-1-
Enter the Adverb Queen
Daisy trotted into my office then up the small critter ramp that runs from the floor to my desktop (Cats ignore it, they’d rather leap up and give me a heart attack). She began speaking without a preamble.
Continue reading “And a Geep Shall Lead Them by Leila Allison”
“Linda, I’ve something to tell you,”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve got a new boyfriend.”
Continue reading “D.I.Y by Hugh Cron (Adult Content)”
The Struggle
I normally begin writing a weekly wrap with nothing in mind. I start hitting keys and wait for something to pop into my head, which usually happens by the end of the second sentence. As a general method it might be lacking, but for me it works out. But, alas, tonight, I am as empty as a campaign promise. I should have been at “go” two sentences back, yet I’m still a flatliner; but that’s all right, I thrive on pressure.
Continue reading “WEEK 543: The Struggle; the Week That Was; 2025 Playlist”
Super-Selling the Taste of Irritation
I don’t watch TV anymore, but I like to have it on retro MeTV in the other room, overnight. Mannix comes on at 2 AM (currently circa 1973; I’m where I can tell the year by Joe’s coif). Of course the specifics only make sense in America, but I have a feeling that similar channels exist all over the world. Regardless, this is not about old “CTE” Joe, it is about something very disturbing I heard during a commercial break as I was in the kitchen getting coffee.
Billy Mays was hyper selling something. I do not know how much of the globe got the Billy Mays’ super-sell treatment, but in America, I got plenty. He used to be on commercials selling stuff day in and out. I really wasn’t paying attention, so when I heard his familiar voice on the TV I thought no more than I would about seeing a Pigeon in the park–but after a few seconds a headvoice asked:
“Isn’t he dead?”
Indeed. Dead as a Dickens’ doornail. Since 2009. For a moment I thought “Oh, a retro commercial inside a retro TV show” (the mortality rate among Me TV performers is very very high). But, no, it was a recycled ad.
I tried to think about that objectively. Maybe the product (can’t for the life of me remember what for–a glue of some kind, I think) had paid for the ad and held onto it for sixteen years? Seemed unlikely.
Then a different headvoice spoke up. It was familiar, and a rarity because it only speaks when it has something to say. It asked: “What the hell is wrong with people?”
I thought about it. There’s nothing unusual about using dead people to sell stuff. American money is covered with the faces of ghosts–so maybe there is some kind of connection. Yet there was something wrong with seeing Billy Mays, sixteen years dead (cocaine), behaving as though we were all alive together today and that I needed to buy his product. Something not just wrong, but fundamentally wrong.
It wasn’t a lack of respect for the dead; Mays was all about the push, and probably would have loved the idea. It wasn’t about the product itself (yes, a glue of some kind, almost positive). And it wasn’t anything overly offensive in the ad. Yet it was still fundamentally wrong.
Then it came to me. Having Billy Mays (or anyone) sell long after his death was in BAD TASTE.
I returned to my desk and sat there. I stared into my computer screen. Yes, somewhere along the Irene Leila Allison Experience having a dead man sell glue was deemed to be in bad taste. Obviously this was not instilled in me specifically, but as a Fundamental (that word again) Principle, headed Dead People Acting Alive, something like that. Moreover, it should be clear to everyone that such a thing is in bad taste and that…well, is that.
I googled the miserable affair. Sure enough the company wanted to mark its fifteenth anniversary by using the Mays’ ad. Naturally, I do not believe that poppycock* one damn bit. It remains classified as bad taste.
(*Old word of the week.)
I do not think that having a standard of taste is a generational thing. The input should not be able to override the inside system. There should be a safeguard against merrily accepting a dead guy selling glue (almost positive it was glue) because the client was probably too FUCKING CHEAP to tape a new commercial. After all, they are still in business sixteen years later (not fifteen, which is impossible); I’m sure they can afford to make another.
The rare voice asked again: “What the hell is the matter with people?”
