1) Leaves ~ "Whatever"
2) Mezzoforte ~ "Weather Ahead"
3) Ourlives ~ "Den Of Lions"
4) Hera Bjrk ~ "Je Ne Sais Quoi"
5) Mum ~ "Green Grass Of Tunnel"
6)
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
One Last Baker's Dozen Of Songs By Innovative, Imaginative, And Incredibly Interesting Icelandic Bands
This is the third (and will be the final) installment in a mini-series of posts exploring the modern music of Iceland. If you missed the previous installments, you can view them here and here. I won't rehash my previous intro or try to reword it, I'll just say...enjoy!
Monday, February 18, 2013
Story # 17: "For Pete's Sake"
I've said it before, and I'll say it again. I don't know where I get all these crazy ideas from, but once I think of them I can't help but to write them down. Such as they are. This one's plenty twisted, but I hope you'll like it anyway. If not, there's always next time. ~ JH
"FOR PETE'S SAKE"
If you've never had a turtle bite off your toes one by one, let me tell you, you're really missing out. I, for one, am glad to have had the experience, even if it means that walking on that foot will be difficult, if not impossible, going forward.
I was a little nervous at first. I mean, I didn't go into it willingly, you understand. I was there, the turtle was there, he felt like biting, I have meaty feet, and the rest is history.
The pain was unbearable at first, but after awhile I just sort of forgot about it, lost in the wonder of watching the turtle going about his carnivorous task.
I took a few pictures – I don't know if you'd like to see them or not. Most people don't. For some reason.
You're probably wondering how I can speak so calmly about what most would deem a harrowing experience. I can't explain it myself. I know I should be horrified, scarred for life even – more than just the physical scars, I mean. But I'm not. In fact, I find myself longing to relive the experience, as strange as that may sound.
Which, as it turns out, is entirely possible. You see, after it was all said and done, I wouldn't let them kill the turtle. I had become as attached to him as he had been to me. These days, I consider him not only my pet, but my very dear friend as well.
So if, in the next week or the next year or whenever the notion may strike him, the turtle (whom I call Pete) feels the need to gnaw on something again – well, he's welcome to my other foot. What do I need it for anyway? Walking is optional, but loyalty never is.
I was a little nervous at first. I mean, I didn't go into it willingly, you understand. I was there, the turtle was there, he felt like biting, I have meaty feet, and the rest is history.
The pain was unbearable at first, but after awhile I just sort of forgot about it, lost in the wonder of watching the turtle going about his carnivorous task.
I took a few pictures – I don't know if you'd like to see them or not. Most people don't. For some reason.
You're probably wondering how I can speak so calmly about what most would deem a harrowing experience. I can't explain it myself. I know I should be horrified, scarred for life even – more than just the physical scars, I mean. But I'm not. In fact, I find myself longing to relive the experience, as strange as that may sound.
Which, as it turns out, is entirely possible. You see, after it was all said and done, I wouldn't let them kill the turtle. I had become as attached to him as he had been to me. These days, I consider him not only my pet, but my very dear friend as well.
So if, in the next week or the next year or whenever the notion may strike him, the turtle (whom I call Pete) feels the need to gnaw on something again – well, he's welcome to my other foot. What do I need it for anyway? Walking is optional, but loyalty never is.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Stories # 14, # 15, & # 16: "Scared Less," "Sand Giggles," & "For Brains"
Okay, so here we have three brand-new short stories (and I do mean short – they're each around 150 words, give or take 5 words), all unrelated to each other, other than the fact that I wrote them all today. One's about irrational fears, one's about mischievous relatives, and one's about zombies. Go figure my imagination! Enjoy! – JH
"SCARED LESS"
I used to be afraid of my own shadow. Literally. My parents said that when I was a toddler I would faint at least twice a day upon merely glimpsing the dark, suspiciously me-like figure which relentlessly chased me down. My fear has abated somewhat over the years, but it's never truly gone away. Blame it on horror movies (which I love) or dark fiction (which I also love). Whatever the cause, I am – and will likely remain – a fraidy-cat at heart. Recently I discovered the secret to breaking free of this particular fear. Wherever I go, no matter what time of day it is, I will carry a giant flashlight. Sure, storing it will be difficult and people will stare, but I will be protected. My shadow can't harm me then, because I can make him disappear. I may still be afraid, but now I will be scared less.
