it’s the small moments

So, I’m sitting on a small settee in the hallway of the funeral home when this kid, no older than ten, sits down beside me.  He has black hair and his dark eyes are wide and sincere.

“How did you know Lena?” the kid asks, as natural as you please.

I look at him like he’s from another planet – well, I think all kids are from another planet, but whatever one this kid is from I’d actually like to visit.

“She was my grandmother,” I tell him and he nods his head, contemplating my reply.  I ask him how he knew her, very curious about his answer.

“I knew her my whole life,” he says straightening up, obviously very proud.  “She gave me this metal truck that I can put coins in and she also used to give me candy.”

Yep. That’s my grandma, I thought.

The kid, who I later learn is named Tony, continues speaking. “I’m so glad that people aren’t crying and sad and are instead laughing and telling happy stories about her.”

“I am, too,” I tell him.

And now, I am very glad that this will always be my memory of my grandmother’s funeral.

 

retro fun: players and haters edition

Yeah. I’m still making these. Everyone’s gotta have a hobby, right?

And yes, I say “players and haters” instead of “playas ’n hatas” because I’m a 37 year old white woman with a desk job.  Word.

If you like these, be sure to check out my Retro Fun page. If you don’t like these, then you should definitely never, ever go to my Retro Fun page. Seriously. Don’t even hover your cursor over it cause you might accidentally click on it and see more of these defaced old ads and then you’ll either start screaming or crying, but either way, I don’t need that drama right now.  

K-Billy’s Super Sounds of the 70s Weekend just keeps on . . . truckin

There are about five movies that make up my super-duper, all-time, best in the universe list. None of these are chick-flicks or romantic comedies. A few of them involve blood. Lots of it. And one of them uses the f-word over 200 times and involves a ton of blood.

That move is Reservior Dogs.

I can't see this image without humming "Little Green Bag"

I own two different DVDs of this movie. The first one I bought as soon as I had the money and the second is the 10th Anniversary Edition featuring Mr. Pink on the cover, which was given to me for my birthday. I love Mr. Pink and not just because he is the only one that lives (Yes, he lives. Look it up.). Steve Buscemi, who portrays Mr. Pink, is one of my top five super-duper, all-time, best in the universe actors. I have an unnatural attraction to him. If presented with Jason Statham or Steve to do with as I please, Jason would be going home alone. I know. It’s weird. (Sorry, Jason. I know you’re heartbroken. Steve? Why havent you returned my calls? Stevie?)

Ahem. Anyway . . .

This was Quentin Tarantinos first film and was shot for relatively no money. The actors used a lot of their own clothes and Michael Madsen used his own car. Its gritty, violent, vulgar and I love every minute of it.

Why am I telling you this?

Well, because if you didn’t know my affection for this movie, then what I am about to tell you next loses a lot of its meaning.

My, too awesome to be described in words, sister gave me this for Christmas:

"Mr. Orange dying in a 1972 Pontiac Lemans Coupe Convertible"

This is a print by Tim Doyle and this image does the artwork no justice. Believe me, this print is beautiful. I was speechless when Tracey, my sister, presented it before me (and rendering me speechless is no easy feat, let me tell ya). I have coveted this print since the moment I knew it existed. I never imagined that one day it would be mine.

If you don’t know, this print depicts a pivotal scene in the movie, Reservoir Dogs (the second scene in the movie, as a matter of fact). Here, Mr. White (played by the always awesome Harvey Keitel) is holding the hand of Mr. Orange (played by the only slightly less awesome Tim Roth) who is screaming in the backseat, dying of a gunshot wound to the gut after a diamond heist gone terribly wrong. In the movie, Mr. White isn’t wearing sunglasses, but I am willing to over-look that due to the sheer radness of the artwork.

Seriously. My coolness points raised three times that day.

What was the raddest present you’ve received?

the requisite the-year-that-was-review post

If you have a WordPress blog, you’ve received a nice email from them detailing how your blog did in 2011 using data compiled by what they call their “stats helper monkeys” (is the ASPCA aware of this?).  The report is animated with fireworks and pretty colors and they basically try to make you feel like your efforts over the past year haven’t all been in vain.  They even give you the option to share this report with your readers.

Yeah.  Nice try.

See, WordPress sent me one of these emails last year with the same option of posting my year-end statistics on my blog.  So I did.

And guess what?  That post received the fewest comments of any post on my blog that year. I’m not making that mistake again.

What I learned from that experience is that focusing on the year-that-was is kinda counter-productive.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of what I posted on my blog last year. Content wise, it was my best year.  I’m also very grateful for every person who took time out of their lives to read and comment (that’s you, by the way).

But I tend to measure my success one day at a time, not year by year.  I’m only as good as my last post and it had a freakin’ zombie killing robot in it so I gotta be on my game.

