Z is for Zombie

Really? Is there any more fitting way to end this? I mean, for reals, "Z?"

Of course, for me, it's going to be zombies.

And I can never explain it, that fascination.  I will admit, as of late, my interest has been wanning. I mean, seriously. I've been such an avid watch of The Walking Dead. But this season? I gimmicks kept coming and coming it was less about creativity and more about broadcasting 101. I remember hearing about how soap operas only got interesting before a commercial.  Made sense, so you'd not walk away. But their storylines were in the 100s and they were always evovling.  TWD? Look, three "almost deads" in six weeks!

And then they did it as a season finale.

After a much ballyhooed exit from the season that promised an hour and half of the show. I later realized, it was the same fifty minute program, stretched out over commercials. Yeah, broadcasting 101. Not only that, the commercials! The same ones! Over and over! Like we're idiots!

I seriously contemplating leaving the show. I constantly end days at Disney World on Sundays to race home and make dinner so I can watch it, since we're a bit too cheap to actually have DVR. But we figured it was okay, given I had to get up at the crack of dawn every morning as it was the next Monday.

As this tirade does attest, I like me some zombies. I mean, I just started whining about commercial television.

I had heard, once, that during times of GOP dominance, vampire movies reign. And when Dems are in control? Zombie movies. Now, that doesn't go so far into my belief system, but I kinda giggle at the thought process behind it. And, yes, the craptacular "Twilight" tales did really get some traction during the Bush tyranny.  So that could mean something. Look at the symbolism. Night creatures that suck the livelihood out of normal humans:  GOP and their ideals.  Zombies? Blind followers who don't think things through under an unknown agenda.

LOL. Seriously.

My love for the horror genre of "zombies" comes from the great Night of the Living Dead. Saw it when I was in high school, still in black and white, a late night rental. I used to actually work on Saturdays nights, when things like renting movies were popular in the 80s and it made sense to me. I didn't have to go on dates like all the straight folk. I could be alone with the movies that fascinated me. If my mother was going to be home I tried to find something wonderfully black and white and written about, expanding my mind on the classics-a boon with her ongoing narration. This night, she elected to go to bed early and so I hit up the nightmare of a monster movie.

It struck a cord with me. Given my horror movie chops, understand, I cannot, possibly, swallow disaster movies. They freak the living heck out of me, for some reason. 2012 sent me into spasms. Even the beauty that is the Dwayne Johnson in San Andres, no matter how tempting, could not draw me in.

I even tried to author a screenplay for an Earthquake movie that would be in 3-D and on Imax. Even that gave me the whoozies.

However, this little zombie movie, about one horrific night during a zombie outbreak struck a cord. It almost reminded me of a play, the way it worked itself out. The tale of a single farmhouse were survivors were trying to get through the night. Of course, it was a microcosm of the world; single woman; African-American gentleman; nuclear family; old school farmer with many guns. The symbolism was palpable, but due to the onslaught of potential violence, even in an underground movie from 1968, kept it from becoming overt.

Like Psycho, the movie cut new ground with certain realities that hadn't been shown on screen before, making this a cult film before the critics really got a good hard look at it. The dead were shown as our forgotten folk, the first to suffer from this 'affliction' and people no one would acknowledge. Homeless people who had died in the cold of the night and such. Also? The first body seen has his clothes merely strapped on in the back. No one to that point had realized that, when rigor mortis had set in, clothing is difficult to place on the body, so it's usually just laid across and strapped across the back.

In fact, this becomes a point in the film. Most of the dead cannot move quickly because of this, a fatal flaw that leads to wonderful dramatic tension. You have time to fight as they advance. Leaving long periods of the audience saying things, like, "aw, fuck, DO SOMETHING."

Grant you, time flew and eventually, they moved quickly, if they were 'newly dead.'

They made a wonderful sequel, Dawn of the Dead, where the Dead, having finally consumed so much of the population, basically went to mall, because they were wired to do that, socially congregate. More delicious symbolism. SIDENOTE: There's an awesome remake, too, of course, they go there because there's survivors. And, yes, those survivors make up a composite of humanity.

There's also a really cool book, Monster Nation, by David Wellington, that even elaborates more for the zombie ideal. Those zombies just seek LIFE, and will eat anything LIVING. They even start to eat grass at one point, because it's the only life-sense. It's actually kinda cool how the concept works. There's sequels, but I found the originality is really only held to that first tale.

I also totally devoured the book World War Z, because, like Orson Welles' famed War of the Worlds, it's told through news reports and paperwork about the zombie attack. What's better? They made a movie that was loosely based on the book and it was just as good, using the same ideals from the literature.

Yes, I like zombies. Seeing them on television, well, that's been a short lived boon, but a boon, nonetheless. I think it's a wonderful way to see the world. Heck, I think I see zombies every day. Have you see the Tea Party? Brainless brain-eaters? Have you see the GOP? Talk about mindless....

....and, well, I guess that little saying about zombies being seen during the dem years might actually go the other way, too.

Sleep with your lights on.

AND????

