Monday, December 26, 2011
At this point, I should mention that in my dream, American Horror Story was more of a reality show, meaning it is filmed in that actual, haunted house, and all the characters, living and ghost, are real, not actors. So, there's an element of danger involved. The cast of characters from The Walking Dead are also involved, and the entire show is shot right on the very edge of the Israel-Palestine border, and we kept losing production assistants to border skirmishes. These skirmishes involved someone just stepping a foot over a big, black line painted on the ground, sitcom style, and the Israeli police would take them away for deportation back to America.
At one point, I realize I haven't been directing the actors at all. I've been setting up the scene and trying to get all the ghosts to cooperate, and I don't see anything wrong with the takes I'm rapidly putting away. In half a day we've filmed half the episode. And I know they're going to realize that I don't know what I'm doing. When Rick Grimes's crying is too "feminine", I tell my AD to make a note to dub it over in post. That sounds almost professional. I know what I'm doing!
I start talking to Jessica Lang, who is actually a crazy southern belle living in faded glory in the haunted house, and she's concerned that the cinematographer is filming things "too dark." I realize then that our cinematographer is the same guy who did The Godfather Part II. I realize we are fucked, no one will be able to see a damn thing on film. I go to talk to him, and am immediately attacked by the frankenbabycreature from American Horror Story.
There is no closure to this story.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Friday, October 14, 2011
Monday, October 10, 2011
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
It took Aurelia only seconds to assess that there was something dangerous in the way Jeoffrey approached her. The set of his mouth as he smiled, perhaps, or the slow way he came forward. She stayed very still as he came close to the back of the cart, a hand reaching to the knife at his belt.
“They’ve gone deeper to look for game,” he said in a reassuring tone. His hand fell on her shoulder.
She jerked away. “Don’t.”
His expression darkened. “Don’t? You aren’t the lady of the castle yet, apple. And things work a little differently there, don’t they then?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Aurelia admitted, breathing deep. “But if he is a man, my husband would not like you putting your hands on his property.”
“Ah, but that’s the trick of it, isn’t it?” Jeoffrey seized her by her arms. “He isn’t a man, and neither am I.”
His eyes. Jeoffrey’s eyes flashed warning orange, and Aurelia shook her head, backing slowly away. Of course, she’d known what they were. Her father had spoken of the wolf-men with disgust, but grudging respect for their prowess in battle. Yet something of a blindness, unintentional, perhaps, had come over her when she’d contemplated this journey. While her denial had made her feel safe, she now realized the folly of it. She was alone, in the forest, with wolves.
Jeoffrey’s body, made heavier by the mail he wore, pinned her to the hard ground in half a heartbeat. She gasped for air, then gave up and clawed at him, not breathing but making a hoarse, gulping sound as she pushed and slapped to no avail. His knee pressed between her legs, pinning her skirt to the ground, and as she flailed, she heard the fabric tear. One of the woolen mitts she wore on her hands slipped free, and she sank her fingernails into the skin of his cheek, raking down as hard as she could.
With a roar of pain, he reared back, but only for a moment. As she tried to drag herself backward, he struck her across the face with one metal-plated gauntlet, and blood exploded from her lips, matching the three bright red stripes she’d left on his face. But a second was all she had needed to gain her breath, and with it, her voice. She screamed, shrill terror ringing off every tree in the forest.
The rest of the party returned within seconds, even Raf, crippled as he was. It was he who lifted Jeoffrey from her, flinging him with impossible strength into the side of the cart. The knight crumpled with a sigh of collapsing mail, blood spattered across his tabard.
“Get up!” Raf shouted, dragging her to her feet ungently, by one arm. Aurelia’s head reeled, and she struggled to understand this rough treatment. Did he not see her struggle? She thought to plead with him to see reason, that she had not betrayed his brother, her betrothed, but then she saw the reason for the urgency in his tone. On the far side of the narrow road, Margaret Lackey and Sir Clement stood, brandishing spear and sword, their eyes glowing orange.
“You would harm one of your sworn brothers to protect this mewling cat?” Margaret spat in the dirt. “Your father was right to set you aside. You’re nothing but a coward!”
“She belongs to my brother!” Raf pushed Aurelia farther behind him. “He has bested you both in combat time after time, and you’ve never earned the right to his property.”
“She isn’t a proper woman,” Clement explained patiently, as though Raf were a child to be soothed. “She is a lower being.”