I chose to hear it as a rhetorical question that is begging for an answer, but it will not get one because the only people who care to reply think using the ghost of Billy Mays to hawk glue (damn it, glue it is) is a fine thing, respectful of his legacy as a coked-up super salesman. People for that sort of thing yell, the rest mutter helplessly.
Then another voice, slappable, punky, chipped in: “Alright Boomer.”
I reached into my mind and grabbed that voice by the throat and squeezed. “Say that again and you will have spoken your stupid last,” I told it, words seething out due to a vape pen clenched between my teeth. “C’mon, let’s hear it, you dreary little darling, let’s hear it!”
Yes, I have heard ‘Alright boomer’ everytime too many. Only idiots and politicians must use material written for them. But even those guys can wax original when you attempt to crush their voice boxes. Yes, so so so sweet a sound…
But now I have caught myself dreaming of doing such a thing, coming back to the now, empty hands clenching and twisting, instead of writing this wrap. So, with a sigh, I move away from the irritating world and head for the good part.
The Good Part
Here, I’ve gotten into the habit of mentioning the Sunday feature to lead off the week that was. Seems to me that poor Sunday was left out in the cold, so far be it from me to contribute to the desolation of that situation. This past Sunday Geraint Jonathan returned with A Most Unfortunate Accident. Geraint paints a winning portrait of Dostoevsky and the great Russian’s novel in his beautifully flowing essay. It worked on me, since I added the book to my Kindle.
For those of you who missed Arjun Shah’s debut last week, you get a second chance at reading him with his The Rules of Love that opened the regular week Monday. Atjun is able to get a great amount of humanity across in just a few words; he also shows a different culture known to us in the West.
Brandon McWeeney gave us Beetles on Tuesday. It is to Brandon’s great credit that he was able to get such a thing over so easily. A real squirmer, but well worth the read, layered and entertaining.
Sandra Arnold returned on Wednesday with Colour Clash. Sandra’s story is remarkable for both its incisiveness and restraint. There is a contrast of ideas put forward by a brother and sister; the ideas do not match yet neither is wrong.
The Castle’s Walk-in Cooler, the first by newcomer T.C. Barerra is a free trip to the bizarre land of California. T.C. weaves tremendous social examination with cynical humour and under-riding sadness, that is actually at the surface, for people who look at other people, and comes up a winner.
Friday brought What Matters by Shivani Sivagurunathan. Like Sandra there is beauty and restraint. And there’s tremendous courage and strength in the MC, Didi, whose reactions remind me of Nora’s in Ibsen’s A Doll’s House. Beholding your own reflection is the second hardest thing to do. Doing something about it is harder.
There we have them, six writers from four continents, two genders, various ages and diverse POV’s; all met in high quality and GOOD TASTE.
A List
We all have our bugaboos when we try to write. I do it every day, and yet I must overcome several obstacles that often make me want to quit and fade even further into nothingness.
Mine are:
Nothing relevant here, just something silly and cheerful…
Leila
I noticed that many species of male birds have low self esteem. Your basic Lady Pheasant is a sensibly attired person while the gent is as garish and loudly dressed as a grand opening of a supermarket.
Have a look at this fellow, a gent Ring-necked Pheasant named Ralph Beeker.
Ralph lives a short distance from me and I assume he is a pet since he is always in the same yard, and I’ve seen him plenty. Here, perhaps not his greatest moment, Ralph is giving the beak to his reflection in a tail light. So, all the wild colours might be necessary in aiding him to find a mate, since intelligent conversation is likely off the table.
And this guy (just down the road from Mr. Beeker) is a Northern Flicker Woodpecker. I call him Big Ed. At the time of the picture, he was up there jack-hammering the metal gutter to let the lady Flickers know that Big Ed is back in town and he’s ready to experience the miracle of love. He is a bird of perhaps false bravado. Anyone who has not heard a Woodpecker drum on a gutter or chimney cap, I can tell you it is hell loud. Football helmet designers should pattern their wares after the unknockoutable noggin of the Woodpecker.
