May The Daily (W)Rite wk4

Sunday

Spent most of the week working on the birthday poem and a movie review so I didn't keep up with The Daily (W)Rite. Sorry about that. Also, I worked on a few "dark" pictures that I thought to post here. I feel a little weird posting them on Facebook. You know, A bit weird. BUT posting here I don't think would be a problem.

I've always enjoyed the dark sides of art. Love reading, writing and creating art pieces with a bit of "edge" to them.

 Had a great birthday on Friday. 66 years old. My friend Moe and his family took me out for dinner and a movie. It was really fun. Eat a lot of popcorn that night. Maybe too much! Anyway, it was a good, quiet celebration. I'll write more later on. Promise.

 

 

Thursday, May 29, 214

 

Sorry that I have been away from the blog for a few days. Maya Angelou died yesterday. A great American poetic. Yes, she was. I didn't really know her work until 2o11 when I had a poetry class over at Oklahoma City university. Here's one of her more famous pieces for you to look at:

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
by Maya Angelou

The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky....

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill for the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

 

 

David and me went over to the Gray Owl yesterday for coffee. We were suppose to go for his physical therapy around 1:30 PM, but he was feeling poorly. Just way out of energy. I worry about him. Hell, I worry about us both. We are a pretty sickly pair.

We go over to the Owl quite a bit for coffee and such. I always take my camera with me. You never know when you see someone you like to get a shot of. Most times I try to get candid shots of people. Don't like the posed stuff. People get too self-conscious if they know a stranger is taking a picture. Not sure taking folks pictures without their knowledge is highly ethical, but I do it anyway. No, not a pervy, just like to take pictures to play around with on the editing sites on my computer. I usually don't take more than one shot. Don't need to most times because I can play around a it with the image. On the left is some of my work. The interesting thing about the Owl is that people don't really talk to each other.

Well, some do, of course, but most are busy on the computers. Doing what? Who knows. It is a place for students, though. I guess they're doing homework or something. But most are just Facebooking or E-mailing or something like that. It's a shame in a way. People should talk to each other more not spend all day staring at a computer screen. Yeah, but look who's calling the introvert and introvert. All I do must days is watch TV, if I'm not doing that I'm on the computer.
I really like this pics I took. I LOVE the manipulation I can do with the editing sites I'm on. Think I'm getting better at it.

 

Tomorrow (or today, actually) I have to figure my Medicare and see if the VA can take me on as an out-patient. I got sick last December and again in January and the Medicare didn't pick up a bit of it! So, maybe the VA will help me out. I am a Vet. but I was always under the impression that they only worked with Vets. whose illness was long term and contracted during active service. My fellow Vets., Monte and Moe says that's not true. I'm hoping to get some medication for my COPD.

 

 Saturday, May 31, 2o14
Well, I've got about 30 minutes before the end of this month. Thought I better get a little writing in. I want out tonight. Yeah, big surprise! When I was younger and living in Norman Town, I would go out all the time on the weekends. Well, of course, I was drinking and chasing the girls back then. Now? Not so much. I did decide I needed to get out and try taking some night shots. Night shots are difficult because you have to constantly change the settings. But I did get a few cool ones.

I've been working on this poem about the P.A.B. who went on a killing spree because girls didn't like him . . . . Boo-hoo! I'm taking my time with it. Doing a lot of rewriting. Here's what I got so far:

Section 8

I’m full of shadows tonight
the thick kind the itchy wintery-sweater kind   

 Folding my white socks up into tiny flag shapes

arranging them in straight lines along the  back of the couch

Too many bloody dreams the gunman has

his face baked pink underneath the California sun

A gentle breeze sways the palms behind him
a car rushes pass a  momentary windshield glare

The killer blinks once twice three times

stainless steel eyes burning crazy brown

A winky-wink to the camera

a lifeless smile blooms then fades

My apartment’s air-conditioner

screams summer in Oklahoma

California pleasant weather year around

‘cept on those nights when the monsters come out
 





 

May 23rd HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Writing my annual "birthday poem" was extremely difficult this year. I'm not sure exactly why, but the difficultly probably has to do with the negative feelings I've had about my poetry for the last year or so. I don't know. Doesn't look right,  I read it and it just doesn't move me. It's not close to the work really great poets put out. But I did get something down on paper, or I should say, I got something down on the flash drive.

