Transplant gangs are sooo 2004.

I was going to introduce this next installment a la Masterpiece Theater, but then I got sidetracked reading an article about former M.T. host Alistair Cooke.  The poor guy died back in 2004, and before he was cremated his body parts were chopped up and sold for profit by "rogue morticians."  Geez.  Sounds like the plot to a CSI episode.  So I guess this is more in the vein of Halloween than Christmas, but The Brute continues nonetheless:

The Brute bolted up, blinking. The sun had gone black. No one knew the reason. There was no great crack, no explosions, no fizzle, no fireworks shot. Simply what once was there happened now to be not. The world grew quite cold. People huddled together. The Brute stood alone while they debated the weather. As the children’s teeth chattered, their breaths froze in the air. But what The Brute saw was strange. All the words remained there.

Good words and bad words and gossip and jokes. The words tumbled out of their mouths as they spoke. They floated up to the trees, took a perch, looked around. Their movements were graceful. They made not a sound. Rude words cracked open, flashed their innards and leered. Some jokes came out moldy. One or two had on beards. A “thank you” dropped lightly. It curtsied and bowed.  Gossip tended to slither and leap bough to bough.

The Brute wondered if this was something he should mention, for none of his classmates was paying attention. They were all playing tag with the flashlights they’d found. A boy in his haste knocked The Brute to the ground.

“Idiot,” The Brute snarled, “I’m standing right here.”

The sentence took off like a shot at his peer. The words chugged along like a train on a track from The Brute’s mouth to boy’s head in two seconds flat.

There was howling. It seemed like the boy had been stung. The Brute watched it all happen. He knew what he’d done. He had not raised a hand, but the fact remained true: his words were what bruised the poor boy black and blue.

Questions popped up, hopping this way and that. Through the crowd they scurried. They darted like rats. One circled The Brute, sniffed his ear hole and hair. He swatted it off with a series of swears. The swears formed in a cyclone of prickles tiny as peas. They swirled and they roiled. They exploded like bees.

Only one target was set in their sights. The Brute’s eyes grew wide. He prepared to take flight. But from every direction the prickles advanced. They flew up his nostrils. They prickled his pants.

The Brute sneezed and swatted at what no one could see. The children all stared, some were grinning with glee. Their bully was making a fool of himself. The children all whispered, “Look at the elf!”

Their giggles erupted while The Brute tore at his clothes. They mocked as he picked prickles out of his nose. The words soared above them. They pointed and dived. They crystalled like ice and sharpened like knives.

The Brute raised his head up, eyes tearing in pain.   But then his eyes narrowed:

“So you want to play games.”

A procrastinator's guide to Halloween costumes

Halloween is in two days, but most celebrations will be taking place Saturday night.  That doesn't leave much time for costume planning.  If you're like me and wait until the last minute every year, here are some tricks I've learned that I pass on to you.

1.  Take inventory of what you have in the house.  Even the most basic household items could be repurposed as props.  One year at the West Hollywood Halloween parade, I saw a woman dressed as a dinner table.  It was a 3D costume, complete with food and dishes, and even a romantic candle.

2.  Read up on the news.  What stories are getting the most coverage?  Are there any colorful characters that you could impersonate?  Last year my roommate went as Balloon Boy, and her ingenious costume really came down to poster board, an umbrella, and some silver fabric.

3.  Don't discount the advantages of make up.  Even a hefty application of bronzer could get you halfway to being a Jersey Shore cast member.

4.  When all else fails, go to Rite Aid.  This is what I did last year when I was supposed to go to a party and had no idea what to be.  I wandered the aisles hoping a blue wig or something would pop out at me and give me an idea.  Luckily, a light bulb went off over the board game section, and I went home feeling confident in my new purchase of Twister.  Any board game could work, really.  All you have to do is turn the board into a hat by duct taping it to a head band (the soft, sporty kind).  And for the rest of the costume, you could either dress as a character from the game or use the playing pieces as accessories.  With Twister, I wore the mat as a dress and the spinner as a hat.  I cut a hand out of a piece of orange construction paper and taped it to one of the dots on the mat.  Bingo.  Interactive outfit.  You could do the same with Clue or Monopoly and simply dress as Miss Scarlet, Professor Plum, or that guy in the top hat who gives away money.  I promise you will make lots of new friends this way.

Happy Halloween!


Macbeth, Act IV, Scene I 
(Round about the cauldron go)  
by William Shakespeare 

The three witches, casting a spell

Round about the cauldron go;
In the poison’d entrails throw.
Toad, that under cold stone
Days and nights hast thirty one
Swelter’d venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot.

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg, and howlet’s wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,
Witches’ mummy, maw and gulf
Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark,
Root of hemlock digg’d i’ the dark,
Liver of blaspheming Jew,
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse,
Nose of Turk, and Tartar’s lips,
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver’d by a drab,
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron,
For the ingredients of our cauldron.

Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Basically, I'm a big scaredy cat.

I have many fears, including but not limited to spiders, roaches, tornadoes, traveling in a car on a bridge over water, heights (this is a new one), and velociraptors.  But one other very serious fear for me is encountering a blank screen when I sit down to write.  It's a classic western stand-off.  The blank page says that it is better off without anything on it.  It reasons with me: "Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt."  Yeah, thanks for that, page. 

Some of the ways I've learned to combat this is to jot down some ideas or the first lines of something on a scrap of paper.  That way, I have something to immediately type up before the page can get a word in edgewise.  I also stumbled onto another process accidentally.  I once had to type up a poem for class from an author I admired, and even the physical act of typing those lines that I knew were great and seeing the words appear on the screen as I "wrote" them gave me courage.  It's hard to explain, but if I type a few stanzas from Edgar Allen Poe, I get an idea of what it's like to see myself type something good, and then it makes me want to tackle my own writing and be better at it.  That's one of the reasons I enjoy writing the entries for this blog. 

In keeping with the Halloween theme of the week, I thought a little Poe was in order.  Now I'll bet you think I'm going to post "The Raven."  That poem's pretty good, but I prefer "Annabel Lee."  It was the last poem Poe wrote before he died.  Many people assume it's about his wife, Virginia, who had died from tuberculosis a couple years before.  Poe said that the death of a beautiful woman was the most poetical theme to write about.  This poem gives me the wiggins.

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,

   In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

   By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

   Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,

   In this kingdom by the sea,

But we loved with a love that was more than love—

   I and my Annabel Lee—

With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven

   Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

   In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

   My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsmen came

   And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

   In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,

   Went envying her and me—

Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,

   In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

   Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

   Of those who were older than we—

   Of many far wiser than we—

And neither the angels in Heaven above

   Nor the demons down under the sea

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

   Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,

   In her sepulchre there by the sea—

   In her tomb by the sounding sea.

AMC's programming is neither classic nor movies. Discuss.

Well, I've been a bit under the weather lately, which is good for catching up on movies and rest but bad for productivity.  When I stayed home sick from high school, I would watch the classic movie channels and count it a lucky day if they were playing a Bob Hope, Doris Day, or Danny Kaye marathon.  More often than not, they were showing 1954's There's No Business Like Show Business with Ethel Merman and Marilyn Monroe. The music was all Irving Berlin and watching it, it was easy to forget I was sick.

Another stalwart in my sick day anthology was Anne of Green Gables.  What little girl has not seen this movie and identified with Anne (with an "e") Shirley?  Who didn't swoon when Gilbert Blythe got scarlet fever? Watching this classic was the first time I ever heard the poem, "The Highwayman."  Anne recites it at a luncheon and it's captivating.  Later in college, I was studying the Romantic poets and came across "The Highwayman" again.  The author, Alfred Noyes, was heavily influenced by the Romantics, like Tennyson and Wordsworth.  I printed out the poem and put it on my dorm room wall.  It is a masterful piece of writing and one of my favorites.  The rhythm is like a song, and the imagery is perfect for this Halloween season.  Enjoy.

The Highwayman

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding--
Riding--riding--
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh.
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like moldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say--

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching--
Marching--marching--
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side.
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast.
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say--
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good.
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood.
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death.

He turned; he spurred to the west; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood.
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew gray to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shouting a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding--
Riding--riding--
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

-Alfred Noyes

The case for Autumn

Autumn is the best season and I'll tell you why.  There is a mystery about it.  Something in the air, the same ingredient that makes it all fresh and crisp, makes it heavy with anticipation.  It's like the feeling before the gun goes off in a race.  You've done all this preparation and now is the time for action and you're not certain of the outcome.  All you know is you want something good to come out of it. 

I feel like October should be more of a new year than January.  January is smack in the middle of winter. It's boring.  And I know Spring is all about new beginnings and a bright new world, so you might think that Springtime would be the better candidate for the new year celebration, but you'd be wrong.  The problem with Spring is that it's like a baby.  Babies come out all pink and puffy but then what do they do?  Cry and poop.  It takes them a while to get going.  That's why Autumn is the best.  Summer is lazy.  It's relaxing.  But with Autumn you're just getting revved up.  You're buying school supplies.  Bouquets of freshly sharpened pencils!  The holidays are coming!  Halloween!  Thanksgiving!  Hanukkah!  Christmas! 

To me, the best parts of this season are squashes and pies, getting the jackets and scarves out of storage, waiting for the tree across the street from my parents' house to burst into red and orange leaf flames.  People start building fires in their fireplaces and the smell permeates the entire neighborhood.  Unless you live in LA and then the most you can hope for is that crisp air to come around.  I feel it today.  I love Autumn!

Autumn Movement

I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper
sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.

The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes,
new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind,
and the old things go, not one lasts.

-Carl Sandburg