Warner Brothers: 100 Years of Celebrating Every Story, Even the Ones They Tell Themselves to Assuage Their Insecurities

 

Meryl Streep vs. Chael Sonnen: What Is Art?

 

James Woods: Million Dollar (Cry) Baby

 

Mario and Luigi

 

Disconnect and Float Away

VERSE 1

Could’ve been an actor, but they never wanted me

They’d rather have a boy who doesn’t cry about sodomy

Instead of wildflowers and an Oscar or two

I dissociate and watch with a panoramic view

Let someone else fuck with the flying shield

Let Leo the Lion nip at someone else’s heels

Let the circle-eared mouse be the Speaker of the House

Let me wear a straightjacket, let them call it a blouse

CHORUS

Disconnect and float away

Fly to the same god in which you pray

Gravity may be a matter of physics

But crashing on your face is a matter of civics

VERSE 2

I hear the bootstrap rhetoric through a megaphone

But I dissociate in the comfort of my own home

Out of body experience, so I ain’t hearing this

Can’t buy a plane ticket, so it ain’t mysterious

A dick-shaped rocket can’t take me away from the discourse

Still get pissed on by the king and his horse

Send my brain into space, in a far away place

Where supernovas burn like a face full of mace

CHORUS

Disconnect and float away

Fly to the same god in which you pray

Gravity may be a matter of physics

But crashing on your face is a matter of civics

BRIDGE

Took a massive vacation from the deaths and inflation

Now the work has piled up like a crash in a train station

I could put it off until the end of my days

As long as someone else suffers and someone else pays

EXTENDED CHORUS

Disconnect and float away

Fly to the same god in which you pray

Gravity may be a matter of physics

But crashing on your face is a matter of civics

Disconnect and fly to the sun

For the time I’ve been given, it’s sure been fun

Come back to the earth, it’s a prison furlough

Freedom was nice, but I still hurt, though

Carnival De Garrison

VERSE 1

Producers with some meat to beat

With an actress on the loveseat

Executives’ metal hips will rust

Antitrust ground into dust

Actors throwing uppercuts

Accuse their victims of being sluts

Hollywood embarrassment?

Carnival De Garrison

VERSE 2

Shamans with the letter Q

Angry jowls with red hues

Machineguns Hot n’ Ready now

Little Caesars clerks freaked out

Monster people in monster trucks

Family trees, no outer fucks

Cosplay as Leif Erickson?

Carnival De Garrison

VERSE 3

Cobwebs and candlelight?

Not without a sacrifice

Pastor pedos in speedos

Decide what’s good and what’s evil

Lay the virgin on the table

Read her rites from the fable

Deserving of their arrogance?

Carnival De Garrison

VERSE 4

Step right up, everybody

Bring a hubby, bring a buddy

Ten dollars a ticket, pay up, marks

Ten dollars more to park your car

Look at the freaks, a traveling zoo

Throw your sodas and hotdogs too

Treat them like they’re terrorists

It’s Carnival De Garrison

They do it to us every day

The difference is, they never pay

A ticket price, no comparison

Enjoy Carnival De Garrison

"So Much I Want to Tell You" by Anna Akana

BOOK TITLE: So Much I Want to Tell You: Letters to My Little Sister

AUTHOR: Anna Akana

YEAR: 2017

GENRE: Nonfiction

SUBGENRE: Memoir and Advice

GRADE: Pass

Whenever a You Tuber releases a book, they can’t seem to shake off the stigma that it’ll automatically be met with low expectations. Sometimes that paranoia is justified as we’ve seen with Gabbie Hanna’s poetry book and Lilly Singh’s autobiography. Anna Akana, on the other hand, has shattered that stigma with this piece of nonfiction. Yeah, there are times in this book where I wish she was more descriptive. Sometimes I wish this read like a professional novel and not like an outright telling. But you know what? If the content is good enough, mediocre writing styles don’t always matter. Anna Akana is wise beyond her years when it comes to giving advice based on her life experiences. Whether the topic is racism, sexism, bad relationships, mental illnesses, or whatever, she always delivers in a way that’s relatable and easy to digest. She doesn’t come off as condescending, but rather as an equal to the reader, which is part of what makes the advice relatable. You will feel like you’ve gained a lot from reading this short, but sweet memoir.

Out of all of the stories Anna tells in this book, the ones that hit me the hardest were her experiences with romances gone horribly awry. Like her, I too once believed in the idea of a fairytale relationship with fireworks and beauty all throughout, not an imperfection in sight. Real relationships are built on the idea of accepting flaws and being good for each other in spite of them. Some of Anna’s past relationships didn’t meet these criteria. One of her romances was with a serial cheater whom she thought she could “heal” because of his past traumas. He had a brother who committed suicide, she had a sister who committed suicide (the basis of her book), so why not bond over that? Turns out he was a toxic person anyways and had to be dumped. You know who else was toxic? An emotionally abusive screamer named Cameron. He yelled for no reason, cut her off from her friends and family, criticized her, and played the victim whenever he was called out for his ill behavior. Anna actually had to be told this was emotional abuse before she made the hard decision to dump Cameron. Reading these portions of the book tore at my heartstrings. Nobody wants to see Anna get hurt. Nobody wants her to feel unhappy because of someone she trusted. When she cries, you’ll probably cry as well. When she rises above the abuse and toxicity, you’ll feel inspired to do the same.

