I'm thrilled to share about my new film -- HOME MOVIE! … And while I'd love you to see it, it hasn't been made yet … so we have time for dessert before we head to the theater …
But as people have begun asking me a variety of questions about it, I thought it would be worth a Blah-ugh! entry to share some answers and give people some understanding of why I'm putting my lovely neck on the line to get this film made …
Q: Jarret, please tell us about HOME MOVIE. Is it a personal film?
A: In part. The main character--Samantha Hughes--is based on my mother, who was also an alcoholic Narcissist. For many years my uncle, Chuck Liotta, urged me to write about her but I could never find the right angle … Then this idea just came to me and I KNEW I had found it!
Q: And now you want to direct it? Who the hell do you think you are, Orson Welles?!
A: No, no, but I have this vision for this film. It's like I can just see the thing in my mind, shot by shot, and hear the dialogue and I just KNOW how it's all supposed to look to some extent. One writes a script to try and capture it, but really that's just a roadmap--a sort of blueprint to building this vision, this whole multi-sensory film.
The exciting part of film making is that then others add dimension to it--the actors, the cinematographer, etc. And that's even more thrilling, because as much as I know HOME MOVIE is an awesome film in my mind's eye, those that I'll work with will make it exponentially better!
Q: But why do you need so much money? I mean, a $225,000 production budget? What the F***!?
A: I want it to be made at a level of quality worthy of theatrical release, and this requires the proper equipment and the people who know how to operate it. For one day alone--one shooting day--we're going to need a DP (director of photography), ideally two assistants for him, a sound man, a lighting director with two or three assistants, hair and makeup people, a production manager, a couple of production assistants, and probably others I'm forgetting. These salaries alone quickly add up to a couple thousand AT LEAST, followed by equipment rental (another thousand or more) …
Then, in order to have quality actors, you need to pay them, provide food … Then there are costumes, location costs, props, transportation … Just ONE quality shooting day can easily add up to six, seven thousand!! … And we need 20 days minimum! PLUS there are peripherals like production insurance, and--
Q: Alright, alright!
A: The good news is one can make deals with weekly rates, and find generous equipment rental houses that may give lower rates for an independent film … Ideally we get favors with free locations …
When I shot my first movie in my hometown of Westport -- HOW CLEAN IS MY LAUNDRY -- several local generous businesses actually donated food for the production, including my buddy Rich Herzfeld who runs Chef's Table … But potential favors aside, there are still substantial costs a production has to meet in order to create the scenes and shoot them at their best …
Q: Yeah, but $225,000!
A: It's important to understand the perspective, wherein big Hollywood movies have literally 60 or 100 people or more on the set, and shoots can easily last 60, 80,120 days and more!
Q: Speaking of Hollywood, are you going to have any actors I've heard of in this?
A: Quite possibly. One famous actress, in fact, read the script and LOVED it and said she would consider doing it … But that's all talk unless we can get the shoot funded.
Q: Okay, but what if you DON'T raise this money with your intrusive Indiegogo campaign … (Pestering all your friends and fans -- Indeed!) What if you only get $3,000 in contributions?! Are you going to return that money, you bastard, or just spend it on a vacation?!
A: Depending on whether we fall short of our goal, and by how much, it will change the immediate plans, but WE WILL BE MAKING THIS PICTURE IF IT TAKES 10 YEARS! (And I'm saying that all in caps!) Every cent of the money raised will go toward this production and is NOT going into my pocket. If we fall short I'll probably take it upon myself to consult with all my contributors and discuss options, just to keep them in the loop … It may be we decide to shoot several scenes to augment the fundraising, which may have to continue in other avenues …
But we're still a long way from worrying about that right now!
Q: You seem very passionate about this.
A: I am and I can't overstate that! This has my dream for many, many years. And while I've made two feature-length films already -- HOW CLEAN IS MY LAUNDRY in 2002 and THE ACTING BUG in 2009 -- I've always envisioned taking it to the next level …
But I didn't want to do that until I was READY, until I had a script and project that I KNEW was special and that could potentially have some commercial success.
Q: And now…?
A: Again, HOME MOVIE is THE DREAM PROJECT! It's a fantastic story, a sharp, funny and engaging script, but it's also a perfect vehicle from a production standpoint. I can make for a relatively tiny budget, mostly in one location. I believe I can shoot it in 20 days and still come out with a topnotch killer film that I know in my heart of hearts people are going to want to see and will respond to …
Q: Alright, Jarret, you've babbled enough. Thank you … And again, if anybody wants to get involved …?
A: Check out THIS LINK to the Indiegogo site … And please be sure to watch the trailer … It ain't bad!
Q: Alright, alright. Thank you! Now get out of my chair …
Showing posts with label Jarret Liotta. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jarret Liotta. Show all posts
Monday, September 21, 2015
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
Content to be Arnold
I was recently reminded of the 21st
century necessity to generate crap—I mean content—to continually replenish my
rousing marketplace value and keep my awesome name before the unsteady eyes of
an adoring but fickle public.
The problem—and you know there’s ALWAYS a problem
of some kind—is that I’m not sure it’s humanly possible to maintain the
extraordinarily high level of quality that people have come to expect from my
intermittent Blah-ugh! pustules. I feel it’s important that I at least try to
fool them into believing I’m keeping up with some degree of quality, whether
provisions are bright or nye, but given the growing pressures of modern times
to make this a veritable joke factory of regularity, I worry that those loyal
readers—you guys—will somehow get short shrifted, or short changed, or possibly
both, in my zealous attempts to grind a generous helping of delectable pap out
of my editorial blowhole.
That said, there is never a shortage of important
things to address, beginning with my utter laziness. The good news is I’m
coming to see my laziness as a beneficial part of my work pattern—mainly the
part where I don’t get anything done. This is actually very important because
it makes other things I do seem that much more striking—or at least makes the
things other people do seem strike-worthy, and if that’s not public
service, I don’t know what is.
But this is about content and I have a lot to get
to, beginning with an in-depth analysis of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s
autobiography—Total Recall: My Unbelievably True Life Story. People will
think I’m being facetious, but I’m actually astounded how informative a
textbook it is for me, not to mention an entertaining and rather culturally
intriguing pile of pulp. (Kudos to Arnold’s editorial blowhole!)
Still, I want to start with complaints, as
they’re more fun. The first—possibly the prime, or even only—is the subtitle,
which is grammatically stupid. I’ve spent many minutes wondering if he
suggested the title and was then too stubborn to admit that it should be
“unbelievable” and not “unbelievably.” (And by the way, if you’re too thick to
know why they’re not interchangeable and would need me to explain it to you,
you have no business reading a sophisticated Blah-ugh! like mine and I want you
to unplug right now and go take an English class!) I imagine him sitting in his
sunny office in Venice (CA) with his loving klatch of semi-sycophantic cronies,
reviewing the business of the day in his bruised Austrian English, “Dis book,
it should be just having a funny, simple title, like ‘My unbelievably true life
story,’ because it is unbelievable. Don’ cha see?!”
Despite some of our political separations and his
rather cruel treatment of Lou Ferrigno in Pumping Iron and his harsh
foreign accent and his crude military haircut and his muscles and his money and
his cigar smoke, I really like Arnold. I think his movies are the cat’s
pajamas, and I can honestly say—with the possible exception of the third reel
of Jingle All the Way—there isn’t a movie of his I wouldn’t call worth
at least two viewings, if not many, especially if you have Alzheimer’s and
forget things very quickly.
My fond memories of Arnold extend to when he was
governor and I was living in California. One evening at a softball game in Brentwood—many
of you don’t know this about me, but I was a highly advanced if not
particularly well dressed softball player in my day—a cavalcade of very large,
ominous black Humvees showed up near the field. The whole game stopped and
everyone stood around in a kind of stupid terror, unclear what the danger was,
for it certainly all felt very dangerous. A small group of large Secret
Service-type men emerged and prepared the way for what turned out to be
Governor Arnold, who was apparently stopping in at the adjacent gymnasium to
pick up one of his kids, or perhaps watch one of them play basketball or do
curling or something.
Everyone stood far away in dumb amazement and
fear as Arnold, escorted by his large cronies, paced confidently toward his
destination. But being me, of course, I had to jog over—actually putting all
the men on momentary alert in what might have been a tense moment had not both
Arnold and I handled it with such aplomb. “Hey!” I announced. “You’re the
best!” We shook hands and he said, “Tank you!” He was shorter than I reasoned
he was supposed to be—6’ 2” my ass!—but I didn’t want to be rude and mention
it, though if I’d read his autobiography back then—that is, if he’d written
it—I would have drawn a humorous comparison to him insulting Dino De Laurentiis
about his height and accent, and we would have laughed … or perhaps not.
