#1) Candidates must possess the ability to pull random words out of his or her ass, string them together in a coherent manner, and form works of merit, be it fiction, nonfiction, creative nonfiction, screenplays, scripts, plays or poetry.
#2) Candidates must be inventors of words or phrases, e.g., "Mary clangified the audience with her moving poetry reading."
#3) Candidates must be lacking in all pretense, without fear of appearing foolish.
#4) Candidates must love dictionaries, thesauruses and encyclopedias, and shall prove their obsession to Committee by producing a picture displaying self as a child fondling, sniffing, reading any or all of the above. Candidates may, if they so choose, prove obsession by licking the pages of either Merriam-Webster’s Manual for Writers & Editors or The American Heritage College Dictionary. If candidate climaxes during book-licking, candidate will immediately be promoted to top-tier level membership, thus bypassing subsequent hazing rituals.
#5) Candidates must be able to quote, on demand, at least ten consecutive lines from E.A. Poe’s The Raven.
#6) Candidates shall carry police baton on their person at all times.
#7) Candidates shall use said baton to beat any monkeys caught in a typing pool of over one hundred, and will continue beating monkeys until they are pronounced dead by Club doctor. Candidates are encouraged to use especially brutal and swift blows should they happen upon Paris Hilton.
#8) Candidates will, at the whim of Committee, perform humiliating acts, including but not limited to, reading aloud particularly offensive rejections or reviews to Committee with pants around candidates’ ankles and/or eating pages of fucked-up published work without shedding one tear. If candidate is observed to be crying, gagging or wincing, candidate will immediately be cast into the Dungeon of Shame for a period of, but not exceeding, three days.
#9) Candidates will be required to slap any persons across the face with brown leather glove should candidate be asked this question: “Do you know Stephen King?” If person still persists in asking asshole questions despite stinging slap, questions such as “Have I ever heard of you?” and “Have you published in the New Yorker?” candidate will then use baton to crack person’s face in two.
#10) Candidates will honor all Write Club rules until the day they die. If candidate should betray the Club or stray from the rules at any given time, for any reason whatsoever, including medical disability, candidate will be beaten by candidate’s own baton by an individual of Committee’s choosing. In addition, candidate may, at the discretion of Committee, be banished from Club and forced into a life of self-publishing and for-the-love markets that don't even provide a contributor's copy.
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Friday, January 28, 2005
Thursday, January 27, 2005
At Least My Breath is Minty Fresh...
Ever comment on a message board or blog and realize later that you made an embarrassing grammar or spelling error?
I did such a thing the other day, and no matter how many York Peppermint Patties I’ve consumed in the past three days or so, my shame will not be quashed.
Because there’s nothing that I can do to rectify my hideous show of idiocy, my embarrassing error will exist forever and ever and ever till the day I die.
Christ.
Oh, I suppose I could go on over to my friend’s blog and get all tardacious and things, explain away my glaring stupidity, but that seems so...liphentorphous. Not my style. So what I will do instead is this:
Per se: [adv] With respect to its inherent nature; "this statement is interesting per se"
Also: as such, in and of itself, intrinsically
Per say: [noun] Large rectangular carapace containing miniscule object that could be mistaken for a brain
Also: Ms. Lori’s thick skull
I did such a thing the other day, and no matter how many York Peppermint Patties I’ve consumed in the past three days or so, my shame will not be quashed.
Because there’s nothing that I can do to rectify my hideous show of idiocy, my embarrassing error will exist forever and ever and ever till the day I die.
Christ.
Oh, I suppose I could go on over to my friend’s blog and get all tardacious and things, explain away my glaring stupidity, but that seems so...liphentorphous. Not my style. So what I will do instead is this:
Per se: [adv] With respect to its inherent nature; "this statement is interesting per se"
Also: as such, in and of itself, intrinsically
Per say: [noun] Large rectangular carapace containing miniscule object that could be mistaken for a brain
Also: Ms. Lori’s thick skull
Monday, January 24, 2005
January Makes Me Shiver
My beautiful boy, Brandon Robert Young, a.k.a. Mr. Butler, a.k.a Chicken Pee,, a.k.a. Phlumpy Pie, a.k.a. Wieners, a.k.a. Papa, is three years old today. It’s also the 24th anniversary of my father’s passing. My late father’s birthday is January 11th, which, coincidentally, was my son’s due date.
Ever since my son has come into my life, I’ve discovered just how much I miss my dad. Not sure why my son’s birth brought on the healing -- perhaps it’s the way his eyebrows move, the tilt of his chin, his lips and his broad shoulders, his golden lashes and his strange obsession with fishing. He is the spitting image of my father, and that, I think, forces me to remember -- really remember. There’s no mistaking that my boy is Robert Sydney Howe’s grandson, and God, would my dad have been proud of him. Hell, I know he’s proud, right now, this minute.