The birthday celebration is going along pretty well. Got up really early, eight in the morning, had coffee and jumped on the computer to see who wished me "Happy B-day." Of course there were the usual suspects, people who are friends primarily from Facebook. Sally Martinez  sent me a quickie pic with a note of best wishes. It made me feel sad in a way. When I taught at NMHU, Sally worked at the bookstore and ALWAYS remembered my birthday. I'd walk into the store and there'd be a huge banner over the casher's counter "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ROBERT!" and I'd get a big cake and a Spider-Man toy of some kind. One year she got me a "Spider Robert" t-shirt. So wonderful!

I said it made me sad to think about Sally, the bookstore . . . I got fired from the job there at NMHU and that's what makes me sad. But you know what? I gotta stop this bullshit sadness, this depression. Yeah, my life has always taken a turn I didn't like. But a lot of it was my own fault. I just don't deal with life in the best ways. So, at least for today I'm gonna stop being so negative, accept where I'm at and what's going on in my life. At least for today I got no worries. I mean, hell! It's my birthday.

May The Daily (W)Rite wk3

wk o3

Thursday

You may have noticed that a lot of the picsanimations I post are rathar dark in nature. Honestly, I'm not a weird guy . . . well, yeah, I am weird but harmless. But I'm definitely not a psychotic . . . Weeeeell maybe a little . . . but still, harmless. I've loved the "dark side of art" since the days when mom and dad would leave me all alone at night in a really spooky, Norman Bates like house, so they'd go out drinking on Friday and Saturday nights. My brother and sister would be away during the summer up at our Aunt and Uncle's ranch in the Mojave Desert. Since I wasn't much of a cowboy (my brother and sister both were real goat ropers, I mean really goat ropers), I mostly opted to stay in Lynwood (where I was born),

which meant that on the weekends I had to babysit myself. I was maybe 6, 7 or 8 at the time. Anyway, we did have TV and I would stay up as late as I could at that age and watch horror movies. It was love at first sight! Well, not really. The first horror film I ever saw was Dracula (1931) and it scared me so bad! I called my mother at the bar she and dad were at and begged her to come home! They wouldn't. So, there I was watching this scary old Dracula sucking blood out of everybody, and the old house we were living at was creaking and moaning . . . there was no going to sleep. So, all I could do was wrap a blanket around me . . . all kids know that a blanket wards off ANY and ALL monsters . . . and wait to just pass out. And I would, finally. And then the next night when I was left alone . . . I was right back there in front of the tube  watching Frankenstein! I was scared, yeah. But I was hooked. Horror movies, horror literature, comic books . . . yeah, man!

In my early thirties I started going to a shrink. Head thingies, you know. Nothing too bad. More neurotic than psychotic, but still bad enough that I thought I should seek some help.  And I asked her, my shrink (actually, I called her my brain duster. Always told my friends that I was heading to the brain duster to get my head clear.)  if my liking horror films were causing my problems. She said no. She said, "Most children who are abused seek out monsters and scary films. It's a way of protecting themselves from the real monsters in the real world." Hmmm. I didn't, at the time, think of myself as abused. Totally honest I still don't. Or maybe I do, I don't know. The thing about abuse of a little kid is that he or she doesn't really know that they are being abused. They think . . . well, I should say, that I thought all the shit I went through was normal, and that I became a "normal" adult. But it wasn't and I wasn't . . . normal. It took me a long time to realize how fucked up I was as an adult. And it didn't have anything to do with movies, it was just . . . a fucked up childhood. And it may have been movies may that saved me . . . or at least, they may have saved enough of my humanness to make me realize that as an adult I was really, really fucked up. Hmmmm. May I'll continue this later. :)