But none of that’s here nor there. I can tell you
he was very sweet, in spite of his decaying stature. I advised him to start
making movies again, to which he declared, “Ha ha!” And now, years later, as I
read his book, I think of our moment together, which I suspect he looks back
upon with all the acuity he might devote to some forgotten moment he was bitten
by a mosquito in his Austrian past.
Now many of you are probably asking why I’m so
smitten with this book, and I will say shortly it involves Arnold’s frank
description of his Germanic discipline and his steadfast commitment to his
vision. He offhandedly describes how he knew he was going to do certain things
and at times even imagined them so vividly that it was as though he’d
already done them. This is quite fascinating and inspiring, as was his
explanation that he likes to go into situation like a “puppy” and not be told
any of the negative possibilities that could occur. In fact, at one point when
someone was telling him the reason why he couldn’t or shouldn’t invest in his
first big real estate deal, he cut him off and said, in essence, “Oh my gosh, I
was almost started listening to you and your negativity!”
Arnold offers a variety of great ideas to
consider and even, perhaps, live by, provided you don’t get caught boinking
your nanny.
It just goes to show that, if you’re open, you
never know where you’re going to come across thoughts that could be of value to
you—even in some stupid Blah-ugh!
Saturday, January 25, 2014
I Know What You're Up To!
I awoke this morning completely unsure of anything. This, in
and of itself, is not remarkable, but this time my suspicions centered on this
brave new 1984 world and how it’s very possibly playing me for the fool I like
to think I’m not, (but very well may
be, if I’m correct, which actually, if I am,
really makes me less of a fool, so
you can see why I’m feeling a bit unsure).
You see, I’ve been starting to wonder if the “old friends”
I’ve been in contact with through this so-called boon to man—(and gabby women
especially)—called Facebook are really who they’re purporting to be. It suddenly
occurred to me—in the shower, in fact, as these things are wont to do—that the
people who have claimed their connections to me—and have been gingerly sending
their familiar communications into my message hole—may very well not be the people they say they are.
How the hell am I supposed to know for sure?! Certainly, it appears they are who they seem to be,
but my god, how hard could it be to pull the wool over my bluescreen star-struck
eyes?! (Or how easy?!!)
Think about this. I haven’t seen—or certainly heard
from—most of these people for a pure 20-year spell, and now suddenly I’m
supposed to believe they’re back in my life, like swallows returned from
Capistrano, or the shingles?
Let’s work this through logically. How hard would it be for
someone to impersonate someone else on computer—someone I haven’t had contact
with in all that time? They put up a tiny picture of some vague resemblance,
post a reference to my hometown or school or favorite comic character, and they’re in! Some of these people
look incredibly different, at least as far as I can best judge from the
4-millimeter-by-6-millimeter pictures. In some cases, it very well could be the same person’s picture, but
that doesn’t mean it’s the same person. I mean I can only imagine how many
photos have been taken of me when I was unaware—on the street, in the shower …
The more I’ve thought about it, my understandable suspicions
have been enhanced by several 2+2 realizations. For starters, why are some of
these people being so nice to me? That alone makes me suspicious. They have no
reason to be, and I don’t remember some of them being all that nice before. Why
this sudden change? I mean, wouldn’t it make sense that they were simply after
something? (My rabbit fur hat comes to mind, but it could be anything!)
Who would do such a thing? That’s a good question and one we
could contemplate at length. It’s no secret that the government has been very
interested in me for years, both for my outspoken editorial writing and my singing voice. Don’t you think
these people would like to put some apparati in place to keep tabs on me, to
mine my mind for useful information about me and my surroundings, and obviously
to impart an occasional subliminal message into my fragile skull, like Eat less foreign food!, or Stop wearing hats!
It’s ironic that we caution the kids about getting involved
with Internet interlopers when we ourselves are, in all likelihood, falling victim
to the same nefarious scams. I have every reason to believe there are numerous
agencies at work here, faux friends, posing as people who seem to know me. It’s
quite a disturbing picture, let me tell you.
During one recent contact with a person, I noticed I was
asked a lot of questions—personal questions, like about how I was doing and
that sort of thing. I mean, What the hell!
Along with government agencies, in all likelihood there are
a spate of marketeers involved as well. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that
every time we turn around we’re being sent personal advertisements on the
things that “coincidentally” link with our interests—pornography, for instance.
And how often am I being asked these certain particulars by people who I
haven’t been in touch with for decades? (“Hey, how ya doin’? So, what kind of
psychosexual fetishes are you subscribing to these days?” And that from a
friend of my mother’s!)
I just want to caution everyone that whoever you think you may have rekindled some old flame with, it’s probably all a calculated sham—both on their part and, ultimately, yours. Take my advice—find yourself
a book club. At least you’ll know with whom you’re dealing and why, although I'd avoid Internet book clubs if possible.
As for those many people who’ve established computer links
with me by way of these various electrical group settings—I’m on to you! Don’t
expect me to fall for any more of your inquisitive deception. It’s not going to work, so find
yourself another patsy in my old high school almanac.
From now on I'm only responding to pencils!
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Once Again, for The Bradys ...
April 25, 2013: I had every intention of doing a Blah-ugh! entry on my friend Steven Spielberg, but that's going to have to wait. My inclination to spout about my favorite sit-com family has again grabbed at my groin and I'm going to seize the opportunity the way I seize the towel when I leave the shower naked, although hopefully I won't hurt my back this time ...
Yes, The Brady Bunch is the subject again today. Faithful Blah-ugh! readers -- the 23 of you -- know that I've barfed up some of my Brady ideas in past entries. This time, however, I won't bore you with more Marcia-related revelations, but I will put a new twist on Mike. You see, once again my children and I have slogged through another cycle of our DVDs and now, after the 14th -- or 40th, I'm not sure which -- viewing, it's become abundantly clear that Mike Brady is really the antithesis of the great father role model I always presumed him to be. (And no, Shannon, it has nothing to do with Robert Reed being gay and from Chicago.)
You see, though I've tried to deny it, I can't now watch one of these episodes without noticing how often Mike hits the kids. Yes, it's absolutely true. He swats them like insects on a regular basis, particularly in the first couple of seasons. It's a wonder he wasn't reported sooner, or that he hasn't now been cast in the sour light of other psychopathic television parents -- Homer Simpson, Archie Bunker, and Cloris Leachman. The examples are numerous -- the viewing of Greg's film on the pilgrims, Greg buying the lemon, Greg learning something-or-other ... In fact, I think Greg took the worst of his blows, which were often loud slaps on the back, but also sound whacks on the butt, the leg or the arm, depending on Robert Reed's mood.
It's ironic that Reed was such a fussbudget about the numerous implausibilities in Brady scripts, such as the time so-called Method actress "Meerna" Carter gave him and Henderson (a.k.a. Carol) tips on how to be motivated in the Safe commercial. All that time he was focusing his somewhat warped Shakespearean sensibilities on script revisions and scolding memos to the Schwartz family, he might have better served everyone by refraining from hitting the children so often.
That said, I think it's important to address the spectacle of Cousin Oliver. It was a dark day in Brady history when this pesty little jinx ambled onto the set looking like a shrunken John Denver. His smarmy one-liners and irritating glasses all served to beg the question of why Robert Reed didn't hit him more often.
Hmmmm... I see there are many, many more involved Brady-related points that require broaching, and I simply don't have the time or fortitude to address them right now. Why is Carol wearing Marcia's shirt in that episode with Lovey Howell and the Good Ship Lollipop? Does Jim Backus have a toupee or a comb-over in the pool episode? And what happened to Mr. Phillips? Was the new City Hall built in Woodland Park? Did Alice and Sam ever marry, and did he ever repair that gaping space in his front teeth? Did the kids ever record a family-version of "Clowns Never Laughed Before?" Did Maureen McCormick ever stop pronouncing words with that California patois, such as "dinist" for "dentist," etc. Does she still hate Alan Anthony? (I know I do and always will!) ...
Yes, The Brady Bunch is the subject again today. Faithful Blah-ugh! readers -- the 23 of you -- know that I've barfed up some of my Brady ideas in past entries. This time, however, I won't bore you with more Marcia-related revelations, but I will put a new twist on Mike. You see, once again my children and I have slogged through another cycle of our DVDs and now, after the 14th -- or 40th, I'm not sure which -- viewing, it's become abundantly clear that Mike Brady is really the antithesis of the great father role model I always presumed him to be. (And no, Shannon, it has nothing to do with Robert Reed being gay and from Chicago.)
