Down & Dirty Design – Horror Movie Guest Blog, Bitches

I wanted to have a Halloween Movie guest blogger and who better to poach than family.

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I am the little sister of the talented writer here you all call Jules. I have my four year degree in English Lit, and sadly, my sister trumps my writing every time. I blame it on genes.

When I am not questioning the validity of the above, I work on my new house with my boyfriend in Montana. If curiosity is getting the best of you, head over to my blog Down and Dirty Design. Because everything I do is neither neat nor thought through.

When my sister asked me to write about my favorite horror movies for the Halloween season, I was stoked! And confused. There are SO many out there that I love. I am not the type to love any old slasher movie just because it has blood and guts in it, it has to have a good plot, great cinematography and/or just pull me in.

With that said, I will try to keep this short and sweet (too late).
Here are my top 5 favorite horror movies.

Poltergeist
What happens when you & your sister watch Poltergeist when you are just 12?
You have nightmares the rest of your life.
(*Disclaimer: watching such a scary movie so young is not a reflection of our parents; we were just tricky. Speciesand Cocktail also fit into this category of us sneaking “adult” movies into our repertoire). For me, this movie set a precedent for all scary movies to follow.

I am not going to go into detail regarding this movie or plot. To tell you the honest truth, I have not seen this movie in years, up until last night. When I re-watched this, was I terrified? Heck no. I actually thought some parts were funny and a bit cheesy. But put together a decent plot, great acting (in my opinion I love the mother’s character, played by JoBeth Williams), and some wonderful cinematography and you’ve got yourself a pretty good film.

I think the bread and butter of the film lies in how the poltergeist of this family’s home comes to fruition: through the television set. This is an item that almost every American family has in their homes. So to make such a household item into a vehicle for a spirit that is after your youngest child is absolutely horrifying.

The Descent
One.of.my.favs.
This is not a classic, it is a modern horror movie, but one that deserves some damn recognition.
A group of lady friends go cave diving (I am sure there is a better term for this, but I am too lazy to look it up. You’re welcome), however one friend leads them astray to a new cave group not yet discovered. But there is more lurking down there than what meets the eye…

With The Descent, not only do we have vomit-inducing scenes of heights, claustrophobia and bats but we have little a-hole creatures that are out to eat whatever they can.
They cannot see (thanks evolution!) and rely on sound only.
The women must battle these strange creatures, all while looking for a way out from underneath the groundpeople. You heard me.

The most memorable scene:
When the main character battles the Matriarch of these bastards, in a pool of blood.

You have already seen this photo in Jules’ post; it’s quite memorable.

If you haven’t seen this yet, do it now.

Martyrs
Never in my life has a movie affected me so much. After watching this, I thought about it for DAYS. This movie crawls inside your head, grabs hold of you, and slaps you around a bit. And then you are left with a WTF sensation. It is ah-mazing.

The plot you ask? Hmmm. This is a tough one, that I cannot even describe. It is not a run of the mill slasher horror movie (although it starts as so), but it is one of the finest horror movies and movies in general that I have ever seen. The French got it right this time (oh yeah, there are subtitles. Get your glasses ready!)

Halloween
This movie is an absolute classic. Man in a mask killing innocent people? Check. Set on Halloween? Check. Out to get the girl? Check. She is babysitting?!?! CHECK.
This movie terrified me and made me never want to babysit again (but, let’s be honest, I have never really liked to babysit anyway).

This was Jamie Lee Curtis’ (Curtis’s) breakthrough role.
And the music alone is enough to make you shart your pants.

The Exorcism of Emily Rose
When this movie first came out I refused to see it. I thought it was just another “dumb exorcism movie,” however after hearing it was one of my cousin’s favorites, I thought I just had to take a gander.

The plot is wonderful (and based on a true story). Acting is excellent as well (with Laura Linney & Tom Wilkinson). But what I love the most is how the story is put together; not to give too much away…the plot revolves around a trial with Tom Wilkinson’s character, whom is a priest, and throughout this trial we get flashes of the past. But the past also manifests itself into the current lives of the main characters, which builds suspense like no other.

This is just a fantastic movie all around and you will definitely be glued to the screen.

Well, I hope I made your evening a little less boring…thanks for having me!

Chrissy

Horror Movie Countdown

I pride myself on being a decent horror movie watcher. I want to present my top faves to the masses in the hopes that I can spread the gore.

This was a hard one. I took everything into consideration to narrow it down to just five. There are so many horror movies that have that ONE SCENE that makes the movie, but no. This won’t work here. So taking into account the puke factor and the chills and the fact that it’s a “good” movie, I finally, after much teeth-gnashing, narrowed it down to the Top 5 Horror Movies that will forever haunt my crazed psyche. That’s it. That’s the litmus test.

Inside

A French horror movie that realizes the worse scenario. You’re pregnant. You’re home alone. And someone wants your bebe. But it’s fucking French, people. So that means Paris Hilton’s not starring in it. You got real actors. The French’ll kill you. Pregnant or not. After about 20 minutes in I really wanted to kiss the villain just because she’s so bad-ass with the whole scissor-wielding-thing.

Yeah. This.