Dammit.
How can I possibly top a zombie killing robot?
I’m screwed.

major malfunction

**CONFIDENTIAL**

[OFFICIAL TRANSCRIPT OF: TEST # 01-01-012]
[UNIT: ZED-X-2000]

CONTROL: Tower, prepare to engage on my mark.

TOWER: Confirmed.

CONTROL: Three . . . two . . . one . . . mark.

TOWER: Initiating start up sequence. Unit is responding to commands.

CONTROL: Open bay doors and release the restraining harness.

TOWER: Confirmed.

CONTROL: Let ‘em at it, boys.

TOWER: Unit is exiting the bay and targeting the enemy. Unit has engaged and . . . Neutralized! Three zombies down.  Repeat: three zombies taken down.  Unit is recalibrating and engaging again.  Four more targets neutralized!
Huh. One of them looked like the lead guitarist for Brainz. What’s his name? Steve Slaughter?

CONTROL: Head in the game, soldier.

TOWER: Uh, yes, sir. Unit is performing to spec. Zombies are being eradicated with precision.  Was that a football player? Um, anyway, the unit is dropping them like flies.

Uh-oh.  Control we have a problem.

CONTROL: Report.

TOWER: Radiation levels are increasing at an alarming rate.  Unit is still operational at this point, but wait . . . Radiation levels have reached the tipping point.  Unit has engaged the distress protocol.  This is not good, Control.

CONTROL: Elaborate, Tower.

TOWER: The distress protocol dictates that the unit return to base.  If the radiation levels continue to climb, the unit will essentially turn into a bomb.  And it’s heading straight back to the bay.

CONTROL: Can you override the protocol?

TOWER: Negative, sir. The protocol is hardwired.  We are lowering the bay doors to prevent the unit from entering the bay.

CONTROL: Excellent.

TOWER: Unit has made contact with the closed bay doors.  Oh, God.  Unit has breached the doors.  Its coming in!

CONTROL: Evacuate! Get the hell out of there!

TOWER: Attempting to initiate shut-down sequence.  If I can turn off the unit before the radiation levels reach critical mass . . .

CONTROL: Save yourself, soldier! Forget about the damned machine!

TOWER: Almost there.  Just one more . . . No.

[SOUNDS OF EXPLOSIONS FOLLOWED BY RADIO STATIC]

CONTROL: Tower? Report! Lieutenant Murphy, do you read me? Murphy! MURPHY!!

[END TRANSCRIPT]

FILE PHOTO

You heard it here first, folks.  Zombies are out.  Robots are in.

Although, I couldn’t resist one last appearance of my undead friends.  I will never, truly, be over them.  Bless their festering little hearts.

Yes, my 2012 calendar is 12 months of make-your-own robot pals.  Believe me, I looked everywhere for another zombie calendar, to no avail.  However, I like robots.  I’m into sci-fi just as much as I am horror, so robots are right up my alley.

I admit, crafting stories involving robots will be a little difficult.  Robots lack the, um, personality of zombies, but I am up to the challenge.  I hope I can continue to entertain you with my new mechanical minions as I did with my zombie horde.

Welcome to 2012, dear readers! I am looking forward to spending another year with you all.

(And how are you digging the new layout?  Like it? Or kill it with fire?)

aaaaand . . . scene

I think we’ve all had about enough of me for one year, don’t you?
It’s okay.
You can admit it.

So, for the sake of our relationship, I think I need to take a break.
Shh, shhhh.  It’s not you.  It’s me.  Shh.

The break won’t be long.
Just a couple weeks.
On January 1st, I will be back with shiny, new content.
I promise.
Here, have a tissue.

I hope that this absence makes your heart grow fonder.  It would suck if after I come back you are all like, “And who are you, again?”
You’re not that fickle, are you?
I didn’t think so.
That’s why I like you.

I hope you all have a very happy last couple weeks of December doing whatever it is you do during that time of year. Even if it is just rocking slowly in a dark corner while you nurse on a bottle of vodka.  Or, heaven forbid, spending time with your family (that’s a joke, don’t send me letters).

See you next year, everyone!

 

on the twelfth day of BlogFestivus (hallelujah it’s over!)

It was cold in the manger, but the young couple hardly noticed.  The father leaned in close as the mother cradled her infant child, their faces beaming with joy.  The sheep slept, huddled together for warmth, as the donkey nibbled on hay.

Then, a distant rumbling caught the couple’s attention.  It couldn’t be thunder; the night was so clear, every star was visible.  The couple went to the manger door and peered out into the dark.  The rumbling grew louder and soon, they saw figures advancing toward them.

The mother clutched her son tight as twelve drummers drumming came into view.  Their ba-rum-ba-bum-bumming shook the walls of their small shelter.

The father raised his hands and yelled to the drummers, “Hey, guys! It was cute when it was just the one little boy playing his drum, but twelve of you is a bit much.”