You see, though I've tried to deny it, I can't now watch one of these episodes without noticing how often Mike hits the kids. Yes, it's absolutely true. He swats them like insects on a regular basis, particularly in the first couple of seasons. It's a wonder he wasn't reported sooner, or that he hasn't now been cast in the sour light of other psychopathic television parents -- Homer Simpson, Archie Bunker, and Cloris Leachman. The examples are numerous -- the viewing of Greg's film on the pilgrims, Greg buying the lemon, Greg learning something-or-other ... In fact, I think Greg took the worst of his blows, which were often loud slaps on the back, but also sound whacks on the butt, the leg or the arm, depending on Robert Reed's mood.
It's ironic that Reed was such a fussbudget about the numerous implausibilities in Brady scripts, such as the time so-called Method actress "Meerna" Carter gave him and Henderson (a.k.a. Carol) tips on how to be motivated in the Safe commercial. All that time he was focusing his somewhat warped Shakespearean sensibilities on script revisions and scolding memos to the Schwartz family, he might have better served everyone by refraining from hitting the children so often.
That said, I think it's important to address the spectacle of Cousin Oliver. It was a dark day in Brady history when this pesty little jinx ambled onto the set looking like a shrunken John Denver. His smarmy one-liners and irritating glasses all served to beg the question of why Robert Reed didn't hit him more often.
Hmmmm... I see there are many, many more involved Brady-related points that require broaching, and I simply don't have the time or fortitude to address them right now. Why is Carol wearing Marcia's shirt in that episode with Lovey Howell and the Good Ship Lollipop? Does Jim Backus have a toupee or a comb-over in the pool episode? And what happened to Mr. Phillips? Was the new City Hall built in Woodland Park? Did Alice and Sam ever marry, and did he ever repair that gaping space in his front teeth? Did the kids ever record a family-version of "Clowns Never Laughed Before?" Did Maureen McCormick ever stop pronouncing words with that California patois, such as "dinist" for "dentist," etc. Does she still hate Alan Anthony? (I know I do and always will!) ...
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Spring in the Air; Fall in the Lake
April 17, 2012: Hurrah! Huzzah! Good Morning! ... The season, like the worm of proverb, has soundly turned! Spring is here! Yes, I'm almost sure of it. And while I detest insects, motorcycles, hot weather and idle chat about the prospects in the Bronx, I love that flowers are out, women are in heat, and I have all this extra daylight with which to watch television.
(Excuse the interruption. My vitriolic daughter is sassing me about making her breakfast. "I'm working," I explained. "I'm trying to make the world safe for democracy!" She just doesn't get it. It's cereal for her!)
With the disturbing thunderous ponderance of tiny, fueled engines -- leaf blowers, lawn cutters, chainsaws -- has come the proliferation of little, square, yellow signs sneakily situated on the corners of the properties around my neighborhood, (which is clearly bug-infested for one reason or another). These signs indicate the spraying of chemicals, mainly to kill bugs. Hurrah! It's bug killing week, and the armies are out in force. Spring is here! The wasps are rallying and those giant centipedes think this is THEIR year to finally reign ... but we'll show them otherwise, won't we! This is, after all, America, and we're not about to let any creature without a backbone come into power.
The trees are another matter. They're like Ghandi-esque buddhists in their benign protests against modern humanity. A fast chainsaw will take care of them. These once-noble giants are now known to be the vicious killers I've always suspected them to be. (We all know about the woman who was attacked and KILLED by a tree just two seasons ago during one of their virulent storms; try and tell me that was an accident! Just try!)
It's good to see that the CT State Highway Department is taking brave steps to abort their operations BEFORE they can get started. More and more trees are being tagged along the Merritt Parkway (which ironically is an "historic" highway, owing to its breathtakingly beautiful bucolic vistas and all -- the concentration of trees, I guess). Well, the state is seeing that this folly gets reeled in, because any one of these trees could reek havoc at any time -- along the Merritt ... Route 136 ... or IN YOUR VERY HOME!
I've long been suspicious of trees, as many of you know. Like certain dogs, and even some people, they've clearly got mysterious ulterior motivations brewing in their bellies. And while they may come off like gentle giants all full of druid kindness and solemnity, they're really little more than a renegade motorcycle gang operating on silent wheels.
This is why it's always a practical exercise to start each spring by cutting down as many trees as possible, if only to show the others who's boss. The same is true for the bugs. For while it's true that we NEED some of them for RESOURCES, like flies making honey and crickets making hors d'euvres, in fact, owing to mankind's smart resourcefulness, we don't NEED any of these slippery little fiendish creatures sneaking into our homes and laying eggs in our ears and brains and giving us welts and heebie-jeebies.
Yes, the season of rebirth is upon us (or birth, depending on your religious affiliation). Time to get out and show the world how pale your upper torso is. Time to start sneezing and rubbing your eyes. Time to stay up late and watch the spring constellation come into sight, like so many tiny stars that form random little pictures in a creative man's mind ... And speaking of stars, don't forget that Space Case is still available at Amazon, to make wrong those of you who actually thought I'd go through an entire Blah-ugh! entry without mentioning it ...
Ah, spring! We hardly knew ye!
(Excuse the interruption. My vitriolic daughter is sassing me about making her breakfast. "I'm working," I explained. "I'm trying to make the world safe for democracy!" She just doesn't get it. It's cereal for her!)
With the disturbing thunderous ponderance of tiny, fueled engines -- leaf blowers, lawn cutters, chainsaws -- has come the proliferation of little, square, yellow signs sneakily situated on the corners of the properties around my neighborhood, (which is clearly bug-infested for one reason or another). These signs indicate the spraying of chemicals, mainly to kill bugs. Hurrah! It's bug killing week, and the armies are out in force. Spring is here! The wasps are rallying and those giant centipedes think this is THEIR year to finally reign ... but we'll show them otherwise, won't we! This is, after all, America, and we're not about to let any creature without a backbone come into power.
The trees are another matter. They're like Ghandi-esque buddhists in their benign protests against modern humanity. A fast chainsaw will take care of them. These once-noble giants are now known to be the vicious killers I've always suspected them to be. (We all know about the woman who was attacked and KILLED by a tree just two seasons ago during one of their virulent storms; try and tell me that was an accident! Just try!)
It's good to see that the CT State Highway Department is taking brave steps to abort their operations BEFORE they can get started. More and more trees are being tagged along the Merritt Parkway (which ironically is an "historic" highway, owing to its breathtakingly beautiful bucolic vistas and all -- the concentration of trees, I guess). Well, the state is seeing that this folly gets reeled in, because any one of these trees could reek havoc at any time -- along the Merritt ... Route 136 ... or IN YOUR VERY HOME!
I've long been suspicious of trees, as many of you know. Like certain dogs, and even some people, they've clearly got mysterious ulterior motivations brewing in their bellies. And while they may come off like gentle giants all full of druid kindness and solemnity, they're really little more than a renegade motorcycle gang operating on silent wheels.
This is why it's always a practical exercise to start each spring by cutting down as many trees as possible, if only to show the others who's boss. The same is true for the bugs. For while it's true that we NEED some of them for RESOURCES, like flies making honey and crickets making hors d'euvres, in fact, owing to mankind's smart resourcefulness, we don't NEED any of these slippery little fiendish creatures sneaking into our homes and laying eggs in our ears and brains and giving us welts and heebie-jeebies.
Yes, the season of rebirth is upon us (or birth, depending on your religious affiliation). Time to get out and show the world how pale your upper torso is. Time to start sneezing and rubbing your eyes. Time to stay up late and watch the spring constellation come into sight, like so many tiny stars that form random little pictures in a creative man's mind ... And speaking of stars, don't forget that Space Case is still available at Amazon, to make wrong those of you who actually thought I'd go through an entire Blah-ugh! entry without mentioning it ...
Ah, spring! We hardly knew ye!
Monday, March 19, 2012
The Little Furry Creatures & Me
March 19, 2012: A lot of people don't know this about me, but I have a really sensitive side too. For instance, if a small animal is run over by a car, I feel really bad ... Of course, somehow it doesn't seem as tragic if it's a LARGE animal, and especially a dangerous one, like a bear or a deer, or one of those creepy birds with the really sharp beaks. But a small one, like a mouse, gets my heart every time, particularly if it has a family, or a really good job in the community ...
By the way, I've long meant to tell my friend Shannon W. that her ridiculous theory about racing toward manic road squirrels in order to spare their lives just does not work. She claimed that when some stupid squirrel -- and at this point I'm pretty convinced that they're ALL stupid -- begins that spastic dance before your car, jumping this way and that in some strange mankind-induced mad response to its ever-shrinking, ever-decaying natural habitat ... one should aim your car nose RIGHT FOR THEM, because then they'll somehow magically get out of the way ...