Monday, May 19, 2o14

Well, did go on Saturday to see Godzilla (2014). Was so "inspired(?)" by it I decided to finally start my own move review blog. But damn, it took me all day and night Saturday to come up with a title for it. All the names I wanted were already taken. Man, there are a lot of movie review blogs written by us ordinary folks. BUT it's something I always wanted to do so . . . I DID IT! Yeah, fun to be getting down to writing something. And I am working a bit on the "Birthday Poem" but that's going slow . . . very slow. But no worries. I still got 4 days to write it. FOUR DAYS?!Okay, NOW I'm panicking. Saturday was fun and game of Thrones last night was awesome! Best episode . . . ever!
http://smalltownidiotmoviereview.blogspot.com/2014/05/godzilla-godzilla.html

Tuesday, May 2o, 2o14

Spent a lot of yesterday and today trying to write this damn "My Birthday" poem. I don't remember it being this difficult to write when I started this annual celebration (for better or worse) of my life twelve years ago. But no worries. I'll get it done.

You probably noticed the newest "gross" animation that I posted above. Yeah, I know, "Ewwwww!" To be honest I'm not sure there's enough "torture" in it. But as I said before, I'm not a psycho killer, just an artist that gets into playing with all the apps on the photo editor sites I use. Anyway, I need to get back to the poetry. Maybe I'll write some more later.


 

May The Daily (W)Rite wk 2

wk o2

 Thursday, May o8, 2o14

   Having a three day old panic attack. I can't write. I never could write. Three nights ago I was shaken awake by an earthquake. Not being able to sleep, I decided to look over some poetry that I had planned to publish on Facebook. And I'm drinking coffee and reading and  . . . I realize all of a sudden that this poem sucks! Not sure why (all of a sudden) I had that realization, but I most surely did. It was horrible writing. That's when the panic began. I opened up my flash drive, looked at every poem I had ever written . . . and yes . . . it was true . . . All of it, every poem . . . sucked. I was screwed! How could I have been so stupid as to think I could write poetry that was worth a damn?!
  

Of  course my Facebook friends tried to console me:
"Oh, your poetry isn't THAT bad."
"Maybe you just need to do a little more rewriting."
"There wasn't an earthquake in Oklahoma last night. You must be delusional."
I'm not sure how the last one was suppose to make me feel better . . . but the others didn't help either, so . . .  As David and I had dinner I told him about my sudden epiphany, "I suck as a poet." He just laughed saying that that happens all the time to writers. It's growth. It means you are strengthening your art, your craft . . . you're becoming a real artist. Well, his words were a bit more comforting than my other friends' assessments. Even though I'm still not sure if I can write anymore, or if I ever COULD write.

   So what do I do? Do I continue to write this crap in hopes that I'll find my way to "the good stuff" ? Should I just quit, give up, go sit on a park bench somewhere and feed the birds and shout at the kids when they pass by, "Turn that damn music down, you punks!" Well, I can't do that. They have i-pods now.

3:30 P.M.

   Forcing myself to sit down at the computer and write. Write what? Hmmm. That's the haunting

question. I'm taking a step back and looking at my intentions. I mean, I know I want to be a writer, but I'm not all that sure I have anything to write about! Or at the least, anything that people want to hear. I guess that's the my problem. I'm trying t write for an audience instead of writing for myself. But then, I'm back at the same place with, "what do I want to write about?" I feel like I'm lost in an imagination blackout. I'm not finding anything interesting to write about. Oh, it's there, I know its there . . . I just can't see it. So, I'm reading some other poets. Mostly famous poets to sort of get my observation skills back. No, I don't want to "copy" some famous writer. I just want to me inspired.