I watched this on a dreary day. The husband was out of town and I screamed. I screamed loud. The cats fled. I practically went into labor but then I realized I had just pooped myself.

 

Martyrs

“Let’s stare off into space and no one will notice the blood.”

When I watch this movie I literally want to take a Brillo pad to my skin. I’m not kidding; I want to scrape and scrub. After finishing, I sat for a good ten minutes feeling disgusted. Shamed. Paralyzed. I took in what I had just watched. But this movie is more than gore. It starts as your typical slasher flick and then brews into some sort of shocking esoteric philosophy. The ending still hurts.

This is pretty much how I spend every Saturday night.

The Descent

This movie is fantastic. It has an actual story line  developing characters, taking about 30 minutes to build suspense. It’s got a nifty female-centered plot, friendship, and all that jazz.  It could be a horror movie for the whole spelunking aspect alone. Tight spaces and panic mode make a fun little combo. But then, drop in sightless creatures and buckets of blood that even Carrie would be jealous of, and you’ve got a damn good movie.

“Nothing to see here. Just move along…”

Halloween

One slight change to the tagline and then entire premise would have been much messier.

This is a classic and it’s wonderfully done. Honest but damn good thrills. I remember actually watching the real movie, one rented from a Blockbuster, not the one that plays on AMC, and being amazed at how good it was. How much wasn’t cut. The music is the star.

High Tension

Another French flick to make my Top 5. Let me set up this scenario. Two minutes into the movie there’s a shot of a truck. It’s rocking. Slightly, swaying back and forth.

Cue my sister: “Watch, whoever is in there is probably skull-fucking something.”

Cut to: inside of the truck.

Yup.

She was right. Without ever seeing this movie SHE WAS RIGHT. And I was afraid for my life. My sister, the horror movie prophetess, everyone.

The gore, the twist, the French-ness, all blow my mind.

Kinda like this.

5 Runners-Up: Brief Explanations a-la-Twitter (shameless, because I just really can’t narrow down)

The Exorcist: Dear god. The soundtrack. The pea soup. The exorcism.

Loved Ones: Torture porn with a sense of humor. Yes, please. My cousin introduced me to this movie, so blame her.

Human Centipede:  Mouth-to-ass. Enough said.

Cannibal Holocaust: I puked in my mouth a little. I felt dirty. I can’t in good conscience recommend it but it wounded my psyche a little bit. This isn’t a good movie but I had to mention it if you want the disturbed factor.

The Ring: I’ll never get the girl crawling out of the TV out of my head.

What picks make your top list? There’s a little horror aficionado in all of us.

Jules Just Likes: American Horror Story

In the spirit of Halloween and all things horrifying…

In about two weeks, the best thing to ever hit TV screens (and I’m not talking about the Drew Peterson story) will be back: American Horror Story: Asylum. If you haven’t seen this show on FX and are a fan of horror, mental institutions, Jessica Lange or all of the above, you gotta make a date with your remote control (please no inappropriate touching) and tune in. Fashioned by the super cool Ryan Murphy of Nip/Tuck fame (Glee be damned), it’s a genius creation.

I love this show for a few reasons. One, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. Each new season – instead of a continuation – is a revamp. It’s a standalone season, with some of the cast staying on, but playing different characters in a completely different location/era. This season involves aliens, mental institutions, nuns and lobotomies. Many things I’m familiar with. Or would like to be. Hellooooo, Adam Levine…

Just please don’t sing to me.

Secondly, this show is terrifying. For real real. Compared to some cheesy horror movies released these days, this is a feat in awesome. I like to enjoy this show late at night. Typically my horror movie MO is watching it pantsless, glass of wine in my hand, scream in my throat. And then when all those combine it’s just a mess. No, literally. A sopping mess of wine on my lap. Thank god I wasn’t wearing pants.

Check out this trailer. 

Third, Jessica Lange. She is a force to be reckoned with. I wouldn’t screw with her. She’ll lock you in a closet and try to steal your unborn child a la season one. When she won the Emmy, I fist pumped and screamed the scream no one should hear.

My son’s a rapist AND a murderer? Why, how droll…

I’m very excited about this second season. Especially since it involves a mental institution. Please don’t ask.

For an extra shot of terror (kinda like your extra shot of espresso at Starbucks) tune into FX on October 17^th and catch the premiere of Season Two. Only your nightmares will make you regret it.

Fun with Stephen King

No one can give me a good ol’ crotch-tingling like Stephen King.

“I laugh because I’m amazing.”

Oh wait. I’ve just been alerted it’s called a “spine-tingling”. Well, that definitely explains a lot. My apologies. Although, “crotch-tingler” is definitely more fun to say.

And get.

I like to imagine Samantha Jones saying this.

In honor of spooky-horror-season I wanted to pay a little homage to one of my favorite horror writers.

Yes, you all know I have a love affair with Stephen King. I’ll admit it. I’m kinda amazed by him. The reason for this is something Fox Mulder would appreciate.

X-File references will not be denied.

 

He makes you believe. And he makes you believe without question. The first book I read of his was The Stand and throughout the entire book there was no polite pondering of, “Huh, this seems unlikely to happen…” from me.

Although in real life it’d be something vulgar like, “What the fuck, yo?”