Take the Bird of Paradise (I’ve never seen one in person, but I have seen the clips that most of us have seen at one time or another in our life’s journey spent mostly watching YouTube). The female is a pretty and tastefully turned out bird, while the male is a loud fashion disaster who has never met a bright color he can turn down. These guys are all strut and hard sell. If the male Paradise could get his wings on pyro, he’d use it. Nothing is too crass for him. He is a Kiss concert come alive.
Something tells me that the Lady Paradise Birds have fun with this and that they are more impressed with how far the guy will go to make a fool of himself rather than looking for a Mr. Right to sweep her of her talons.
I forgot to mention Elliot of the header. He usually goes for the direct approach and chases girls as they try to separate seeds from cigarette butts on the sidewalk. A Human being would get scolded, but it is normal Pigeon behaviour, and I doubt that a Pigeon can conceptualize “dinner and a date.”
Still, there is far more dignity in Elliot’s actions than there was in a human one I saw unfold at the park a Sunday or so back.
There was a couple in the park’s parking lot looking under the hood of their car. People all around. Kids everywhere. The woman was an obvious meth addict (no PC there, anyone who can’t tell a meth addict after having one shown to her is either headless or painfully stupid). She was twitchy and had that fast-forwarded face and voice similar to Pazuzu from The Exorcist. I wanted to feel pity for her but at some point a person must stand up and prove she wants to be alive.
The guy was apparently not an addict, looked younger, maybe twenty-three. And he was a punk. Not as in the style (he was one of those skinny wannabe jerks whose pants were down to his knees) but punk as in a guy who needs his ass kicked profoundly and often. (And he had eyes like those of a Sardine.)
This ritual ensued:
Woman: “Sorry babe…musta broke it”
Punk: “You [are] incompetent, bitch! You [are] stupid bitch!” (That’s how he spoke, like Tarzan, “You useless Jane!”)
Woman: “Heyheyhey!!!”
Punk: “You [are] pointless bitch!”
Woman: Something loud and unintelligible.
As you might guess the people in the park heard all this because it was shared at an extremely loud volume. Verbal abuse only, but you sensed it could go even more wrong. As anyone who has ever stupidly tried to get between a couple fighting in a tavern can tell you, trying to be the “Hero” in that situation is a very bad idea. The “victim” will rip into you, due to (in this case) her “training.” It’s best to drop a dime. Which is exactly what happened because a patrol car drove in and a very large policeman and equally capable policewomen had a visit with the quarrelsome twosome. The punk’s attitude changed swiftly, as it does with phony loud noises wearing Raider’s gear–all yessir, yessum. The woman just stood there (I assumed she had been taught not to say shit when he was talking) perhaps praying that they would not check for wants and warrants.
So, if anyone ever wants to know why I spend more time writing about animals than people, let the above serve as an example. Quite often it is demoralizing to observe the human race. Even dim Ralph Beeker can see that.
But lucky us! We get to move on to better things, written by people who have higher aims in life than making fools of themselves.
I am extolling six again this week. Two are written by long time friends, another by a recently acquired friend of no small talent and three by outstanding newcomers to the site.
The Sunday rerun was Michael Bloor’s Jack o’ Diamonds. It’s a rare and heartwarming thing that isn’t cloying or superficial. Mick has one of the best commands of plain language I’ve ever read and he uses his talent beautifully.
Robert Stone was the first of our new contributors. Prize. Humour is usually the kiss of death around here. But Robert’s story of “what would I do if…” is a fine bit of whimsy aided by wit and a likeable narrator. Makes you consider the possibilities and downsides of having your own large weapon.
Christopher Ananias has certainly been on a roll since first submitting to us last year. The Campground Dog is another of his tales that objectively explores lives that are not usually written about, unless in a stereotypical and/or mean fashion. It’s a tough read, but most serious pieces are.