That's it. That's the end of the month. I did it and I survived, even with sweltering fevers and the flu, I made it through the month. I give myself credit, yes, I can, if I want to, live the author's life. I don't think I want to do it daily, but I can. I might be more motivated if I were getting payment for it, other than kudos-which are deliciously rich, but doesn't put bacon on the table, as it were. Tonight is Beltane, tomorrow the symbolic first day of spring and it's rebirth. I think I like what I've accomplished here and I think I need to keep writing. Not daily, but weekly. I'll try to give it a go and see what's happening. If I can do it nightly, why couldn't I do it weekly? 

We'll see. Thanks for the notes and the kudos. 

Please, KEEP WRITING.

Peace!

Y is for Youth

Kids!? What's a matter with kids today!

Recently, there was a rash of fights breaking out at a local high school. I'm going to keep mum on the location for privacy issues, but, needless to day, the argument from the meeting?

"It's the parents fault!""

"It's social media!"

I was struck by the familiarity of the situation. It's like I was in the 70s when I heard about how "MUSIC!" was making kids do drugs. Or, even today, where my pastor just posted about the evils of porno.

That's an easy fix. With the amount you can get for free on the internet-the numbers don't really add up, but that's just me.

It's always a complaint about kids today and, how, when the current adults were kids, they didn't have these issues.

We make fun of texting, " Whr R U?"

But, really, "Y'all" was a shortened way of saying "you all."

And, really, how far is this:

From this:

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

People will complain, but, rarely, will they accept the changes necessary to keep today's youth out of trouble. The fact is, there are a great many dangers in the world; there always was. But in today's immediate access, those dangers are delicious headlines that are splattered all over the screens and talked about by teachers over the water coolers. Kids hear these dialogues, and aren't really happy to begin with. 

The one school shooting is profiled over the lower gun rates. What to people and, especially today's youth hear? But adults can pick and choose. An unformed brain doesn't have that ability and it sucks. 

So we yell about the kids. 

Do we turn off the media? No. We educate about it. We balance it. Cause they want it. 

I mean, look at the picture above. 

I love the phrase, "Youth is wasted on the young," and never before has this been more evident. They're missing out on being a kid. We need to put that back, somehow. Change schools from being testing machines and places where learning, even social learning is positive with dances and art, as well as basic skills and access to higher learning for those who want it. 

X is for Crossovers

Seriously. Think about it. X. What the fuck goes with X? I mean, I could write about porno, but that wouldn't be very good without pictures.

Ya know what I mean?

But, let's face it, I will always be an entertainment writer and here is something I can actually sink my canines into.

Cross (the "X" part, get it?)overs.

When I was in high school and fancied myself a possible future filmmaker, I would wonder, out loud, why my precious comic books hadn't been snatched up. They have prewritten, mulitple storylines; vaguely familiar characters; and a crapload of action.

Of course, I would counter myself. Special effects would have to be out of this world, origin stories, and youth culture. Surely, the penetration of the superhero genre would be huge, from elementary to fanboys in their fifties, but it would have to be, like Star Wars caliber.

Up to that point, Superman was really our only successful superhero movie, and rightfully so. The story was massively flimsy, surely, but the actors were all taking it seriously, and, yes, they invested everything into making the flying look as good as it could get.

Time flies and I'm an adult with a blog.

Thank you Disney, for proving this little author correct.

Last month, we were treated to Batman v Superman and, next week, Captain America:  Civil War.

Proving, again, that no one actually listens to me.

No wonder I find hope in working with the Deaf.

But the part I pointed out in the late 80s?

Multiple storylines. The fact is, there's money to be mad in fan-boy-ism. The drawback, however, can be seen in Trekkies.

These are not stupid people. If they were? Their addictions would be drugs and alcohol. Instead, if anyone's noticed, these are highly qualified professionals with slight (and, many times, not so slight) expendable cash. They read books. They scan the internet. Star Trek movies may sometimes suck, but they'll go and post about it and discuss it.

But such intelligence means family and lack of time for vice. They want to see the movies, surely, to keep up on their fan-boy-ish-ness (that was a mouthful), but they're not going to waste money on another Batman and Robin, no matter how gay they are and it having George Clooney.

So if you make sequels and crossovers, they have to have a reason to exist, other than the profoundly obvious-to give studio exes another house in Mexico.

The reason this is on my brain is the latest bit on the interwebs. There's a crossover story coming from Disney, called A Star Wars Story:  Rogue One. The rumors are delicious, regardless of their validity. It's a tale that runs parallel to the original Star Wars, taking people like me back to those wonderful moments of discovery from the seventies and early eighties. Get this, an entire movie based on the line in Star Wars, "a great many spies died to get this message to us." (sic)

The movie might have Darth Vader and is a mediation on those spies. It might even contain the TIE fighter pilot who clips ole Darthy's wing in the final seconds.

And it has eye level AT-ATs attacking the Yavin base from Star Wars.

Crossover joy, right there.

Crossovers are fine. Sequels are fine. But, take us places we've not gone. It's what I love about Disney. Monsters Inc? Fuck it, let's do a prequel..about them in college with Monsters U!

Creative.

But here's the thing.

Bury it. Don't make it look like a plain old money grab. Look at the trailer for Rogue One. Every. Dollar. On. The. Screen.