Well, it doesn't work, because I killed my first squirrel last year putting that errant theory into practice. ("What was that?" my daughter asked as the depressing, hollow telltale bump of rodent-under-tire echoed softly through the car ... "Oh, nothing," I said, waxing blase' ... "Did you kill that squirrel?" my son asked, somewhat baffled why I'd swerved at it ... "No, no. It got away. Hey! D'ya wanna get some ice cream? Who wants ice cream? Huh? ...) I'd never actually hit a squirrel before (except once on my bicycle, which is a minor story for another day) but after the dozens and dozens of ones I've avoided by braking or simply turning the wheel, my streak was sadly broken when I fell for this deranged homespun southern "wisdom" from a very odd friend of mine ...
This all reminds me about a wonderful and hilarious scene in my novel SPACE CASE, where the two main characters find a dead skunk on the road. (No, this time I'm being serious.) Those of you who've purchased and read the book will remember the sensitive joys, laughter and basic oddity of THAT moment, while the rest of you will, I hope, feel bad that you're being (rightfully) excluded from this reference ... (Of course, you don't HAVE to stay in the dark, as SPACE CASE remains available for e-purchase at a virtual bookhole near you ...)
This, in turn, reminds me to remind you that I'll be making my first virtual appearance in virtually two-and-a-half months, so save the date. (I believe it's June 6, or 6/6, as someone with satanic leanings might point out.) It's at a local library -- I won't tell you which one, so you'll have to guess! I'll be speaking about the book, about writing in general, and, if there's time, possibly about my insatiable need for negative attention. I want to say I'll hope to see you there, but the truth is, I don't know HOW I'll be feeling about you by the time 6/6 rolls around ...
Lastly, all this talk about furry creatures, and my own innate warm fuzziness, reminds me of the time my daughter got two Japanese dwarf hampsters and they ended up eating one another. It's still confusing to me what really happened, for the little crime scene was remarkably disturbing and just sort of baffling beyond description. One of the hampsters was completely gone, while the other was kind of half-eaten ... and parts of the OTHER hampster were clearly INSIDE the one. The lid remained undisturbed atop the cage, ruling out the cat, who's actually so neurotic that her fear of other animals logically prevented her from being a viable suspect ... It was a quick burial, though, and while I strove to hide the ugly truth from my bright daughter, she quickly surmised that something strange and sinister had taken place between her two exotic, far-eastern pets -- something a western animal wouldn't understand!
Anyway, this is why people shouldn't cage animals, but let them run free in the streets, where they can die from more natural causes, like automobile tires ...
By the way, I've long meant to tell my friend Shannon W. that her ridiculous theory about racing toward manic road squirrels in order to spare their lives just does not work. She claimed that when some stupid squirrel -- and at this point I'm pretty convinced that they're ALL stupid -- begins that spastic dance before your car, jumping this way and that in some strange mankind-induced mad response to its ever-shrinking, ever-decaying natural habitat ... one should aim your car nose RIGHT FOR THEM, because then they'll somehow magically get out of the way ...
Well, it doesn't work, because I killed my first squirrel last year putting that errant theory into practice. ("What was that?" my daughter asked as the depressing, hollow telltale bump of rodent-under-tire echoed softly through the car ... "Oh, nothing," I said, waxing blase' ... "Did you kill that squirrel?" my son asked, somewhat baffled why I'd swerved at it ... "No, no. It got away. Hey! D'ya wanna get some ice cream? Who wants ice cream? Huh? ...) I'd never actually hit a squirrel before (except once on my bicycle, which is a minor story for another day) but after the dozens and dozens of ones I've avoided by braking or simply turning the wheel, my streak was sadly broken when I fell for this deranged homespun southern "wisdom" from a very odd friend of mine ...
This all reminds me about a wonderful and hilarious scene in my novel SPACE CASE, where the two main characters find a dead skunk on the road. (No, this time I'm being serious.) Those of you who've purchased and read the book will remember the sensitive joys, laughter and basic oddity of THAT moment, while the rest of you will, I hope, feel bad that you're being (rightfully) excluded from this reference ... (Of course, you don't HAVE to stay in the dark, as SPACE CASE remains available for e-purchase at a virtual bookhole near you ...)
This, in turn, reminds me to remind you that I'll be making my first virtual appearance in virtually two-and-a-half months, so save the date. (I believe it's June 6, or 6/6, as someone with satanic leanings might point out.) It's at a local library -- I won't tell you which one, so you'll have to guess! I'll be speaking about the book, about writing in general, and, if there's time, possibly about my insatiable need for negative attention. I want to say I'll hope to see you there, but the truth is, I don't know HOW I'll be feeling about you by the time 6/6 rolls around ...
Lastly, all this talk about furry creatures, and my own innate warm fuzziness, reminds me of the time my daughter got two Japanese dwarf hampsters and they ended up eating one another. It's still confusing to me what really happened, for the little crime scene was remarkably disturbing and just sort of baffling beyond description. One of the hampsters was completely gone, while the other was kind of half-eaten ... and parts of the OTHER hampster were clearly INSIDE the one. The lid remained undisturbed atop the cage, ruling out the cat, who's actually so neurotic that her fear of other animals logically prevented her from being a viable suspect ... It was a quick burial, though, and while I strove to hide the ugly truth from my bright daughter, she quickly surmised that something strange and sinister had taken place between her two exotic, far-eastern pets -- something a western animal wouldn't understand!
Anyway, this is why people shouldn't cage animals, but let them run free in the streets, where they can die from more natural causes, like automobile tires ...
Thursday, March 15, 2012
In March I Bash the Irish ... In April, Someone Else ...
March 15, 2012: Beware the Ides of March ... and if not that, certainly beware the Irish. They're a crafty lot, as the movie "Leprechaun" demonstrates, and what with Green Vomit Day quickly approaching, it's important we get ourselves ready for whatever strange debacles may lie just ahead in our dark, four-leafed future ...
But before I go into a lengthy rant against anyone's religion, I think it's important I take a moment to remind Blah-ugh! readers that this Blah-ugh! is less about bigotry and intolerance than it is about trying to create buzz around my new e-novel SPACE CASE, which as you all know is the racially tense story of a bigoted earth woman who's forced to mate with a black man from outer space. (Please understand that the term "black" is appropriate in this case, because this alien's ancestors are NOT from Africa, as may be the case for the typical misconstrued African-American earth dweller who is incorrectly referred to as "black," but instead he hails from a region on the planet Visnoid where skin pigments come in a remarkable range of vibrant colors, including one stylish shade of ebony that would put a vain panther to shame.)
Now, I've completely forgotten what my point was, because I began it so long ago, but you can bet the Irish had something to do with it. Or was it the Italians? This reminds me that I meant to get Italian food for lunch today and completely forgot to, opting instead for Chinese. I can only imagine that this sort of experience is the kind of thing that perpetuates the stereotypes surrounding the Chinese and their craftiness. Of course, there's a good chance that Italian laziness also played its part, along with my own Polish stupidity.
The nice thing about the Polish is that the word is also "polish," which has a nice, clean, well-groomed sense to it. It's a much better moniker than, say, Latvians, or Urkutskians. I'm glad I'm not from Urkutsk, which for a long time I believed was only a region in the board game Risk, but now I think may actually really exist, although its natives are probably ashamed to enter the U.N. because it's such a silly name.
Other countries have silly names as well, including ours. In a sense, we don't even HAVE a name, which is REALLY annoying. I wish we were called SOMETHING, like Featherland ... or Vermeel ... or Kasha ...
Which reminds me of something many of you may not have known, or perhaps cared about -- Did you know Soviet Union translates to mean "States United." Now, does that make any sense? It's moot now, but really, what were we all thinking throughout the Cold War, with such comically juxtaposed names?! U.S. / S.U. !! But what kills me is that no one noticed. I mean, even I didn't for a long time, although I was only born in the sixties, so at least I have that excuse for the early post-war years. What about YOU?!
How did we get on this? I was setting out to make fun of the Jews -- the Sephardic, not the Ashkenazi. I mean, what's with Hanukkah?! It starts on a different day each year. Who designed this religion?! The Polish?
No, but seriously, I'm still trying to figure out if my rampant prejudices and stereotyping are a good thing or a bad thing. (If you're laughing, by the way, they're a good thing, but if you're taking steps to have my book banned in schools, we'll need to reshape this post ...)
In a sense, I feel like a valuable museum-like period piece from another era -- meaning the Cold War -- still an example of that strange, sometimes bitter, sometimes hilarious time when fictional characters like Archie Bunker and Fred Sanford were teaching us not only to be aware of our differences, but to celebrate them with humor and embarrassed arrogance, especially if we felt deep down that our differences were better than those of others, or at least not QUITE as different ...