   Here's a writer that I truly admire. His skill and his artistic thought process is something I feel like I lack:

Cuttings (later)

This urge, wrestle, resurrection of dry sticks,

Cut stems struggling to put down feet,
What saint strained so much,
Rose on such lopped limbs to a new life?
I can hear, underground, that sucking and sobbing,
In my veins, in my bones I feel it --
The small waters seeping upward,
The tight grains parting at last.
When sprouts break out,
Slippery as fish,
I quail, lean to beginnings, sheath-wet.       
-Theodore Roethke

  Roethke does so much with this piece, he sees and expresses so much  . . . and that's the problem with me lately. I can't see it, the art, and I have no craft to express it. I can't see and I can't express.
So, the journey begins. Reboot my creative self. Start over, or at least, move in a different way, see the world in a different way and improve my skills. Learn to crawl before I can walk or run or . . . write.

Saturday, May 1o, 2o14

Driving down Boyd, crossing the tracks, the car in front of us stops flipping on it's left turn signal.
And there we are, David and me, in his little car, on the railroad tracks.
"What the fuck are you doing, David?! Get of the fucking tracks!"

"There's no trains coming!"

"Get off the tracks!" 

 Yeah, I was having a panic attack. David didn't appreciate it at all, pretty pissed at me for the rest of the Art Walk we were driving to.

 

  As we were walking along on Main St. looking for a place to eat, we started to cross the tracks and I stopped to take a picture. Well, David really let me have it! "Hey! Get off the tracks! A train might hit you!" We both laughed and I apologized for being such an old lady about it.

   I have had them all the time, through out my little life. Panic, I mean, real run for your life panic. It happens any time that I feel unable to control my life. I don't think about it, it's not a conscious choice, it's primal, I guess. And, be as truthful ass I can, it has fucked my life. I've lost friends, lovers, hell, even jobs over this manic state I get into anytime I feel threatened.

   Other than me almost destroying the only friendship I have . . . the Art Walk was extremely relaxing and fun. Took quite a few pictures, and David walked around for a few good hours before his body started to tire out. But he's getting better. The physical therapy seems to be helping a lot. He needs to exercise after the therapy is over or his body will probably go back to it's original daily pain. Hell, I need to exercise too. "Use it or lose it."
   Oh, the animation above depicts one of the many street musicians you can find on Main Street during the Art Walk. Particularly interesting about this animation is the reflection of the traffic passing by the big bay window behind the guitarist.

 

Monday, May 12, 2o14

   Yesterday. Mother's Day. Most of my Facebook friends paid tribute to their moms yesterday. Some showed old photos back when mom was a kid, or mom as a very young mother with her children hanging off of her like leaves on a tree. Some pictures showed mom today. Much older, fragile but smiling, though. My friends love their moms. They all testify to the good nature, the caring nature of their individual mothers. A few years back I wrote a poem about my mother. . .  sort of:

 

My Mother’s Day

Sundays were always lazy days

around our house. Dad would lie

on the couch drinking beer, watching

the Figure Eight races on TV, nodding

off every now and then. A single snort

from his open mouth would wake

him with a start. He’d take another

sip of beer, wipe his eyes and fall

right back into whatever dream he was dreaming

without even noticing that car 56 had just been

rammed into oblivion by a Plymouth Fury.

Mom busied herself in the kitchen. Doing what?

I don't know.  Motherly things.

She scurries about all daylong from the kitchen sink

to the  refrigerator. Always looking for something

but never finding whatever it was she kept looking for.


Me and Brother Dennis would sit on

the back-porch listening to Mother

banging around in the kitchen

and mumbling to herself.

 

We never talked my brother and me.

We just sat digging at the dirt with

the heels of our tennis shoes quietly

dreading school on Monday. We hated school

almost as much as we hated each other.

And my sister? She moved out ‘long ago

to our Aunt Ella and Uncle Ace's ranch  

in the high desert. I never knew exactly

what she was doing up there so far away

from her family, her real family. I never

understood my sister or her moods.

Come to think of it, I never understood

any of the women in my life. That’s

probably the reason why I live alone.