“She belongs to my brother,” Raf repeated. “If either of you wish to challenge him for her, you may do so at the wedding feast. But I am charged with her safety.”
“We could challenge you in your brother’s stead,” Margaret threatened. Aurelia peered past Raf, then regretted it. The fierce woman wore a cruel grin. “Clement, Jeoffrey and I. We could easily cut you down, crippled pup, and all three of us share her.”
Suddenly, the world was upside down, and moving fast. Hanging as limp as a sack over Raf’s shoulder, Aurelia watched as, in a flurry of movement almost too fast to see, Margaret Lackey and Sir Clement shed their clothing and crouched, lean and terrifying, their naked skin rippling in waves of black. Two huge wolves sprang at her, jaws snapping. Another breath and they would be upon her, and Sir Raf, one-legged, limping Sir Raf, could not protect her.
He jostled her on his shoulder, and wind whipped her face as a thick branch snapped backward, knocking back one of the wolves, Clement, if she’d kept things right when the world turned upside down. The wolf Margaret jumped, and Raf whirled, Aurelia flying up and colliding with his back as the wolf yelped. Then, pulling Aurelia over his shoulder to cradle against his broad chest, Sir Raf dropped to the ground and they were sliding, in a cloud of dust and dead leaves, down a steep slope, the end of which disappeared into nothing. Raf did nothing to slow their descent, but held her to his chest tighter with one arm as they flew over the brink. With an arm above his head, he caught a thin ledge of stone from the face of the cliff.
Aurelia did not wish to look down. Far below, the river roiled, white frothing against the dark depths.
“Hold on to me!” Raf shouted over the rushing of the river.
She flung her arms around his neck, even as she begged him not to do what she was certain would come. That they had outrun the wolves was unbelievable; that they could survive the tossing waters was too much to ask.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but she could not ignore the plummeting feeling. It seemed forever before they touched the water’s surface, and then, as the frigid depths enveloped them, not enough time at all. She tried to keep hold of Raf’s neck, then just his cloak, her fingers fumbling on the wet edges of the fur, but the water drove them apart, tore her away in a rapid current that she struggled to climb above. This river ran past her home as but a trickling stream that she had sailed wooden boats on as a child. Now, it offered her no friendly quarter, sweeping her down the banks, farther and farther away from where Raf surfaced, looking about frantically. She gasped for air before the currents pulled down again. Her last glimpse of the world above the water was of the huge, black wolf standing at the cliff’s edge.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Yup. Without the careful edits of one Ms. Shannon Godwin, my original editor at Harlequin, I would have missed out on– and you would have missed out on– the entire Blood Ties series and American Vampire. I wouldn't have written about Bella, or Bill. Or Graf, for that matter.
The same weird turn of events happened when I beganwriting my latest book. This one really is meant to be a historical romance. But when I started it out, Aurelia was in a coach, on her way to meet her new husband Raf, a werewolf and lord of a castle full of his fellow werewolves. For days, I tried to write that book, and every word was a chore. Then, I realized what the problem was. Aurelia wasn't supposed to meet Raf at the castle and fall in love with him. She was supposed to have an adventure with him, and fall in love with him that way. And Raf wasn't the lord of the castle, he was a disinherited son of a lord. Oh, and he's only got one leg.
So, you see, then, how in the process of writing one book, you end up with a completely different one.
BRIDE OF THE WOLF comes out on Wednesday from Resplendence Publishing. It's a book I'm really proud of, and I can't wait to share it with all of you.
Commanded to marry the son of Lord Canis, a powerful ally of her father and King Edward, Aurelia knows she is about to venture into a den of wolves. For the men who live at Blackens Gate are no ordinary men, able to change at will into enormous, bloodthirsty beasts... and as a mere human, Aurelia is a reviled outsider.
When the wolves escorting his brother’s bride to Blackens Gate turn on her, Sir Raf Canis finds himself in the unlikely position of rescuer. After losing his leg– and his place in the pack– Raf refuses to bring himself further shame by failing to deliver the lovely Aureilia. But the innocent maiden proves to be a temptation even he cannot resist.
Within the dark, dangerous forest, a love begins that neither can deny. To protect Aurelia, Raf must betray everything he has come to believe about his life among wolves, and risk death to save the only woman ever to touch his wounded soul.