Even though the toxic romances hit me the hardest, I didn’t relate to them nearly as much as I did her experiences with mental illness. I’m autistic and schizophrenic, so the passages about easy burnout are all too familiar to me. I take medication for my problems and Anna did too even though she had to be thoroughly convinced to do so. She knows about the stigma of taking medication. She’s heard the comments about mental illness being “fake” and medication being for “weak-minded” people. But once she started taking her pills, she could manage her life efficiently and with a clear head. Granted, her medication didn’t completely solve her depressive and anxious problems; the pills just made those illnesses more manageable. She knows there’s no cure for such ongoing issues. But if life could just be a little easier, it could go a long way in getting things done and being an all around healthy person. Anna is a perfect spokeswoman for breaking the stigma of mental illnesses and I’m glad to have her as an ally. We don’t know each other on a personal level, but I already feel a connection because of the vulnerability she’s shown in this book and in her You Tube videos.

Anna Akana rises above her racist gatekeepers. She tackles her creative projects with a combination of passion and efficiency. She takes pride in her wealth of experiences and openly shares them with her loyal audience. She does all of this with warmth and humor, not arrogance and coldness. Is it any wonder why she has so many subscribers on You Tube? People want to gravitate towards her. They want to be sympathetic and empathetic to her life struggles. They want to be around her every chance they get and tell her how much her advice as changed their lives. Whoever scoffs at the idea of You Tubers putting out good books needs to have their eyes dragged across these pages until they learn something valuable. This book certainly has a lot to offer in that department and it’s why she gets a passing grade from me. If Anna’s suicidal sister were alive today, she’d be proud to have such a beautiful piece of writing dedicated to her. Rest in peace, Kristina Akana. We love you.

Saying Dumb Shit to Writers

***SAYING DUMB SHIT TO WRITERS***

Art in general is frowned upon in a society where we love to be entertained. Let that statement sink in for a few minutes. Because we’re not as exalted as the STEM lords, artists get a lot of dumb questions and a lot of dumb statements. It never gets easier with time. In fact, when people ask me what I do for a living, I just tell them I’m unemployed rather than brag about my author career to someone who clearly doesn’t care. I’ve had my fair share of dumb statements from small talking extroverts, grannies, and a combination of both. These are the six worst things said to me during my career as a writer:

“We need some good stories out there, not blood and guts.”

I was so pissed at this statement that I came close to creating a bloody story in real life with the woman who said this to me. I never let my anger show; I just silently seethed on the inside. An R-rating doesn’t make for an automatically bad movie or novel. Saying otherwise shows off a level of ignorance like a beacon in the night. Okay, so maybe you don’t like violent stories. Fine. Don’t read them. Don’t watch bloody movies. Don’t force your narrow-minded opinion on another writer. That’s not helpful advice. That’s conformity. Writers don’t conform very well and if they did, they wouldn’t have careers. The woman later asked me if I was interested in joining a college group for Catholics.

“Are you going to be a teacher?”

When someone asked me what I majored in while going to college (it was English), this was the most common follow-up question. Let me tell you right now that you wouldn’t want me as your teacher. I don’t command a great deal of authority without screaming when I reach my breaking point. And when I explode like a car bomb, I go from being the victim to the villain. I directed a play in high school that was an adaptation of Pulp Fiction. None of the students listened to my orders; they were only in it for the easy A. The only way I could have gained their respect was through raw physicality, which isn’t allowed in high school. Story of my life: my only problem solving skill is using violence and violence is illegal. A true Catch-22 scenario if I’ve ever heard one.

“You know what I’d like you to write? A book about World War II.”

You couldn’t pay me enough money to write a book about World War II. It doesn’t pique my interest in the same way that a fantasy or sci-fi story would. If you want someone to write your WW2 novel, pay them handsomely and don’t expect them to do it for the exposure. Writers don’t work for exposure. That’s a myth and it’s about damn time someone debunked it. Even if I did take a mild interest in World War II, I don’t know enough about history to be 100% accurate with my tropes. Social studies wasn’t a favorite topic of mine when I went to school. I got the good grades I wanted, but it still wasn’t a fascinating topic to me. Then again, I never did like school no matter what grade I was in. I got my good grades, kept my mouth shut, and soldiered on despite it all. And now I’m an English major (not a teacher).

“We don’t need more sequels to movies.”

This one was ranted about by a group of old ladies who clearly had a bias against superhero movies. Maybe they too should commission an author to write a World War II book since that’s all they can seem to remember. Just like with the blood and guts example, it’s not right to force your interests and views on a budding author. We are all different. We have different needs. We see the world through different lenses. Respect that and be on your merry way to a game of cribbage.

“You should write a story about the relationship between a seal and a little boy.”

Again, not a topic I give two shits about. Seals are cute and cuddly, don’t get me wrong, but blood-soaked fantasy battles take higher priority. Maybe the seal can one day don spiked metal armor and charge into the battlefield with a jousting lance. Maybe the seal can wear a sparkling wizard’s hat and cast magic spells until the end of time. Maybe the seal was made to be a seal because of a witch’s curse. Those scenarios sound a lot more appealing to me than dicking around with a little boy. This ain’t Free Willy, motherfucker.

“Don’t go to Hollywood to write movie scripts. There are drugs and prostitutes there.”

As opposed to the place I live now which is squeaky clean? Get out of here with that shit. Every city has its own demons whether you live in Hollywood, Seattle, Tehran, London, or good old fashioned Chehalis. Besides, if you really wanted to deter me from going to Hollywood, you would have played the Harvey Weinstein card. That’ll scare the shit out of anybody! Or if you need something creepier, try to keep budding screenwriters away from Nickelodeon, especially in the wake of Dan Schneider being a potential pedophile with a foot fetish. Come to think of it, that alone would make good enough creative fuel for a horror movie script. Then you can sell it to Hollywood while getting cozy on Harvey Weinstein’s leather couch. Ugh…

If there’s one lesson you can take away from this blog entry, it’s that micro-aggressions against writers aren’t just minor incidents. Writers hear this shit all the time and it boils them alive with rage, so much so that they’ll probably use you as murder fodder in their stories if you push them too hard. It’s the closest we’ll ever come to committing violent acts without getting thrown in prison. You have no idea how satisfying that is to us. If you don’t know what to say to an author, that’s okay, because as introverted professionals, we appreciate a good moment of silence here and there. Not all conversations need to be had.

