You may not know this about me, but I can be kind of a dick.
Keep that in mind if you decide to email me promises of wealth beyond my imagination, supplied by the overthrown Prince of a war-ravaged country or by Nigerian/Sudanese/Ugandan dissidents. You may not like how the conversation goes.
If anyone what “foufoff” means, please let me know.
Two years. Seven months. Fifteen days.
That’s how long it’s been since I’ve posted anything on what used to be my favorite place in the world. Life has a funny way of pulling your attention elsewhere, whether you like it or not.
What I didn’t know before I began writing was that life has always had its own plan for me. That plan is to be what I call “Keeper of the Pain.” Everyone’s pain. I have been destined to hold everyone together while they fall apart, my own wants and needs be damned. I tempted fate when I stepped away from that role to indulge in something for myself- my writing. I looked away for what felt like a moment and when I looked back, my life was in flames.
It has taken me two years, seven months and fifteen days to gain control of that fire, but it is far from extinguished. My role as Keeper of the Pain burns on.
The struggle I face is incorporating my own wants, needs and pain into the firestorm of problems that I deal with daily. This blog, I hope, will become a firestop- a small, controlled burn to keep the larger fires from raging out of control, consuming me once more.
I hope to light a fire of my own.
I’ve observed a shift within the women’s rights movement over the past few years that I can no longer ignore or endure- a shift that to the naked eye presents as female empowerment but in reality is the rampant emotional and spiritual emasculation of men.
Somewhere during their very noble and necessary journey out of the kitchen, some women have lost their way. More accurately, they’ve taken a step too far.
Much the way a group of zealots do a disservice to the rest of their religions’ genuinely faithful followers, these toxic harpies besmirch the good name of women everywhere with their attempts to pass emasculation off as a philosophical justification for their bad behavior.
For these women, the line between true empowerment and domination has been blurred and I, like all good Americans, blame television. More specifically, I blame Kurt Sutter.
Before you accuse me of skipping my Adderall, let me explain. (more…)
Here’s the concept (shamelessly stolen from Rants’ Blog): A weekly picture is posted, and the writer is challenged to produce one-hundred (more or less) words of some sort of fiction with a complete plot (beginning, middle and end). I’m calling out my girl Megan to give this one a try. Now, on with the frivolities!
THE THIRD WISH
Bob Geldof caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass and realized he was Gary Oldman. Or was he Ewan Mcgregor? No matter. His first two wishes; a London flat and cash to go with it were executed perfectly. He didn’t mind the Leprechaun taking license with the third. There were many handsome Brits to choose from as a model for his new body. He had been lonely long enough.
Girlish giggles preceded the knock on the door and he rushed to answer shouting, “Just a minute.” The sound of Annie Lennox’s voice leaving his throat stopped him cold.
Everyone has a childhood story about an actor, musician or random celebrity who they knew before they were famous. I, for one, stole Rachel Ray’s boyfriend back in the day when I was hot enough to pull that kind of thing off. But I digress.
Today’s actors, writers and directors of up-and-coming Petrichor Cinema are definitely a group of wunderkinds to watch. More than just a cinematic garage band, this junior team of talented actors and filmmakers bring a fresh slant to indie film comedy. (more…)
On the heels of the ass-whooping the New England Patriots gave the Chicago Bears last Sunday, I’ve decided to rerun a post that should do a good job of summing up my present state of misery as a former Pats fan:
Picture the scene:
It’s February 2012 and yours truly is glued to the television, elbows deep in clam chowda, an ice cold rack a pounders within reach. The iconic opening of O Fortuna pours out of the speakers and my heart begins to pound in anticipation. I move closer to the screen just as the un-mistakeable sound of Ozzy screaming, “ALL ABOARD!” heralds the moment I’ve been waiting for– the moment my beloved New England Patriots take the field for SuperBowl XLVI. (more…)