Wednesday gave us Fallen by Northern Pike. You get a creature, two dangerous guys weapons and mistakes galore in this bit of action. The key here is its tremendous pace and how the writer delivers the storyline without bogging things down.
The Wheelbarrow Man of Hastings Street is longtime contributor and commenter, Harrison Kim’s thirty-fifth story in LS. Like Christopher, Harrison also writes well and honestly about people who have been called many things over the years–from riff raff, hobos, bums to street people. If an alien species ever lands here, they might ask us about the situation and we will not have a good answer. But maybe reading the works of people like Harrison (and Mr. Ananias) will shed some light on the question.
We closed the classy part of the week yesterday, with the publication of White Horse by Kate Mole. This is a wonderful bit of work that takes the reader to Cornwall (a place that is the focus of most of Kate’s writing). It also dips into the history of one person and comes together beautifully. Being an American who has never been to Europe, I imagined Cornwall as something out of the film Rebecca. All cliffs and thundering waves. But Kate has done something to ease my ignorance on the topic, which is a high aim for a writer!
This week’s list is about plot hitches in (mainly) films and TV that have always bothered me. As always there is room for many many more. It stemmed from again wondering about the seventh item in the following list. These are various mental toe stubbings that I’ve yet to get out of my mind.
Leila
It was close to midnight and the diner was empty of customers when headlights swung into the parking lot. They whipped in fast, off the county highway and Dana heard the squeal of brakes on the gravel out front. She looked up from behind the counter and peered through the window. A man and a woman climbed out of a dark sedan. They looked to be in their mid to late forties and were bundled up in winter coats and mufflers, the woman carrying a big fancy leather purse.
Continue reading “To The Bone by John Whitehouse”
He sat on his usual bench at the top of the hill, a wooden seat framed by wrought iron, perfectly positioned under the spreading shade of an oak tree. From this vantage point, the extensive park rolled away in green waves, stretching toward the river winding lazily through a neighbourhood of opulent estates. Grand homes, hidden behind walls of clipped hedges, exuded an air of quiet affluence, while two nearby mansions stood conspicuously empty, their owners absent for years. He often marvelled at the indulgence of leaving such places untouched—silent monuments to wealth and those who had far more of it than they needed.
Continue reading “Park Bench by Ameer Toor”
Naming Stuff
I like interesting titles. Now, these are not items to be confused with lying “clickbait” nonsense, but titles of books, movies and songs that stray from the norm. Often, as is the case of the cheap 60’s Spaghetti Western God Forgives, I Don’t, the item fails to live up to the title (but, to be fair, it is an interesting little film regardless). And sometimes certain interesting titles almost guarantee a good picture. The two Sergio Leone “Once Upon a Time…” films are classics, as is Quinton Tarantino’s exceptional Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. There is also one called Once Upon a Time in Mexico that I’ve heard good things about (starring Johnny Depp and Penelope Cruz, both excellent performers), yet I’ve somehow yet to see it (I hope to fix that someday soon).
Continue reading “Week 528: What’s in a Title; The Votes Are In and Genre Overkill”
The Dead Zone by Stephen King
1979
The Dead Zone was the first SK novel I ever read. The first book of his that I read, given to me by a neighbor, was a short collection called Night Shift. Lots of good stuff there, my favorite being Gray Matter. It made me double check my beers for a long time.
Continue reading “Writers Read: The Dead Zone by Stephen King”
Swordfish laid out in the supermarket, next to tuna steaks and mackerel. Marlin, the guy behind the counter offers, wiping bloody hands on his white jacket. Mussels laid on a bed of samphire. You can almost taste the salt. Call me Ishmael. A wide Sargasso Sea. Wind over waves. Barnacles on the hulls of schooners, where a man could be keelhauled. As it happens, I’m shopping for other things. Breakfast cereal, yoghurt, pineapple, white wine. The list written out on a scrap of cardboard torn from a tissue box. So, yes, move on.
Continue reading “Swordfish by Graham Mort”
literally stories 