"SAND GIGGLES"
I was walking along the beach, enjoying my favorite pastime of picking up seashells, when I passed a suspiciously noisy mound of sand. I thought what I heard must have been my imagination – because seriously, how can sand giggle? But my ears did not deceive me. It was then that I saw the straw poking up from inside the mound of sand. I peeked down the barrel of the straw, but it was too narrow to see anything. I must have jostled the straw though, because at that moment the giggling stopped and the gurgling began. Whatever – or whomever – was down there was no longer jovial. I dropped to my knees and began digging furiously at the mounded sand, frantic to unearth whatever living creature was trapped below and struggling to breathe. To my astonishment, I soon revealed the face of my grandmother. She gasped for air, then started giggling anew. Not again, Grandma!
"FOR BRAINS"
I'm not your typical zombie. Sure, I'm undead. And yes, I do wander about aimlessly at a snail's pace terrifying the general populace. But one thing I don't have in common with my fellow zombies is my gastronomical preference. You see, I don't have a hankering for brains. I've tried them – I felt it was my clichéd duty as a member of the walking dead to do so – but I just can't stomach them for some reason. I think it's a texture thing. Personally, I'd much rather have a pan full of pizza than a plateful of brains. Call me crazy, but it's true. So if you see me shuffling down the street in your direction, and for whatever reason – like most humans – you don't have the presence of mind to run in the opposite direction – don't worry. I'm not after you. Just point me to the nearest Domino's and I'll be on my way.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
A Baker's Dozen Of God-Honoring Christian Hip-Hop Songs
Since you clicked on this link, maybe that means you're at least mildly interested in broadening your musical horizons. Maybe not. You don't have to like all of these songs (or any of them), but I'm sharing them because I personally like them. I think there's a lot of truth and positivity to be gleaned from the messages in these songs. These particular artists are among my favorites in Christian hip-hop, but this is not an all-inclusive list. That would take too long. Alright, let's go...
1) Lecrae ft. Mali Music ~ "Tell The World"
2) Trip Lee ft. KB & Andy Mineo ~ "One Sixteen"
3) J'Son ft. J.R. ~ "Parent Me"
4) D-MAUB ~ "People Crazy"
5) Bumps INF ~ "Shunned By Society"
6) Bizzle ft. Lavoisier & Sevin ~ "This Ain't Love"
7) Swoope ft. Lecrae, Tedashii, & Jai ~ "Actions Speak Louder"
8) Beautiful Eulogy ft. Theory Hazit & Lee Green ~ "King Kulture"
9) Level 3:16 ~ "Tell 'Em (Internal Conflict)"
10) Kareem Manuel ft. Plumb ~ "Open Your Eyes"
11) theBREAX ft. J.R. ~ "Perfect Storm"
12) Young Joshua & Tee-Wyla ft. Donielle Rodwell ~ "Potential"
13) MC Jin ~ "Open Arms"
Friday, February 8, 2013
Story # 13: "Flipping The Bird"
I can't decide if this story is mildly amusing or just plain stupid. Read it and decide for yourself. Or don't if you don't wanna. I won't know the difference either way. ~ JH
When I was a little kid, my parents bought me a parakeet. I had never owned a pet before and was eager to give it a go, though my parents were a little dubious that I'd be responsible enough to take care of him.
I insisted that I would feed him faithfully six times a day, or however many times you're supposed to feed a bird. And I would change the newspaper at the bottom of his cage whenever it got dirty with whatever it got dirty with. And I would love him and squeeze him – if, in fact, you're allowed to squeeze birds – as often as he would let me.
The parakeet, which turned out to be a boy, was mostly blue with streaks of gold and green interspersed here and there. He had a high-pitched chirp that was kind of startling at first, but later when I got used to it, it sounded like music. But in those early days, apparently – so my parents tell me, I don't remember all the details – I would totally flip out when the bird let out a chirp. I probably even wet myself a few times, but we won't talk about that.
I'd had the bird for almost two weeks when my dad sat me down for a man-to-man talk, which he'd never really done before and which made me kind of nervous, because I was afraid somebody was dying.
"Son," he said to me, because I am also a boy. "Son, how long have you had that bird now?"
