Also, I do not give a shit that Taylor Swift is moving into her goddamn $17 million dollar house in Watch Hill. I am amused that she's bought a house that truly is due to tumble into the sea during the next brisk wind. Honestly, the only thing I know about Taylor Swift is that she ruined that song on the Hunger Games soundtrack. "Safe and Sound," the thing she did with the Civil Wars that would have been beautiful had it only been the Civil Wars.
Do you have any idea what I could do with $17 million dollars? Buy a chunk of hurricane bait in Watch Hill isn't on the list.
Yesterday, I wrote 1,275 words on Chapter Seven of Red Delicious. No, I won't finish it today, but I should finish it tomorrow. I have the two scenes left to write, and the second one's an epilogue sort of thing. The ms. will be ~71k words long. Also, my thanks to everyone who offered their congratulations on the news of The Drowning Girl: A Memoir's nomination for a Shirley Jackson award. There were an awful lot of you (~95% on Facebook).
Pull the blindfold down
So your eyes can't see.
Now, run as fast as you can
Through this field of trees. ~ The Editors
I do stupid shit. A lot.
For example, for those who were paying attention to the silly minutiae of my life, I had this plan to have my hair bleached white. Yes. Stupid. It started as a joke. I had no idea you could get hair white. Unless, maybe, it was already white to begin with. But then Spooky did some research, and she was told sure, it can be done. No big deal. The whole process was explained. A month or three went by and I decided, fuck it. Sure. Two weeks ago (Thursday) I went to a reputable local salon that I'd used for hair coloring in the past. First, I let them cut about a foot off. Yes. I regret it tremendously, and I have no idea what I was thinking. Anyway, the bleaching process began and went on for two hours. Or more. It's all a blur. Anyway, in the end...despite promises from the colorist...my hair was a sort of lemon blonde. Truly fucking hideous. My hair has been many colors in the long history of the torture I've visited upon it, but I have never even once before been unhappy – much less horrified – at the results. My hair now matches the yellow walls of our bathroom. Pretty much. I was told after a couple of weeks we could lighten it again, but it was already extremely damaged, so...no. Plus, after only two weeks I have a full centimeter of dark roots.
I've been keeping all of this to myself, because it's embarrassing as hell. I'm only telling you now because last night UPS brought the ARCs for The Ape's Wife and Other Stories – which are gorgeous – and, normally, there would be a photo here of me holding one. But it may be a long while before anyone sees a new photo of me. A long, long time. So, that's why I told the embarrassing story of how I fucked up my hair, with the help of a colorist who promised one thing, then did another. The good news? My hair grows fast, and at a centimeter every two weeks my hair should be back to something approaching normal (only a lot grayer) in about a year. It'll have returned to it's pre-April 18th length in about a year and a half.
I'd say there's no one to blame but myself, and I am largely to blame, but the colorist did, make no mistake, lie to me. Regardless, it might be a long, long time before I post any more photos of myself.
Anyway, yeah. ARCs of The Ape's Wife and Other Stories. Bill Schafer and I both this, my twelfth, is probably one of the best collections I've ever done.
Kid night last night. We saw an interesting, odd little film. Fifteen writers, eight directors. It's like an enormous film school project, is V/H/S (2012). It combines two things that fascinate me – the "mockumentary" and the idea of lost films – with one thing I hate, the anthology film. The results are uneven. Forget the frame tale, because it's just dumb. But the first segment, "Amateur Night," it's actually very good, and it had me thinking I was about to sit through two hours of surprisingly cool film. A lot of what works about "Amateur Night" is a British actress named Hannah Fierman. She was creepy as hell. Spooky described her as the daughter of Angela Bettis and Rose McGowan. Unfortunately, there are four additional segments of V/H/S/, a couple of which aren't so bad, a couple of which aren't so good. But coming after "Amateur Night," they're all a disappointment. I do recommend the film, because "Amateur Night" is, I think, kind of amazing, and if only because it's streaming free on Netflix (well, free it you have Netflix), and it is an interesting experiment. But there are far, far, far too many cooks in the kitchen, and it shows. It is worth noting that the film does invert several of the "horror/slasher" film tropes, in that the prey/victims in four of the five segments is exclusively male.
Now...I have to put my blindfold back on.