All his stories contain the unthinkable, the odd, the creepy, and I’ve never once scoffed. Like the little girl taking candy from that unusual clown down the street, I’m accepting and grateful with a teeny bit of terrified tossed in.  I believe without question.

Cell phones turning people into zombies? Shit yeah. A gypsy and cursed pies? Hells yes. In fact, break me off a piece of that throbbing pie. I’ll eat it. A town trapped under a dome? Well, we’ve all seen The Simpsons move. And since The Simpsons deem it so…

He makes the unthinkable real. Brings it to an acceptable level. That’s an admirable trait.

The question is how he does this.

Lucky for you, I have a semi-cogent answer (drinking doesn’t start until 3pm).

What he does that brings out the horror is incorporating real world things. Life. His stories are in the here-and-now. Wikipedia, Google, Rob Lowe (speaking of throbbing), have all got mentions in his stories. Sure a lot of authors do this…but this real stuff combined with the unreal fixes itself in a kind of this-could-be state in your mind. And then you shit your pants.

You’re welcome.

Another thing this author does to me that no one has ever done…

 

Pervs.

…is make me cry tears of fear. I’m not kidding. I’m for real-real. You ever been that scared? The scared where your eyes widen, letting in more light, where you sit frozen, reading, a tear slips from your eye and then all of a sudden your husband has to change the sheets.

No?

Well, I’ve been there. Minus the bed-wetting part, because that’s so very 1982 of me.

 

And by “1982” I really mean 2012.

 

Take for example this quote from my most recent King read, 11/22/63. The quote is referring to the fictional town of Derry, Maine…that is quite literally alive.

“…but I can tell you one more thing: there was something inside that fallen chimney at the Kitchener Ironworks. I don’t know what and I don’t want to know, but at the mouth of the thing I saw a heap of gnawed bones and a tiny chewed collar with a bell on it. A collar that had surely belong to some child’s beloved kitten. And from inside the pipe—deep in that oversized bore—something moved and shuffled.

Come in and see, that something seemed to whisper in my head. Never mind all the rest Jake—come in and see. Come in and visit. Time doesn’t matter in here; in here, time just floats away…”

I just pooped my pants.

The claw marks signal sweet desperation.

This town is FICTIONAL, people. But it’s still creepy. Creepy like that one time you saw your dad wearing mommy’s makeup. This place guts you raw. He’s done something with that town that stays with you.

THIS KIND OF SOMETHING.

King is damn good. I admire him for his skill, his craft, and his ability to make me cry into couch cushions. C’mon, they don’t call me a pillow biter for nothing.

Now reading is all subjective. King isn’t the only horror genre writer out there – Lovecraft, Poe, even Gaiman – but I’ll admit, I’m stuck with my man. I like my King; so help me out people. Who is your favorite scary writer? This Halloween, turn me on to some new ones.

And by on, I mean Samantha-Jones-on.

Just kidding, I really want recommendations.

A Halloween Story

The below little ditty is a Halloween blast from the past. I’m re-posting because it’s one of my most treasured Halloween memories narrated by my cousin. Plus, it’s damn hilarious and we all need some “adult cider” in our thermos this time of year.

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A Halloween Story

by Katherine LaCroix

Celebrating Halloween in Montana is a tricky thing.  No matter how cold it gets, kids will always find a way to drag their parents away from their cozy fireplaces and into the bitter snow for nothing more than teeth-rotting candy.  The more resourceful and responsible parents coerce their little ones into choosing a costume bulky enough to facilitate a snowsuit, or, at the very least, long underwear.  The other, dare I say, less conscientious parents, on the other hand, gladly allow their children to select their costumes willy-nilly, and wait until Halloween night to crush the kids’ visions of the perfect getup by requiring a parka and mittens before leaving the house.  (This restriction, I have grown to believe, is partly responsible for the recent trend of slutty-girl costumes.  Those women aren’t whores, they’re just rebelling against their parents and that miserable long underwear that ruined their Little Mermaid costumes in first grade.)

My freakishly crafty mother typically forced me to choose a costume in September, as she required a good month to sew together a fabulously intricate costume for me to flaunt, making her the town Super Mom.  She still scoffs at her shoddy handiwork when she comes across photos of that Halloween when I was four, dressed as a bunny, with one ear that didn’t stand up quite right.  One fateful year, Mom had too much on her plate, and the task of constructing my costume fell to Dad.  After wandering the garage and collecting an old box, a half-empty can of silver spray paint, and some extra dryer vent hose, Dad declared I was to be a robot. It was a great idea, Mom said, urging me to agree, knowing the box left room for a snowsuit.

Halloween night (or eve, if you want to be spooky about it) began that year by visiting the grandparents for photos with the cousins.  Grandma and grandpa live in what you would call a more urban area of Montana, where the houses are close together and connected by sidewalks, making it prime trick-or-treating ground.  Our crew took off down the street like a pack of ravenous wolves, frenzied by the scent of sugar.  We ran from house to house, ringing doorbell after doorbell, bouncing with the youthful enthusiasm that seemed to scream, “Shut up and hand over the candy, we got a pace to keep!”

