Celebrity Deaths

I rearranged things that hang on my wall, but it still doesn’t look just right.  Or right at all.  I don’t know, maybe I need new stuff to put up.  

This weekend I spend most of the time on my futon, tapping away at keys, drinking PBR and watching True Blood on DVD.  I swept the kitchen and made rolled tacos.  I walked the dog and we fucked on the couch.  Not me and the dog, me and the boyfriend.  Not that I would reject Gordon if he ever made a pass.  

Friday night the whole production team for the short film came over and we did table readings in my dining room.  I made salsa and Sangria and Comedy Girl and I stood in the kitchen for an hour and talked about the state of feminism and the book, Cunt.  We talked about the stress that comes with having straight female friends, and how ironic it is that the girls who helped her put together her feminist oriented comedy show have now pulled out, calling her a "tyrant" and formed their own comedy show titled, "femocracy."  The whole thing is ironic and generally fucking shitty.  We talked about sea sponges and making a sculpture out of discarded tampon applicators and it was fucking refreshing to talk to another female who was on the same page with me about all that jazz, not assuming I’m "uppity" or just can’t "let things go." 

The night went well.  I watched the Tech Guy and his friend set up the boom pole and recorder and stuff I don’t understand but it looks professional.  Everyone drank way more than expected, and it was fun times reading lines and talking shit and messing with audio equipment and sound pitches and making script notes.  None of us are experienced professionals but it makes you feel somewhat accomplished and hip and shit to say things like

"well, we can fix that in post"

It was also sort of neat to hear a script I wrote be read aloud by actors.  Like, oh, hey, I wrote that line and now you’re saying it and trying to figure out what I meant when I was writing it. Cool.  Even cooler is that things seem to be coming together, and there were moments when the script was read perfectly, and it all seemed in synch and I was like

"holy fuck that totally works and we are totally making art or something."

And then I finished my sixth PBR and almost fell down on my way to the bathroom.

Two or three more rehersals, a lock down of the location, and we set a date to shoot it.  BOOYAH!  Is something I might say if I was the type of person to say, "booyah."

Things that happen after which you can exclaim, "BOOYAH!"

When you get in front of someone while merging onto the freeway
when you find an unexpected beer in the back of the fridge
when your pregnancy test appears negative
when I beat you at Scrabble

I havent been writing as much but maybe I’m just busy or maybe I just don’t love you like I used to love you.  Back when we used to cuddle all night and talk about Ashlee Simpson’s nose job and why you can’t love your Dad like your Mom.

If one more celebrity dies this week I think we can all agree that there is a conspiracy involving murderous elephants.

is an example of a sentence that makes no sense.

My floor is dirty again and fuck you for reading this nonsense instead of cleaning your fucking floors.  You know how important that shit is?  Me either.

I enjoy True Blood except for the dripping stereotype of an "angry black women" who is, of course, the best friend to the innocent, virginal blonde.  And the gratuitos objectification of the female body.  Yet, it all fairness, the show seems to gladly objectify the male body as well, which is a nice change.  and the boyfriend says

"it’s pulp. it’s supposed to be over sexualized."

and he’s right, I know, but I notice collective things that are involved in mainstream TV that are so OBVIOUS to me and sometimes I can’t just, you know, like, enjoy shit.  Unless I’m on my seventh Tacate.  Which I am.

when MJ died all the people in the office emerged from their cubicles, "oh my god! michael Jackson died!"

except for myself and Fanboy, journalism nerds, who hold tight to

"not until AP confirms it."

Farrah Fawcett died of  "anal cancer."  I’d make a joke but some might call that

TOO SOON

Ah, though, with death there is rebirth right?  Or something.  Yes, something like that.  Something similar to the theme of that show Touched By an Angel  with that fat bitch who was in Designing Women.  Or maybe not, I really don’t know.  What I do know is that right now we’re creating a production team while celebrities are dying,  art when MJ was going into cardiac arrest, ideas when Fawcett was making that show about how much of a fighter she is instead of, I don’t know, resting.

I’m too sef involved to mourn over MJ, even though I used to roller skate in the garage to his Dangerous album.  I’m moving on, just like they did.