For a excerpt of this awesome, awesome book, check back here Tuesday. And on Wednesday, you'll get a chance to win a copy for your very own, from author Bronwyn Green, who is very gallantly hosting a giveaway!
Thursday, September 15, 2011
I'd forgotten to put the .com on my email address.
I just wanted you to know what i had to go through to tell you about this absolutely amazing conference opportunity. It's call "I've Always Wanted To Write A Book!", a one-day conference in beautiful downtown Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Here's what's going down: The Grand Rapids Region Writer's Group is a professional organization that I belong to. I'm actually an original member of the group, serving on the first board when it formed as an RWA chapter. Eventually, the group broke away and became a career support group. We have an incredibly high number of published members, including author Bronwyn Green and Sidney Ayers, both who will speak at the conference. One of our goals when we started was to have a conference that would help people who always wanted to write, but never really did for one reason or another.
That's what you'll get at "I've Always Wanted To Write A Book!" 2011. You'll attend panels and workshops on specific genres, time and stress management, and industry tips from published authors, editors, and agent Michelle Grajkowski from Three Seas literary agency, who will also be taking a limited number of pitches.
Oh, and Jacqueline Carey. Yeah, she'll be there, too. She's the KEYNOTE SPEAKER! The woman who created Terre 'd Ange and Phedre and Kushiel and if you have not read her books, I'm sorry, FANGURL TANGENT AHEAD: If you have not read her books and are not currently reading them or planning to, I do not know what you are doing with your life. They are amazing fantasy books and she'll be at this conference, sharing her expertise and experience with you.
And guys. Guys, not to brag, but I'm going to– I, Jennifer Armintrout am going to– give a workshop on how to act professional. You'll have to see it to believe it.
Please, if you are serious about writing and have the dough to spare, check the link out and come party with us. It's going to be so much fun. Registration is limited to 100 attendees, so it's going to be a very intimate, very informative experience. There's an optional friday night GRRWG wine mixer, with some very friendly local writers who are committed to helping other writers.
I really hope to see you there!
Saturday, September 10, 2011
At the time, I lived in my grandparent's spare bedroom, and they were early risers despite being retired. I made a little note and taped it to my door before I went to sleep. "DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, WAKE ME UP BEFORE 10 OR I WILL TURN INTO A PILLAR OF SALT." I knew they had to get up even earlier than usual, because they were going to drive to Indiana to visit relatives. But sure enough, my grandfather ignored the sign and called cheerfully up the stairs at 8:45 am (according to my alarm clock, that seemed to hate me), "Jenny, you want some pancakes?"
I yelled back, "No, I don't want any pancakes. I don't have to be to class until noon. I want to sleep in."
I pulled my blankets over my head and tried to will myself back to sleep, but less than five minutes later, I heard my grandfather's footsteps on the stairs again. "Jenny!"
"I told you I don't want any pancakes please let me sleep for the love of God!" I begged. They're used to my drama.
"Someone drove a plane into the World Trade Center!"
The first thing I thought was, "drove a plane? What an odd choice of words." The second thing I thought was, "I bet this is going to be weeks of congressional hearings about air traffic controller safety." I thought it would probably be something we'd cover in my American Government class.
There was no going back to sleep, so I got up. And this is the part I remember so vividly. I remember walking down the stairs, because that is the last thing I can remember before, as cliche as it is, everything changed. I went into the kitchen, where my grandmother was sitting at the table, watching on the little tv in there as the newscasters, and my grandparents and I, talked about what a horrible accident it was. And then we saw the second plane, and we tried to keep talking about it like an accident, like the people on television still were. But I think, at that time, we knew.
My grandparents called our relatives in Indiana and said they would be late, they were watching "what's happening in New York". We kept watching, and heard the report of the plane hitting the Pentagon. I started thinking of other buildings we would be hearing soon: the capitol, the Sears tower in Chicago, the New York Stock Exchange, the Statue of Liberty. It sounds silly now, knowing how things turned out, but at the time, it seemed like whatever was happening could wipe every city I could think of off the face of the Earth.
On the tv, a reporter stood in front of a fire truck, and behind him, fire fighters jogged together in a big group toward the towers. A few minutes later, the South tower appeared to partially collapse. Then, reports confirmed that it had completely collapsed. I looked at my grandfather and I said, "What happened to all those firemen?"