Anyways,

it’s Sunday, Mother’s Day. As I write

this poem, I wonder what my mother’s doing . . .

probably walking to the refrigerator, to the kitchen sink,

stopping to fold and refold the dish towels, the cloth napkins

her mother had willed to her two years ago. She searches still,

I suppose, for that something she could never find.

—rrw o5-13-12 (rewrites o5-11-14)

Wednesday, May 14, 2o14
Watching the news this morning, I got a bit of a start when they said, "If you are lethargic, it might be a symptom of early dementia." Well, that's me for the last year. Don't feel like doing anything other than laying on the couch and watching TV. What the hell, man, I don't want dementia! I'm forcing myself to do things write, damn it! I know. If I have the big D, me writing everyday probably won't do anything. But I've got to try. I will not:

Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night

-By  Dylan Thomas  

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,  
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Damn, here it is nine days before my birthday and I haven't even started on my annual birthday poem! I've been writing one every year since I turned 55 (or so), and don't want to stop now. So, the business of the next nine days is . . . write that damn POEM!

3:13 P.M.

David didn't pick me up when he went to his physical therapy. I feel jilted! Hope he's not mad at me. I was looking forward to going down to the PT gym and watching all the old people and the young jocks on crutches and in wheelchairs struggling to get inside. I can't help but try to figure out what happened to them. Was it a car accident, a football or soccer injury? Was there a fight? The old people, well, you can figure out pretty fast their reasons for being there . . . they're old. I also miss reading my book. I know, I could just as easily read it here at home, but there was just something about going to that comfortable chair I claimed as my own in the waiting room, sitting in it and reading until, that is, my eyes began to close . . . reading makes me tired these days. A lot of things make me tired. I wake up ready to go back to bed.

Still haven't come up with my birthday poem . . . yet. A few ideas pop into my head, but I dismissed most of them. I am a bit worried that I won't find an idea. I need an idea . . . NOW!

 

  

May The Daily (W)Rite wk1

The New Daily (W)Rite

wk o1

Thursday,

"The month May was named for the Greek goddess Maia, who was identified with the
 Roman era goddess of fertility, Bona Dea, whose festival was held in May. Conversely, the
Roman poet Ovid provides a second etymology, in which he says that the month of May is named for  the maiores, Latin for "elders," and that the following month (June) is named for the uniores, or "young people" (Fasti VI.88)." -Wikipedia

   Yes, it is May 1st, May Day! honestly, I had forgotten all about it being a "holiday!" I remember celebrating May Day in elementary school, though. The school erected this giant May pole in the middle of the play ground and the WHOLE school came out and dance around it. The WHOLE SCHOOL. We never knew as a kid why we were doing it. We just knew it was fun.

 But May is most important to me because my birthday is in MAY! Yeah, hitting the big six-six this month, 66 years old! Yeah, I'm not quite the Beast (666). However, a few old girlfriends might say, "Close enough for us!" I think birthdays are important. It is the ONE time of year when we celebrate the individual. One day a year it is all about that one person you know who was born on a certain date. It's a good thing to celebrate the birth of a person. For one day they are celebrities, people recognize their existence. Yeah, a very good thing. And mine is coming up! I always do something special for my birthday. I take myself to a movie, maybe dinner, or to the zoo or something. Yeah, sometimes I share my birthday with others but . . . I always like one day for me to just celebrate  . . . me. The biggest thing I do on my birthday is write myself a birthday poem. I've been writing the poems for ten years (or more)! Here's the one I wrote last year:

… At 65

I count the change inside my pocket with my left hand,

my fingers know instinctively the weight and size            
of quarters, nickels, dimes… a delinquent penny
that tries so hard to mask its absolute unworthiness.
But it can’t fool me; Lincoln’s beard is far too prominent.

With eyes half closed I watch the sparrows picking

through the spring-green lawns outside the window.
An extended winter for them; famine and cold,
a darkness so thick the barn owl refused
to hunt at night. Even the sturdy crow refused—

Well, that’s not quite right, no, not true at all.