And when the conversation does go south, it’ll be because you forced your values on the author without giving them room for their own individuality. Whether you’re a STEM guy, a hairdresser, an old lady, or someone who automatically assumes all English majors become teachers, a little silence can go a long way. I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight! And yes, the sign off phrase I use comes from a TV show about blood and guts. Deal with it.

***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

(RE: Categorizing books in the prison library.)

HAYWOOD: Treasure Island by Robert Louis…

ANDY: Stevenson. Fiction: Adventure. What’s next?

RED: I have here Auto Repair and Soap Carving.

ANDY: Trades, Skills, and Hobbies. It goes under Educational, the stack behind you.

HAYWOOD: The Count of Monte Crisco.

PRISONER: That’s Cristo, you dumb shit.

HAYWOOD: By Alexandree…Dumass…Dumbass?

RED: Hahahahahaha!

ANDY: “Doo-MAH”. You know what that one’s about? You’ll like it; it’s about a prison break.

RED: Well, we ought to file that under Educational too.

-The Shawshank Redemption-

***POST-SCRIPT***

Well, what do you know? Another R-rated classic! With blood, but not guts! Suck it, random Catholic lady!

Romantic Obligations

***ROMANTIC OBLIGATIONS***

It seems as though every movie you watch or every book you read is required to have at least one romantic subplot. The story can do fine without one, but it’s shoehorned in there anyways because…reasons? Unfortunately, this obligation has reflected in my own writing as well. In Occupy Wrestling, Mitch McLeod HAD to have Debra Winter as his fiancé. In Beautiful Monster, Windham Xavier HAD to have Tarja Rikkinen as his lover (that’ll change soon enough, trust me). In Silent Warrior, Scott George HAD to have Adrienne Simpson has his underage girlfriend (disturbing, I know). And finally, Incelbordination HAD to have a plot where Oswald Crow was pining for a girlfriend (this one actually makes sense since Incel culture is all about the lack of romantic sex).

I don’t want my readers to think that this is me putting the romantic genre on blast. When executed correctly, romances can leave a lasting impression and make the consumer hunger for more. The biggest knock on some of these romances is that they happen too soon or without enough building up. Me? I’ve only had two relationships in my whole life, yet I somehow feel obligated to write romantic subplots in my stories because that’s what the majority wants. I know how ironic that sounds coming from a guy who preaches individuality in his poetry all the fucking time.

While romance is popular among most consumers, I feel like I can finally be free enough to say that it’s not a requirement. No author should be pressured into putting romance in a story that doesn’t need it. Best friends? Maybe. Casual acquaintances? Perhaps. If I had allowed myself such freedom earlier in my career, I could have saved myself a lot of heartache when it came to ratings and judgment from my audience. While I don’t have a definitive consensus on how Demon Axe turned out, I can safely say that the budding romance between Daniel Mercer and Raven Triscloud was one hundred percent unnecessary. They didn’t spend enough time around each other. They criticized each other a lot. How exactly did they deserve a romantic subplot?

My current WIP is the rewriting of Beautiful Monster, which if you remember the first draft had a romance that DEFINITELY had no business being there. Windham Xavier endured a week of rape and he’s expected to jump into a relationship with Tarja Rikkinen? Bullshit, man! What the fuck was I thinking? If that wasn’t bad enough, they had Porn Hub-esque sex early on in the story. Again, what the fuck was I thinking?! So in this new version of Beautiful Monster, Windham and Tarja’s relationship will be mostly platonic. I say mostly because…well…no spoilers! Only Khlav Khalash! Seriously though, Windham and Tarja’s chemistry will be slower than an old lady crossing the street with a pair of bad knees. I should know how slow that is, because my mom had knee surgery two years ago and is still hurting like a motherfucker. Sigh…

After I rewrite Beautiful Monster and try to dub it as the novel that will save my career, I plan on sending all of my first draft novels to Hollow Hills and rewriting those as well. Will they have romantic subplots? I don’t know and I don’t care either way. I’m free from the shackles of other people’s expectations. If they want to fuck, they’ll fuck. If not, then they’ll watch The Price Is Right. I’ll take Rivers and Lakes for $200, Alex. Wait a minute…

If you don’t want romantic subplots for your stories either, that’s cool with me. I’ll read them anyways and enjoy them just the same. Romance can be fun to read about, but it shouldn’t be a necessity for EVERY…SINGLE…STORY! Hollywood does this a lot and their romances suffer because they’ve been executed too soon with little to no true chemistry. In the words of Eminem’s high-pitched voice, “Let’s just be friends!” I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER PROGRESS***

As of today, I have one prologue and three chapters written. Windham is safe and snug in the shackled confines of Shelly Atwood’s bed. Shelly and Torger had an argument about him being there, which resulted in Shelly grabbing Torger’s groin and squeezing his testicles as hard as she could. Ouch! Chapter four will be told through the point of view of Tarja Rikkinen as she tries to convince Orpheus Rinehart to allow her to retrieve Windham. But first…she has to get through the drooling zombie rednecks known as the Savage Brothers, Christian and Kody. If those aren’t some serious douchey white guy names, I don’t know what else to say.