I watched tv all day that day, from the living room love seat where I would doze off, then wake up, the tv still on. My grandparents, devout Orthodox Christians, cancelled their trip and debated going to church. I don't remember if they went. I do know that in the evening, a neighbor came down and knocked on the door. He was inviting everyone in the neighborhood to come down to his lawn to pray together.
I didn't go pray. I stayed on the couch, watching television, for days. Thinking it was the end of the world. Wondering if we should start locking the doors at night, because the terrorists could come in and kill us in our sleep. The kind of thoughts a twenty-one year old shouldn't have, ones that are more suited for a four year old. I was reduced to a child by my anxiety.
I shook the news paralysis (eventually, I had to go to work). I never shook that fear. No, I'm not still afraid of terrorists coming into my house and killing me in my sleep, but, like many Americans, I don't feel safe anymore. Ten years later, I struggle to explain to my son that "terrorist" didn't used to be a word that got used every single day, and that things used to be different. I think of the fact that both of my children will never know what it was like to live in a time where it didn't seem like anything could touch us.
I don't engage in 9/11 conspiracy speculation, and I'm not interested in discussing how our foreign policy and lack of awareness about ourselves may have hurt us. I've never been interested, because none of it matters. It doesn't matter why, what matters is that it happened. And it is important, for people who witness the events, even just on television, to remember where they were and what they were doing. Not just on 9/11, but the day before. Everyone needs that snapshot of the last time things were okay, because ten years later, it's still hard to accept that it will never be that way again.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
I came to this place last week, taken there by a friend who knew the way. I won't share the directions. There are people who know where to find it, and those people are just the right amount. Twice, I was blessed to enjoy this sacred space alone, and I would selfishly like the place to remain secluded for as long as possible. But if you are determined, you can find someone to drive you out there, on the dirt two-track with holes that will swallow your tires if you're unwary.
A part of the Pictured Rocks coast of Lake Superior in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, it is a mishmash of sandstone cliffs and enormous boulders. The very glaciers that carved the Rocks now slap at the soft cliff faces in the form of the Great Lake herself, a perpetually frigid, temperamental beast that swallows men whole, never to release them.
The underwater boulders sift the currents in invisible patterns. One diver reported being pinned between two of the behemoths, captive to the pull of the waters. But on our first visit, we found only the gentle motion of a lake rolling over in slumber.
In the sunlight, the lazy currents rolled like gold silk, up from the crystalline blue depths. They split apart into sun-kissed lace gliding into a peaceful lagoon, or lapped half-heartedly at the rough cliffs. Where we stood could not be called a proper beach; all sandstone, with slick black algae making footing beneath the water perilous, the only loose sand one could find was in a single pocket beneath the water's edge:
...and on drier ground, where it held onto love tokens from other realms of nature.
Caves shelter birds, bats, people, from the sun that can be unrelenting, but chose that day to be merciful. In a place like this, one feels a true sense of the interweaving of the elements. Earth, air, and water tugging and pulling with each other in a beautiful war, creating each other from their own destruction.
I'd like to tell you that the peace of this scene was repeated on the second day of our visit. There are no photographs of that day; rather than try in vain to capture the scene, the second day I became a part of it. Waves taller than our heads battered us again and again. Always respectful of the force and deadliness of the lake herself, we dared to venture out of our golden lagoon, to step off the the underwater cliff where hip deep water gave way to fathomless depths.
When she'd had enough of us, Superior drove us from her shores with warnings only a fool would fail to heed. We stumbled away, intoxicated by the furious, alien beauty of the place.
These photos are a pale imitation of the true beauty of the place. It almost makes my heart hurt to look at them, because I know I can't share exactly what I felt those two amazing days. With a last look back, I returned to the mortal world, to live to my greatest potential until the time I return.
Friday, August 26, 2011
This is the text of a letter I sent to Bill Schuette's office today, Friday, August 26, 2011. For those outside the state of Michigan or in the state and not following the developments surrounding the Michigan Medical Marijuana Act, Bill Schuette has made it his single-minded focus to undermine the will of the people of Michigan, who voted to legalize the medical use of marijuana in our state. Most recently, he declared the Michigan Court of Appeals decision to uphold the ruling in Michigan vs. McQueen, "a huge victory for public safety and Michigan communities struggling with an invasion of pot shops near their schools, homes and churches." The ruling means that medical dispensaries are made illegal, and patients would have to seek their medication from possibly illegal, dangerous sources.