Crows would never miss an opportunity to stir-up trouble,
taking what they want without a thought for
self-inflicted harms, surviving one worm at a time.
But they hope, crows do, and they pray and so
often they sing when they  really shouldn’t… off key,
most times… boy, how we wish that they wouldn’t.

I once believed myself a crow. A dark, black creature with

enormous kite like wings, sculpting brutal midnight
from the skin of the sky with my ferocious Ginsu beak.
All the while Her Moon-ship screamed at me, “Stop that!”
But I ignored her, didn’t care to hear, never notice all the tears
forming on her cratered face, dissolving into desperate stars.
Selfish little girls are crows, oh, yes, that’s what we are.

According to my fingers there’s exactly sixty-five cents lost somewhere

within the gravitational folds of my black-hole pocket. Should I take
their word for it or count it myself? No. Not once have they lied to me.
Well… Except that one time when I desperately begged them to do so.

Written for Robert R. Woods

on his 65th birthday

May 23rd, 2013

Friday, May o2, 2o14

 

  

  

   Did this interview for a blogger a few weeks ago. He was doing all kinds of interviews with Vietnam Vets for VV Day, which I wasn't even aware existed. Anyway, He wanted a picture of me and we went outside, I stood against a brick wall, and snap, snap! See ya later. I posted a copy of the picture on my Facebook page and David commented that " Man, it looks like the same pose you used in the poster for Cuckoo's Nest!" And he was right! It was almost the same pose! The Nest poster was around thirty-eight years ago. I guess it goes to show that some things don't always change that much, maybe physically, maybe, but thoughts, attitude, dreams, they take longer to dissolve . . . yeah, the memory holds on for most of us. Not sure that's always a good thing. There's a lot of things I've done or have had done to me that I wish I could forget, like that time the drunken stepfather stuck a shotgun in my gut, or the time me and Adcock broke up, her leaving me all alone in L. A. where I didn't want to be in the first place. Yeah, shit like that. I could do without the memory. You know that "wise" saying, "Those who do not learn history are doomed to repeat it."? Well, when it comes to bad things in one's life, I don't think it holds true. I think the MORE we remember, the MORE likely we are to repeat the same mistakes over and over again in an attempt, I guess, to get it right. That's a laugh.

   Went with David to his physical therapy today. Not sure what's wrong with him, and it's none of my business anyway. As the physical therapist took him to the exercise room, I said, "I expect you to

come back 20 years younger." Everybody in the waiting room laughed. Most of them were even older than me and David so I guess they kind of related to the idea, at least. It's not fun to sit in a physical therapy waiting room because a lot of seriously fucked up people come in there. This one kid, who looked like a high school football player, was all hunched over, clinging to one of this four pronged canes, and, brother, every move he made just trying to get into the building HURT! And day before yesterday this really, REALLY old guy came in for a massage and he had to have three caregivers to walk him in. I was wondering why they didn't just roll him in, in a wheelchair. I guess, he needed to keep walking even though it took three people to help him walk AND sit down. I think I fear that most about getting old. Can't move around, do my thing. Mind going? That's bad too, but not as bad as not being able to go anywhere, do anything without all kinds of folks to help you.



Saturday, May o3, 2o14

 

  It's a beautiful Saturday afternoon outside my window. But for me it's still morning. I didn't even open my eyes until 11:30 AM.  I gotta get out of this habit of staying up until five or so in the A M. Not sure how I got into it in the first place. Maybe because when I was working, I always had to jump out of bed by six every morning. Now I don't have to. But I should. I need to get up early, jump in the shower, get dressed and head out to The Gray Owl and WRITE. I'm getting back to the idea of writing . . . but not enough. Why am I so lethargic? Am I sick? Yeah, you start worrying about things like that when you get older. Normal aches and pains, normal when you younger, start taking on symptoms of something more serious like the dreaded (wait for it) CANCER! Yeah, I try NOT to worry about that too much, however, I am well aware that it is possible. So, the big plan is to start getting up in the mornings and . . .  WRITE, DAMN IT! Write anything, anywhere! Just friggin' WRITE! Coffee, nicotine gum, paper and pen (or computer). I haven't really written much lately using the ancient tools of our ancestors . . . pen and paper. Hell, I am as addicted to using the computer as I am to nicotine and caffeine. I'm a computer junky, I'm mainlining the internet, YouTube, Facebook, Wikipedia! Thank God I can't afford Netflix!