One nice thing about pre-judging people is that it saves a lot of time. And who has ANY time these days, what with text messages to send and millions of emails bouncing each way and Snooky getting pregnant and all the conversations we've got to HAVE ABOUT Snooky and her pregnancy and her being Ho -- (or a Hoe, depending on your stereotyping decisions) -- and all the new facts bombarding us about other television shows and the magazines about people who are ON television shows and ... It's just crazy!
And that's why there comes a point where we have to just cut corners in some area of our lives in order to make a finer showing ...
So why NOT blame the Irish this month? It'll help balance the joyous festivities of their holiday ... And then next month, we can blame someone else for the warm weather -- perhaps the Arabs!
Friday, February 10, 2012
Can't Stop Talking Toilets 2012
February 10, 2012: If this were your homepage, you'd be home now ... And if you haven't purchased your virtual copy of SPACE CASE by now (Amazon or B&N), I honestly don't know what I'm going to do with you, except fervently resent ...
That all said, with numerous topics vying for selection in my muddled, moribund mind -- my email struggles, Indian food, Hermann Hesse, the dangers of synthetic underwear ... Once again, toilets turned out to take top billing here at the Blah-ugh!, for once again I'm moved to revisit and revial my most favorite of holy subjects.
You'd think by now you'd have learned everything you needed to know from me about toilets from previous posts. (http://jarretliotta.blogspot.com/2009/08/finding-god-in-my-toilet.html, http://jarretliotta.blogspot.com/2010/03/still-more-on-toilets.html and http://jarretliotta.blogspot.com/2010/01/finding-acceptance-in-my-toilet.html are just some examples ...) The fact is, however, that we've only just begun to scratch the surface -- or dive deeper, if you will -- regarding this important and yet sadly overlooked element of our overtly disturbing modern human existence.
Today's entry was prompted by my seeing someone pee on the seat at work today. (No, no! I didn't bear witness -- perish the thought!) But I was the unfortunate victim of some selfish moron's thougthless skullduggery and, at the time of my toilet pigrimage, was unfairly forced to view the result of the disturbing actions of what is in essence a modern-day fiend.
Fortunately (for me ... and we all know this is all about ME), this was one visit where the condition of the seat didn't come into play for MY plans, except for the disgust I had to feel in having to gently lift that soiled seat with my foot while watching those skin-creeping neon-yellow dots of vitamin-enriched urine clinging there like so many June bugs ... And while I relieved myself (if you'll forgive the gruesomeness of THAT image), I got to thinking about my own habits where the seat is concerned.
You see, I've long wondered why men are forever implored to "put the seat down." In this enlightened age of equinimity -- (Is that the right word? If not, please don't tell me; I don't WANT to know) -- shouldn't we all be responsible for our own toilets? In other words, if I'm required to LIFT the seat to do MY dirty business, why should a woman not be required to LOWER the seat to do HERS? And yet, time and again, in my codependent efforts to be polite and be a good citizen and to get people to like me in AND out of the bathroom, I will not only raise the seat at the start, but return it to its resting place when I'm complete.
But this ongoing journey of self-discovery has led me to experiment a bit and -- depending on my mood, level of self-confidence, sense of self-esteem, and memory -- I sometimes will and sometimes WON'T put down the bloody seat.
(To be honest, at home I tend to always put it down, for various reasons. As a rule I think one is much more comfortable handling their OWN toilet seat. Despite all the rumors about urine's sterility and the argument that sexually transmitted diseases can't be thusly tranferred -- and why should we believe THAT anyway? -- handling public seats opens a clean man such as myself up to all kinds of disturbing, disgusting and potentially dangerous possibilities.)
Anyway, what really struck my mind -- and you have to understand, this was all unfolding in that short window I took to pee -- was how hostile a gesture it was to pee on a seat. Leaving the seat up is one thing, but by actually PEEING on the seat, you're sending a clear message of contempt -- and dare I say MISOGYNISTIC contempt -- to anyone and everyone who tries to use that soiled toilet after you. And this is what I REALLY found worrisome -- that there was some dirty, vitamin-fueled misogynist running around my place of work -- peeing at will, like a rabid fox terrier, leaving his supposedly sterile mark on our sacred toilet seats, ruthlessly laughing in the face of everything that's decent about urinating ...
At the end of the day, I'm not a woman -- not in any literal sense -- so it doesn't concern me too much. But again, I'm reminded how we, as a society in the 21st century, must not lose sight of the importance of our toilet culture.
We've come light years as an enlightened and spiritual species. We can't regress now. Let's not forget that kindness, caring, community, and even love begin when we first settle down to not just TAKE our piss, but MAKE IT ...
That all said, with numerous topics vying for selection in my muddled, moribund mind -- my email struggles, Indian food, Hermann Hesse, the dangers of synthetic underwear ... Once again, toilets turned out to take top billing here at the Blah-ugh!, for once again I'm moved to revisit and revial my most favorite of holy subjects.
You'd think by now you'd have learned everything you needed to know from me about toilets from previous posts. (http://jarretliotta.blogspot.com/2009/08/finding-god-in-my-toilet.html, http://jarretliotta.blogspot.com/2010/03/still-more-on-toilets.html and http://jarretliotta.blogspot.com/2010/01/finding-acceptance-in-my-toilet.html are just some examples ...) The fact is, however, that we've only just begun to scratch the surface -- or dive deeper, if you will -- regarding this important and yet sadly overlooked element of our overtly disturbing modern human existence.
Today's entry was prompted by my seeing someone pee on the seat at work today. (No, no! I didn't bear witness -- perish the thought!) But I was the unfortunate victim of some selfish moron's thougthless skullduggery and, at the time of my toilet pigrimage, was unfairly forced to view the result of the disturbing actions of what is in essence a modern-day fiend.
Fortunately (for me ... and we all know this is all about ME), this was one visit where the condition of the seat didn't come into play for MY plans, except for the disgust I had to feel in having to gently lift that soiled seat with my foot while watching those skin-creeping neon-yellow dots of vitamin-enriched urine clinging there like so many June bugs ... And while I relieved myself (if you'll forgive the gruesomeness of THAT image), I got to thinking about my own habits where the seat is concerned.
You see, I've long wondered why men are forever implored to "put the seat down." In this enlightened age of equinimity -- (Is that the right word? If not, please don't tell me; I don't WANT to know) -- shouldn't we all be responsible for our own toilets? In other words, if I'm required to LIFT the seat to do MY dirty business, why should a woman not be required to LOWER the seat to do HERS? And yet, time and again, in my codependent efforts to be polite and be a good citizen and to get people to like me in AND out of the bathroom, I will not only raise the seat at the start, but return it to its resting place when I'm complete.
But this ongoing journey of self-discovery has led me to experiment a bit and -- depending on my mood, level of self-confidence, sense of self-esteem, and memory -- I sometimes will and sometimes WON'T put down the bloody seat.
(To be honest, at home I tend to always put it down, for various reasons. As a rule I think one is much more comfortable handling their OWN toilet seat. Despite all the rumors about urine's sterility and the argument that sexually transmitted diseases can't be thusly tranferred -- and why should we believe THAT anyway? -- handling public seats opens a clean man such as myself up to all kinds of disturbing, disgusting and potentially dangerous possibilities.)
Anyway, what really struck my mind -- and you have to understand, this was all unfolding in that short window I took to pee -- was how hostile a gesture it was to pee on a seat. Leaving the seat up is one thing, but by actually PEEING on the seat, you're sending a clear message of contempt -- and dare I say MISOGYNISTIC contempt -- to anyone and everyone who tries to use that soiled toilet after you. And this is what I REALLY found worrisome -- that there was some dirty, vitamin-fueled misogynist running around my place of work -- peeing at will, like a rabid fox terrier, leaving his supposedly sterile mark on our sacred toilet seats, ruthlessly laughing in the face of everything that's decent about urinating ...
At the end of the day, I'm not a woman -- not in any literal sense -- so it doesn't concern me too much. But again, I'm reminded how we, as a society in the 21st century, must not lose sight of the importance of our toilet culture.
We've come light years as an enlightened and spiritual species. We can't regress now. Let's not forget that kindness, caring, community, and even love begin when we first settle down to not just TAKE our piss, but MAKE IT ...
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Me The Contest Winner
November 2, 2011: I don't know who reads this stupid thing, but the numbers on the clicker keep moving gradually forward, so there must be SOME action. (If not, Winc & Fletch, I appreciate your returning at regular intervals to move my numbers up!)
The point is, those of you who didn't hear, or didn't care enough to hear, or don't care now -- I won a horror writing contest (of all things), and if you haven't, please visit http://everywritersresource.com/ and enjoy my short demented little story, and my even shorter demented little biography. (I'm their lead story, in fact, and while there's no picture of me, just imagine me lolling naked on a lounge chair and you'll get the full effect of real horror!)