Dear Mr. Schuette,
I just wanted to offer a hearty and sarcastic "job well done" on effectively obliterating legal marijuana dispensaries in Michigan. Now, instead of getting my medicine from a secure, licensed facility, I can go to a drug dealer! And it will be so awesome when he tries to "up sell" me on illegally begotten Oxy, Vicodin, and Adderall! These dealers sometimes carry guns or other weapons (for their own protection only, I'm sure). These are definitely the kind of people I want to be involved with.
This is your "great victory" Mr. Schuette. Sick people, who are looking into alternatives to dangerous, sometimes off-label or untested drugs, will be immersed in drug culture. True drug culture, with all the dangers inherent when dealing in the illegal drug trade. These are operations that are happening near our "schools, homes, and churches." Just because they don't have a storefront doesn't mean the streets are completely absent of drug crime. Instead of a clean, licensed, safe facility, you are asking patients to monetarily support the illegal drug trade in the event that they cannot receive medication from a licensed caregiver. You, by taking such a hard stance against dispensaries and patients, are supporting the illegal drug trade.
I assume that since you stand firmly against dispensaries, you won't be buying your prescription medications from licensed facilities, either. If you need any kind of drug, from aspirin to Prozac, you'll be going to your friendly neighborhood drug dealer to obtain it. It's only fair, after all. I hope that we can soon also celebrate the removal of Walgreens, Rite Aid, and any other dealer of medications that can be abused from our neighborhoods.
Thanks for keeping us "safe".
Registered voter, proud Michigander
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
The crack was already there when I got there. I don't know who did it, but it wasn't me.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
"Using my own fingers (girl hand) I will dress them or draw them to the character of your liking with a cute face. Like a guy from Paris, or a Vampire, or a cute couple etc. whatever you think of will work! Just tell me what you please, I will send you the picture digitally on fiver and were done! Great as a gift for a friend!
Clearly, I needed her to whip me up a vampire. This is what I asked for:
"let's go with a vampire. As goth and tortured and darkity dark as you're willing."
I mean, if we're going to go vampire, we need something dark and horrid and scary, the stuff that will make a lesser writer (like me) go on antidepressants, according to some. Cheap shot of the day! I win a billion dollars!
What AngeltheArtist sent to me did not disappoint. I present to you, finger vampires:
You can't get much darker than that. I particularly enjoy the x'ed out eyes. Classic.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Imagine my delight when I found GreenLambo, a seller on fiverr.com who, for five dollars, will write anything you want on a piece of paper, stick it somewhere on a green Lamborghini (to my untrained eye, it looks like one of the Gallardos), and send you a picture. Obviously, I needed to jump on this.
The only problem was, my plan for my fiverr.com adventure was to create disingenuous viral hype. How could I justify comparing myself to a lime green Lamborghini? While I'm awesome, I have to say, I've seen a Lamborghini in person before. It was in New York City. My husband, friend Jill and I were standing in front of the statue of Atlas outside of 30 Rockefeller Plaza (doobie doobie daaaah!) when I turned and saw an Astin Martin Vantage parked in front of St. Patrick's Cathedral. As I raised my phone to snap a picture, a blinding white Lamborghini Gallardo Spyder wove through traffic that looked like it was standing still in comparison. The noise it made could only be described as the high, incessant whine of an electric guitar solo in an 80's hair band mixed with the growl of bedsprings as the lead singer of that band got down with his lady love in a frenzied, early-AIDS panic meshing of unprotected sex and the threat of death.
It was a transformative experience.
So, obviously, I couldn't say something in the picture like, "Jennifer Armintrout is cooler than this car." It wouldn't make sense. I mean, the experience I had seeing that car in action, just feet from me, was a religious vision. For a split second I actually had considered jumping into traffic, just for the story. "So you were in the hospital for how many weeks?" "It doesn't matter, it was worth it." I couldn't even say, "Jennifer Armintrout is exactly as awesome as this car," because if i had jumped into traffic and the wounds incurred were fatal, I would have whispered, "I... was... perfect!" like Natalie Portman at the end of Black Swan, that's how amazing this was. I can't live up to that. And I just couldn't stand to stain this guy's fine automobile with a lie.
So, this is what I came up with:
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Not that stuff.