"About thirteen days, Dad," I said. I was always very literal when it came to measurements of time. "And sixteen hours. Give or take a few minutes."
"That's good, son," said Dad, and his serious tone took on a little more serious tone for some reason. "Son, what are you gonna call the bird? You know, a parakeet, like all of God's creatures, needs a name."
"I hadn't really given it much thought," I admitted, and Dad frowned a little in response. "Do you have any suggestions?"
"Well, he's your bird," Dad continued. "I would think that you would want to pick a name for him yourself." And he was right. I did. I just didn't know what to name the bird.
Suddenly, the bird – for lack of a better name – squawked loudly right behind my head. That was where his cage was, in the corner of my room, which was where we were at that moment. Not expecting the sudden cacophony, I shrieked a shrill squeal of my own in reply.
Dad chuckled, which I didn't think was insensitive at the time, but upon reflection it actually kind of was.
"You've got to stop flipping out every time that bird chirps, son," Dad said, still chuckling.
"I'll try, Dad," I said, then added. "Hey!"
"Hey, yourself, kiddo," Dad shot back.
"I thought of a name for the parakeet!" I squealed, but this time in delight and not in fear.
"Okay, what is it?" my dad inquired.
"You just said I'm always flipping out when the bird chirps, right?"
"Right."
"Why," I proposed, "don't we name the bird Flipping? You know, like 'flipping out'?"
"Well, son –" Dad started, but I rudely interrupted him. I was still learning my manners at the time.
"I think it has a nice ring to it, don't you think so, Dad?" I said, and the frown mysteriously returned to his face. I didn't let it steal my moment though. "Ladies and gentlemen, we proudly present to you Flipping The Bird!" I giggled at my own theatricality.
"I don't think –" Dad started again, but I hadn't learned any more manners in the last few seconds than I had up to that point, so I interrupted him again.
"Flipping The Bird is an outrageous name for a parakeet," I raved, proud of my use of the word outrageous, which I had recently learned. "It's like Oscar The Grouch, or Winnie The Pooh. It's perfect, don't you think so, Dad?"
"Well –" Dad started yet again, and yet again I stopped him, as embarrassing as it is to admit that now.
"I'm gonna go tell Mom," I exclaimed, and left my dad alone in my room with the newly christened Flipping The Bird squawking away like mad. Apparently, my outrageous revelry had made Flipping flip out a bit, too.
Several years later, after Flipping had lived a long life – for a parakeet at least – and had died and been buried in a cigar box (I don't really know where that box came from, since neither of my parents smoked cigars), I learned the true meaning of the phrase "flipping the bird."
And I chuckled. Not like when Dad chuckled at me for startling at the bird's squawks. Mine was the chuckle of misguided youth, a chuckle at the blissful ignorance I'd owned so obliviously all those years before.
Because – even though the idea of naming the bird what I ended up naming him made my dad uncomfortable at the time (to say the least) – when you really think about it now, it is kind of funny.
FLIPPING THE BIRD
When I was a little kid, my parents bought me a parakeet. I had never owned a pet before and was eager to give it a go, though my parents were a little dubious that I'd be responsible enough to take care of him.
I insisted that I would feed him faithfully six times a day, or however many times you're supposed to feed a bird. And I would change the newspaper at the bottom of his cage whenever it got dirty with whatever it got dirty with. And I would love him and squeeze him – if, in fact, you're allowed to squeeze birds – as often as he would let me.
The parakeet, which turned out to be a boy, was mostly blue with streaks of gold and green interspersed here and there. He had a high-pitched chirp that was kind of startling at first, but later when I got used to it, it sounded like music. But in those early days, apparently – so my parents tell me, I don't remember all the details – I would totally flip out when the bird let out a chirp. I probably even wet myself a few times, but we won't talk about that.
I'd had the bird for almost two weeks when my dad sat me down for a man-to-man talk, which he'd never really done before and which made me kind of nervous, because I was afraid somebody was dying.
"Son," he said to me, because I am also a boy. "Son, how long have you had that bird now?"
"About thirteen days, Dad," I said. I was always very literal when it came to measurements of time. "And sixteen hours. Give or take a few minutes."
"That's good, son," said Dad, and his serious tone took on a little more serious tone for some reason. "Son, what are you gonna call the bird? You know, a parakeet, like all of God's creatures, needs a name."