Over the years, my fill of official praise has been severely limited to a few editors congratulating me on my spelling, and one former supervisor admiring my shoes. So to be recognized not only in a public forum, but for something that's so important to me -- namely writing -- makes this a new season of the dead in which it feels good to rejoice (or rejoinder -- I'm still not sure which).
The story itself is very short (which some of you may find is part of its strength), but I'm told it's concentratedly disturbing. And while I don't consider myself a horror writer officially, I'm capable of some very horrible writing and so it kind of makes sense that this would be my first area of success. Either way, if you know any horror people who you feel might be able to find me more work -- or if you know Stephen King and he owes you a favor -- please mention my name.
I'm tired now, as I've spent the past hour photographing our jack o'lanterns in the dark. I've done some very wonderful shots, which I'm sure my wife will delete from the memory card come morning. But as my old art teacher Jim Wheeler used to emphasize, it's about the process, not the product. This is good to remember, as it frees me up to continue doing most of my writing in my head ...
Again, Happy Halloween!
The point is, those of you who didn't hear, or didn't care enough to hear, or don't care now -- I won a horror writing contest (of all things), and if you haven't, please visit http://everywritersresource.com/ and enjoy my short demented little story, and my even shorter demented little biography. (I'm their lead story, in fact, and while there's no picture of me, just imagine me lolling naked on a lounge chair and you'll get the full effect of real horror!)
Over the years, my fill of official praise has been severely limited to a few editors congratulating me on my spelling, and one former supervisor admiring my shoes. So to be recognized not only in a public forum, but for something that's so important to me -- namely writing -- makes this a new season of the dead in which it feels good to rejoice (or rejoinder -- I'm still not sure which).
The story itself is very short (which some of you may find is part of its strength), but I'm told it's concentratedly disturbing. And while I don't consider myself a horror writer officially, I'm capable of some very horrible writing and so it kind of makes sense that this would be my first area of success. Either way, if you know any horror people who you feel might be able to find me more work -- or if you know Stephen King and he owes you a favor -- please mention my name.
I'm tired now, as I've spent the past hour photographing our jack o'lanterns in the dark. I've done some very wonderful shots, which I'm sure my wife will delete from the memory card come morning. But as my old art teacher Jim Wheeler used to emphasize, it's about the process, not the product. This is good to remember, as it frees me up to continue doing most of my writing in my head ...
Again, Happy Halloween!
Thursday, March 10, 2011
27 (Or So) Things About Me That May Surprise You
March 10, 2011: I recently came across what I assume was a stupid regular column in some magazine. (The column was, in fact, stupid, but it's only my assumption that it was a regular column.) The title was something like "27 Things About Me That May Surprise You," and it was written by Martha Stewart, about whom I knew next to nothing, despite having cut her lawn one summer. I can say I still don't know much about her, and even that's enough (although I found it somewhat interesting that she likes to bring her own lemons on planes).
Anyway, I thought it might of some value -- to me, of course, and not you -- to share some of the lesser known facts about myself -- so I present: "27 (if I can think of that many) Things About Me That May Surprise (or even Shock!) You" (although in actuality there's a good chance they may not even interest you).
--For starters, did you have any ideas how much I hate when men wear loafers without socks. I think I reference it in both of my novels. I really just find it incredibly irritating and I'm convinced that we, as a society, will never really start unraveling all the problems that face mankind until people stop doing that.
--I can't ever remember how to count in Spanish. Not that I ever took Spanish, but you'd think after all this time living in America -- and being able to count in Russian, German and French -- I'd have it down. Yet whenever I'm faced with the challenge, it always baffles me.
--As well as being convinced that both the two Kennedy assasinations and 9/11 were government conspiracies, I don't believe the moon landing ever took place. Saying that outright sounds somewhat funny in itself, but the evidence is ridiculously clear and I'm baffled that more people don't see it. (Our government is also responsible for both Lyme Disease and West Nile Virus, by the way, but that's a whole other story.)
--At age three I fell in Paul Newman's pool. (That's another whole other story.)
--While I originally wanted to be a professional baseball player, by fourth grade I wanted to be an actor, and then by junior high I thought seriously of being a writer ... Interestingly, at age 21 I gave some serious thought to trying to play minor league ball. Also interestingly, I'm still thinking seriously about being a writer ...
--My official favorite food is eggplant parmegian (but I can never spell it), and my favorite dessert is cold pumpkin pie with whipped cream.
--I don't drink, although I still have a fondness for sex and gambling.
--I don't technically have a middle name, although I have two first names, the second of which I almost never share with anyone. (My wife thinks it's Bernard, but it's not!)
--I had my first grey hair in sixth grade. (I remember Andy Cameron lovingly plucking it out at recess; he recently died and now I'm feeling guilty.)
--I literally enjoy the company of my two children more than anyone else in the world. They accept me just as I am, (not like you people).
--I've spent time in every continental U.S. state except North Dakota. Despite the urging of one friend, I'm not dying to go ...
--Though I've never received a journalism award, both Walter Cronkite and Nat Hentoff have shared with me their individual admiration for something I'd written.
--I struggle with tea constantly staining my teeth. I've never worn braces, but pride very straight choppers, which have literally been admired by strange orthodontists who've crossed my path.
--I once found a dead body.
--I can play banjo, along with guitar, piano, drums and xylophone. (I bought my banjo in a pawn shop in Spokane, Washington, which is actually known as the Lilac City (as least out there).)
--One of my great regrets in life is that I wasn't born in England. I love the weather there, as well as the accents and fish. I'm hoping someday someone will invite me to come and live in London ... or Manchester (ahem!)
--I hate computers, and find the Internet a colossal time-waster. Despite the handiness of having an online Blah-ugh! I'd much prefer a newspaper column, or a hard-copy newsletter ... or perhaps a TV show!
--I still like to collect comicbooks, and while I stupidly sold my once-vast collection years ago, I continue to pick them up here and there. (I've always loved collecting things and have, at one time or another, collected coins, stamps, beer cans, bottle tops, baseball cards, books and rocks.)
--I'm long-winded. Despite my considerable skills as an attentive listener, I love nothing better than to talk. (My wife, who used to listen to me, will concur.) A large part of why I write is because I just can't shut up.
--I greatly prefer rainy days, and will often go for long walks. I find my meditative bliss on walks, but prefer quiet suburban streets to isolated wilderness.
--I used to love dogs, but now they mostly annoy me. Our cat annoys me too, especially at night, but I don't drown her in the bathtub because it would hurt the kids. (Perhaps when they're older and would understand.)
--I like to stay up late and sleep late into the day. I often do my best writing late at night, and sometimes I just write crappy Blah-ugh! posts about eggplant, England and strangling cats.
Next time I'll tell you more about Martha Stewart and her lawn!
Anyway, I thought it might of some value -- to me, of course, and not you -- to share some of the lesser known facts about myself -- so I present: "27 (if I can think of that many) Things About Me That May Surprise (or even Shock!) You" (although in actuality there's a good chance they may not even interest you).
--For starters, did you have any ideas how much I hate when men wear loafers without socks. I think I reference it in both of my novels. I really just find it incredibly irritating and I'm convinced that we, as a society, will never really start unraveling all the problems that face mankind until people stop doing that.
--I can't ever remember how to count in Spanish. Not that I ever took Spanish, but you'd think after all this time living in America -- and being able to count in Russian, German and French -- I'd have it down. Yet whenever I'm faced with the challenge, it always baffles me.
--As well as being convinced that both the two Kennedy assasinations and 9/11 were government conspiracies, I don't believe the moon landing ever took place. Saying that outright sounds somewhat funny in itself, but the evidence is ridiculously clear and I'm baffled that more people don't see it. (Our government is also responsible for both Lyme Disease and West Nile Virus, by the way, but that's a whole other story.)
--At age three I fell in Paul Newman's pool. (That's another whole other story.)
--While I originally wanted to be a professional baseball player, by fourth grade I wanted to be an actor, and then by junior high I thought seriously of being a writer ... Interestingly, at age 21 I gave some serious thought to trying to play minor league ball. Also interestingly, I'm still thinking seriously about being a writer ...
--My official favorite food is eggplant parmegian (but I can never spell it), and my favorite dessert is cold pumpkin pie with whipped cream.
--I don't drink, although I still have a fondness for sex and gambling.
--I don't technically have a middle name, although I have two first names, the second of which I almost never share with anyone. (My wife thinks it's Bernard, but it's not!)
--I had my first grey hair in sixth grade. (I remember Andy Cameron lovingly plucking it out at recess; he recently died and now I'm feeling guilty.)
--I literally enjoy the company of my two children more than anyone else in the world. They accept me just as I am, (not like you people).