I immediately saw the potential for advertising in this venture. I can pay people to say I'm awesome? That's so much easier than doing it by myself! So, from now on, expect to see a lot more random instances of people saying I'm badass, but keep in mind, I paid them to do so.
Like this handsome young chap here, who I paid five dollars to write a song extolling my many favorable qualities:
Okay, so clearly, this is the best thing ever. My thanks to "Thallett" for doing such a bang up job. If you're feeling blue or totally rad, either way, send him some business. You'd be amazed at how much more awesome your life sounds when set to catchy pop. You can find him Here
Two blog posts in one day? This is MADNESS!
I agree with Ms. Clark. The tweet she references, in which Ms. Hamilton suggests that she welcomes the deep, gothic, darkity dark thoughts that she is plagued with and other people are just, I don't know, not artistic or gothic or deep or what the fuck ever enough to handle them, makes me sick and offended. I'm a writer. I have a mental illness. And I'm not going to go untreated so I can better pour my tortured soul into my stories about vampires and shifters poking each other.
There's another component to those words that suggest that if you're strong, if you're dedicated to your craft, you don't need help to overcome your mental illness. There is already enough stigma attached to mental illness. We don't need to be glorifying it as a gift from the Gods or something. What is this, ancient Rome? Okay, folks, Caesar had epilepsy, he wasn't "touched by Mars" and if he lived today, he would be on medication for it. (I realize that epilepsy isn't a mental illness, but I've been rewatching Rome lately and I can't get out of that mode right now, okay, Vorenus?)
If you're depressed, if you hear voices, if you live in constant fear and you know that it's irrational, please, I urge you, go get help. This isn't directed as Ms. Hamilton, but to anyone who might read this post and have these issues. Going untreated for a serious mental illness is not a badge of honor. It's not an artistic, deeply feeling thing to do. It's self-destructive and selfish, when it affects the people around you. I repeat: do not go untreated because some successful people feel that you can "create" better if you're struggling with these issues.
Please, do go read Naomi's letter, because she's much better at breaking through her rage and channeling it into constructive words, and she hardly uses fuck at all in there, which is why she's more professional than I am. You can read more reaction about this comment from a group known as the LKH_Lashout on LiveJournal: http://lkh-lashouts.livejournal.com/553179.html#cutid1 wherein people who live with mental illness react to those words and the hurt it caused them. It's not pretty.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Counted cross-stitch is probably one of the easiest hobbies on the planet, unless you're my friend Bronwyn Green and you spend ten years working on a Theresa Wentzler project until your husband tells you that you can't cross-stitch anymore because he can't take the stress. There is just something soothing about mindlessly counting and stitching, counting and stitching. Until, you know, you fuck it up and you have to take a bunch of stitches out.
Keeping that last part in mind, I present my very simple first project of this whole "not working" experience:
I plan to cross-stitch several pieces with my favorite 30 Rock quotes on them, and then hang them in my office because my husband expressly forbids me from putting them up anywhere in the house, stating that, "Your nerdness must be contained to your own space. Don't make your nerdness everyone else's problem."
Sage advice. I hung it above the doors in my office, so that the view from my desk is something like this:
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Aww and yeah. Look at all that rainbow-y goodness. These cupcakes are magical. I don't know what it is about eating something that looks like you're having a mild hallucination, but it tasted delicious. As per Ms. Vanili's forward, I used fair-trade ingredients whenever possible. Farm fresh eggs and hand churned, organic butter from the hippie farm. I think it made the cake taste more psychedelic, even if it came out of a boxed mix.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Friday, June 24, 2011
Billy Joel is flawless. He has two Fendi purses and a silver Lexus.
I hear his hair's insured for ten-thousand dollars.
I hear he does car commercials. In Japan.
His favorite movie is Varsity blues.
One time, he met John Stamos on a plane. And he told him he was pretty.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Monday, April 25, 2011
Friday, April 22, 2011
If I sound a little bristly, it's because I think this guy is a fucking scam artist. But I'm apparently in the minority. If you go to CNN's entertainment blog, The Marquee Blog, you'll find a story about Jame's Frey's return to the Oprah show and lots of comments from readers who feel that it was Oprah, and not James Frey, in the wrong during his first appearance on the show. I feel it is my job, nay, my divine duty, to call it like I sees it and tackle one of these comments, a statement that hits every single one of my "Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me!" buttons.