Thank you, Jesus! It’s over!

Not that it wasn’t a lot of fun and it did get my creative juices flowing.  Thank you BlogDramedy for conceiving of this inventive, if not slightly maddening, challenge.

And, don’t forget to check out the other participants:

Blogdramedy (writing challenge instigator)
Shouts from the Abyss
Stevil
A Few Clowns Short
Rewind Revise
The Original Bean
Becoming Bitter
Words That Rhyme with Purple
Mad Hatters
A Daft Scots Lass
Random Says
Suzanne Forte PR
Slightly Whimsical
Trail Blazer 1
Ivanna Marie
Lenore Diane’s Thoughts Exactly
Diary of a Mad Gay Man

eleven pipers piping (please make it stop)

The large, professional kitchen was abuzz with activity.  Stations were set up throughout with chefs leading teams who were stirring, whisking, rolling, and baking.  Orders were barked over the sounds of clanging utensils and banging pots.  The atmosphere was tense and frenetic.

In one corner of the kitchen, a small group was assembling slabs of gingerbread with eleven pipers piping icing along the edges like white mortar.  The slabs were then assembled into simple houses then moved on to another station where they were decorated with gumdrops and candy canes.

One of the pipers turned to another, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his white chef’s jacket. “Remember when we used to do this as kids for fun?”

The other piper gave a dry laugh.

A head chef stormed up behind them.  “You don’t get paid to chat! Back to work!”

Hey, look! I actually included something Christmas related. Don’t faint.

Read how everyone else treated their pipers here:

Blogdramedy (writing challenge instigator)
Shouts from the Abyss
Stevil
A Few Clowns Short
Rewind Revise
The Original Bean
Becoming Bitter
Words That Rhyme with Purple
Mad Hatters
A Daft Scots Lass
Random Says
Suzanne Forte PR
Slightly Whimsical
Trail Blazer 1
Ivanna Marie
Lenore Diane’s Thoughts Exactly
Diary of a Mad Gay Man

on the tenth day of BlogFestivus (give me strength)

Troy, the leader of the East Side G’s, lead his gang down the dark street.  They were deep into enemy territory on the south side and it made them jumpy.  The stakes were high, but worth it if it meant controlling more of the city.

The gang turned in the direction of the headquarters of their rivals, The Lords.  They stopped when they saw movement at the other end of the street.  Troy braced himself for a fight and motioned to his guys to get ready.  However, they were wholly unprepared for what happened next.

They saw ten Lords, a-leaping down the street, snapping their fingers, and twirling around lamp-posts.  Then, they lined up and simultaneously dropped to one knee, their arms spread wide, hands splayed out and waving.

Dumfounded, the G’s backed up slowly.  Troy whispered, “Let’s go raid the north side, instead.”

The Lords love jazz hands.  Who doesn’t, right?  Only two more days left to go.  Thank, God.

Be sure to check out the other participants in this insanity:

Blogdramedy (writing challenge instigator)
Shouts from the Abyss
Stevil
A Few Clowns Short
Rewind Revise
The Original Bean
Becoming Bitter
Words That Rhyme with Purple
Mad Hatters
A Daft Scots Lass
Random Says
Suzanne Forte PR
Slightly Whimsical
Trail Blazer 1
Ivanna Marie
Lenore Diane’s Thoughts Exactly
Diary of a Mad Gay Man

on the ninth day of BlogFestivus (help me)

The steady rhythm of clapping hands woke Joseph.  He wondered if a party had broken out downstairs and opened his eyes.

He wasn’t in his bedroom.
He wasn’t even in his cottage.
Somehow, he was in the woods and when he tried to scratch his head, he found he was tied to a tree.

In front of him was a small clearing and in the center a bonfire roared, sparks floating up past the treetops and into the night.  The clapping was from nine ladies dancing around the fire, their long black robes twirling like eddies on the sea shore.

Joseph struggled against the ropes binding him to the tree, but the knots didn’t budge.  Then he realized the clapping had stopped.

One of the ladies stepped away from the fire and pulled a long, curved knife from her robe.  “Our sacrifice is awake.”

My favorite holiday is Halloween, not Christmas, okay?  If you’re keeping count, this makes 17 things I’ve killed so far.  Happy Holidays!

We’ve had yet another new person join the fray. This time of year does weird things to people.

Blogdramedy (writing challenge instigator)
Shouts from the Abyss
Stevil
A Few Clowns Short
Rewind Revise
The Original Bean
Becoming Bitter
Words That Rhyme with Purple
Mad Hatters
A Daft Scots Lass
Random Says
Suzanne Forte PR
Slightly Whimsical
Trail Blazer 1
Ivanna Marie
Lenore Diane’s Thoughts Exactly
Diary of a Mad Gay Man