W is for the Writing Life

The experiment is almost to a close.

See, this was a bit a different than NaNoWriMo, wasn't it? I have about, what, three more days of this? And I wanted to see if I could do it. Really, just do it. Sorta like running a marathon and coming in number gazillion and fourteen. But, I was there, ya know? Everyone climbs Mount Everest. Tell me the last guy who climbed it. See? Not important to us immediately. But for that woman or man? The world. Just to stand there, realizing we're basically nothing on this earth and there's no oxygen left, but, for that one individual who put the time in and climbed all the way up? It was everything for them.

I looked at this challenge several times. But, here, let me back up. This NaNoWriMo (see earlier posts), I finally finished my darn book. The tic was, of course, it was my seventh, but the first one I really enjoyed writing and plotting out. The first one that I thought I might have a future with. So that means, for seven Novembers prior, I wrote and looked like an unclean toilet.

I consider those warm up runs.

Heh. "Runs" and I made a toilet metaphor. I crack me up.

I've never really done this whole Blogging from A-to-Z bit and this was the first time, or seems to be, the first time I've actually carried through to the (almost!) end. I think that's vital-probably moreso than the result that you see before you. The goal was to see what writing everyday and posting every day resulted in.

Basically, I lived the Writer's Life. And, now this month has begun to draw to a close, I can put up some observations I've collected. I've always wanted to live a Writer's Life. Quit this working shit and just sit at my desk, and, well, author away, corgis at my feet, coffee and tea only steps away--and a reason to keep that blasted kitchen clean.

Some observations:

1.  I can write at home. I can. When I lived in Colorado, I could, too, because, well, blizzards. It kept blizzard. So we set up one of the spare rooms as writer's pad, complete with corgi bed and desk facing the window. This also became the place where I gave out my first interviews over the phone for a possible job. Yes, fond, fond memories. However, our space here in Florida is wonderfully minuscule. But I can author on the patio in basic comfort, just shushing my husOtter's inks, brushes, paints to the side. But it was difficult. I developed a horrible case of the flu, so I could not just vamoose to my favorite java hut. I had to find a way to stop coughing and tough it out. It can be done. And I noticed it takes up less time.

2.  Momentum. I stockpiled the first few articles, but I noticed that if I miss one day writing SOMETHING, I'll miss more than one. And, yes, editing, to some extent, keeps your relationship to your authorship-but the momentum has to be maintained for consistency in the author's voice. The more frequently you write? The more the verbage stays the same. I know, that sounds kinda like a killer, that consistency is the death to all good art, but that's not what I'm addressing here. I noticed it moreso during the NaNoWriMo, as the characters can stay more consistent. But here? When it's my "voice?" Even that becomes a character here on the blog and I have to maintain it's presentational aspects.

3.  Tea and coffee work the same. Actually, I found, since I was writing at home, I tended to get into a terrible rhythm that maintained poor posture and heavy panting. Water. Coffee. Tea. It forces you to break, turn your head, sip and shake the muse a bit.

4.  Fiction and nonfiction come from different parts of the brain. I journal for myself, not for others, daily. Just my thing to reflect on the day. It's not for others consumption, heck, I don't even reread it myself. But to publish something, daily, in a forum such as this? That's a whole different ball game. I realized, well, I must be boring. I noticed repetition on ideals and philosophies which are wonderful if you're proving your a fellow Democrat, but lousy in terms of trying to keep a writer engaged in the same message on a different day. Fiction? One character, ongoing. Easy. And if I sour of them? I kill them off. Horribly. Here? Not an option.

5.  The Censor lives on. On social media, I tend to censor myself, muttering to myself about the stupidity of my fellows on the their various pages. I have to, not so much because society dictates I do, but because, frankly, I go there to relax. I'm not in the mood to argue with people who define themselves as friends-but who still might be slightly misaligned-and keep them as such. That means keep the apple cart pretty steady and having convivial chats about fart jokes. And it's easy. privacy is a breeze, if you want it to be. Then there's here? I've learned to turn off the censor in my head for creative writing...in fiction. But not so much on the nonfiction side. I have to learn how to be able to let the words fly and land where they may, as it were. Strangely, I have no problem doing this with movie criticism and literary criticism. After all, I doubt I'll ever meet those movie stars and published authors. Here? That's a different game. But if they're smart enough to read this blog, they're smart enough to handle the truth. I jsut have to be willing to turn that little switch in my noggin and just be direct.

There. Some observations from this past month. Enjoy? Peace....

V is for Villains

My MOUSE DIED AND I CAN'T SEEM TO HANDLE IT...so there should be a big V logo RIGHT HERE!!!!!!

Since this, well, a blog about writing and writing more, I'm sad to point out this moment and the next will focus on just that.

My passions.

Still, I cannot help thinking that such discussion about the craft of my art really does have an appeal beyond my fellow authors. I know crap about music, but, with the passing of very incredible Prince, I've been really getting into his process as an creator of some of the better tunes of the past few decades.  My brother once had a biography on Frank Zappa and I chowed that puppy down.

