the slack daily

Dear Drunk Chick--

—who fought her way to the front of the stage after The Strange Boys were told by the person running the show that they had time for two more songs and yelled for them to GET THE FUCK OFF WE WANT THE REIGNING SOUND:

I hope you woke up this morning in a pile of someone else’s vomit.

Love,

Nina

*Last night’s line up at Alex’s Bar 12 Anniversary was amazing. While I was just there to see the headliner (Reigning Sound), all of the bands rocked my face off and The Strange Boys specifically.

I wasn’t certain from the first song, but the second or third song in The Strange Boys’ set where Will and I turned to each other with that YES YES THIS IS IT.

I don’t get out to shows much anymore, and I rarely have the patience to sit through three opening acts because there’s always at least one that I don’t care for.  Even if they’re not my thing, I sit in the back and clap politely. Because whoeever’s up there is playing their heart out and trying to make their dreams a reality. How can you not respect that?

So to summarize: STFU.

 

 

(originally posted on my Tumblr.)

THERE IS SOMETHING VERY WRONG WITH THIS.

And that very wrong thing is: DID MISS PIGGY HAVE A FACELIFT?

Tribute.

I started a blog about the following article:

Study Shows Couples Stay Together if They Watch Baseball Together*

It was the Juno of blog posts, both gut-bustingly funny and oddly tenderhearted,  a post that could heal rifts in families and bring peace to war-torn regions.  There were anecdotes braided together with facts to create a rich tapestry of linkable delight.

And then I had to go to StubHub.com for one last link.

It crashed my browser.

StubHub, you owe me one Best Blog Post in the world.  Or some free tickets.  It's up to you.

So I can only offer you the above link.

And this photo:

This is not The Best Blog Post in the World...this is just a Tribute.

*Link via QueenofSpain!

Inspiration Point.

Anonymous Mom tagged me in a meme that poses the question what song inspires you to write? I was thinking about this last night as Will told the story of discovering Rob Halford of Judas Priest is all about the diction.  I adore music, but I'm not into music the way that Will's into music.  Will requires music to survive the way most of us require oxygen.  An intense love of anything (music, comic books, 80's videogame-inspired cartoons) can lend itself to douchebaggery  when it's discovered that you are not in the know, but the thing that I love about Will is that he desperately wants to share each part of his discovery with you.  The song has a story, and Will always has his own story about the song. (Which kinda demands a podcast, don'tcha think?) 

Anyway.

Recently Will took part in a National Mixtape Trade sponsored by the fine folks over at the CDP.  (Why yes, it's the same CDP that recently released a book, and yes, I know that I should do the same with the slack.  Stop telling me what to do!  You're not the boss of me!)   Will burned me a copy of the mix as a thank-you for mailing out his.  The only place I truly listen to music is in my car, so I slid my copy into the Mini's CD player, where it remained for an entire month. 

Music doesn't always remind me about a past that I can't change, but about a future that I can create.  An excellent album - whether it's a mixtape or a single artist - is like an amazing script.  I become personally involved, I react to the music, to the chord changes, to the phrasing.  I may not know the technical elements behind it, I may not realize the awesome amount of work it took to evoke a solitary refrain, but I can recognize the emotional element as it takes me along for the ride.  As I listened to Will's mix over and over, a script that had been floating in my head for months started to take shape.  The characters began to form, I could hear bits and pieces of dialog and start to tug on those delicate threads of story that begun to weave in and out of my synapses.  When the CD started to skip from overuse, I decided that I had marinated on it long enough, and it was time to sit down and write.

And that's how my spec pilot, The Ballad of Max & Trevor was written.

Thanks to my husband, you can download the mix here.

You can download a .pdf copy of the script (which is copyrighted and registered with the WGA and all that jazz, so if anyone's feeling like a stealerpants, just know that I can and will find you and cut your thumbs off) here.

I need a lot of dirty, ragged late 70's music for my next script, which will be so far afield from anything I've ever written that it may as well be someone else writing it.  Stay tuned.

...

Thanks to all that attended, the blogger get-together was a smashing success.  About ten of us braved the elements (aka the slight drizzle that gets blown into STORMWATCH 2007! on local news) including Annika, Leyla, Louis, Rachel, TC and of course my charming husband, Will.*  Everyone discovered why Will is called Sam, my suspicion was confirmed that I am actually someone's arch-enemy (I knew my shiny clothes and boot collection would come in handy) and that champagne + vodka = love.  There are few things that make me happier than fabulous people with fabulous drinks having a fabulous time.  So thank you to all who made it out, and we'll try to make this a regular thing in the New Year...

 

*Aaaaaaaaaah!  I left off Mike and Randi!  True confession time:I totally copied and pasted the list from Mike's blog because I was being lazy.  Crime, she never pays!  Except when she does.  Mea culpa, folks.