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“I was blue and lonely. I couldn’t sleep a wink. I could only get unconscious if I’d had too much to drink. There was somehow something wrong somewhere. Each day seemed gray and dead. The seeds of desperation were growing in my head. I needed inspiration. A brand new start in life. Somewhere to place affection. But I didn’t want a wife. And then by lucky chance I saw in a special magazine an ad that was unusual, the like I’d never seen. “Experience something different with our new imported toy. She’s loving, warm, inflatable, and a guarantee of joy.” She came all wrapped in cardboard, all pink and shriveled down. A breath of air was all she needed to help her lose that frown. I took her to the bedroom and pumped her with some life. And later in a moment, that girl became my wife. And so I sit her in the corner and sometimes stroke her hair. And when I’m feeling naughty, I blow her up with air. She’s cuddly and she’s bouncy. She’s like a rubber ball. I bounce her in the kitchen and I bounce her in the hall. And now my life is different since Sally came my way. I wake up in the morning and have her on a tray. She’s everything they said she was. I wear a permanent grin. And I only have to worry in case my girl wears thin.”

-The Police reciting poetry from “Be My Girl, Sally”-

***POST-SCRIPT**

Maybe if Windham is getting over his trauma and still feels frisky, he can order his own Sally in the mail and bypass Tarja and Shelly altogether! Come to think of it, I should order a Sally doll too! Hehe!

Fine

VERSE 1

Watching Metallica shredding up a storm

Having eargasms in this heavy metal porn

Flamethrowers lighting up the fucking sky

So intense in the pit, you could fucking die

A night of badass music is in the books

This thrashed up body is exactly how it looks

You could do it again until the end of days

But when asked about it, you’ll only just say…

DEADPAN CHORUS

It was fine

VERSE 2

Losing your virginity to a Hollywood babe

Porno actresses want to be your love slaves

Cumming your whole body inside out

Orgasms so intense, you can only shout

Sex forever in the sunny beach weather

Who’ll it be today, a chick named Heather?

You could do it again until the end of time

But your only response gives another rhyme:

DEADPAN CHORUS

It was fine

VERSE 3

Driving around on the lunar surface

Floating in the air never felt so perfect

Planet earth is so many miles away

Yet all you can do is fucking say…

DEADPAN CHORUS

It was fine

BRIDGE

I don’t know if it’s laziness

Or a case of mental haziness

Fine is your answer for everything

If it feels good or fucking stings

ENERGETIC CHORUS

It was fine! X4

Mexican Cruise and Californian Trip

***MEXICAN CRUISE AND CALIFORNIAN TRIP***

After a week and a half of fun in the sun, I’ve finally returned to the only place I could truly call home: Port Orchard, Washington. It’s pouring hard in the Pacific Northwest and it feels surprisingly good on my skin after spending so long south of the border. Speaking of water, because most of the places I went to were beaches with rough waters, I didn’t take any pictures due to the possibility of my camera getting short circuited. So instead of a photo gallery, I’m going to write this blog and hopefully that’ll be just as good. The mark of a good author, after all, is to keep a movie going on inside the reader’s head. So let’s get to it.

Mom, Dale, and I left the house on Sunday March 26^th at 2:00 in the morning to fly out to Los Angeles, California, where the Mexican cruise ship was docked. This was easily the most exhausting day of the trip since I had to wait so long to sleep in one of my cabin’s beds. I can’t sleep while sitting upright, only while I’m lying down, so resting on the plane was out of the question. When we finally got to our room at 1:00 in the afternoon, there were only two normal beds and then a bunk bed above one of them.

This is where our room attendant Dennis came in handy. This Filipino gentleman brought in a lower bed so that I didn’t have to climb up and down the bunk and potentially fall down or step on my mom. He also won us over with his bright and cheery personality and little animals he made for us out of towels and washcloths. Mom made sure to tip him as much as possible while giving him a glowing review on the feedback cards. I hope he earns a good salary on that ship, because he deserves every dollar he makes and more.

Monday and Tuesday were uneventful since those were the days we were out to sea, so we had to entertain ourselves. I got lots of reading done, I jotted down story and character ideas in my Lego journal, I got some exercise in, and I ate some damn good food. Most of the time during these days was spent catching up on Z’s after such a heavy day of traveling on Sunday. Mom and Dale snored like chainsaws whenever they weren’t watching MSNBC.

The first excursion took place Wednesday in Puerto Vallarta. While Mom and Dale were soaking up the sun on the beach, I climbed up and down god knows how many stairs on my way to a sea lion and stingray adventure. I actually got inside the pools where these cuddly animals were being kept. I petted them, hugged them, and even let the sea lion kiss me on the cheek, to which the creature nodded when asked by the trainer if he liked it. The sea lion and stingray were preparing me for the cuddliness that was waiting for me when I eventually got home with my own animals. I even heard one of the kids say that the sea lion looked like a giant puppy. Aww!

The second excursion was on Thursday and it was in Mazatlan, which when translated into English means “deer land”. My main activity here was riding around on a banana boat…twice. The first time was more thrilling than a rollercoaster and I howled in appreciation the whole ride through. Then I made the boneheaded decision to ride the boat again amidst rough waters and high waves. I got knocked off the side of the boat and yelled “HELP!” a few times before making my way back to shore and huffing and puffing in exhaustion.

Due to the sunburns and scariness of the previous excursion, Mom, Dale, and I decided riding around on a glass bottom boat to look at marine life was a better idea for the Cabo San Lucas excursion. Seals, pelicans, and fish were the main attractions of this ride and they were cuter than a bug’s ear, especially the seals congregated on a giant rock barking like puppy-dups. Every time I see a commercial on TV for Thompson’s Water Seal, I’m going to immediately think of these cuddly seal pies in Cabo San Lucas. I’m not sure if they would have been as friendly as the sea lion in Puerto Vallarta, but I want to snuggle with them anyways!