So, the process does define the individual in a manner that I don't think we readily realize. I believe it is because not everyone can create. We feel inadequate, since we've not written that third Great American Novel and we're petrifed that we'll discover that there's no magic bullet, no special "thing" that causes awesomeness.

It's kinda what I've always believed. We're already awesome. The spotlight hasn't found our corner of stage left yet. Just after this next big number.

I have a feeling, due to the limited vocabulary utilizing the letter V, I have a feeling we'll all be reading a bunch of "villain" commentaries today.

Wait. Vocabulary starts with a V.

Aw fuck.

Go with this, Roo, go with it.

As an American kid, our first taste of villainy tends to be of the Disney variety (another V word...good thing I don't always think about vaginas...).  Very clear cut. It's pretty obvious. They wear black, they sneer. They speak in low tones. I won't point out the killing part, because, many times, the heroes do pretty much the same.

But it helps the formative mind understand the tropes as they get to adulthood.

When they learn that Elphaba, the Wicked Witch of the West, really was a good person who was treated badly. But such complexity let's hold off for a bit, here, folks.

Also, we should point out, in those training narratives to young minds, villains are not the McGuffin. They are not the thing the story seems to be about. They are the antagonist, who make the protagonist's journey so much more difficult getting to...well, whatever.

I have to point this out, because there's a learning curve. Kids see movies like Star Wars and think Kylo Ren is kinda cool. They don't realize the full potential of the viciousness (another V word) before them...yet.

And that's okay.

For myself, as I author, I tend to start with the bad guy.

Safe to say, I loved Darth Vader. And I knew Cruella DeVil before she took over the drag show over at Parliment House in Orlando. These were my peeps, if I may.

Cause they had rough childhoods? Sometimes. But their journey, almost always parallel to the protagonist's, always ends up in separate away place. Reading Dracula, I felt sorrow, knowing that love can truly destroy a person; I read Magneto and understood his angst angst a society that did nothing while his family was killed.

And that's where I start most of my fiction. A bad person that didn't set out to be that way. Where did they go wrong?

And why won't they sit quietly?

And this goes for tales that you wouldn't expect. Love is elusive, it's inherent. It can be, very much so, an antagonist. But why does it elate some and make others so bitter? Ahhhh, yes, there's the rub, is it not?

I was sad when the famed fictional serial killer was explained in the novel, Hannibal.  All my readings on serial killers was thrown out the window. Up until that point, he had filled a gap. A good man who just was-bad. Luckily, it was buried in some of the best writing and plot development that Thomas Harris could create, but the villainy was gone. In it's place was a victim (another V word) who behaved very badly.

By eating his victims? It's a stretch, but it's there.

My point being, there's a moment in our lives as we grow up when the Disney villains, and ourselves, realize the horrors of the real world and the narrative changes for the characters we read, watch, and love, as well as, for ourselves. Seeing the vileness (another V word) of teen age angst acted out in high school hallways, the potential for evil is born into every one. Horror movies (good ones, at least) become popular for most youth as this concept of villain bursts into our consciousness.

Yeah, it did to me too. I just never let go.

Villains are the place were all stories start for me and for all of us.

Now, there's a trend that I do enjoy, however, lately.

Superhero movies.

It's like those Disney animated films, all over again.

And it's reflecting a change in popular culture, if not the culture itself.

These villains seem clear and obvious and very much jsut being bad because it looks good in the costume. On an aside, Bond used to be like that, but have been so absorbed into fabric of society, that's not the case. His villains reflect a more personal concern than ever before, but it's something I've also noticed. But Marvel's cast?

We're looking at their heroes also coming into their own...by fighting each other. Yes-the true villain is ourselves.

How delicious of a tale is that? Try giving yourself a black eye. Or tickling yourselves.

Villains are vital (dang, another V word), but a necessary evil, as it were. Even if it's a twister. Or a lost dog. A dead dreams. Or past decisions.

Start there. The story writes itself.

U is for Unknown

First ghosts and now the...Unknown?

I had another post prepped, yes, just like the letter "S," but the fact was, it gave too much away. I can't have you figuring out everything about my life, really. Those who know me, know me; those who don't-well, they can figure out much by just reading this brief collection of authorship. But the fact is, I need y'all not to know who I am at all. I need to write as faceless as possible. My personality, well, that's a person and, as such, even if I don't like it, has certain expectations.

I look at this way.

Are you aware your parents have sex?

*shudders*

We censor ourselves in front of our parents. And we pray that they never have the nerve to be open in front of us. I have no urge to elaborate on my favorite positions in front of MotherUnitPrime. Heck it still takes me some time to come out of the proverbial closet with my being gay with people I don't know. In today's day and age, it's sorta a non-issue (unless, for some reason, you live n the Carolinas or the Deep South...they are deeply obsessed with gay sex and bathrooms) worldwide, but I still find that old wounds cut deep and I have pause, preferring to keep that part of me, well, Unknown.

And, that's okay. See, in show biz, we have a saying.

Always leave them wanting more.