I’m sorry. That last bit was a mistake. My brother and cousins may have torn down the road like Thoroughbreds right out of the gate, but if that’s the simile we’re going to use, I would have been the retarded Clydesdale with a lame hoof.  My adorable robot costume permitted only a limited range of motion, making it difficult to bend at the knees, and nearly impossible at the waist.  Climbing porch steps was a feat in itself, especially with my clan rushing past me, back down the stairs and onto the next house.  As I clambered down the sidewalk, my plastic candy bucket in tow, I kept shouting, “Hey, wait up guys!” It was to no avail.

Our next stop was my family’s neighborhood in a more rural part of town.  Houses sat about a quarter acre apart on a dirt road with no sidewalks, allowing for great expanses of darkness between homes.  Being an unusually warm Halloween that year, our crew was free to race across peoples’ lawns without the threat of waist-deep snow.  As I longingly watched my brother and cousins dart from door to door, I waddled along at top speed alone and frustrated.  Determined to catch up, I cut across an incredibly dark span of yard, eyeing a porch light in the distance.  Suddenly, I caught the toe of my hiking boot on a semi-overgrown sprinkler head and plunged face first into the grass. I tried squirming and bending, attempting to adjust my robot box enough to stand up. No luck. I was like a fallen T-Rex, trying to use its tiny, useless arms in a futile attempt to roll over. Next, I hollered and called to my brethren, realizing that by that time, they were already at least two houses up the road.  Finally, I gave flailing a shot, thinking someone might just see me and come to my rescue. Again, nothing.  I went limp, sobbing to myself over all the candy I would miss out on that night.

Like I said, Halloween in Montana can be freaking chilly.  Parents know this, and they have managed to work out a trick-or-treating system that is both safe for the kids and comfortable for them.  That year, Dad and Uncle remained in the toasty-warm truck, drinking their “adult cider” from an old Thermos no doubt, and crawling along in first gear while keeping an eye on us kids by the beam of the headlights. Several minutes after my tumble, Dad’s familiar green Ford crept down the street behind me.  I can only imagine my father’s horror upon realizing the peculiar grey box in some stranger’s side yard was actually his daughter, face down and looking quite lifeless.  He dashed up to my rumpled robot form, insisted that I was okay, and snatched me up by the armpits.  Wiping my tears and most of my face paint away, I scrambled to collect my scattered candy.  Across the way, my gang came trotting up to the truck, satisfied with their night of pillaging and prepared to take on the next block.  Seeing a lapse in their focus, I dashed straight-legged for the street corner, screeching something about being first to all the candy.

A Halloween Love Affair

The horror! The horror!

—Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness

Tomorrow’s October. And October brings with it a few of my favorite things.

• Fall in AZ
• My Birthday (because I get cake)
• HALLO-FUCKING-WEEN

 

CAPS LOCK in that last bullet has a very good reason. I love Halloween. I love horror. Every year, around the first of October my blood lust begins to kick in. I faithfully tune into Bravo’s 100 Scariest Movie Moments Countdown even though I’ve seen it just under a baker’s dozen. It’s my biological clock. I crave horror. I want to sit on the couch for hours and watch gore.  All types of horror flicks get me going – psychological, aliens, slasher. Sometimes I just have the hankering for a good ol’ fashioned disemboweling.

Small or large intestine. Your choice.

The thrill of terror is something I must have, especially in October. Watching a horror movie when I’m home alone is something I don’t even balk at.

I’m not sure where my love of horror came from. It was probably bred and nurtured when my mom locked me in the closet every night and made me rearrange the heads on Barbie Dolls. I called Ken “daddy”.

Kidding.

I think it was – and I’m gonna brag a bit – because I really didn’t have a lot of boundaries as a kid. My sister, my cousin and I would rent movies with no parental consent whatsoever. Hey, 1990, you rocked. Cashier, scanning up that R-rated movie for a bunch of 12-year-olds, you are what makes America proud. Keep doin’ what you do.

I still remember popping in the Silent Night, Deadly Night VHS and sitting terrified but managing to finish the whole movie.

They…they get presents right?

14-years-old, watching Species with your dad and five of his work buddies, no biggie right?

Well, nothing awkward about this.

The auto erotic strangulation scene in B-movie Devil Fish was one of the highlights of my youth.

The movie that made Jaws weep.

My cousin and I called placed bets on who we thought were the serial killers in our neighborhood.

Serial killer if I’ve ever seen one.

So yeah. Let’s get off my freakish childhood tangent before everyone starts to wonder even more about my childhood years (The Library, Candlestick, Mrs. White, but get off my back, OKAY?).  Everything horror is always welcome. But it’s not just the movies that make Halloween. I love decorating my house.

I can lease this for $20 a month.

The “fallish” food goodies.

He was cursed shortly after stealing the Zombie Brain Cupcake.

The costumes. And though I’d love to show off my freshly shaved legs once a year, I don’t go for the typical girly outfits. I like a little sportier. Typically, my costumes must include at least one of the following: cigarettes, alcohol and blood of the fake variety. Combine all three of those and it’s just a regular Saturday night at my place.

 

This is bat country, bitches.

I regressed to a previous life.

The mental institution was kind to me.