Saturday was spent sailing back to Los Angeles and Sunday was the official day we got off the ship. We spent a few days in California at a Hilton hotel where the beds were soft and spacious. Lord knows how long we were knocked out and snoring like lawnmowers, but it was dark outside by the time we woke up.

Monday was spent going on a Hollywood bus tour. We made stops at Venice Beach, the Hollywood walk of fame, Santa Monica, and…I forget where else. We chose this low-key activity instead of going to Disneyland since the latter required a lot of walking and my mom had knee surgery only months prior. Besides which, Disneyland was overrun with schoolchildren on spring break, so that would have meant standing in long ass lines to get on the rides. The Hollywood bus tour was plenty of fun on its own since my mom got pictures of Chinese theater handprints, walk of fame stars, and me posing with a guy in a Spiderman costume. Plus, we both got to pet a nameless tuxedo kitty on our way back from Venice Beach. So much cuteness!

Tuesday April 4^th was when we finally flew home to sleep in our own beds, snuggle with our own animals, and use our own computers. Vacations can be fun, but there’s no greater feeling than coming back home to your own devices after being gone for so long. Smokey missed me. Maggie left a brown present for me to clean up. Plus, there’s a new addition to our animal family: a gray and white kitty named Chloe. I’ll have to get pictures of her since she’s too darn cute not to photograph.

So that’s what I’ve been doing for the past week and a half. Traveling is exhausting and computer time is minimal, so I didn’t get much done in the way of creativity aside from reading 130 pages of “A Nose For Justice” by Rita Mae Brown. Even now when I write this blog entry, I feel like I’ve gotten rusty since the last time I wrote. But hey, with a little more practice, I can get back in tiptop form. It’s not like I haven’t gone on long vacations before, so I’m definitely capable of coming back to life. We’ve got ears, say cheers!

***TELEVISION DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

VIC MACKEY: Do you want to catch this killer or not?

DAVID ACEVEDA: Wow. Going undercover as dirty cops. Do you think you can pull that off?

VIC MACKEY: We can try.

-The Shield, which, like my vacation, took place in Los Angeles and sometimes Mexico-

The Reflection of Perfection

Ian Flagg’s mouth watered at the plate of Indian curry sitting before him and another plate of the spicy treat across from him. Yet, the old man’s sniper sight focus burned a hole through the newspaper he was reading. Besides, he wouldn’t want to get any of that messy food on his clean white dress shirt and silver tie. Accountants of his social status can’t afford to look like that. A waitress came by and refilled his coffee mug, yet Ian never took his eyes away from whatever news story was assaulting his mind.

As soon as the waitress strolled away, a young man with a black ponytail, a green polo shirt, and tan khaki shorts entered the restaurant hunched over with exhaustion and stress. Then and only then did Ian take his eyes off his newspaper. The young man sat across from Ian and hung his head in exhaustion, the scent of the curry doing no favors for his energy level.

“You’re late, son. Is that acting schedule of yours keeping you down? For god’s sake, get some sleep, Payton,” said Ian.

“Sorry, Dad,” said Payton in a slow and medicated voice. “I’m assuming there’s a review of my new movie in that newspaper of yours. I stayed up until midnight reading those goddamn reviews online. What the fuck is wrong with people?”

Ian folded up his newspaper and said, “You can’t fault your critics for feeling the way they do, son. It’s a free country. Everybody’s entitled to their own opinions, even if they are overwhelmingly negative and come from a website about spoiled vegetables.” The father folded his hands across the table and said, “Son, you need to get out of this movie business. It’s not good for you. You can’t take criticism and it’s only going to get worse from here.”

Payton lifted his unshaven face and said, “So what’s the alternative to having my dream job? Doing what you do and crunch numbers all day long? No thanks, I’d rather roll around on a pile of actual rotten tomatoes.”

“Being an accountant sounds boring on the surface, I agree. Hell, most of the comedy movies out there make fun of this idea. But it’s a stable income and you don’t have to worry about where your next meal is coming from. You’re welcome for the curry, by the way,” said Ian.

Payton languidly stirred his fork around in his food and said, “Listen, pops. I spent way too much time and money just to get my acting career of the fucking ground. I’m not going to give up on it just because of some negative assholes online. Shit, man, there’s negativity everywhere I go, so I have to get immune to it sometime. Maybe not right now, but eventually.”

“But that’s the thing, Payton. You don’t get used to harsh criticism. You don’t improve your craft. You don’t get better in life. You feel like this world owes you something and you don’t cash in on that opportunity.” Ian leaned his face closer as if to intensify the seriousness of this conversation. “Payton, you need help. You need to start making some real money so that you don’t have to live like a goddamn bum.”

“So that’s it, huh?” said the actor as he shrugged his shoulders. “One failure and I should just give up on my dreams?”

“We’re not just talking about one failure, son. We’re talking about being universally panned by every critic in the country. I don’t care how good of an actor you are, because nobody can recover from something like that. You wouldn’t have to worry about this kind of thing if you got a math degree and took up accounting like me.”

After a while of glaring in disbelief at his father, Payton stood up, slammed his palms on the table (nearly knocking his curry on the floor), and screamed, “Fuck you, old man! Fuck you! You talk about stable incomes and the world not owing me anything, yet you sit here thinking that I owe you my dreams and my hard work! You’re a conformist! You’re a soul-dead son of a bitch and you want the whole world to be just as boring and sad as you! I don’t care how much money you’re making, because all the money in the world can’t buy you a charismatic personality!”