"I hadn't really given it much thought," I admitted, and Dad frowned a little in response. "Do you have any suggestions?"
"Well, he's your bird," Dad continued. "I would think that you would want to pick a name for him yourself." And he was right. I did. I just didn't know what to name the bird.
Suddenly, the bird – for lack of a better name – squawked loudly right behind my head. That was where his cage was, in the corner of my room, which was where we were at that moment. Not expecting the sudden cacophony, I shrieked a shrill squeal of my own in reply.
Dad chuckled, which I didn't think was insensitive at the time, but upon reflection it actually kind of was.
"You've got to stop flipping out every time that bird chirps, son," Dad said, still chuckling.
"I'll try, Dad," I said, then added. "Hey!"
"Hey, yourself, kiddo," Dad shot back.
"I thought of a name for the parakeet!" I squealed, but this time in delight and not in fear.
"Okay, what is it?" my dad inquired.
"You just said I'm always flipping out when the bird chirps, right?"
"Right."
"Why," I proposed, "don't we name the bird Flipping? You know, like 'flipping out'?"
"Well, son –" Dad started, but I rudely interrupted him. I was still learning my manners at the time.
"I think it has a nice ring to it, don't you think so, Dad?" I said, and the frown mysteriously returned to his face. I didn't let it steal my moment though. "Ladies and gentlemen, we proudly present to you Flipping The Bird!" I giggled at my own theatricality.
"I don't think –" Dad started again, but I hadn't learned any more manners in the last few seconds than I had up to that point, so I interrupted him again.
"Flipping The Bird is an outrageous name for a parakeet," I raved, proud of my use of the word outrageous, which I had recently learned. "It's like Oscar The Grouch, or Winnie The Pooh. It's perfect, don't you think so, Dad?"
"Well –" Dad started yet again, and yet again I stopped him, as embarrassing as it is to admit that now.
"I'm gonna go tell Mom," I exclaimed, and left my dad alone in my room with the newly christened Flipping The Bird squawking away like mad. Apparently, my outrageous revelry had made Flipping flip out a bit, too.
Several years later, after Flipping had lived a long life – for a parakeet at least – and had died and been buried in a cigar box (I don't really know where that box came from, since neither of my parents smoked cigars), I learned the true meaning of the phrase "flipping the bird."
And I chuckled. Not like when Dad chuckled at me for startling at the bird's squawks. Mine was the chuckle of misguided youth, a chuckle at the blissful ignorance I'd owned so obliviously all those years before.
Because – even though the idea of naming the bird what I ended up naming him made my dad uncomfortable at the time (to say the least) – when you really think about it now, it is kind of funny.
Story # 12: "No Way, José"
This epistolary short story was inspired by memories of my own high school experiences, and how awkward it was to like someone who didn't like you, but how hard it was to let it go even though you knew it was hopeless. I never got a letter like this myself, but under the right (or wrong) circumstances I probably could have. The story is fiction, but parts of it are based on real-life events. I'll leave it to you to decide which is which. ~ JH
Dear José,
What I'm about to tell you is not going to be easy. For you, at least. I know you like me. I've known it for a long time actually. As if the Valentine's Day cards and the flowers and the notes in my locker weren't enough to give you away, you playing with my hair in History class every weekday for the past year and a half certainly did the trick.
I probably should have told you to knock it off a long time ago. Maybe I've been unintentionally leading you on, and if so, I'm sorry. The fact is, I really like having my hair played with, and I figured if I blew you off, I'd have to go to the trouble of twirling my fingers through it myself, which is totally not the same.
It's not that you're not a nice guy or anything, because you are. It's just that I'm not really into nice guys. I'm more attracted to the bad boy type. Guys like Mark. You know, from fourth period? He's such a rebel!
Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I'm not interested in ever going out with you. That looks really harsh now that I've written it down. But I'm afraid if I put it any less plain, you'll hold out hope that you still stand a chance with me. And you don't. Not even remotely.
If only you were a little bit taller, I might have given you a second glance. But you're not – you're super-short, and I'm tall for a girl, so it would never work between us. I know it's not your fault that you're short, and really there's nothing wrong with being short. I'm just more into the tall, dark, and handsome kind of guy myself. Like Mark. What a hottie!