Air-mageddon

I wish I could adequately describe the pure chaos that's going on outside.  We've gone from a windy day to Dorothy-and-Toto territory, although my personal Toto is currently hiding under the covers in our bedroom, trembling and whining.  Killer pit bull, indeed.

I was close to Hollywood and Vine faxing off some wedding documents when the enormous Transformers movie ad plastered on the side of a skyscraper-sized building came partially undone.  It flapped wildly while  we gathered in front of the Kinkos, drawn outside by the sound.  It was if a huge wild bird loomed overhead, until there was a snap! and a pop! and it sailed toward us, landing across the street near the McDonald's parking lot.  The fangirl in me considered retrieving the gazillion-foot banner to stash in my car and sell on eBay, but the adult in me decided perhaps I should just run my errands and head home. 

Tonight Mr. Boy and I are headed out to Spaceland to see one of my adolescent favorites, Robyn Hitchcock.  Mr. Boy and I haven't been out to see a show together, well, ever.  Our entire relationship has been a wee bit backwards, sleeping together before we ever really spoke on the phone, getting engaged before we really dated.  Every so often I marvel at the fact that we're really doing this, but more in a holy-crap-this-is-awesome more than a what-the-hell-am-I-doing? 

My life is currently like the weather outside, raining rose petals and garbage. 

Anyway, if you're in the area, come out and see Mr. Hitchcock and as well as me and Mr. Boy.  I'll be the girl with the short skirt and the tall boots with the hottest guy in the joint. 

If you can't make it, you can virtually show your love by voting for Will in the Blogger's Choice Awards for Best Humor Blog.  I know, I know.  Good looking and funny.  I'm lucky that way.

The Day I Died.

I cleaned out my life savings yesterday.

My financial safety net has been dwindling for years, but I had one last CD that matured this week. It was my rainy-day money.

I took one look at my ever-increasing debt and realized it had been pouring for quite awhile. I grabbed the envelope and a towel, as I was heading to the gym afterwards, and pointed the Pink Mini toward the nearest Bank of America.

The woman behind the desk – Monica – tried to convince me to put the money into something else. No, thank you, I said politely.

If you have less than … dollars, they’ll charge you for the account.

Please just give me the cheapest account, then.

You’re going to have less than … dollars?

I’m lucky if I’ll have twenty dollars in there.

Direct deposit? she asked.

I don’t have an income.

She seemed confused by that and wanted to ask me more, but turned to the computer, her fake nails clacking against the keyboard. I signed three slips of paper, and miraculously my money was transferred to my account.

I thanked her and left the bank.

As I headed toward the car, I thought this isn’t where I thought I’d be at 34. I’ve always been so careful. I planned. I schemed. I worked my ass off.

As I turned the key in the ignition, my CD player sprang to life and The Decemberists’ Engine Driver kicked in. I hadn’t been paying attention on my way to the bank, but now I realized I had stopped mid-song, and the refrain ran through the speakers.

And I am a writer, writer of fictions
I am the heart that you call home
And I've written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones

I lost it.

I laid my forehead against the steering wheel and wept. You dumb, dumb girl, I thought, how did you let this happen? You had everything. At some point you screwed it up. Which I knew wasn’t true. I did have everything. But I didn’t screw it up. Things happen. Life happens. People change. I had done, I have been doing everything I can to keep the train from derailing. But I don’t control the Universe. (Yet.)

And I knew that I didn’t miss A., I missed the idea of A. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately, mostly in the evenings. I miss having boy energy around the house. I miss sending silly, naughty /tells while playing World of Warcraft. I miss planning evenings around the release of Battlefront II (and realizing that I prefer the classic.) I miss having someone to bounce story ideas off of. The best part of the NerdBoyfriend is that the person you hang out with and you make out with are the same person. I miss that.

I composed myself and headed over to the gym. I hopped on the treadmill to warm up before squats. Strains of Buck’s The Day I Died wheezed through my tinny headphones.

I hear the churchbells ringing so it must be Sunday morning; my head still pounding from Saturday night
I'm floating down the river, keep my neck above the water
it's not the way I planned it but everything's all right
no it's not the way I planned it, but lives have ways of wandering and
where I'd hoped to aim for is not what fate saw fit to bring
everything is going to be all right
well I lost more than I gathered; another mirror shattered / seven years bad luck is somehow no surprise to me
but if life's just killing time
with no reason and no rhyme let the peace and grace and light of Sunday
morning set me free
I remember, I remember... all the world held its breath when you leaned forward with a kiss... I remember, I remember, I remember, I remember this
everything is going to be all right

I don’t believe everything happens for a reason. I don’t believe there’s a Great Plan. I don’t believe that things have to get better.

I do believe that everything has to change.

So maybe a huge, fiery meteor is hurtling toward me, ready to obliterate life as I know it. But I have patience, a shred of resolve, and a water pistol.

Come and get me.