Ian stood up and slammed his own palms on the table before shouting back, “I’m trying to look after you, you goddamn fool! I don’t want you to end up homeless and begging for handouts! If you keep spiraling out of control like this, you’re going to hit rock bottom and you’re never coming back!”

Some of the restaurant patrons stared at the father-son duo with shock on their faces while others turned heel and walked away altogether. The waitress who filled Ian’s coffee earlier approached him and said, “Excuse me, sir, but the two of you need to calm down or else I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Ian held his palm in the waitress’s face and said, “I’m trying to get through to my idiot son, so if you could stay out of this conversation, that’d be wonderful!”

“Idiot?! You think I’m an idiot because I actually believe in myself?! You think I’m an idiot just because I refuse to give up?! I’d rather be an idiot than a boring piece of shit like you!” shouted Payton.

“This so-called boring piece of shit is alive and well thanks to his steady income, which is more than I can say about a fuck-up like you walking around in those slob clothes! You have a decision to make, young man! Either accept your responsibilities as a grown adult or live like a child and die of starvation! Life may be boring and sad, but it’s not going to change anytime soon just because you like to rebel against the system! The system is in place for a reason, son, because it works!” yelled Ian.

“Hey!” snapped the waitress, who finally found her footing in this conversation after shaking nervously throughout the screaming matches. “I’ve had it up to here with you two scaring away the customers! You can either calm down and eat your lunches or I can get my supervisor and have the two of you blackballed from here! Do you understand me?!”

The father and son slowly sat back down and glared at each other with fiery vision. “You know what?” said Payton as he dug in his shorts for his wallet. “I’m going to go ahead and pay for my meal and leave on my own terms. I don’t have a whole lot of money in my bank account, but not to worry, because that’ll all be fixed once I start crunching numbers in a plain old office. Here, take my goddamn card.”

The waitress eyeballed Payton’s debit card for a while before a small smile formed on her face. “You’re Payton Flagg? The actor?”

“Guilty as charged, though I don’t know if ‘the actor’ fits me anymore,” said Payton in a bummed out voice.

The waitress’s smile grew wider as she said, “You know what? I don’t care what any of those morons on Rotten Tomatoes think. I thought that movie was hilarious. I love dirty humor!”

A look of shocked disbelief formed on Ian’s face while one of surprise formed on Payton’s. The actor said, “Do you really mean that?”

“No, I’m screwing with you. Of course I mean it, you silly goose!” said the waitress with a giggle. “I’m training to become an actress myself. You wouldn’t mind letting me in on some of your connections would you?” The waitress playfully elbowed Payton in the arm.

“I don’t know. My connections aren’t exactly…”

“Come on, Payton, what’s the worst that could happen? You got your foot in the door, didn’t you? That’s more than I can say for myself right now. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be working here. What do you say? Will you hook me up?” said the waitress with a Hollywood smile.

Payton smiled himself and said, “You know what? I think that’s a good idea. I’ll come back here when you get off work and I’ll introduce you to some of my guys.”

“Yes!” squealed the waitress before hugging and thanking Payton repeatedly. It was an awkward hug, but Payton wrapped his arms anyways. He also gave his father a smart-assed wink before the tie-wearing sad sap rested his forehead in his hands. Even though Ian knew his son wasn’t the reflection of perfection, it hurt even more to know he was bested by the little hipster. Blind conformity seemed like a foolish route after all.

The Cryomancer

Olivia Snow could feel the frozen energy surging through her body. A cool breeze blew past her and little snowflakes were descending upon her. To this elf wizard dressed in black ninja gear, this form of magic was known as cryomancy. She had spent tireless years perfecting this beautiful, yet deadly art. With the eight-foot tall fat-ass obnoxious ogre standing in front of her with a bloody smile on his face, Olivia knew she had to be ready to use it at a moment’s notice.

The ogre swung its mighty club down upon Olivia, but the elf cartwheeled out of the way and allowed the heavy weapon to create a spider web crack in the stone ground. The ogre continued to swing with wild rage and unquenchable bloodlust, smashing down trees all in the name of trying to hit this swift ice maiden. She flipped and flopped away from every powerful strike.

When it was her turn to strike, she extended her fingertips and blasted the gigantic weapon with an icy mist. The weapon went from being a gigantic popsicle to diamond dust as it shattered after the ogre dropped it. The monstrous warrior flexed his muscles and roared to the sky in his loudest voice.

Olivia shook her head no at the raving beast and blasted him with a gigantic glacial spike, piercing him through his black heart. Even then the ogre was able to rip out the spike and scream in fury some more. Even though he was bleeding profusely from his chest, he yelled out, “Is that the best you’ve got, woman?! You’re a dead bitch!”

The ogre stampeded his way toward the now vulnerable cryomancer, creating impressions and craters in the ground with every thunderous step. Olivia flipped backwards onto a treetop and rained down smaller glacial spikes upon her opponent. This time he bled even more profusely and his tough guy mentality couldn’t save him from becoming a limp and lifeless corpse on the ground. Once the ogre hit the floor and his blood splattered everywhere, his body crumbled into snowflakes and the wind blew him away.

Olivia Snow sat down on the tree branch and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. She was so exhausted that she could have fallen asleep in that tree. And then the familiar pounding footsteps rang out across the forest and the elf wizard opened her dreary eyes to see at least five more of these hideous ogres lusting for her death. “You’ve got to be shitting me,” she said to herself. She even stood up on the tree branch and yelled to the sky, “Julian, what the hell is wrong with you! Give me a goddamn break!”