--I've spent time in every continental U.S. state except North Dakota. Despite the urging of one friend, I'm not dying to go ...
--Though I've never received a journalism award, both Walter Cronkite and Nat Hentoff have shared with me their individual admiration for something I'd written.
--I struggle with tea constantly staining my teeth. I've never worn braces, but pride very straight choppers, which have literally been admired by strange orthodontists who've crossed my path.
--I once found a dead body.
--I can play banjo, along with guitar, piano, drums and xylophone. (I bought my banjo in a pawn shop in Spokane, Washington, which is actually known as the Lilac City (as least out there).)
--One of my great regrets in life is that I wasn't born in England. I love the weather there, as well as the accents and fish. I'm hoping someday someone will invite me to come and live in London ... or Manchester (ahem!)
--I hate computers, and find the Internet a colossal time-waster. Despite the handiness of having an online Blah-ugh! I'd much prefer a newspaper column, or a hard-copy newsletter ... or perhaps a TV show!
--I still like to collect comicbooks, and while I stupidly sold my once-vast collection years ago, I continue to pick them up here and there. (I've always loved collecting things and have, at one time or another, collected coins, stamps, beer cans, bottle tops, baseball cards, books and rocks.)
--I'm long-winded. Despite my considerable skills as an attentive listener, I love nothing better than to talk. (My wife, who used to listen to me, will concur.) A large part of why I write is because I just can't shut up.
--I greatly prefer rainy days, and will often go for long walks. I find my meditative bliss on walks, but prefer quiet suburban streets to isolated wilderness.
--I used to love dogs, but now they mostly annoy me. Our cat annoys me too, especially at night, but I don't drown her in the bathtub because it would hurt the kids. (Perhaps when they're older and would understand.)
--I like to stay up late and sleep late into the day. I often do my best writing late at night, and sometimes I just write crappy Blah-ugh! posts about eggplant, England and strangling cats.
Next time I'll tell you more about Martha Stewart and her lawn!
Friday, February 25, 2011
What Have You Done for Me (Jarret Liotta) Lately?!
February 25, 2011: It's late February, and the time has again come to ask yourself, "What have I done for Jarret lately?"
No, it's not my birthday, nor do I presume to pay some kind of weird homage to Finnish actor Leo Golowin, who as you know was born on this day in 1903. Instead, I merely think that, owing to the uncanny wealth of wonderfully engaging words with which I selflessly provide you on an ongoing basis through this Blah-ugh! (and for free, mind you), it just seems (if you have any heart, or at least a modicum of shame) you might feel a festering motivation to help further the questionable cause of my sordid career by consciously spreading the word about ... well, me!
As you know, I'm still on the lookout for the right agent (meaning any agent) to represent my first novel, which currently waits in the vaults unfondled, and leaves the world without that opportunity to see just what sort of meandering madness I can squeeze out of my brain, given the space (and a clean spot to stand). Beyond that -- meaning beyond your forcefully pursuing any avenue available to you to get me in touch with some fool willing to champion my book -- I'd hope that (like E.J. and Shannon ... and possibly Matt, though I'm beginning to have my doubts about him) you're making some effort to spread the word about this wonderful (and free, mind you) Blah-ugh! you find populating your happier moments (and, let's be honest, where you find yourself identifying with many of mankind's grungiest thoughts and basest feelings as only I can recount them).
Please understand, I don't want you to feel that you're not doing enough for me simply by being a loyal reader, but I'd hope you would exhibit just a little guilt -- not a lot, but a little -- enough to motivate you to move this thing along toward its ultimate conclusion.
Well, I've said my piece. I can't promise not to talk about myself next time, but I'll certainly talk far less about you.
But once again, my darlings, thank you for lurking here ...
No, it's not my birthday, nor do I presume to pay some kind of weird homage to Finnish actor Leo Golowin, who as you know was born on this day in 1903. Instead, I merely think that, owing to the uncanny wealth of wonderfully engaging words with which I selflessly provide you on an ongoing basis through this Blah-ugh! (and for free, mind you), it just seems (if you have any heart, or at least a modicum of shame) you might feel a festering motivation to help further the questionable cause of my sordid career by consciously spreading the word about ... well, me!
As you know, I'm still on the lookout for the right agent (meaning any agent) to represent my first novel, which currently waits in the vaults unfondled, and leaves the world without that opportunity to see just what sort of meandering madness I can squeeze out of my brain, given the space (and a clean spot to stand). Beyond that -- meaning beyond your forcefully pursuing any avenue available to you to get me in touch with some fool willing to champion my book -- I'd hope that (like E.J. and Shannon ... and possibly Matt, though I'm beginning to have my doubts about him) you're making some effort to spread the word about this wonderful (and free, mind you) Blah-ugh! you find populating your happier moments (and, let's be honest, where you find yourself identifying with many of mankind's grungiest thoughts and basest feelings as only I can recount them).
Please understand, I don't want you to feel that you're not doing enough for me simply by being a loyal reader, but I'd hope you would exhibit just a little guilt -- not a lot, but a little -- enough to motivate you to move this thing along toward its ultimate conclusion.
Well, I've said my piece. I can't promise not to talk about myself next time, but I'll certainly talk far less about you.
But once again, my darlings, thank you for lurking here ...
Sunday, January 16, 2011
"Walking Through (the) Illusion" of Otter Writers
January 16, 2011: I'm hungry ... Which is in fact my best time to write. I invariably find that once I eat, the manic energy that serves me so well in the creative/craft process is soundly stilled once I eat, like the orange hot coals I pour water on late at night when it's time to kill the fire ...
So here I write, and on a vague whim, I thought I would finally give this Betsy Otter Thompson person a book review I said I might consider doing.
Now, for starters, you loyal readers know all-too-well that mine is not the kind of Blah-ugh! that reviews books, or does anything with any leaning toward seriousness, or anything to aid the community, or others. All in all, let's face it, it's really a shitty waste of time -- time that would be better spent by all of us picking up litter. So imagine my surprise when this madwoman sends me an email asking that I review her stupid book "Walking Through Illusion." I was at once flattered and incredibly annoyed. You see, as many of you know, I not only dread and fear my public -- Can you blame me? -- but I HATE (and here, see, I'm capitalizing the letters to emphasize my hate-ness) hate hate hate to be asked to read anything. I can't really explain why, but I just do. While I love to read overall, somehow anytime anyone specifically asks me to read something, it immediately becomes this awful, painful impossible-to-overcome burden. Perhaps it's a holdover from grammar school, where I was never a very motivated reader and basically experienced all reading as a reprehensible chore ...
So, that said, to Thompson's book ...
First off, you should know that I haven't read it, but I don't see where that doesn't qualify me to do a sound review -- probably one of more value than you'd find in any of those hack publications, like The NY Times. The crux of the book (or should I say calix, or crucifix, or some other quasi-religious pun I haven't the energy to create) is a Q & A with Jesus. (Yes, Jesus! Hay-sus Christy, as he's often referred to by some, and the Dark Lord, by others!) Anyway, this Thompson person has creatively concocted a sort of interview with the Big Cheese. (Well, then why don't you ask HIM to review it, huh honey?) It's broken into practical chapters that address spiritual topics, like Truth and Confusion. And it's got a lovely cover with a sort of orangey-yellow explosion.
The best thing I could say about this book, I'm sure, is that it's relatively short, and seemingly concise. If I know Jesus, he's a man of simple ideas, despite his long-windedness, and in her interviews Thompson seems to have kept his (or should I say His? Well, I won't!) inane rambling to a minimum. (Everyone knows Jesus tends to go off on tangents when he's interviewed.) All told, if you're even vaguely interested in things like Jesus and spiritual crap, this may be the book for you, but certainly don't blame me if it isn't; after all, I got my copy for free!
On a serious note (yeah, right), I must commend Thompson for even writing a book. Most of us just sit around on our asses sending text messages and masturbating to reality shows. But those brave, committed few -- meaning people like me -- devote their time to trying to make the world a better place through their writing. And while Thompson can't write anything like I can -- who, after all, could come close? -- I send her kudos in the form of this review.
Meanwhile, speaking of writing, you all should know that my second novel is complete. It's called "The Space Case," and it's the humorous story of a tweeked 30-something whose biological clock is winding down, and the outer space alien with whom she begins a very unusual relationship ... No. No, I'm not kidding!
Now, who the hell's going to review MY book?!!
So here I write, and on a vague whim, I thought I would finally give this Betsy Otter Thompson person a book review I said I might consider doing.