Heck, when I write, even here, I try to stop somewhere at a good point, only to pick it up later, and start running. Leaving that void open, ahh, yes, that's where the good stuff is. I do it with strangers. When I need a character, I just look up at the coffeeshop and start being creative. Use the necklace, the lack of the wedding ring, the age, the hair style, the mismatched socks. Their Unknown becomes the tale before I even realize it.

Yes, very much like Sherlock Holmes.

I think, in the end, this is why I love, so much, the dark. I love the spooky stuff, like the ghosts. Like the mind readers. Like the Cthulhu.

All of those things have a limitless boundary which let's the real life imagination run wild just as much as our inner child. When we hear that creak when we're home alone, our imagination runs rampant. Besides the fact that the odds of us having an intruder are nil, the house is locked up (we checked), the cat is by your feet, and you're holding a gun....our primal brain immediately searches for the light.

When consistent evidence is the exact opposite.

I laugh on the inside. My friend's companion had to go to church because someone with tan skin stopped by the sanctuary and asked the address so he could picked up.

The Unknown took over. The terrorists were coming. Imagination is very, very exciting.

Trans people have never, ever attacked someone in the bathroom, rarely do pervs dress as women to get a glimpse of women in the bathroom. Research and reality back this up.

But, dang, makes a good story to make a law out of. Fuck finding jobs or raising the minimum wage. Better to work with the Unknown, drag it out over weeks with press conferences and then the session will be over and we don't have a lick of work ever to do.

I get it. I don't always like to do work.

The fact is, it's amazing how the unformed, the dark, and the fears of brain make terrific fodder. As Fox Mulder stated, "I want to believe." Because if he didn't, if we didn't even try, there'd be no season two.

The Unknown has been kind to us writers. Even basic human emotions, still an enigma to all humans, are basically unknown. Romance? Countless books on how to woe and win, yet everyone still seems to scramble. Because if we figured it out, fuck, it'd not be too interesting, now would it?

I'm thinking about this as I'm about to probably embark on authoring romance. And it'll be so similar to a horror tale, I'm thinking, in presentation.

I'm not too sure, however, since it is mostly Unknown to me.

T is for Tea

I never liked tea as much as I liked coffee. Really, when I look back, I remember my first sips of coffee and couldn't figure out why all my other elementary friends were making all frowny faces over the magic elixir.

To me, it tasted like strength.

I was so into it, I remember I would drive to Denny's or Village Inn and just sit at the counter, read my variety of paperbacks and magazines, sipping black, dark, coffee. No milk.

The waitress had never seen a teenager like me. Which was weird, because in all of my reading of college cultures, coffee was de rigeur. Eventually, the Cherry Creek Mall opened a Gloria Jean's and it was just as wonderful, but there was no place to sit and sip, like a bar.

Little did I know that coffeehouse culture was here long before there was a Starbuck's, and it was a matter of time before I connected with it.

But my relationship with tea came as a fluke. The fact was, well, I couldn't make coffee in elementary school. Nope. That huge Mr. Coffee machine was a small altar to the MotherUnitPrime, and she would come back from some various show, make-up so caked it looked like Halloween, and she'd pretty the beast and saunter off to bed. I could sometimes sip the last remnants after she was done in the morning, but that would be a time ago.

Boiling water and mixing it with the Sanka she had was equally a nightmare.

Apparently, old tea keeps. So? I'd boil water and taste what was next to Sanka in the pantry.

And Honey Vanilla Chamomile became my mistress to my coffee spouse.

My next bitch was hot Indian Chai with soy milk.

I had been adopted into coffee culture-and I learned that tea's past was just was wonderful.

I know when I head to London, I'll be totally fine with the habit of afternoon tea and scones.

I only bring this all up because I'm ill right now. A horrible flu is teaching me who to write under the greatest of duress.

I hate water as it is, believe it or not. It is massively bland, and if you add anything to it, it loses its value.

Unless you add tea or coffee. Zero calories, all the power needed.

Now there is very little I miss from Colorado. My friends there, long since having betrayed several aspects of my life, still are housed there, but seem to miss every trying to reconnect; my family is, well, my family. As every day arrives, I like Colorado just a smidgen less. Which is weird, given so much of my life has been spent there. I lost my accent there. I came out of the closet there. I learned what love was while I was living there. I learned my current concepts of career were in Colorado. You'd think that I'd have some love left for the place.

I do.

Celestial Seasonings. Buncha hippies were dancing around a field in Colorado, looking for weed, but, instead, found some rare tea plants. A tiny business empire was born. THey have a micro factory just outside of Boulder and it is hilariously wonderful, filled with new flavors and old standards. A trip into the "mint" room will clear your sinuses for 8 to 10 days. It's glorious. And when I moved to Florida, I knew it was one of the few things I'd still request for.

MotherUnit obliged. And also sent coffee.

Truly, if that was all I ever needed.

S is for Stars

I had originally intended for this post to be a brief review, something I never really did, for the fantastic movie, Star Wars: the Force Awakens. However, as I am setting to compose this title, I received the tragic news of the passing of the great Prince, an icon in music for all the right reasons.