Anyway, you can do way better than me. I'm just some dumb cheerleader. Granted, a really hot dumb cheerleader, but still. I'll bet you could go out with any girl you wanted if you could just get over your obsession with me.
I know it's hard to believe, but there are plenty of other fish in the sea. Like Wanda Moody, for example. You know, from our homeroom? I know she's not exactly Miss America material or anything, but she's got a really sweet personality, and I just know you two would hit it off great!
To be quite honest, I think Wanda is way more your type than I am. She's, well, simpler and less complicated than me. You probably couldn't guess it from looking at me, but I'm actually a pretty high-maintenance girl. You might not be able to keep up with me – socially or financially. My parents are loaded, you know, and well, your dad's a handyman. Not exactly apples and oranges or anything.
Anyway, I've probably taken up enough of your time already. I just felt like I should let you know where we stand. Which is nowhere. Not now, and not ever.
I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for, José. You're just not going to find it in me. Think about Wanda – I'm serious.
Your "just friends" friend,
Jackie
NO WAY, JOSÉ
Dear José,
What I'm about to tell you is not going to be easy. For you, at least. I know you like me. I've known it for a long time actually. As if the Valentine's Day cards and the flowers and the notes in my locker weren't enough to give you away, you playing with my hair in History class every weekday for the past year and a half certainly did the trick.
I probably should have told you to knock it off a long time ago. Maybe I've been unintentionally leading you on, and if so, I'm sorry. The fact is, I really like having my hair played with, and I figured if I blew you off, I'd have to go to the trouble of twirling my fingers through it myself, which is totally not the same.
It's not that you're not a nice guy or anything, because you are. It's just that I'm not really into nice guys. I'm more attracted to the bad boy type. Guys like Mark. You know, from fourth period? He's such a rebel!
Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I'm not interested in ever going out with you. That looks really harsh now that I've written it down. But I'm afraid if I put it any less plain, you'll hold out hope that you still stand a chance with me. And you don't. Not even remotely.
If only you were a little bit taller, I might have given you a second glance. But you're not – you're super-short, and I'm tall for a girl, so it would never work between us. I know it's not your fault that you're short, and really there's nothing wrong with being short. I'm just more into the tall, dark, and handsome kind of guy myself. Like Mark. What a hottie!
Anyway, you can do way better than me. I'm just some dumb cheerleader. Granted, a really hot dumb cheerleader, but still. I'll bet you could go out with any girl you wanted if you could just get over your obsession with me.
I know it's hard to believe, but there are plenty of other fish in the sea. Like Wanda Moody, for example. You know, from our homeroom? I know she's not exactly Miss America material or anything, but she's got a really sweet personality, and I just know you two would hit it off great!
To be quite honest, I think Wanda is way more your type than I am. She's, well, simpler and less complicated than me. You probably couldn't guess it from looking at me, but I'm actually a pretty high-maintenance girl. You might not be able to keep up with me – socially or financially. My parents are loaded, you know, and well, your dad's a handyman. Not exactly apples and oranges or anything.
Anyway, I've probably taken up enough of your time already. I just felt like I should let you know where we stand. Which is nowhere. Not now, and not ever.
I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for, José. You're just not going to find it in me. Think about Wanda – I'm serious.
Your "just friends" friend,
Jackie
Thursday, February 7, 2013
6 Excellent Short Films You Really Should Watch
I've long been a fan of short films, or film shorts as they're often referred to in the industry. Every so often, I will go to YouTube.com and watch a few of them. There are many wonderfully talented independent filmmakers out there getting their feet wet making these short films, and they don't get nearly as much credit as they deserve. So I'm going to give them some free publicity (such as it is) and post a few of the better ones I've seen lately. I might do more of these posts in the future – I don't know for sure, but I like to keep my options open. Please take the time to watch them if you can, because I really think you will get something out of each of them. Enjoy! ~ JH
1) "Rope" ~ Written by (and starring) Kres Mersky; Directed by Theodore Gersten
2) "Validation" ~ Written and Directed by Kurt Kuenne; Starring TJ Thyne (from Bones)
3) "The Desk" ~ Written and Directed by Albert Gonzalez
4) "To Claire; From Sonny" ~ Written, Produced, and Directed by Josh Beattie
(NOTE: There is one brief profanity in the film that some may find objectionable.)