In fact, I love Halloween so much, I often fantasize that should these flopping ovaries ever conceive a child, I’ll give birth on Halloween. I’ll be at some sort of super awesome party, dancing to the Monster Mash when my water will break. Then it will be glorious chaos thanks to the full moon and I’ll be wheeled into the hospital wearing some sort of large costume ensemble, I’m picturing maybe a pregnant nun or a maybe I’ll be a clown with floppy red shoes and I’ll end up making the doctor wear my clown nose while he delivers my baby.

But I haven’t put much thought into this scenario or anything.

So break out the apple cider and ready the machete because on this here blog we’re going to celebrate Halloween. Celebrate the weird. The gore. The movies. Some writing stuff, I guess.

Oh yes, a Halloween Blog spectacular shall be had.

Just make sure you bring your rape whistle.

Two Concerts. Rock Hard Appreciation.

Last week, I experienced two amazing concerts within days of each other. Fiona “Mary Jane Baked” Apple and Amanda Fucking Palmer. Two very different and not-so different musicians/writers/women. Let’s start with…

 

Fiona Apple

Album: The Idler Wheel Is Wiser Than the Driver of the Screw and Whipping Cords Will Serve You More Than Ropes Will Ever Do

My Song of the Moment: Hot Knife

 Dear god. I want the woman’s arms. Lean, ripped, and ready to rip throats.

CAN I HAZ?

I saw Fiona Apple at the Ikeda Theatre in Mesa. A great venue full of wine and elderly lady ushers with razor sharp fingernails. It was a grand night.

Some observations: Apple is a true, true musician. She’s a proper artist. I like to imagine Ms. Apple drinking gin, sitting sullen in her studio, pouring her heart and soul onto a pad of paper. Or maybe she just belts out a tune. I don’t know; do I look like a mind reader, people? Compared to her, I’m some sort of hack. Drinking cheap, terrible wine as I harass people on Twitter with one hand, while slopping down some sort of cogent words with the other. HERP DERP PURPLE?

This is how a pen works, right?

But seriously. She is a work of art. She feels her words. Listening to her music on CD, sure, I get the lyrics. I hear her pain. Yet, in person…eavesdropping on her velvety, angry voice, seemed almost intrusive. It was so personal, I felt like I should have bought her dinner afterwards; maybe tossed in a handy or something.

And the other thing –the audience can go take a flying leap. She wasn’t there to talk to us. We were the voyeurs. She danced and gyrated and lived in her magical brain. For one night, I wanted to be her. I wanted those crazies. Oh, god, what I could do with those.

I could dance like this is what.

Or this.

It was surreal seeing this concert. Watching it with a best friend since childhood, both of us loving Fiona, and now seeing her in our 30’s…I kinda wept (also out of depression that I’m nearly 30). And my friend and I both agreed: Fiona doesn’t live for her audience. In my opinion, we’re just something her genius has to suffer through. She barely tossed us a grunt until the end when she uttered something vaguely resembling this:

Fiona Apple: “I only have two things to say, Phoenix. One – You know, I always thought you got paid when you contributed a song to a movie soundtrack. But fuck the labels! They screw you out of your paycheck. Two – For all those small titted women out there who hate padded bras, you know what I do with my bra pads? Yeah. I tape them to the tips of my shoes. Ok. Got that? Now here’s my last song, bitches.”

And yep. Last song. Done. No one even attempted to clap for an encore. Because she’s Fiona Apple and fuck you that’s why.

 

Amanda Palmer

Album: Theatre is Evil

My Song of the Moment: Lost

Then, on the opposite wavelength is the gift that is Amanda Palmer. Can you tell I have a huge lady boner right now?

Chalkboards get me so hot.

This too.

First of all, let’s not even talk about how she is a fan’s dream, a marketing wonder and an incredible performer. She left her label. Started a Kickstarter project and made 1.2 million dollars to fund her record and tour. Watch this video and tell me this isn’t genius.

She interacts on twitter with her 677K followers (I’ve been retweeted, woot!). She networks with fans – asking musicians in each city to play in the band (don’t even get me started on the controversy because I’m on her side).

She’s good at it. She’s honest about it. Hell, she’s married to Neil Gaiman. Double the lady boner, m’dears.

She loves her fans. And they love her. We’re human and she’s awesome. We all feed on the instant gratification and bonding that is Amanda Palmer.

Having no one to attend this concert with (Crazy, right?!) I bribed a friend with beer and wonderful company to attend.

She’s forcing this smile so hard right now.

 

Just kidding – I actually threatened her at knife point, but that’s another story for my prison monologues.

I shall call it “Porcelain Magic”.

The Crescent Ballroom in Phoenix was pretty awesome. Intimate. Fun. It was a place I’ll definitively catch a musical act at again.

I like to take camera shots while on the toilet.

And despite the fact that this concert didn’t end well (I had crippling stomach pains and had to leave in the middle of “Trout Heart Replica”) it was still wonderful.

Amanda Palmer introduced personally each opening act. She interacted, tweeted, hid in the balcony, and played a set where she ran through the crowd, chasing her guitarist. She trusts her fans. No one mauled her. We were polite.

“Touch me and this mic goes up your ass.”