I felt it was necessary to add my song to the chorus of sorrows that rattle over the landscape of social media, I, too, am quiet blue. I took an advertising and mass media class way back when in college, long before there was a Tweet on the horizon, and was always impressed with the idea that companies pour so much money into getting a product out there, when, in the end, you never know how well it works unless you trap people in polling places and interview them.

Or you get more business.

Artists are a crazy lot. Michael Jackson, for all of his wachidoodle-ness, was an artist. Yes, he made more money than the Gross National Debt, but that was not his intent.

He wanted to dance. And sing.

And, apparently, be free to practice stupidity.

Prince Nelson Rodgers died this morning, at the age of 57. Now that I’m married to a 50 year old, suddenly that number isn’t too far away in the world I experience. Details are forthcoming, but I am saddened by this news. His “Purple Rain” was one of the first pieces of vinyl I ever purchased, at Target, for my newfangled record player (it had a cassette player!). His music emerged, as did his persona, as MTV grew. An intense man, he kept to himself and played the game very differently than others. He never had a drunken fueled night of debauchery. He never once was called out on infidelity. He used to his cash wisely and locked himself away in his Paisley Park compound to do what he loved.

He created. And made music.

In fact, that’s the only thing people ever really got bothered about with him. He wrote about sex and sexuality in frank, deliciously rhythmic, terms. They cleared the air about such things for many of my Generation X peers. So even that wasn’t so poor.

But otherwise, he did what he set out to do.

Be an artist.

And his star shone quiet brightly.

The humor of the statement is “The Great Celebrity Purge of 2016” has a bittersweet sting. I don't wish death on anyone, but as I already posted, earlier this month, death has a beauty to it. An angry, hideous purpose of giving everything a temporary quality-and by knowing of it's presence, we are able to see the importance of our journey, and the vitality we need to explore at every moment.

It's always encouraged for children to have pets, to know that life abounds around them and, since they pass long before they do, to show them the potency of grief and the amazing ability we are all blessed with to cope. Not in any way am I pointing out that these recent passings of such incredible stars as pets, not in the least. But with our ongoing connection to them, when they do die, we learn so much more about ourselves and what we felt hearing, seeing, experiencing their art.

Ahhhhh, art. Should have started there on the first letter, A! Art is truly a lie that tells the truth. What we find beauty in, informs us of our shallowness and our depth. Art does have profound purpose.

So when a great artist, like Glenn Frey, or David Bowie, or, yes, Prince, passes, our depression is born out of not missing them, but for that link we had to their art. Whatever art it was that informed our soul.

Whoa. Heavy. Yes. Like my corgi's passing, I'm trying to write my way out of tears. See, my bestest buddy? He's gone to seven Prince concerts. He has a few gazillion t-shirts. He's miserable right now, and it's killing, because, yes, I feel bad too. Not to his measurement, but yes, my 80s decade did have a soundtrack and, yes, it was killer.

There's something else about Prince and David Bowie I feel I should acknowledge, and I think it's getting short thrift.

Their sexuality and the lens it created.

While Mr. Bowie's sexuality still continues to many to be a question mark, he was, by more witnesses than not, straight. Still, the gay accusations flew, and he didn't shy away from them. Instead? He just became more flamboyant. He played gay characters. He played characters that could appeal to both men and women. But he made his sexuality a part of who he was and it's expression not something to be afraid of in any manner.

Prince? Yes, the same way.

I mean, really, purple?

He romanced some of the most beautiful women he could find, but he still wore terrifically frilly get-ups and heels.

Heels.

And big, droopy hats.

His music was a delicious mix of double-entendre and casual hook-ups, gender be damned. For a gay man growing up with a society that just wished AIDS would wash away the problem, I saw two men saying to me, "be who you want to be, love what feels right, let them deal with it."

He didn't ever back down, either, when people made fun of his "Royal Badness."

So, when we can't talk politics at work, we always, always, have the world of stars and celebrities. Yes, I love my Entertainment Weekly, but, folks, that's where the real action is at. At time, I would rip off the covers of the magazine, along with People and Us, and hide them in my textbooks, so my teammates wouldn't catch me reading about the stars. But I'm here and that brings me joy.

And, this week, quite a decent chunk of sorrow.

Looks to the heavens, now, find your hero and let them know how thankful you are that they gave you their music, paintings, words and dreams. After all, stars are for navigating.

Peace

R is for Radio

I got a new car at work. Okay, no, it’s not new-new, just new-to-me-newish.

And it’s old.

See, like, it doesn’t have ANYTHING. Makes sense. Can’t have us dancing all around the world with county stickers emblazoned across the sides of the POS, eating french fries with wild abandon.

And it doesn’t have Bluetooth.

It does have a CD player.

Remember those?

It’s staring at me like an eight-track player.

What am I to do? (sidenote: I love the car, however. Nice engine, handles really well, otherwise!)

See, back in 2010, I left my ludicrous job and found another. And I turned 40. And I bought myself a massive gift. I wanted a fucking Satellite Radio, Sirius XM. People told me no, it was stupid, but I refused to listen. Even then, I was writing whenever possible and I knew they had an online presence.

Commercials have taught me to hate. I watch television through YouTube or Netflix, leaving the room or jotting down the name of every vendor that I’m forced to watch the commercial for, so I can tuna-laden hate mail whenever I can.