5) "InBox" ~ Written and Directed by Madonne Ashwin
6) "Fireflies" ~ Written, Produced, and Directed by The Jubilee Project
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Story # 11: "Resisting Roderica"
OK, so this story's a lot less bleak than the last story I posted. You might even say there's a silver lining to this one. Go figure my brain! Enjoy...
Roderica has been trying to sell me her purse since fifth period, and it's starting to get on my nerves. What am I gonna do with a purse? I'm on the football team. I'm a linebacker, for Pete's sake!
I guess her family is kinda poor, because she's been trying to sell off practically everything she owns here lately. I heard somebody say that her brother is real sick and needs an operation, but they don't have insurance, so it's probably not gonna happen. He might even die, somebody told me.
I feel bad for Roderica and her brother and everything, but it's not like I can do anything about it. I mean, yeah, I work at the Food Lion, but I make minimum wage – practically nothing at all! – and what I do make I use to put gas in my truck. And gas is expensive, ya know?
Anyway, it's a purse we're talking about. Not a wallet, not a book bag, but a purse! Knowing Roderica, it's probably not even a good purse. I mean, it's not her fault or anything, but she'd probably get a few more takers if she was selling, like, a Coach bag or something. I don't really know anything about those, but someone told me they're really expensive, so there ya go.
Uh-oh, here she comes again! Really, Roderica? Do I like like prime purse-purchasing material? Please! Did I mention that I'm a linebacker?
Seriously, what does she want me to say to her, outside of what I've already said? Which is no, of course. I mean, if it was anything but a purse, I'd be all in. I don't mind helping people out who are in need, but a purse?
Hey, Roderica, what's up? Your purse? Yeah, you asked me about your purse earlier. I don't really need one. Thanks, though. What's that? No, I don't have a sister. Remember, you asked me that before, too. No, I don't have a girlfriend. I mean, I could have a girlfriend anytime I wanted, I just don't wanna be tied down, ya dig?
Well, yeah, I've got a mom. I don't know, probably three or four, but she only really uses the one. It's kinda old, but it's not worn out like your – I mean – aw, crap!
Tell you what, Roderica, what say I give you ten bucks for it? I was gonna buy some gas with this, but I probably won't need to till the weekend, and by then I'll have my paycheck, so you might as well have it instead.
The purse? Oh yeah, I guess I do have to take it from you, don't I? Do you have, like, a paper bag or something you could stuff it in, you know, just till I get to my car? No? Oh.
Well, whatever. It's not like anybody's gonna mess with me anyway. I'm a linebacker, ya know. Here, here's the ten.
Hey, listen...I hope your brother gets to have his operation. No, somebody told me about it. Yeah. Okay, well, if there's anything else I can do, just let me know. Take care, Roderica.
And just like that, I'm holding a purse. Oh, well...I never was very good at resisting.
RESISTING RODERICA
Roderica has been trying to sell me her purse since fifth period, and it's starting to get on my nerves. What am I gonna do with a purse? I'm on the football team. I'm a linebacker, for Pete's sake!
I guess her family is kinda poor, because she's been trying to sell off practically everything she owns here lately. I heard somebody say that her brother is real sick and needs an operation, but they don't have insurance, so it's probably not gonna happen. He might even die, somebody told me.
I feel bad for Roderica and her brother and everything, but it's not like I can do anything about it. I mean, yeah, I work at the Food Lion, but I make minimum wage – practically nothing at all! – and what I do make I use to put gas in my truck. And gas is expensive, ya know?
Anyway, it's a purse we're talking about. Not a wallet, not a book bag, but a purse! Knowing Roderica, it's probably not even a good purse. I mean, it's not her fault or anything, but she'd probably get a few more takers if she was selling, like, a Coach bag or something. I don't really know anything about those, but someone told me they're really expensive, so there ya go.
Uh-oh, here she comes again! Really, Roderica? Do I like like prime purse-purchasing material? Please! Did I mention that I'm a linebacker?
Seriously, what does she want me to say to her, outside of what I've already said? Which is no, of course. I mean, if it was anything but a purse, I'd be all in. I don't mind helping people out who are in need, but a purse?