Due to many, many circumstances, I never really had the chance to properly mourn, but for the past three years, I’ve begun to grieve, and as much as I miss my dad, the grief that overwhelms me now is proper, and I welcome it. It’s right that I should cry during the last week of January, because I wasn’t allowed that luxury as a teen, a young adult; there were Other Things I had to live through, things that tangled themselves up in the event of Dad's death, things that eventually smothered that day into submission.
By the time I was a “real” adult I’d completely buried everything, comfortable with my busy life and growing family, yet always aware of that hiding place, aware enough to realize that no matter how deep I buried the hurt, it still made sounds, called to me from time to time.
I’m now determined to get it all out, till there’s only the faintest pang, till my father’s memory is purged of the Other Bad Memories of that time, till my grief is pure and only for him. Soon, I hope, I will be able to move on from that place in time, maybe even dig up the Others and tear into them but good with another round of stark raving acceptance. The Others will have to wait, however - they've been ignored for almost a quarter century now, so a few more years won't matter much.
This a good day despite the lack of family and friends -- we're all still too sick for a party. But there's someone here who doesn't mind the coughs and sneezes, the cranky whines and runny noses, someone who arrived early and who will probably stay quite late regardless of the fact we'll all head for bed before nine o'clock. And I encourage this visitor to stay as long as he wishes, because it'll be another long year before he visits again.
There’s a story that I will tell my son when he’s old enough, a story about his first smile. I was not the lucky recipient of Brandon’s first gorgeous grin, nor was my husband. It was no one that could be seen, no one that could be heard or felt -- at least by me or anybody else in our home over the age of four weeks. But I know in my heart that this someone is real and that he made himself known to my son on that day and the week to follow. I sensed his presence while my baby gazed over my right shoulder, or at seemingly empty space, and smiled so big, his dimples made their first appearance. My husband and I caught little chills during that whole week whenever Brandon flashed those dimples and waved his tiny fists and stared and stared at someone, at something that made him very, very happy.
Dad, you old rascal.
Ever since my son has come into my life, I’ve discovered just how much I miss my dad. Not sure why my son’s birth brought on the healing -- perhaps it’s the way his eyebrows move, the tilt of his chin, his lips and his broad shoulders, his golden lashes and his strange obsession with fishing. He is the spitting image of my father, and that, I think, forces me to remember -- really remember. There’s no mistaking that my boy is Robert Sydney Howe’s grandson, and God, would my dad have been proud of him. Hell, I know he’s proud, right now, this minute.
Due to many, many circumstances, I never really had the chance to properly mourn, but for the past three years, I’ve begun to grieve, and as much as I miss my dad, the grief that overwhelms me now is proper, and I welcome it. It’s right that I should cry during the last week of January, because I wasn’t allowed that luxury as a teen, a young adult; there were Other Things I had to live through, things that tangled themselves up in the event of Dad's death, things that eventually smothered that day into submission.
By the time I was a “real” adult I’d completely buried everything, comfortable with my busy life and growing family, yet always aware of that hiding place, aware enough to realize that no matter how deep I buried the hurt, it still made sounds, called to me from time to time.
I’m now determined to get it all out, till there’s only the faintest pang, till my father’s memory is purged of the Other Bad Memories of that time, till my grief is pure and only for him. Soon, I hope, I will be able to move on from that place in time, maybe even dig up the Others and tear into them but good with another round of stark raving acceptance. The Others will have to wait, however - they've been ignored for almost a quarter century now, so a few more years won't matter much.
This a good day despite the lack of family and friends -- we're all still too sick for a party. But there's someone here who doesn't mind the coughs and sneezes, the cranky whines and runny noses, someone who arrived early and who will probably stay quite late regardless of the fact we'll all head for bed before nine o'clock. And I encourage this visitor to stay as long as he wishes, because it'll be another long year before he visits again.
There’s a story that I will tell my son when he’s old enough, a story about his first smile. I was not the lucky recipient of Brandon’s first gorgeous grin, nor was my husband. It was no one that could be seen, no one that could be heard or felt -- at least by me or anybody else in our home over the age of four weeks. But I know in my heart that this someone is real and that he made himself known to my son on that day and the week to follow. I sensed his presence while my baby gazed over my right shoulder, or at seemingly empty space, and smiled so big, his dimples made their first appearance. My husband and I caught little chills during that whole week whenever Brandon flashed those dimples and waved his tiny fists and stared and stared at someone, at something that made him very, very happy.