I HATE commercials. Even the Superbowl ones. There’s a reason I don’t watch television that much and that would be a large part.

ANd I don’t hate much, but advertisements are a symbol of corporate greed. I try to watch breaking news and to see a commercial makes me wonder, did they sponsor this part of the news? I doubt that they care that much of the weather. And what happens when a car kills someone….can’t report badly on them now, can we, since they were paying the bills.

Radio is just as bad. One morning, on my 20 minute drive to work in Colorado, I heard one song on the pop station. Twenty minutes and one song.

And it was fucking Bieber. Other then that, it was commercial, commercial, talk, commercial, and that was it.

I was born a Pisces. I love music too much to be subjected to that. NPR is nice, but then they have their weeks of begging and I can’t function that week.

I treated myself to Sirius XM. In fact, I was so addicted, that when we moved to Florida, I’d make us drive down to Disney World in my truck, rather than the gas saving car, because there was Sirius XM, bluetooth (I could listen to my podcasts!), and my Radio Disney.

And when we bought a new car? YES!

Guess what! Bluetooth galore!

It was like falling in love all over again. Here’s the thing, as well. I’m not particularly good with music. Not in any sense of the word. But, as much as I hate commercialism, I also hate when radio stations are paid to play one song over and over again. That forces you to go out and buy the album. Since then? Times have changed. There are no more B-sides to albums any more. With that, places like Sirius XM have their own stations with a style of music and private, small, personal radio shows for every flavor of the music palette. It exposes me, by far, to newer music and gives me the ability to newer artists in a genre that I have not even contemplated before.

I’ve learned, recently, that they are losing listeners, because, well, now you can make your own radio stations on several apps and with the ability to purchase singles, things have changed in the music industry. I get that, but I’m not about to run away.

And if I can’t listen to them? I’ve still got my NPR.

Q is for Quiet

Dear all, I do apologize for the tardiness of this post-I seem to have stepped in a big pile of flu. I hate to miss work, so I'm running home, taking a buttload of meds and sleeping until morning. It's a terrible life, hurting the things I love, like the gym and authoring, but a necessary evil. Here's from yesterday!

Having worked more with the Deaf than most Deaf people, I know a thing about this focused culture, or so I like to think.  

They have a newspaper, and it’s called, “The Silent News.”

Never has been newspaper been so incorrectly named since Fox News actually saying “News” in it’s title.

The Fox part is accurate-it’s all about the sly deceit.

The Deaf are a terrifically noisy lot, both literally and metaphorically. You never want to be the kitchen when the Deaf are washing the plates from the day. The clanging! They don’t know about it. But you will. Invite a friend over who has a partial hearing to watch the Fast and Furious, Part, like, Whatever. Crank up the captions, crank up the volume.

And you, too, will be partially Deaf too by the end of the night.

I came to age during the The Week The World Heard Gallaudet. Several of my friends where there and they sent me letters afterwards. Talk about not being quiet! In fact, we’re looking at a (supersmokinghot) Deafie on America’s Next Top Model about to sweep Dancing With the Stars. I’ve lost count how many proud Deaf adults have approached me, once they figure out I’m hearing and scold me for ‘taking pity’ on them.

“Nope. Just love sign language, that cool?”

Just making noise, they are. A wonderful din that means they’re experiencing the world about them and getting their fair share. No worries, I get it.

They are far from quiet, as I was saying.

But this article isn’t about making noise to get attention. It’s about the quiet moments. Many have been just as quiet and still stood out. Einstein did his science works, not to make money, because his brain was wired to do so. The Dali Lama is all about the peace. He’s doing what he believes. Those who have made me look to their honesty were not the ones who screamed and yelled, but were quiet. Terrorists blow up themselves. But the quiet dignity of the majority of Islam proves to me that is what their faith is about.

Henry David Thoreau sat quietly in the woods and made bread on Walden pond.

Yes, a splash was made, a noisy one, but I’m hoping you’re getting my drift.   

I’m recently inspired by the insanely, almost inhumanly, hot Nyle DeMarco.  The dude has skills. Look at me. I was raised off of stage left of the dance floor, thank you very much, MotherUnitPrime. And because of that, I get dancing probably a bit more than the average bear.

As it were.

And when I watch Nyle, previously of America’s Next Top Model, I see not only a hot dude, but someone who is truly an athlete, who is very much in tune with his physicality. And he’s winning.

Not only on the that show, but on Dancing with the Stars. People sing his praises, talk about his a role model for all that. He overcame nothing, really, for being Deaf isn’t a bad thing. He had a strong upbringing and sense of self. Yet he’s still making waves. He didn’t get into this business to make a statement, to show the world that Deaf people have incredible abs AND can dance the samba.

Instead, he was himself, quietly, doing what he thought was best, and the light? That light blasted through like a beacon.

When I came out of the closet to myself and others, I didn’t get a manual, regardless what the Haters, Inc, think. I was just being true to myself. My dad yelled at me some, thinking I was being queer to make some kind of statement about who can love, and I got a kick out of that. I was making a political and societal commentary by merely lusting after dudes like Nyle, I guess.  But, recently, a friend whom I’ve not spoken to in a good three years sought me out on social media. We’d been friends since high school, and we’d comment on each other’s posts and such.