Concerts make me tear up. Honest. I only go to concerts where I feel passion for the musician. I love the feeling of camaraderie and intimacy that goes on. The Crescent Ballroom was such a place. Amanda Palmer was the act. Despite so many different people – I saw a drag queen, a woman wearing something resembling a Renaissance costume, a 60 year-old man, and me in my sultry Target flip flops and Wonder Woman cuff  – everyone could have sang Kumbaya and packed a bong together. We were all there together.

People were kind. People were friendly. The woman behind me, wearing super shiny red glittery eye shadow, complimented the fact that I had memorized all of the lyrics (I KNOW RIGHT? SWOON). She wanted to dance. And believe me, I’m a dancer. But on this night. I was sick. God damn, it pains me so. And when I was doubled over, she touched my back and offered me her water. Kindness of strangers. I want to find her and thank her because that made my night. And maybe I’m a sap that it makes me all warm and fuzzy inside but WHY CAN’T THE WORLD ALWAYS BE LIKE THIS?

Anyway.

Dimming the lights, Amanda read from something called “The Box”, where before the show they asked anyone who wanted to drop in their most personal secrets. Sure we got things like, “My dog watched me masturbating” and “I like to poop alot.” I swear the last one wasn’t mine.

But then we also got these:

“My mother choked me when I was 14.”

“I almost gave up my unborn daughter because he asked me to. I didn’t. I gave him up.”

“It took almost killing myself to completely feel loneliness.”

Well, hell.

Yeah. Behind me the woman was sobbing and I was tearing up too.

It really was a beautiful night. Except for the unglamorous gassy cramps. I blame it on the PBR.

In the end, it was two different musicians. Two great experiences. At Fiona Apple, I felt such awe and wonder and envy at this singer/songwriter…at Amanda Palmer, I felt peace and kindness and love.  I appreciate their music and I appreciate these great women for making me want to become a better writer and artist.

 

Write Angry. Slash Tires. I’m An Experienced Woman.

 Until recently, I’ve been a no-means-no type of person.

Well, except when it comes to cake. Or wine. Or when it comes to trapping cats in laundry baskets because, c’mon, that shit’s just hilarious.

Admit it. You laughed.

But back to the no.

 Now, I don’t want to give you the wrong impression that BY GOD THESE PLANS MUST NOT BE RUINED. It’s just that I hate having plans. I’d rather wing my free days. I hate commitment. I hate wearing pants. I hate exhausting the energy to plan stuff…and move around in some sort of movement-thingy-motion. I’d rather lie on my office floor and let that cat lick my eyelids. That’s a lot more fun than picking out window treatments.

[side note: when you’re choosing blinds and  staring at window selections named “fudge truffle” and “tranquil tea” you’ll very soon want to strangle yourself with the pull-cord.]

I do like a set schedule. I like to come home during the week and do my thing. I like free weekends. And I realize I’m contradicting myself. But weekdays are for the ordinary and weekends are for me. That’s an apt summary. Now…this brings us to the writing bit. Sundays are my day to write. Try to ruin my carefully laid writing plans and I’ll cut you. This is one thing I stick to faithfully (not the cutting thing but the writing thing). I’ll cancel your birthday before I give up my writing day.

But not really. You have cake.

Okay, so now we get to the part where I become a better person or AKA: My point.

Lately, I’ve been trying to see things in a new light. If I have to do something or an opportunity creates itself, instead of moaning and whining, I’ll take it. For example, I’m not a fan of travelling for work. Sure, it’s fine. But I get homesick; I miss my husband and my cats and my writing schedule. But I can do it. And I do. When I’m there I rock it. 

Like this. I rock it like this.

I use my travel to write disgusting blog posts. Travel’s the best part about all of this. Absorbing the atmosphere, learning the language, meeting new people. Whenever I travel I look at it as sweet, delicious knowledge.

Yet life isn’t always about travelling and sweet, sweet blow up penises. I’m a brave person but sometimes situations or persons I’m not familiar with can sometimes make me uncomfortable. Such is life. Bad stuff has happened. It happens to everyone. For myself, being able to think about it, take a step back, and put it to good use, makes me feel better about it, makes me feel in control. I can turn it into something positive.

For example, last week, I was followed to my car in broad daylight by a possibly shady character. I got courage of the not-liquid-but-I’ll-kick-your-ass-variety and warded it off, whatever it could have been.  Nothing happened. But you know what they say about possibilities.

Anyway. The thing I took away from it was that I was angry. And that it scared me. Yet becasuse of that now I know a true physical and emotional reaction of a scary and hopefully isolated scenario.  Did I want it to happen? No. And sure, I could write about this scenario without experiencing it but it happened. I now have the memory in this synaptic-firing brain. So I use it. I’ll log it away. I’ll pimp the shit out of it when I need to write and relate.

Now I’m not saying go out and slash some tires and get your ass tossed in jail. Although, think of the stories…

We’ll laugh about this later.

I’m just saying, every new/different/odd/(even) bad situation has potential. Use reverse psychology of the writerly variety. We’re voyeurs. We have to observe.

Put together your writer’s toolkit. I truly believe in the write-what you DON’T know notion (because imagination is fucking bliss) BUT experiencing the different and the abnormal can be a good thing too.  The more experiences you have as a writer, the more authenticity you CAN give to your writing. You don’t have to. Hell, I wrote a story about a diver based on pure research and someone asked me if I dived in college. And yet the only diving experience I have is with bars.