Now, for starters, you loyal readers know all-too-well that mine is not the kind of Blah-ugh! that reviews books, or does anything with any leaning toward seriousness, or anything to aid the community, or others. All in all, let's face it, it's really a shitty waste of time -- time that would be better spent by all of us picking up litter. So imagine my surprise when this madwoman sends me an email asking that I review her stupid book "Walking Through Illusion." I was at once flattered and incredibly annoyed. You see, as many of you know, I not only dread and fear my public -- Can you blame me? -- but I HATE (and here, see, I'm capitalizing the letters to emphasize my hate-ness) hate hate hate to be asked to read anything. I can't really explain why, but I just do. While I love to read overall, somehow anytime anyone specifically asks me to read something, it immediately becomes this awful, painful impossible-to-overcome burden. Perhaps it's a holdover from grammar school, where I was never a very motivated reader and basically experienced all reading as a reprehensible chore ...
So, that said, to Thompson's book ...
First off, you should know that I haven't read it, but I don't see where that doesn't qualify me to do a sound review -- probably one of more value than you'd find in any of those hack publications, like The NY Times. The crux of the book (or should I say calix, or crucifix, or some other quasi-religious pun I haven't the energy to create) is a Q & A with Jesus. (Yes, Jesus! Hay-sus Christy, as he's often referred to by some, and the Dark Lord, by others!) Anyway, this Thompson person has creatively concocted a sort of interview with the Big Cheese. (Well, then why don't you ask HIM to review it, huh honey?) It's broken into practical chapters that address spiritual topics, like Truth and Confusion. And it's got a lovely cover with a sort of orangey-yellow explosion.
The best thing I could say about this book, I'm sure, is that it's relatively short, and seemingly concise. If I know Jesus, he's a man of simple ideas, despite his long-windedness, and in her interviews Thompson seems to have kept his (or should I say His? Well, I won't!) inane rambling to a minimum. (Everyone knows Jesus tends to go off on tangents when he's interviewed.) All told, if you're even vaguely interested in things like Jesus and spiritual crap, this may be the book for you, but certainly don't blame me if it isn't; after all, I got my copy for free!
On a serious note (yeah, right), I must commend Thompson for even writing a book. Most of us just sit around on our asses sending text messages and masturbating to reality shows. But those brave, committed few -- meaning people like me -- devote their time to trying to make the world a better place through their writing. And while Thompson can't write anything like I can -- who, after all, could come close? -- I send her kudos in the form of this review.
Meanwhile, speaking of writing, you all should know that my second novel is complete. It's called "The Space Case," and it's the humorous story of a tweeked 30-something whose biological clock is winding down, and the outer space alien with whom she begins a very unusual relationship ... No. No, I'm not kidding!
Now, who the hell's going to review MY book?!!
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Not Tonight, I Have a Headache!
January 21, 2010: It was with the best intentions that I set out to complete a worthy Blah-ugh! entry tonight, but I'm afraid you won't be getting one. I'm not only feeling overwhelmed and exhausted, but humorless as well.
At the same time, I see the waves and waves of people who've arrived new to this site -- my virgin readers! (Why, there must be five of you!) You come here expecting something, and my inherent ACOA guilt prevents me from even vaguely considering disappointing you. For you I feel the obligation to be funny, to wax pithy, to grow in wit, wisdom, and lovingly prepare a bountiful banquet of glib observations and racist, misogynistic Neandrathal one-liners. My only wish is for you, dear readers, to dine on the righteous goodness of my ... And, see, I'm trying and trying, and I can't even make this funny! Gads, what a night!
So, like Dylan's clown who cried in the alley, I'll do my best to carry on in the best spirit of "The Blog & I" in future entries. But for tonight, when I can't stop thinking about all the misery and pain that surrounds me -- and I'm not talking about Haiti or Wall Street, but my own acute discomforts and agony, which are much more vivid and personal and, therefore, worse -- I'll just slip quietly back into the ether of Cyberspace. (I really like that word -- it's so "World of Tomorrow.")
So try me again later ... Just not tonight ...
At the same time, I see the waves and waves of people who've arrived new to this site -- my virgin readers! (Why, there must be five of you!) You come here expecting something, and my inherent ACOA guilt prevents me from even vaguely considering disappointing you. For you I feel the obligation to be funny, to wax pithy, to grow in wit, wisdom, and lovingly prepare a bountiful banquet of glib observations and racist, misogynistic Neandrathal one-liners. My only wish is for you, dear readers, to dine on the righteous goodness of my ... And, see, I'm trying and trying, and I can't even make this funny! Gads, what a night!
So, like Dylan's clown who cried in the alley, I'll do my best to carry on in the best spirit of "The Blog & I" in future entries. But for tonight, when I can't stop thinking about all the misery and pain that surrounds me -- and I'm not talking about Haiti or Wall Street, but my own acute discomforts and agony, which are much more vivid and personal and, therefore, worse -- I'll just slip quietly back into the ether of Cyberspace. (I really like that word -- it's so "World of Tomorrow.")
So try me again later ... Just not tonight ...
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Review & Resolutions ... for You!
December 30, 2009: In lieu of New Year's, I decided to take a long, pensive moment this week to consider my behaviors and actions throughout 2009 -- for the whole first decade of our 21st Century, in fact. I deftly weighed my shortcomings and made an honest appraisal of all my various defects down to the most minute, with a brave and candid eye toward my ongoing improvement and spiritual growth ...
Yet when all was said and done, I realized I was just fine the way I was. It was everyone else who had the problems. So, armed with this proven knowledge, I thought I'd take a moment to candidly fill you, Dear Readers, in on exactly what's wrong with you.
To begin with, ask yourself, "What have I done for Jarret today?" It's no secret that the number of my Blah-ugh! readers ranks high. (Some have told me it's a staggering figure, perhaps topping millions!) Yet only 13 people have taken the trouble to register as Followers (and even some of these louts have been banned from reading my site because they annoyed me for one reason or another). Why is this? Do people not feel comfortable admitting their allegiance to me? Is it not enough that I slave to provide you with a veritable feast of cerebral fodder, yet you can't take the 20-second trouble to register some false identity in order to honor my work and increase my numbers?
More importantly, how many of you loyal readers are actually giving any time to spreading news of my site (and me, for that matter)? How many of you have taken a moment to email all your friends about the keen, culturally relevant commentary that flows from this electronic spinet? How many of you can honestly say you've done your part to tout the value of this enterprise, and perhaps help save its creator from the depressing life of underachievement that looms so precariously before him?
I don't want to harp on all this, however, because there are other faults to address. For instance, I received holiday cards from none of you! What's that about?! You have my email address listed here. Do I not rate some simple (even impersonal) electronic recognition? Are you so busy? Obviously you have time to waste reading this ridiculous website. Come now!
I also wanted to touch on your poor driving habits, which continue to mystify me, as well as your lazy work ethic, your variable hygiene practices, and your political apathy ... but there's only so much one can do in a decade. Let's try to stay focused on the point at hand -- namely, me -- and let's all pledge, as 2010 rolls around, to do our best to help further my aims and those of my most diligent disciples.
On that note, I bid you a Grand and Glorious New Year!
Yet when all was said and done, I realized I was just fine the way I was. It was everyone else who had the problems. So, armed with this proven knowledge, I thought I'd take a moment to candidly fill you, Dear Readers, in on exactly what's wrong with you.
To begin with, ask yourself, "What have I done for Jarret today?" It's no secret that the number of my Blah-ugh! readers ranks high. (Some have told me it's a staggering figure, perhaps topping millions!) Yet only 13 people have taken the trouble to register as Followers (and even some of these louts have been banned from reading my site because they annoyed me for one reason or another). Why is this? Do people not feel comfortable admitting their allegiance to me? Is it not enough that I slave to provide you with a veritable feast of cerebral fodder, yet you can't take the 20-second trouble to register some false identity in order to honor my work and increase my numbers?
More importantly, how many of you loyal readers are actually giving any time to spreading news of my site (and me, for that matter)? How many of you have taken a moment to email all your friends about the keen, culturally relevant commentary that flows from this electronic spinet? How many of you can honestly say you've done your part to tout the value of this enterprise, and perhaps help save its creator from the depressing life of underachievement that looms so precariously before him?
I don't want to harp on all this, however, because there are other faults to address. For instance, I received holiday cards from none of you! What's that about?! You have my email address listed here. Do I not rate some simple (even impersonal) electronic recognition? Are you so busy? Obviously you have time to waste reading this ridiculous website. Come now!
I also wanted to touch on your poor driving habits, which continue to mystify me, as well as your lazy work ethic, your variable hygiene practices, and your political apathy ... but there's only so much one can do in a decade. Let's try to stay focused on the point at hand -- namely, me -- and let's all pledge, as 2010 rolls around, to do our best to help further my aims and those of my most diligent disciples.
On that note, I bid you a Grand and Glorious New Year!
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