His son, a mere 12 years old, was coming out of the closet. And he wasn’t devasted, but he just wanted to talk about it some, ask for advice.

I was honored.

Because, well, I had no manual, as mentioned, I was just quietly existed. I have friends on my FB page that do more drag than a Virginia Slim menthol.  Queens that rule more that England’s Elizabeth. And they’re awesome, I admire them for their strength and charity and humor.

I guess I had been quiet. And merely myself. I had no intent to be this person, it sorta just happened between writing, teaching, loving, and buying Disney World annual passes.

I know it’s cliche, but, yes, it’s there. Quietly be yourself and the louder you will be.

I write for a blog you’ll find here on this blog, Taking the Florida Plunge. And frequently, in the chat windows, I encounter so many spouses, male and female, sad and scared. They just moved here, not sure if they like it, not sure if they want to stay.

As we say in our brief Zen circles, be still; be quiet.

In our world, right now, you can yank your phone up and see how many calories are burned up in sex and if  you can lick your elbow. Immediate gratification. We’ve lost that sense of depth and these folks, riding the wave of craziness that is moving to another state, don’t have the safety net that years of living in one place afforded. I counsel them, thusly. Do what you like to do. The people will float out of the woodwork. And you don’t have to hurry or worry. If you’re not sure if you’re going to like them, don’t. Time and patience are virtues.

It all works out. If it doesn’t...then it’s not over.

Peace.

P is for Princesses

Don’t ever go eat at King Stephan’s Royal Table at the Magic Kingdom.

The place is infested.

Infested with princesses. You name the princess. She’s there. In all her cute glitter and great hair.  If they weren’t so young, I’d think I was in an incredible drag show.

It’s awesome.

And it makes me crazy.

Not in a bad way, that is. As you’ve probably can surmise, I’m kinda into that Disney thing.

There’s that great scene in the Big Bang Theory, where Amy Farafowler gets a tiara from her boyfriend and batshit wacko.

It’s glorious.

Princesses are the bread and butter of the Disney Universe, moving onto the main screen in their very first picture, Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. And it only got went up from there. The first princesses were a select lot, beautiful women, who, through varying degrees of passive-ness obtained incredible results. Husbands. Riches. Happiness.

Times changed, and Disney rewrote the princesses. They now had more mastery of their fates and fought strongly for ideals they felt were worthwhile. They still obtained their goals, but now had a clearer warriors’ quest. Rarely did they result in violence. Occasionally they did fight, but not the violence so marred by male counterparts in similar pictures.

Again, good stuff. Now my older brother? He had only one kid, a great kid, my niece. He had to raise her as a single dad and, well, being we were mostly all boys, he didn’t have the stereotypical things that girls crave and need. Outside of, what, maybe hair skills? Being he had a ponytail and all that? He showed her how to change her oil, however, how to change her tires, and how to install a stereo.

But she still wanted to have Barbie dolls for Christsmaskkah. In pink.

So there we sat. On Christmaskkah Eve, building a dream house and slugging coffee to keep our wits about us.

The fact was, it seemed to me, that she choose to go in that direction. With all uncles and men about her, her brain selected that expression and we were making sure it was supported. She loved it, by the way. Played with it forever.

Now, also fancy myself a feminist, so imagine my resistance to that holiday list. A BARBIE HOUSE? Dang? What? Why not….

Bless you Target.

You removed the labels. Pink are pink toys. Blue are blue toys. Toys are toys.

Ahhhh, yes, that’s the way it should be. She wants that fucking Barbie? Go for it. Besides, the manx has everything, as the t-shirts tends to say.

But what about those princesses. Here, in this day and age, I can see a dear Tiana, from the Princess and the Frog and I get it. It’s from recent memory. But, late one night, after the fireworks had melted into the stars of the night, I sat next a sweet young lady, of African American descent, clad in a shock of bold colors that denoted she was being Snow White. The day had frazzled her, the night had not been much kinder.

“My lady,” I bowed, taking a cue from the magical cast members I had seen all over the Magic Kingdom, “thank you for this honor of being seated next to you. I rarely see royalty after midnight.”

She lowered her eyes and smirked, “thank you.”

Her mom tried to muster up a stronger sense of self, but, given the hour and the energy expenditure, I cannot help thinking that was as strong of an answer I was going to get. See, that princess? That passive character for the movie made her dreams come true. My youthful idealistic college yutz would have rallied for her, insisted that the world should give her a stronger woman icon than a young lady who was merely born so beautiful, older women hated her.

And she could talk to animals and dwarves.

But the fact is, my older, wizened self sees that dear Snow White is doing something for her. She had joy that day, trying on dreams and imagination for just a twee smidgen.  Perhaps, next week, she’ll want to watch Kevin Hart and explore the decency of a fart joke, but that is her prerogative, not mine, not society’s. Because, in the end, it’s the dreamers that change things. Not the hard liners.

And, no, I had no urge to ever dress like a princess, even though I was very much that blasted queen.