My drinking motto lives on.

I never dived in my life. I’m a poser. I LIED. But it worked, suckers. Imagination is a truly wonderful thing.

But so is living.

Lucky you get to choose both.

Sell Me the Moon: Or, My Uterus Doesn’t Make Me a Moron by Ali Trotta

I meet the best people on Twitter. Case in point – my next guest blogger Ali Trotta. I adore her not only because we have wine and coffee and Amanda Palmer in common but because her writing comes from a place of honesty. She writes unafraid and with quirk. Two things that float my boat.

So read on.

~~~

Sell Me the Moon by Ali Trotta

The other day, I went out to buy something. Unfortunately, this endeavor involved several sales people, both of which were condescending. I suspect it was because of my girl parts, and the fact that I didn’t exhibit the proper behavior befitting a lady. In retrospect, the experience is pretty funny, given that the salesman (we’ll call him Bob) immediately asked if I knew anything about the item I was looking for. Gee, sir, no. I don’t know anything. *twirls hair* I just wandered into your establishment by accident. Do you think you might educate me?

Or not. You see, my requirements boiled down to one simple thing: a good price. That’s it. I was there to make a good deal. Now, initial condescension aside, Bob may have lied straight to my face, saying that the price I’d heard about couldn’t be possible. He retrieved a laptop, insisting that I show him where I saw said price. He seemed incredulous when I showed him, on his company’s own website, the price I was talking about. (It was a huge difference from the price offered me, which flew about as well as an ostrich tethered to a tree.) Bob promptly blinked at the screen and went to fetch his manager. 

The manager arrived, smiling kindly with a soft voice. We’ll call him Snake Eyes. He was about as genuine as fool’s gold. You can imagine, if you like, an oiled up, snake-like guy, wearing a vaguely Mr. T gold chain necklace and a smarmy smile – one that would suggest he’d sell his grandmother, if the mood struck. You can always imagine a look of extremely false sincerely, complete with an aw-shucks head shake. Every other sentence began with, “I really respect you…” making it very clear that there was no respect to be anywhere, as he lied straight to my face. 

Suffice to say that there was a lot of back and forth nonsense. It did not yield the price I was prepared to pay, so I shook my head and declined the offer. 

Snake Eyes: Gee, I’m really sorry that we weren’t able to help you. It’s such a shame. Sorry to disappoint you Ms. Trotta, I really am. 

Right. I’m sure that you are, I shook his hand and shrugged. “Shit happens.” 

Snake Eyes blinked, unsure of what to say for about five seconds – five seconds that suggested he wasn’t prepared for my response. I suspect that, given my rather quiet demeanor, I was expected to thank him for trying to help me – like a good, demure girl. I wasn’t supposed to say shit or not throw a Joffrey-style tantrum. Oops, my bad. 

Snake Eyes Well, I…uh, that’s one of my favorite phrases, actually. I really like that. I just didn’t expect you to use it. That’s nice. 

Sure, man. Whatever. I got up to leave. Snake Eyes followed with vague statements about why I really needed to make this deal. Halfway to the door, “Wait, don’t go.” I paused. He fled. I made idle chatter, looking like I did not have a care in the world. He returned, shook my hand, smiled a smile last seen on a serial killer and said, “Congratulations on your [purchase]!” 

I got my price. I sat down with Bob to fill out the paperwork. It was a long process. I bopped along to the radio as I waited, because if there’s music, I’m most likely either singing or dancing. Even in the grocery store. I have no shame, people. NONE. 

At one point, Bob looked at me and said, “For someone who’s buying a new [whatever], you sure don’t look happy.” 

*blinks* What’s this now? First of all, Bob, you don’t know me. You don’t get to make judgments about my level of happiness. As a woman, was I supposed to sing, skip, or do cartwheels? Was I supposed to grin and laugh, like a ninny-headed moron? What, exactly, were you expecting? Because I don’t know. What I DO know is that I was not going to look excited until AFTER signing the paperwork, because I may be a crap poker player, but I know that nothing’s final until AFTER you have a contract. This was completely proven when you brought me something to sign that had the wrong price on it, and I had to send you back to get the one we agreed upon. You, of course, pretended not to notice, “Oh, my apologies. I don’t know how that happened.” Were you expecting me to sign it without reading it? I don’t even know. 

Now, I know that a salesman’s job is to get a customer to pay the most amount of money possible. Maybe everyone was expecting me to throw a fit or cave in, because I’m a girl. Or because I didn’t say a whole lot. I don’t know. I do know that the correct way to bargain is to have a bottom line. It’s not to insult someone or imply that maybe they know nothing about the item they’re trying to purchase. Incidentally, I did overhear two of the women chatting after I walked by (they weren’t salespeople; they were administrative types), and let me tell you – it was SO refreshing to hear them comment on how skinny I am and how when they were my age, they were never that thin. And oh my goodness, look at my hair! Shouldn’t I cut it? Why would a woman grow it that long? (Note: both women had very short haircuts. Hello Judge-y McSnarkster!) 

*blinks again* You can bet your ass I deliberately smiled at them when I walked by again. Largely, with lots of teeth. Because, honey, your envy might be showing, and you can gossip all you like, but that will never make you a nice person. 

Annnnnyway, in the end, the story’s a happy one – because I got what I needed for what I wanted. And all was right in Whoville. However, it was really astounding how such businesses operate – and how some people still pull that sexist bullshit. I may be a girl, but I’m nobody’s definition of female. Don’t let the makeup fool you; I drink moonshine, and I know how to take a sink apart to fix it.