Hey, Roderica, what's up? Your purse? Yeah, you asked me about your purse earlier. I don't really need one. Thanks, though. What's that? No, I don't have a sister. Remember, you asked me that before, too. No, I don't have a girlfriend. I mean, I could have a girlfriend anytime I wanted, I just don't wanna be tied down, ya dig?
Well, yeah, I've got a mom. I don't know, probably three or four, but she only really uses the one. It's kinda old, but it's not worn out like your – I mean – aw, crap!
Tell you what, Roderica, what say I give you ten bucks for it? I was gonna buy some gas with this, but I probably won't need to till the weekend, and by then I'll have my paycheck, so you might as well have it instead.
The purse? Oh yeah, I guess I do have to take it from you, don't I? Do you have, like, a paper bag or something you could stuff it in, you know, just till I get to my car? No? Oh.
Well, whatever. It's not like anybody's gonna mess with me anyway. I'm a linebacker, ya know. Here, here's the ten.
Hey, listen...I hope your brother gets to have his operation. No, somebody told me about it. Yeah. Okay, well, if there's anything else I can do, just let me know. Take care, Roderica.
And just like that, I'm holding a purse. Oh, well...I never was very good at resisting.
Story # 10: "Reassembling Romilda"
Okay, so fair warning here: This is possibly one of the most twisted tales that I've ever written. And that's saying something, because I have penned more than my fair share of warped stories over the years. I don't know where I get these terrible ideas, but once inspired I feel compelled to write them nonetheless. That being said, there's something sickly sweet in the undertones of this story. And I managed to work in a bit of dry humor to lighten the mood. I'm not sure that it worked, but still... Enjoy?
She never intended to jump. She didn't tell me that in so many words, but I could see it in her eyes. Speaking of which, there's one of them now.
She always had such pretty eyes – a shade of blue that seemed almost unnatural. I doubt if I'll ever find the other eye. So much was compromised in the fall. Now, everything that matters is broken. My heart, her neck, the whole lot.
If only I had gotten there sooner. Perhaps I could have said or done something to keep her on the ledge and eventually return her to my loving embrace. But I was too late, and the gusting winds were too strong. She'd chosen to live, but the cold front had overridden her decision.
And now I'm left – alone – to pick up the pieces. That one there looks like a toe. She had the cutest toes I've ever seen. Not so much anymore. She always hated it when I tickled her feet, but I simply couldn't resist. Maybe one last time, for old time's sake. I'm sure she won't protest.
Rest in pieces, Romilda.
REASSEMBLING ROMILDA
She always had such pretty eyes – a shade of blue that seemed almost unnatural. I doubt if I'll ever find the other eye. So much was compromised in the fall. Now, everything that matters is broken. My heart, her neck, the whole lot.
If only I had gotten there sooner. Perhaps I could have said or done something to keep her on the ledge and eventually return her to my loving embrace. But I was too late, and the gusting winds were too strong. She'd chosen to live, but the cold front had overridden her decision.
And now I'm left – alone – to pick up the pieces. That one there looks like a toe. She had the cutest toes I've ever seen. Not so much anymore. She always hated it when I tickled her feet, but I simply couldn't resist. Maybe one last time, for old time's sake. I'm sure she won't protest.
Rest in pieces, Romilda.
Things I Find Fascinating: Ridiculously Long Album Titles
I was listening to the latest Fiona Apple CD the other day (The Idler Wheel...), and it struck me as curious that this was Apple's second album release which bears a ridiculously long title. (Both full titles are included in this list.) Which got me thinking...what other ridiculously long titles have artists and bands come up with for their albums? Here's what I found...