Dad, you old rascal.
Friday, January 21, 2005
To Sir With Love
Though I don’t know Poppy Z. Brite personally, I hereby declare my undying affection for this kind human being who, unbeknownst to her, has once again brightened my dreary day. The first time soothed my wounded writerly heart (the whole tragic story here), and today, my battered psyche and flu-fucked head.
Jesus Christ, Doc, how many thousands of hits does your journal get each day, anyway? Like, 50,087?
My thanks to the wonderful PZB readers who e-mailed -- seriously, thank you! I’ll reply to each and every one of you soon as the Capuchin monkey stops banging on my head with his little tin cup. Bastard is killing me.
Also, to my friends, to my poor friends who’ve been neglected beyond what should be legal, I apologize for my lack of communication. I love you, love you, love you, and will be writing or calling you soon.
Jesus Christ, Doc, how many thousands of hits does your journal get each day, anyway? Like, 50,087?
My thanks to the wonderful PZB readers who e-mailed -- seriously, thank you! I’ll reply to each and every one of you soon as the Capuchin monkey stops banging on my head with his little tin cup. Bastard is killing me.
Also, to my friends, to my poor friends who’ve been neglected beyond what should be legal, I apologize for my lack of communication. I love you, love you, love you, and will be writing or calling you soon.
Thursday, January 20, 2005
Me and Mr. Hoo Haw; We Got a Thing Going On
As some of you may remember, I hated 2004 with every fiber of my gigantic being. It was, unequivocally, the worst year in recent memory. I needn’t go into why this is so, but please do take my word for it. It was a very bad year. And you may also remember my excitement over the beginning of a new year, my hopes and beliefs that 2005 would be payback, the year where all my dues paid would, precisely on January 1, be gathered into a big pot of much-deserved gold, a pot that would no doubt be tied up in a red bow and delivered via leprechaun to my front step.
Well.
I’m going to list what I have discovered on my front step thus far. Hint: It ain’t gold. First off, I must tell you that the tidy packages were not prettied up in bows, nor were they delivered by the venerable Lucky Charms imp -- I found a note, an ominous harbinger no bigger than a postage stamp attached to the sack, signed by a mysterious yet all-too familiar bastard named Mr. Hoo Haw.
The note reads:
Yes, It really can get worse. Oh, you have no idea...
Love,
Mr. Hoo Haw
P.S. Happy new year! Hoooooooo Hawwwwwwww!
And the sack contained the following:
A promissory note wherein the horrors of 2004 will be repeated twofold
Continued icy distance between myself and certain loved ones
A black cardboard box full of pent-up misery
A business size envelope labeled: 365 Ways to Torment Ms. Lori. I haven’t the nerve to open it.
The flu I have never in all my life been this ill, nor have my children.
A tiny gremlin wearing a wee hat made of human feces He leapt from the sack, bounded into my home, flew up the stairs to my office, slid into my computer and promptly took a giant shit on my modem. But he still wasn’t finished. Not only did he doodoo on my modem, he felt it necessary to also crap all over my telephone line to ensure that my scheduled and much anticipated DSL would, as it had been for years, continue to exist only in my dreams.
Now, I did manage to capture and kill the gremlin, and the phone line is working properly. For now. DSL will have to wait until Lar escapes the nightmare twilight existence known to many as Work, but at least my modem is somewhat usable -- enough for me to post this, at least.
Hmmmm? What’s that you say? I should just go ahead and install the DSL myself?
Sure, okay. I‘ll get right on that -- after I rebuild the engine in my husband’s truck and finish the masonry on our patio.
Anyway, my next post will again be slow in coming as I also must attend to my sick boy. Mr. Butler has been very ill, and he has bright red spots all over his little bod. Before last night, he hadn’t eaten a bite in three days. I hand-fed him some applesauce while he soaked in the tub, and he held it down well. And yes, he’s been to the doctor -- twice in the last week. The first time they diagnosed an ear infection, gave him amoxicillin, and instead of Mr. Butler feeling better, he became even sicker. The second doctor, the one he saw yesterday, said that he doesn’t have an ear infection, but his throat is swollen and pussed-up. Lar, however, came home from the appointment empty-handed -- no prescription, no instructions, and a glib “bring him back on Friday if he’s not better” -- and Mr. Butler came home with a cough that you would not believe. Yes, I called the office and let loose a stream of insults on the poor, incompetent medical personnel, but they still insisted that we wait till Friday to bring him back in.
Yeah, life is good.
Well.