In a small apartment in Hollywood, California, Julian Kane took a break from writing his epic screenplay at the computer and asked, “Did that bitch really just talk to me?” He tried to shake off the tiredness in his eyes and even slapped his own face for good measure. The harder the screenwriter tried to wake up, the more he slacked backwards and snored.

After letting out a ferocious yawn, the scraggly haired and pajama-dressed Julian dragged himself out of his seat and headed toward the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. He looked blurrily at the clock on the stove and said, “No fucking way” when he realized he had been writing and editing that script from the early morning to the dark of night.

He would have gladly gone to bed if it wasn’t for the fact that this movie script was due tomorrow morning at the director’s office. Instead he made his pot of coffee like he set out to do. When he poured it in a cup and tried to drink it however, it was colder than a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. It even triggered sensitivities in his teeth. “Goddamn, man, I need to get to bed,” Julian said to himself. He absentmindedly threw the cold coffee into the sink and shattered his mug.

Mr. Kane got to his bedroom doorway and sobbed to himself when he realized he couldn’t go to bed until his movie script was finished. What broke him out of his sobbing spell was looking out the window and seeing a snowstorm outside. That’s right: a snowstorm in Hollywood, California in June. “What the fuck is going on here?” he said.

Julian trudged back to his computer to put the finishing touches on his masterpiece. He heard a familiar feminine voice ask him, “Do you really think pitting that many ogres against me will make me the strong feminine hero everybody wants to see? There’s a difference between paying your dues and being screwed over. Nobody will want to watch this movie.”

“Jesus, lady, what the fuck do you know about screenwriting? It’s an art form. Besides, if you beat all those ogres, I’m sure…” Julian’s dialogue was cut off by him chattering his teeth. “Goddamn, it’s cold in here.”

“Yes, Julian, I agree. I am after all a cryomancer. That is what your movie will eventually be called, right? How do you think it’s going to do at the box office if I somehow get a fluke victory in an fight a clearly can’t win? All the ice magic in the world isn’t going to save me from getting stepped on or pounded into the ground. Then again, what kind of a hero would I be if I could just the entire world’s population into ice cream sandwiches?”

Julian formed a confused look on his face and asked, “Wait a minute, why am I talking to my own character? You’re not even real. Besides, you don’t get to question me and my decision making. You’re a character. You do what you’re told and that’s it!”

One of the windows in his apartment shattered and snow began covering his carpeted floor. Julian Kane looked on with saucer-like eyes and a trembling jaw. “No! This isn’t real! There’s no such thing as cryomancy! It’s all bullshit! You hear that, Olivia? You’re no different from Pinocchio or the Three Little Pigs! You’re a cartoon and nothing more!”

His front door was the next thing to burst open and the snowstorm followed, turning the entire apartment into a winter wonderland. Standing in the doorway with glowing blue eyes, black ninja garb, and blue energy forming at her fingertips was none other than Olivia Snow. She pointed at the convulsing Julian and said, “You’re no screenwriter and you will not be the author to my pain!”

From her fingertips, she shot a tightly-packed snowball and pinged Julian in his stomach, causing him to double over and clutch his wound. Another snowball flew his direction and hit him in the shoulder. Another came and hit him in the leg. The final blow was smack dab in the middle of his forehead, which caused him to flip around and land flat on his back. His breathing was shallow and his vision was fading.

Olivia knelt down beside his victim and whispered in his ear, “You’re the hero of my screenplay now. If you can get through this, you can get through anything. So what are you going to do about all of this? Are you going to pay your dues or are you going to break like a little bitch?” The elf bit down hard on Julian’s earlobe and drew blood.

That was the sharp pain that awakened the screenwriter from his dream while hunched over his keyboard. Julian’s neck and back were sore from the awkward sleeping position and his eyes were blurry as he tried to read his computer screen. “Screw the director. I’m going to bed. This is bullshit.”

Julian stood up and fished around in his pajama pocket for his smart phone. As soon as his eyes adjusted, he speed dialed the number for his director. He wasn’t picking up, so the screenwriter left a zombie-like message. “Hey. It’s Julian Kane. Listen, I’m not going to be able to get you the script for The Cryomancer tomorrow. I’ve been exhausted lately trying to figure out my own plot holes and shit. Well, that and doing all of these media tours you keep booking me for. I’m going to bed for the evening. You’ll get your movie script in a couple of days, maybe even a week. If you don’t like the timetable, then quit exhausting the shit out of me. Bye!”

Mr. Kane tossed his smart phone on the couch and did his zombie walk back to his bedroom. He didn’t bother brushing his teeth or taking his medication. He just plopped on the bed and covered himself up.

He felt an icy hand on his shoulder and a gentle whisper in his ear from a familiar feminine voice. “You made the right decision, honey.”

“You’re damn right I did. Wait a minute, what?” said Julian as he flipped over to see who was in his bed. It was nobody. His mind was playing tricks on him again even when he agreed to go to sleep. He tiredly laughed it off and covered up his head. He snored and drooled like a tranquilized animal, though he kept wondering why his ear was scarring over and why there was blood on his pillow.

The snow continued to fall over the magical city of Hollywood. Magic? What kind of magic? It wouldn’t happen to be cryomancy, would it?