Devendra Banhart ~ Oh Me Oh My… The Way
The Day Goes By, The Sun Is Setting, Dogs
Are Dreaming, Lovesongs Of The Christmas Spirit
Black Lips ~ We Did Not Know The
Forest Spirit Made The Flowers Grow
Bright Eyes ~ Lifted, Or The Story Is In
The Soil, Keep Your Ear To The Ground
Belle And Sebastian ~ Fold Your Hands
Child, You Walk Like a Peasant
The Chariot ~ Everything Is Alive, Everything Is
Breathing, Nothing Is Dead, And Nothing Is Bleeding
Chin Up Chin Up ~ We Should Have
Never Lived Like We Were Skyscrapers
Atlas Sound ~ Let The Blind Lead
Those Who Can See But Cannot Feel
Explosions In The Sky ~ Those Who Tell The Truth
Shall Die, Those Who Tell The Truth Shall Live Forever
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The Flaming Lips ~ A Collection Of Songs Representing
An Enthusiasm For Recording...By Amateurs
The Flaming Lips ~ The Day They Shot A Hole
In The Jesus Egg: The Priest Driven Ambulance
Album, Demos, And Outtakes, 1989-1991
Glissando ~ With Our Arms Wide Open
We March Towards The Burning Sea
Mew ~ No More Stories Are Told Today, I'm Sorry,
They Washed Away, No More Stories, The
World Is Grey, I'm Tired, Let's Wash Away
White Zombie ~ Astro Creep: 2000 – Songs Of Love,
Destruction, And Other Synthetic Delusions Of The Electric Head
Marnie Stern ~ This Is It And I Am It And
You Are It And So Is That And He Is It
And She Is It And It Is It And That Is That
Stars ~ A Lot Of Little Lies For The Sake Of One Big Truth
Silver Mt. Zion ~ He Has Left Us Alone But Shafts
Of Light Sometimes Grace The Corner Of Our Rooms
Sea Lions ~ Everything You Always Wanted To
Know About Sea Lions But Were Afraid To Ask
Modest Mouse ~ This Is A Long Drive
For Someone With Nothing To Think About
T. Rex ~ My People Were Fair And Had
Sky In Their Hair...But Now They're
Content To Wear Stars On Their Brows
Cap'n Jazz ~ Burritos, Inspiration Point,
Fork Balloon Sports, Cards In The Spokes,
Automatic Biographies, Kites, Kung Fu,
Trophies, Banana Peels We've Slipped
On, And Egg Shells We've Tippy Toed Over
Youthmovie Soundtrack Strategies ~ Hurrah! Another
Year, Surely This One Will Be Better Than The Last; The
Inexorable March Of Progress Will Lead Us All To Happiness
Fiona Apple ~ The Idler Wheel Is Wiser Than
The Driver Of The Screw And Whipping Cords
Will Serve You More Than Ropes Will Ever Do
Fiona Apple ~ When The Pawn Hits The Conflicts
He Thinks Like A King, What He Knows Throws The Blows
When He Goes To The Fight, And He'll Win The Whole Thing
'Fore He Enters The Ring, There's No Body To Batter When
Your Mind Is Your Might, So When You Go Solo, You Hold
Your Own Hand, And Remember That Depth Is The Greatest
Of Heights, And If You Know Where You Stand,
Then You Know Where To Land, And If You
Fall It Won't Matter, 'Cuz You'll Know That You're Right
Soulwax ~ Most Of The Remixes We've Made For Other
People Over The Years Except For The One For
Einstürzende Neubauten Because We Lost It And
A Few We Didn't Think Sounded Good Enough Or
Just Didn't Fit In Length-Wise, But Including Some
That Are Hard To Find Because Either People
People Forgot About Them Or Simply Because
They Haven't Been Released Yet, A Few We Really Love,
One We Think Is Just OK, Some We Did For Free,
Some We Did For Money, Some For Ourselves Without
Permission, And Some For Friends As Swaps
But Never On Time And Always At Our Studio In Ghent
Chumbawamba ~ The Boy Bands Have Won, And All The
Copyists And The Tribute Bands And The TV Talent Show
Producers Have Won, If We Allow Our Culture To Be Shaped
By Mimicry, Whether From Lack Of Ideas Or From Exaggerated
Respect. You Should Never Try To Freeze Culture. What You Can
Do Is Recycle That Culture. Take Your Older Brother's Hand-Me-Down
Jacket And Re-Style It, Re-Fashion It To The Point Where It Becomes
Your Own. But Don't Just Regurgitate Creative History, Or Hold Art
And Music And Literature As Fixed, Untouchable And Kept Under
Glass. The People Who Try To 'Guard' Any Particular Form Of
Music Are, Like The Copyists And Manufactured Bands, Doing It
The Worst Disservice, Because The Only Thing That You Can
Do To Music That Will Damage It Is Not Change It, Not Make
It Your Own. Because Then It Dies, Then It's Over,
Then It's Done, And The Boy Bands Have Won
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