Monday, December 31, 2007
posted by Rhys at 7:47 PM | Permalink | 0 shooting the breeze
Saturday, December 29, 2007
You BETTER Watch This Movie
Enjoy this adorable video. This movie freakin' rocks. It's why movies should exist in the first place. Watch it. Love it. Marry it.

And aw, dig that song...can you imagine having someone like that in your life? Someone who loves you and cares for you and appreciates who you are, even the weird stuff? Especially the weird stuff? Sigh. I want me a Bleeker!

posted by Rhys at 6:40 PM | Permalink | 5 shooting the breeze
Haven't felt much like writing about writing lately...obviously. The holidays can suck my balls. Anyway, looking forward to getting back to life. And to friends and reading blogs and writing blogs and learning to play guitar and other happy things. It's about damn time.

How YOU doin'?
posted by Rhys at 6:15 PM | Permalink | 0 shooting the breeze
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
You Better Watch Nip/Tuck Tonight
It gives a nice big green, hairy, Grinch finger to the holiday season. Just what we all need. Too funny, really. (I mean, they could've at least removed Frosty's nose. But it wouldn't have been so very wrong and thus so very good.) This show has really stepped it up this season. Except for bringing back whiny-assed Julia and Matt. GO AWAY, sniveling snots.

By the way, do you have any idea what the 'secret ingredient' was in that fruitcake? They sort of dropped that storyline. Anyway, flip over to FX and enjoy a whole new take on 'ho ho ho.'

The holidays are a pain in the ass.
posted by Rhys at 1:32 AM | Permalink | 0 shooting the breeze
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Music For Thought
Damn, I need to update my blogroll. I need to do a lot of things. Suck it. So many of us, writers especially, are in dark days and frustration now. So for all us writers and anyone else in any degree of suckosity, here's a little inspiration from the Sunglasses Man. Take note of the lyrics. It's all in the lyrics.

posted by Rhys at 11:58 AM | Permalink | 0 shooting the breeze
Monday, December 3, 2007
Why Are You So Weird?
To prove my recommitment to all things blogging, I shall now post something. And not just 'cuz the mighty Trick told me too. I am my own boss.

So: "Why are you so weird?"

This was a question asked of me when I was merely 8 years old, by a friend, without malice, merely curiosity. I'll admit to being flattered.

The answer? All writers are weird. That's the simple version. But WHY? Well, in my case, the environment I grew up in was enough to ensure the bloodiest psychopath (don't worry, I didn't succumb. I am exceedingly kind and far too empathetic.) But I am weird. And well, people, I can only say this: It's In The Blood.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve always had a fascination with shadows and gloom, of things that go bump in the night. To me, twilight has always been the most beautiful time of day. And sunrises have nothing on sunsets. Myself and the darkside, we walk hand in hand.

Terror in training

There’s me at age 8, three days before Halloween. My mom had just brought home a leotard and pink fluffy tutu for me, no doubt hoping I’d dress up as a ballerina. Ha.

Two hours after this picture was taken, I doused myself with a half gallon of fake blood, and my Uncle Cyrus whipped up a nifty cardboard creation that when affixed, looked like a hatchet was buried deep in my skull.

I proudly wore my costume to school the next day, the envy of all the miniature ballerinas and cowboys. Then, despair. My teacher ordered me to go to the bathroom, wash the blood off my face, and change into clean clothes, because my costume was 'too scary' and some of the kindergartners were frightened.

Being a happenin’ fourth grader, I was not amendable to being ordered around by some kindergartner. I hid in a bathroom stall and waited for revenge. A few minutes later, the kindergarten class finished lunch and headed toward the bathrooms. At the first sound of tiny feet tapping on the bathroom floor, I leapt out of the stall, clawed the air in front of the little girl, and screamed, "I’m going to kill you!"

Three things happened, simultaneously: The kid screamed, fell down, and peed her pants. I had to stand in the corner and miss recess for punishment. It was so worth it.

I come from a strange and murky lineage, a bloodline full of psychics, mediums, charlatans, fortune tellers, and the stark raving mad. One aunt was even a haruspex, and if you don’t know what that is, you’re lucky.

But I'm getting off track here. This is really a story about my maternal great-grandmother, and what she passed down.

If anything in this world is going to screw you up, it’s your family. It’s sort of their job, in fact. And you can’t get away from it: it’s in the blood. I’ve alluded to my dark and strange family history and the people who fill it here, the fortune tellers and the insane and the cockeyed dreamers.

One of those people is my Great Grandmother Hartley. I barely remember her; to me she is just a faint perfumed shadow sliding by in a swish of seamed pantyhose. She would make rag dolls for me and my little sister, big, floppy things with hideous faces that must’ve been sewn in the dark, or by a demented mind. Dolls that made children cry, and wonder if you ought to burn them before you threw them away.

Great Granny Hartley’s favorite past time in the entire world was attending funerals. Not of people she knew; just any funeral that happened to be in town. She didn’t attend to pay respect, or to ponder the deeper meanings of life and death. For my grandmother, this was first rate entertainment. Every Friday she joyfully set her hair into hundreds of tiny old-lady curls and ironed her second best dress with its print of tiny green flowers in anticipation of the weekend to come. She loved funerals, my granny. She was renown for having a wall full of ‘dead baby’ pictures, the kind people took of their dead infants way back when people did things like that, lying pale and still in a silk coffin. These pictures followed the staircase banister all the way up to the second floor of Granny’s house, and in the deepening summer twilight, their pale, blob-like faces floated eerily in the dark.

One day, Granny Hartley made my sister and I dresses. Unlike the dolls, they were beautiful things: all silk and satin, puckered on the top and coming down to just above the knees in a skirt of pointed pleats. Best of all, they were full of rainbow colors: shimmering white, deep blues, pale lilacs, dreamy greens. They were the most beautiful dresses little girls could wish for.

Then we found out what she made them of. Funeral ribbons. The kinds that adorn the giant frothy displays--and small bouquets--of flowers offered in sympathy, laid on graves and tilted against coffins during viewings. My granny had collected those ribbons for years, resulting in these masterpieces of dresses. My sister refused to wear hers when she found out, terrified that the dead people would come after her and seek revenge for the stolen ribbons. I just twirled and twirled in the sunlight, admiring the way my skirt flared out, the light shooting ribbons of gold through my gruesome finery.

How did that shape me into what I am today, I can’t help but wonder. Family will get you, all right. It’s in the blood.

So now it's your turn: Why are YOU so weird?

posted by Rhys at 1:36 AM | Permalink | 18 shooting the breeze
I'll Be Back!
Yes, you're right to be scared.

Haven't posted or read blogs in so crap interfering. Looking forward to getting back into it.
posted by Rhys at 12:58 AM | Permalink | 0 shooting the breeze