this "musical within a musical" effect. The movie itself is a musical, but it also has a plot twist of actors who are moving from the silent screen to talking pictures--and get the bold idea of making a musical. (Of course, considering the lead actress can't even talk prettily, never mind sing, this gives Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds time to make moon eyes at each other as they sing and speak the talking parts of the "talking picture.") Great movie. Classic bit with the umbrella and the dancing in the rain. Donald O'Connor makes a particularly memorable sidekick.

In Anchors Aweigh, the first musical I watched outside of the children classic standbys of Mary Poppins and Sound of Music, I fell in love with Gene Kelly. Madly. "Get there? Oh, darlin', you know I'll get there." And my soul soared at hearing Frank Sinatra sing that lullaby to the much adorable kid who would grow up to be the sidekick to the Quantam Leap guy. It was here I also met Kathryn Grayson, who also starred in my much favorite: Show Boat. Howard Keel and Kathryn fall in love on the river--and he's a roguish river gambler; and she's the innocent boat captain's daughter. There is a dark, sad angsty twist where the gorgeous Ava Gardner is exposed as a mulatto--and is forced to leave the ship (it was neither the captain's nor Ava's idea...but it was the time period, unfortunately.)

Howard also does roguish pioneer man well too. Seven Brides for Seven Brothers is campy, fun, and as deep as a Arizona mudpuddle--but boy, it is a good time. When the six brothers are pining for the town girls and Howard comes in and says, "Well, why don't you do something about it? The Romans would have carried them off! It's right here in Millie's book!"--and what do they do? They kidnap the town girls. The movie is worth the barn-raising dance-off alone. (My friend Holler would beg to differ, but I think it's a great movie.)

Howard was a man of many musicals. I also loved him in Kiss Me, Kate--again, Kathryn Grayson--and he's ever so rakish as he sings, "Where lately is the life I led?" Though he's perhaps not half so rakish as Harve Presnell in The Unsinkable Molly Brown. That movie has some slow points...Holler would probably say they were all slow...but there is this scene where he's teaching her how to read, and he's watching her in such a way you know he's thinking of her naked. Which ironically he's already seen her naked, but...never mind, you'd have to watch the movie. So he sings this song to Molly called, "I'll never say no to you..." Dead sexy.

There are the more obscure musicals like The Pirate and Can-Can (Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra respectively), which while not as memorable as Seven Brides or Singing are still wonderful...and fun.

And these are just the MGM Golden Era of Musicals...I haven't even gotten to Moulin Rouge, Chicago, et al, which have slowly been making their way into the film biz once more.

So I got to thinking (always a frightening pastime), and I wondered what would Hellion: The Musical look like. I mean, never mind the fact I can't sing. Would my childhood years feature songs from Hank Williams, Sr and Johnny Cash; then my pre-teen/teenage years have all 80s music and big hair bands; and the 90s, four hours of George Strait songs? Would I have Waylon's theme from The Dukes of Hazzard, or would I use his Never Could Toe The Mark? Would everyone be dressed in jeans and t-shirts, my obvious choice apparel, or would everyone be in pageant-themed looking outfits, lots of "Halloween" outfits, depending on the mood at the time? Perhaps a pirate theme, and a Medieval theme...and a Regency theme...and whatever else might fit my whimsy.

What do you think Hellion: The Musical would have in it? And what if your life was a musical, what songs do you think would make the list? Who would play you on Broadway? I'd have Kate Winslet play me, of course...ha, ha, Mike the Titanic would eat his words then....

Can't Help Lovin' That Crazy WIP of Mine....

Oh, listen, sister,
I love my manuscript,
And I can't tell you why.
There ain’t no reason…
Why I should love this prose
It must be something that the devil only know…

Phones gotta ring, emails gotta fly,
I gotta write this manuscript till I die—<
Can’t help this crazy plot of mine….

Tell me it’s trite, tell me’s slow,
Tell me the dumb hero has got to go…
Can’t help this crazy plot of mine…

When I don’t write a line…
I near go out of my mind…
But when I sit with my pen and write—
That day is fine…those words do shine.

This plot can go to eternity,
Crazy and trite, I don’t care how it be.
Can’t help this crazy plot of mine.

*can anyone tell I have a thing for Howard Keel flicks? Man, was he HOT!