While not working on my NaNo thing, I ran across a brief and weird parody I did a few years ago of the final passage in Joyce's Ulysses. Yes, that's the sort of thing I do for entertainment, which should surprise no one. Anyway.
I got the CD out to hear this and decided to share it with you.
(Yes, it probably is. I mean, look, I've had to give up noting the days or dates; it's pretty much an on-going condition these days. I hear that it passes away in a few years, though, and then you have to eat soy, or some such nonsense.)**
I'd rather be doing a more complete parody or pastiche of that passage which goes like this,
than working on my story. Or I'd rather be painting. I still haven't tried out my new brushes yet.
**If you didn't get that oblique statement, you have not been reading enough of my blog posts. Seriously.
So then I was thinking about how many of my celebrity crushes are aging; it's diffferent than it was 15 years ago when they were my age now. I don't want to imply that I find men hovering around age 60 unattractive and creepy. I'd rather just pretend they haven't aged so far along yet, but what can you do? So I was thinking it might be okay to very carefully cultivate a few younger crushes. This one, for example, is a possibility. Not exactly a celebrity. But on the TV. Also, still over 40, a fine thing to be.
Yeah, I'm just being silly. I'm going to get a text asking me if I am serious or if, you know, see above parens regarding no longer noting the days. Just trying to have a little fun, folks, that's all!
Because the story is causing me great anxiety. It wants to talk about lovestuff, and not be terribly funny, or have much to do with all the quirky stories I'd set myself up to tell. This is, frankly, pissing me off. I didn't gear up for this thing in order to fail. And how irritating is it to not be able to take control of the ideas that come out of my own head? That's just ridiculous, immature, and unworthy of a good intellect.
Where were we? Oh, yes. I renamed my iPod. It used to be called Enterprise but now it's called The Fine Arts, after a cool vintage movie theater in Mission, Kansas that I used to go to nearly every weekend (until The Gods Must Be Crazy happened, but that's another story.) I made playlists using the titles of some of my favorite movies, to reflect the songs within them, of course. However, it's rather challenging to develop them well. It sounded like a really good idea to have a playlist called Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, but now I'm not so certain.
Oh, I found this on the YouTube yesterday.
Isn't this guy kind of awesome? I never really thought so growing up. Mom had a thing for him back when all her girlfriends were grooving on Elvis, who Mom thought was a little icky, and she had a couple of his albums, but when I learned ladies threw their panties at him while he sang, I was so utterly grossed out, and also, there was all that hair and those sideburns. However, he's actually quite good, and although I'm still grossed out at those 1969 ladies with their polyester dresses and nylons and I don't even want to think about the panties, I am charmed by the fact that he was born on Dean Martin's birthday. That's just cool. It's probably not his fault about the panties.
Okay, back to the thing. ::sigh::