Sunday, May o4, 2o14



   Yes, May The 4th Be With You. I learned awhile back that there is a "holiday" for just about everything, and, yes, a holiday for every day of the year . . . Yep, pretty much. Most of these "holidays" are obscure and not actually "sanctioned" but who cares. Holidays are fun! And to think of each day as a holiday, a day for celebration . . . well, there are worse ways to live one's life. Some of my hardcore Star War fan friends are spending the day watching ALL the Star War movies. Some, less hardcore, are watching only their favorite SW movie. I myself . . . Well, I watched Jaws last night. I know, sacrilege. Although I do appreciate the Star Wars series . . . I only liked the first movie. I know, I'll burn in hell. However, I do  sincerely wish my SW friends a wonderful 4th Be With You Day!

   I was suppose to go do laundry today. I got up at 8:30, YES! I actually got up before

noon, and I had plan to go to the laundry, got all my dirty clothes (well, not all because I don't have a big enough bag to put them all in AND be able to carry it slung over my shoulder . . on my bicycle.), my laundry detergent, my Clorox, quarters already to go the night before . . . and then I just decided not to.  I know. I SHOULD do laundry . . . and clean the house . . . and shower more often. But I'm comfortable with my rather slovenly life style. Not sure I'm using the word "slovenly" right . . . but bad vocabulary works well with my way of living. The good thing is, as I said above, I got up at 8:30 in the morning! Now maybe I can get some order back in my life and do all those boring chores I need to do in order to be accepted into society.

Tuesday, May o6, 2o14

Yesterday, David and I went to see THE AMAZING SPIDER-MAN which wasn't quite as amazing as the director and Sony Pictures probably wished it was going to be.

But then again, the box office take will be outrageous enough that they (probably) don't care if it's a good flick. I got friends who don't care. They're "happy" with the film! In fact, I got a bit chewed by one of my pals because I didn't like it. Yes, I'm a "hater." That's very true. I HATE movies that aren't good, that aren't well produced, movies directed by hacks who don't yet have the skills to direct a major motion picture. And the primary problem with this film is the director, and, of course, Sony Pictures, the company that HAD to get something out there (good or bad) because they were about to lose their lease on the franchise. Can't let a chance to make money go by. Hurry up! Throw SOMETHING out there!

   As grumpy as I sound I do like going to the movies. I like "planning' the outing to the Warren:
Me: Okay, David I'll wake you up at 9:30 am. That'll give you enough time to shower, drink

coffee.

David: What time you want me to pick you up?

Me: Hmm, well, the movie starts at 11 am. 10:30 should be good . . .

David: But what if it's crowed?

Me: On a Monday morning? No, there probably won't be anyone there but you and me.

   And I love haggling with the ticket girl: "Got any discounts for old people?" "No, sir. Only at night. But we do have a matinee discount, $7.50." "Yeah! Two at $7.50, please."

 Getting popcorn and a large ice tea is also fun, and going into the huge, dark auditorium, waiting for our eyes to adjust and meticulously picking our seats for optimum viewing pleasure. AND previews! Love to see what's coming up and discussing with my viewing partner which movie to come looks good, and which do NOT! It's all fun!
And it's particularly fun if the movie is really good. Not so much fun when it sucks. But even that has an enjoyment factor. At least I can bitch about how BAD it was and complain on Facebook and my blog about it! (smile)