Listening to: “Honeymoon” – Bombadil

Life is stories that you fake
And rake like leaves behind you….

Hiya, blog. Don’t be pissed that I’ve been MIA. I still care. I do. I’m popping in again because, well, I’m BLOCK’D. You know, that thing. Where I need to write shit, and the shit is not getting written no matter how many hours I sit a’plopped in front of my computer screen. Otherwise, I’d just be putting shit on my totally unnecessary new Tumblr account.

I’m trying to write an ad for a varicose vein treatment center. Here’s what I’ve got so far: Hey, 50something ladies! Get yer legs cut open here! Not catchy? No? It’s a work in progress.

……..

I have an interview tomorrow morning at my neighborhood bagel joint. Just imagine, this guy up before the sun every morning, arranging foodstuffs inside starchy rounds. Sleep schedules will have to be drastically, painfully altered. But I can deal with it.

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Listening to: “Dance Dance Dance (live)” – Lykke Li & Bon Iver

FYI: For those readers (do I have readers? WHO CAN SAY) who are not content with my sporadic blog posts or would like their updates in frantic miniature form, I now have a Twitter account. Lord help us all.

I’ve spent most of this week Moritzinterviewing theatery types for preview articles. I now know more about Spring Awakening (the play and the musical both) than I ever dreamt possible. I’ve been a little obsessed with the whole thing since I saw the musical on Broadway a few years back, so it was cool to actually get to talk it out. For those who live in Boston, there are two productions afoot: the Frank Wedekind 1891 original from Zeitgeist Stage Company at the BCA, and the touring Broadway musical at the Colonial. If Wedekind were pulled out of his grave today, I think he’d be laughing his ass off at how much play his oft-censored baby is getting in the Cradle of Puritanism. Chatting with musical lyricist/book writer Steven Sater yesterday, he had some pretty interesting stuff to say about the changes he made to the story. I guess amorality and musical theater don’t mix too good. Maybe one day they will.

Anyways, Blog, I’m tired of staring at my computer screen. I’ve been breaking up the time with egg parties, pub trivia, and concerts (Of Montreal tonight!) but my ass is starting to fuse to my desk chair. Enough. But you do what you gotta do, and I’m happy for the work.

Anyway, umm…WEBCOMIC!!

Hark! A Vagrant is for totes my new favorite time-waster. History is funny, fuckers.

I’ve noticed this meme floating around Facebook, in which you write “25 random facts, habits, or goals about yourself.” You’re also supposed to tag people, but I hate that shit. Anyway, in the spirit of my current writer’s block, here ’tis:

1. For several years of my childhood, I earnestly and fervently believed that I was from Pluto.

2. My biggest fear are featureless faces, or faces in which the features have been obscured (Clowns, stay the fuck away).

3. Between the ages of 7 and 9, I wrote movie reviews for the Democrat & Chronicle, the Rochester newspaper.

4. I’ve really gotten into mountain climbing over the past year. I’d love to take a trip around the world and hike through every mountain range along the way.

5. A sketchy-sounding, self-proclaimed “shaman” once told my mom that in a past life, I was an Indian princess who felt trapped in my life of privilege, so I stole a boat and took off down the Ganges, and accidentally drowned.

6. I am trying to learn how to say the sentence “My dog has no hair” in every language. So far, the only ones I can reliably remember are French, Spanish, Italian, and German.

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Listening to: “Boys of Melody” – The Hidden Cameras

I have to say–I’ve had some pretty bad writer’s block in my day. But this? Dude, this is just bad. An entire weekend spent staring hopelessly at my computer screen. I wonder if my mood’s brushing off on Tucker. Writers are supposed to have cats, aren’t they? That kind of curl around their typewriters and gaze artfully out the window, calling to the muses.

Eh, fuck cats. Even if Tucker doesn’t understand my writer’s block, he can empathize. If that isn’t a gaze of brute intelligence, I don’t know what is:Brute intelligence

So last night I tried booze to fuel my creativity–didn’t do the trick. Tonight, I’m trying tea. Doesn’t seem to be helping either. Maybe I’ll go back to booze.

I finally came up with a title for my apocalypse party story: World’s End. Don’t know why it never occurred to me before. I had already decided that Alex and Ned live in North London, so it was a quick leap to the World’s End neighborhood in Enfield–London’s northernmost borough. Wish I had patron like in olden times; then I could fly to England to check out the area and write it off as a “research trip.”

I know what the story needs is an upping of the drama; but I sort of think the reason Alex lasts for so long is because he flies under the radar, stays apathetic, avoids drama. ‘Course when you get bit by a zombie, no matter how small a zombie, the remaining hours of your life are bound to take on a different color.

I like the idea of “fact” and “fiction” blurring in the apocalyptic world. Goes back to that whole Philip Pullman theory about storytelling as a sort of religion–or a moral code anyhow. Or something. I could never put it as eloquently as he does. Where’s Professor Flesch when you need him?

Did I have a point? Oh yes, the man in Mile End who may or may not have become a black hole. One of those stories. New myths. Linking, perhaps, with the old myths Alex’s grandfather told him about the hidden worlds and layers of history beneath London.

“The heart of modern London contains a vast clandestine underworld of tunnels, telephone exchanges, nuclear bunkers and control centres… [s]ome of which are well documented, but the existence of others can be surmised only from careful scrutiny of government reports and accounts and occassional accidental disclosures reported in the news media.”
~ Anthony Clayton, Subterranean City: Beneath the Streets of London

Ooo speaking of… just did a bit of poking and found this website about London’s abandoned Tube stations.

Camden catacombs

Alright, now I’m getting inspired! Just not to do the work I’m supposed to be doing.

I wish I could draw. Better, I mean. Sometimes words stop working well. <—- [like just there]

Listening to: “I’m Still Your Fag” – Broken Social Scene

Ugh. I don’t know if keeping a blog is the best thing for me. Might lead to further introspection, and Furry Bleeding Jesus in a Bucket knows I’ve already got that coming out my eyeballs. But it’s a noble experiment of sorts, so I’ll give it a go. What the fuck.

In any case, they say the best thing for a person with writer’s block to do is to…write. Anything. So here it is. Anything. I’ve got to write some Dig This award pimp blurbs plus a review for the Dig tonight (okay, make that negative 12 hours ago…) and another bloody review for the Herald tomorrow. Plus, I’ve got to interview these kids. Favor for a friend. I’m shit with kids.

Carried Tucker’s poop in a sandwich bag for at least four blocks before I found a dumpster. After awhile, the warm air rising off it started to warm my hand. Disgustingly pleasant.

Right now, I’m drinking James’ jug wine. Chianti this time. It’s usually Merlot. It tastes like candy, and it’s burning my tongue.

What is this plaaaace

Ain’t this a great picture? Found it on DeviantArt… my new procrastination zone. Should make some art myself, one of these days.

*Sips shitty wine*

S’right.