January 23rd, 2013

Blood Oranges

"You'd kill yourself for recognition."


Awake and dream sick from an incredibly intricate nightmare involving LSD, presidential assassination, and sex with Glenn Close. I want to know who gave Oliver Stone permission to direct one of my dreams?

Here in Providence, it's 17˚F, and the windchill has it feeling like -2˚F.

"The Road of Needles" continues to proceed at an unacceptably slow pace: only 693 words yesterday. In my defense, yesterday was a day of stress and grueling distraction, centering on a very bizarre turn of events which I'll speak of here soon. Maybe as soon as tomorrow. And there were backed-up emails, and biographies and story notes that had to be sent to editors (more of that today; cut and paste is my friend).

The auction for a copy of Blood Oranges (signed and personalized, should the winner so desire), plus the first monster doodle I've offered since 2008, is going quite well. My thanks to those who have bid thus far. Also, now that the authorship of Blood Oranges has been straightened out on Amazon, sales there have improved tremendously. Surprise. That only took about four fucking months.

Last night, we saw the pilot episode of The Following, the new Fox series with Kevin Bacon. The premise is great. There is potential. But that first episode – despite some impressive violence – was marred by ham-fisted direction, pedestrian cinematography, and terrible writing. The show would have been greatly improved had someone with charisma been chosen to play Joe Carroll, a serial killer with so much charisma he's managed to create a cult to carry out his murders for him. Oh, and the whole Poe thing was painfully hackneyed. Still, I'll give it several more episodes, and perhaps things will improve. It needs profanity. A motherfucker sees shit like the characters last night were confronted with, and cussing will ensue. We can show a naked woman put an ice pick through her face, but we can't permit the work "fuck." This says quite a lot about American society.

Kurtz: We train young men to drop fire on people, but their commanders won't allow them to write "fuck" on their airplanes because it's obscene. ~ Apocalypse Now

Later, The Secret World, including some quiet, subtle RP with stsisyphus in an eldritch pub below the streets of London. Nice.

Now, to the tale.

This is how the world ends,
Aunt Beast