Chasing You

VERSE 1
Chasing you has tired me out
I end these childish games now
Save my energy for someone who knows me
Loves me for everything I can possibly be
Don’t waste your ballads on little old me
Don’t fight my battles until you bleed
Give me a reason to break my shell
Without dragging me through hell


CHORUS 1
Chasing you has weakened my legs
Chasing you has forced me to beg
Chasing you has left me for dead
No one shall share my heavenly bed


VERSE 2
Status and fame were all to blame
You made me believe you weren’t the same
I put you on high and you passed me by
Without even telling me how or why
Fairy tales are for pre-school kids
Romance is only for the highest bid
You keep the mace in your favorite place
In case you want to torture my pudgy face


CHORUS 2
Chasing you isn’t worth the pain
Chasing you has driven me insane
Chasing you for hollow lust
Replaced by tabloid headline disgust


VERSE 3
I’m not a paparazzo with small F-stop
I don’t like to dance, I don’t listen to pop
All I have is a wild imagination
And venomous words for a demonstration
I won’t change who I am for any diva
Badass singer or chick named Ziva
College chick with the shortest of shorts
Cheerleader chick who bends and contorts


CHORUS 3
Chasing you has left me weak
Chasing you leaves my future bleak
Chasing you was all for nothing
You don’t believe in the power of loving
You believe in stacks of dollar bills
Doing cocaine in Beverly Hills
Tantric sex and other such thrills
If I can’t have you, then damn it, who will?


STOLEN LINE
Maybe I should let her go
But only when she loves me
She loves me
How can I just let her go?
Not until she loves me
She loves me

(Stolen line is a lyric from "Killpop" by Slipknot.)

Mean Businesses

It seems as though every time someone enters a job that involves celebrity status of some kind, there’s always somebody telling them that whatever they’re getting into is a “mean business”. I can understand why someone would say those words about MMA, wrestling, or any other athletic activity: there’s a lot of testosterone flying around and raging criticism is bound to happen. But why exactly would something like literature or movies be considered “mean businesses”? Let’s be honest: it doesn’t take a whole lot of hateful aggression to read a book or to watch a movie. I’ll tell you where the term “mean business” comes from. It comes from the idea that just because we live in a democratic society, it automatically grants us the right to be a verbal bully. In America, that right is documented under the first amendment of the constitution. Freedom of speech is good to have, but when the mediums we love turn into “mean businesses”, that’s when things get out of control quickly. If you need proof, just watch an episode of TMZ. They’re always getting a chuckle out of a celebrity being too fat for her bikini or saying something slightly off-color. If you need further proof, look no further than the Sunday morning newspaper, where a critic will rip a book to shreds in more ways than one. When did it become acceptable to be spiteful people? I will admit that I get caught up in the moment as well when it comes to joining the “mean business” politics. In fact, I’ve been very vocal against the Republican Party for their role in the current government shutdown going on. It’s well documented that I receive disability payments and food stamps due to my schizophrenia and autism. What everyone here may not know is that my mother works for the Environmental Protection Agency and is the biggest source of income my immediate family has. Naturally, I was furious with the Republicans, but only because lives are on the line during a government shutdown. I don’t really see how someone writing an awful book constitutes the right to be an asshole about it. I wasn’t a big fan of “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo”, but I would never under any circumstances dance on Stiegg Larsson’s grave because of it. The first amendment has way too much room for abuse. Isn’t that right, Fred Phelps? All I’m asking from the celebrity sphere is, can we all just calm the fuck down for the first time in our lives? I’m not saying you have to wear yoga pants and yell out “Namaste” every time somebody passes you on the streets. I’m just saying that killing a Twilight fan for being of the wrong side of the Jacob-Edward spectrum is a TAD bit extreme.

　

***JOKE OF THE DAY***

Q: What do you call two gay Vikings?

A: Leif partners.

Theatre Roots

Before deciding to go through college as a creative writing major and a theatre arts minor, I originally wanted to double major in psychology and cinema. By the time I was accepted into Western Washington University, I found out that they didn’t have a cinema degree available, so I had to minor in the next best thing: theatre arts. As for psychology, I decided that solving other people’s problems was too exhausting and impossible, so I chose to major in something that I was actually good at: creative writing. Back to the theatre arts major for a moment. The reason I wanted that as part of my educational pedigree was because I liked writing movie scripts and I hoped to make it into Hollywood as a screenwriter. Movie scripts differ from traditional prose because it’s quicker and doesn’t require a great deal of description. Plus, whenever a character talks, it’s as simple as putting his or her name down and writing the dialogue underneath it. When I write traditional prose, it takes me up to half an hour to write three full pages. But when I wrote screenplays, I could get through five pages in almost a third of the time. The process was so quick and painless that I actually wrote a Dungeons & Dragons-style screenplay called Tree Party Nation in a matter of two days. Granted, it’s only about 60 pages, but I still consider it one of my finer moments as a screenwriter. It wasn’t until after I graduated from WWU that I decided traditional prose was more interesting to me. At the time of this discovery, I was playing Dungeons & Dragons with friends of mine over the internet. One of the characters I was using was a level eight human barbarian named Brutus Warcry. I got my start in traditional prose by writing Brutus’ character sketch, detailing his time as a kid in a barbaric tribe to his present day life as an MMA icon. At the time, I firmly believed that it was okay to use hyperbolic descriptions in every other sentence. It made sense at the time because it was so well received by my friends. Two years later in 2012, it dawned on me that it was slowing my writing speed down and most of the descriptions didn’t make sense. So now in the present day of my life, I write using simple descriptions such as one-word adjectives and describing literally everything that’s going on within the prose. I haven’t had any complaints yet. In fact, people seem to like what I do. This is quite the journey to go from a non-reading screenwriter to a bookworm novelist. If it wasn’t for my roots in theatre, I wouldn’t have had the material for my proses. So thank you, theatre roots, for keeping it interesting. Now let’s all do the hotdog dance!

　

***ADVICE OF THE DAY***

If you’re writing a story and you need to use the contraction of “who” and “are“, don’t forget the apostrophe. I can’t stress it enough.