I’m going to list what I have discovered on my front step thus far. Hint: It ain’t gold. First off, I must tell you that the tidy packages were not prettied up in bows, nor were they delivered by the venerable Lucky Charms imp -- I found a note, an ominous harbinger no bigger than a postage stamp attached to the sack, signed by a mysterious yet all-too familiar bastard named Mr. Hoo Haw.
The note reads:
Yes, It really can get worse. Oh, you have no idea...
Love,
Mr. Hoo Haw
P.S. Happy new year! Hoooooooo Hawwwwwwww!
And the sack contained the following:
A promissory note wherein the horrors of 2004 will be repeated twofold
Continued icy distance between myself and certain loved ones
A black cardboard box full of pent-up misery
A business size envelope labeled: 365 Ways to Torment Ms. Lori. I haven’t the nerve to open it.
The flu I have never in all my life been this ill, nor have my children.
A tiny gremlin wearing a wee hat made of human feces He leapt from the sack, bounded into my home, flew up the stairs to my office, slid into my computer and promptly took a giant shit on my modem. But he still wasn’t finished. Not only did he doodoo on my modem, he felt it necessary to also crap all over my telephone line to ensure that my scheduled and much anticipated DSL would, as it had been for years, continue to exist only in my dreams.
Now, I did manage to capture and kill the gremlin, and the phone line is working properly. For now. DSL will have to wait until Lar escapes the nightmare twilight existence known to many as Work, but at least my modem is somewhat usable -- enough for me to post this, at least.
Hmmmm? What’s that you say? I should just go ahead and install the DSL myself?
Sure, okay. I‘ll get right on that -- after I rebuild the engine in my husband’s truck and finish the masonry on our patio.
Anyway, my next post will again be slow in coming as I also must attend to my sick boy. Mr. Butler has been very ill, and he has bright red spots all over his little bod. Before last night, he hadn’t eaten a bite in three days. I hand-fed him some applesauce while he soaked in the tub, and he held it down well. And yes, he’s been to the doctor -- twice in the last week. The first time they diagnosed an ear infection, gave him amoxicillin, and instead of Mr. Butler feeling better, he became even sicker. The second doctor, the one he saw yesterday, said that he doesn’t have an ear infection, but his throat is swollen and pussed-up. Lar, however, came home from the appointment empty-handed -- no prescription, no instructions, and a glib “bring him back on Friday if he’s not better” -- and Mr. Butler came home with a cough that you would not believe. Yes, I called the office and let loose a stream of insults on the poor, incompetent medical personnel, but they still insisted that we wait till Friday to bring him back in.
Yeah, life is good.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
I Am a Cannibalistic Sea Hag Swimming in an Ocean of Shit
I'm not a happy hag.
This may well be my last post for some time -- depends on whether I can get my damn modem working again. Started to crap out on me yesterday, which, coupled with my already slow dialup service and whore of a computer, makes my online experience comparable to a twelve hour-long enema.
But while I'm here (inexplicably, my modem has allowed me this time with you -- been trying since 8:30 this morning, but I'm here), I'll leave you with this grotesque thought: If you eat seafood, please keep in mind that many sea creatures of which you partake also partake of you. Well, not you you, but human remains. This, I realize, is a sick, disgusting statement to make. I'm appalled at myself for even making my morbid thoughts publicly known. But it's true, you know. Sea creatures think they've hit the jackpot when they come across a floater, and will immediately consume as much as their little bellies will handle. Crabs do it, flounder do it, tuna and swordfish and sweet little clownfish do it. Yes, Nemo will eat your ass up in a New York minute.
If you eat seafood, then it stands to reason that you are, indirectly, a cannibal.
This gruesome and decidedly inappropriate thought has been brought to you courtesy of Ms. Lori's Sick Thoughts.
This may well be my last post for some time -- depends on whether I can get my damn modem working again. Started to crap out on me yesterday, which, coupled with my already slow dialup service and whore of a computer, makes my online experience comparable to a twelve hour-long enema.
But while I'm here (inexplicably, my modem has allowed me this time with you -- been trying since 8:30 this morning, but I'm here), I'll leave you with this grotesque thought: If you eat seafood, please keep in mind that many sea creatures of which you partake also partake of you. Well, not you you, but human remains. This, I realize, is a sick, disgusting statement to make. I'm appalled at myself for even making my morbid thoughts publicly known. But it's true, you know. Sea creatures think they've hit the jackpot when they come across a floater, and will immediately consume as much as their little bellies will handle. Crabs do it, flounder do it, tuna and swordfish and sweet little clownfish do it. Yes, Nemo will eat your ass up in a New York minute.
If you eat seafood, then it stands to reason that you are, indirectly, a cannibal.
This gruesome and decidedly inappropriate thought has been brought to you courtesy of Ms. Lori's Sick Thoughts.
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