~~~

Ali Trotta: Writer, poet, dreamer, wielder of sarcasm, willing paradox, engaging contradiction, & occasional moment-thief. Slight case of Peter Pan syndrome. Follow her and her coffee obsessions on Twitter @alwayscoffee or read her blog here.

50 Shades of WTF

Lately I’ve been accosted by numerous co-workers trying to entice me into reading the latest crazy “50 Shades of Grey”. They look at me with glazed eyes, talking about some person named Christian as I slowly back away. And no. No, I will not read this book. I will never ever read this book. I will scream this from the rooftops and punch the next person who asks me that in the teeth. I would rather watch a unicorn hump a dolphin.

You haven’t taken a pounding until you take one from a Unicorn.

I have nothing against those who read this book. I don’t wish you ill will but leave me out of it. Taking any rants out of my argument about how it demeans women, it’s still not for me. “But how do you KNOW?” those have wailed at my feet with regards to “50 Shades of Grey”, “How do you really know unless you read?”

Don’t mind me I just read “50 Shades of Grey”.

Oh. Believe me. I know.

1. It’s a fad

I am behind the game, mostly in terms of life and I don’t mind that. I’m the girl who just now discovered the 2012 Pantone color is Tangerine Tango and had no idea what to do with this information as the Sephora sales clerk painted my lips clownish orange.

Getting sucked into a fad pains me. Hard. And I’m not claiming to be a hipster; I’ve just never been with it in terms of pop culture or coolness or fashion sense.

Oh, you mean the camo look isn’t in anymore?

Plus, I really hate getting in on something that everyone is ga-ga for. I don’t like talking to people on a normal basis, what makes you think I want to discuss The Big Bang Theory with you at the water cooler?

I WANT TO BE UNCOMFORTABLY DIFFERENT, DAMN IT.

I just now am reading “Hunger Games”. It took me years to get to “Harry Potter”. I’ll admit, I did read “Twilight”. Hell, sometimes you need a good escape but this is one fad I can’t get into because…

2. Bad writing

I’m not claiming to be a literary scholar. Typically I’m not a snobby reader. Hell, I read the Sweet Valley Confidential and it curled my fucking toes, people. That Francine Pascal is a goddamn goddess. But I read it because it was pure nostalgia. I didn’t read it with a straight face but I liked it.

But this. This.

Twilight was horribly written. Yes, good plot, entertaining as hell, but poorly written. And still do you know how many times people have said to me, a scoff on their face, “But I don’t read “50 Shades” for the romance…”

So, horribly aghast, I ask – THEN WHY? FOR THE LOVE OF GOD…

Why, if not for the romance, then why waste the time? Clearly, it’s not for the prize-winning writing. This book doesn’t have anything else going for it other than kinky sex and glorifying some controlling man who treats his woman like a piece of meat (Ditto to Edward in Twilight). This book was not written for merit and that’s fine, but own that.  Just read it, get hot and bothered while the kids watch TV and have your fun. That’s not wrong. You’re entitled to that; I’d rather read “Justine” by the Marquis de Sade and get a little culture going alongside side my sadistic nature.

Is-Is there even a contest?

Because if there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s…

3. The Romance

THIS is the real reason I will not read “50 Shades” and probably the most valid of them all.

Reading romance or sex scenes turns me into a 5-year-old. “Tee-hee a penis!” I’m not a prude. Sex scenes in movies, yes please. But reading any sort of hot and heavy, fanciful, flowery scenes make me cringe and giggle and blush.

I just don’t dig the genre.

I get all my sex tips from the cat.

Seriously, just reading the excerpts from Jezebel make me want to strangle myself with the cords from my window blinds.  Strangle in the non-kinky way, mind you.

“We will fuck you up hard. And by that we mean we will tangle together until you become really, really pissed off.”

To quote “50 Shades…” “Argh!” I cry as I feel a weird pinching sensation deep inside me as he rips through my virginity.”

Can I – Can I just unread this? Please? This does not turn me on. I’m not the romantic or BDSM or whatever else they’re calling this these days. Look people, I’m the girl who canceled the anniversary gift I got from my husband – a couples massage—because it creeped her out.

I’m the girl who when my husband tells me he ran me a bath I suspiciously ask why.

I’m the girl who skips the romantic scenes in books only to wonder why the main female character is now pregnant five pages later.

How other people approach romance.

I can’t do romance. Maybe I have MaxDuplication  issues. In any case, I’ll save the money and let the TV show American Horror Story diagnose my sorry ass.

I guess, what I’m trying to say is that in the end, I just can’t stomach romance and bad writing when it comes to this book. In less elegant words, I’d rather look at a t-shirt of these pigs fucking.

 

You’re welcome.