Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Death is Not Proud

Yes, I firmly believe that the Angel of Death feels enormous guilt doing his job. Cause Lord knows, I do.

Monday, June 27, 2011

Ashes to Ashes, Funk to Funky

Does the Angel of Death ever feel guilty about his job?

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Maybe Rupert Pupkin was right.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Spin, Measure, Cut

Spin, measure, cut.

Spin, measure, cut.

The Fates hold the thread.

Spin, measure, cut.

Spin, measure, cut.

SNIP! And now you're dead.

Spin, measure, cut.

Spin, measure, cut.

Get in line! The ferry's due.

Spin, measure, cut.

Spin, measure, cut.

What a surprise! How are you?

Spin, measure,cut.

Spin, measure,cut.

Hope you have your coin.

Spin, measure, cut.

Spin, measure, cut.

Look at the friends you get to join.

Spin, measure, cut.

Spin, measure, cut.

I prefer not to go!

Spin, measure, cut.

Spin, measure, cut.

Too late! Now don't be slow.

Spin, measure, cut.

Spin, measure, cut.

Shiver at death's icy grip.

Spin, measure, cut.

Spin, measure, cut.

Alas, this is always a one way trip.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Letter to the World

I've always been a big fan of Frances McDormand's acting, but my respect for her as an artist went through the roof when I saw her accepting her Tony Award for Best Performance by an Actress in a Leading Role for her work in David Lindsay-Abaire's play, Good People. She looked like she had gone out to pick up milk at the local shop and suddenly remembered, "Snap! I need to be at the Beacon for an awards show!"

It's not about the glitz, it's not about squeezing your body into a dress two sizes too small. It's about the work, about the written word. It's about showing up for eight performances a week and acting as if every performance you give is the very last one you'll ever give. It's not about being famous or having a big house or big tits, it's about the craft, whether that craft is acting or writing or music or art or any other creative endeavor. All that matters is the finished product, and growing as a creative person.

Thank you Ms. McDormand for reminding me what really matters. It doesn't matter if I never get a book deal or never have more than a handful of people who read my work. What only matters is that from now on every story I write will be infused with the commitment that it might be my last. To quote Emily Dickinson, "This is my letter to the world".

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

The Egg Man

Who killed the Egg Man?

She looked at the piece of paper stuck inside the book. Who killed the Egg Man? What on earth did that mean? She was still staring at the piece of paper when he came in.

"What's that?"

"I don't know. A piece of paper I found in this book. It says, Who killed the egg man. Who's the egg man?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I am the Walrus?"

She looked at him as if he were speaking in a foreign tongue.


He sighed heavily; god, what were they teaching these kids any more?"

"I am the Walrus. It's a song by The Beatles. You do know who The Beatles are, I hope?"

She rolled her eyes. He could be so patronizing sometimes. She wasn't just hatched.

He stood behind her and looked at the paper, trying to see if he recognized the hand writing. He did, and went to pull it out of her hand. She snatched it back.

"Hey! It's mine, I found it!"

She was starting to annoy him, making his tranquil mood sour.

"It's a piece of paper. Throw it away and stop being so childish."

She held it close to her chest, a petulant look growing on her face.

"No. It's mine. I'm sure it's some sort of great mystery, and I want to unravel it."

He wasn't so fond of her any more. It was time to relieve himself of her, and move on to someone more pliant.

"It's nothing of the sort. It's a note from a lover of mine. I make her lie on a table, then crack eggs over her naked body while my friends watch. Then I let them take turns fucking her while I watch. The egg man is me."

She looked at him, tears beginning to well in her eyes. Why did he have to be so mean? She knew there were others, but why did he constantly have to throw it in her face?

A cold sneer appeared on his face.

"Care to take her place some night, pet?"

She turned and grabbed her purse, then quickly left the apartment. She sat in her car for ten minutes, trying to calm down. She looked at the balled up piece of paper in her fist and began to smooth it out. She found a pen in the bottom of her bag and started to scribble on the paper, altering the original message.

Who killed the egg man?