Something About Crowns

I'm trying to use this random word generator to get my juices flowing this morning and so far it has given me:

nice
closet
chatted
reign
course

"Nice closet," said the king as he chatted up the showgirl. "I've not seen many like it in the course of my reign." She batted eyelashes so huge and artificial it was a wonder she didn't fall over. Luckily her sturdy Ukrainian feet provided an unbeatable counterweight. She could have hung heavy rocks from her eyelids and still remained upright.

Speaking of her remaining upright, this was becoming an increasing problem for the king. As she lead him from her dressing room to the bar, he was beginning to wonder if droit de seigneur meant anything these days. Fair enough, he was just a king, not necessarily her king, and if you wanted to get technical, the right only applied to wedding nights, and was probably apocryphal anyway. But still, wasn't kingfucking like starfucking? Weren't showgirls into that kind of thing? Dammit, didn't a crown count for anything these days?

In fact, the crown may have been a bit of a problem, but it was a point of pride for him to wear it everywhere. Sure, it was a little old fashioned, and sometimes people looked at him like it was the wrong thing to do, the haberdashery equivalent of eating one's salad with the fish fork. But he didn't get this: kings wear crowns, right? He was a king, ergo he would wear a crown so people didn't forget it. He wasn't weird about it: he didn't carry an orb and scepter around as well, or insist on being draped in ermine at all times. And it was a nice crown, a demure crown, a crown with a lowercase "c". More of a lightly bejeweled gold circlet really. When he was feeling festive enough he was known to wear it at a jaunty angle, as if to say "I am a king, but I'm a fun king."

The crown was set at said angle tonight, but it wasn't having the desired effect. The showgirl made a point of being politely flirtatious, but in a way that clearly stated "I'm an entertainer", while giving no trace of the "prostitution is a kind of entertainment" subtext he was so desperately looking for. It was becoming increasingly obvious that he had set his cap —er, crown— at the wrong sort of showgirl, the moonlighting law student type who rarely offered "extras" (and even the ones that did were usually only in it for the blogging). Resigned, he gave a weary sigh, straightened his crown, ordered another rum and coke, and asked the young lady what she thought of the ICC's relevance in relation to the rights of sovereign nations, monarchies in particular. She replied that it mattered whether they were signatories or not, but indicated that international copyright law, particularly the expansion of the Berne convention, was more her line.

The king deflated just that much more.

Household Hints

We all know that white wine gets out red wine. But did you know:

Ouzo gets out Pernod?
Midori gets out Grand Marnier?
Drambuie gets out Fra Angelico?
Hot Damn! gets out Goldschläger?
Jägermeister gets out dignity?

The Power of Dreams

Our nightly dreams have an amazing power to move and terrify us. They can inspire, confuse, infatuate or disgust (even all at the same time). The chemical palette of the brain and nervous system is used expertly by that master artist the sub-conscious: Dali or Francis Bacon never came as close to his nightmare canvases, Parrish was never as airy and delightful.

And ever since I had that dream about going to high school with Madonna, I've been well disposed to her. She was nice to me and she didn't have that stupid accent yet. So leave Madge alone.


That's me on the left. Or is it?

Country Living

How dare you! Damme, sir, how dare you! Why if my father, grandfather and great grandfather were here we'd merge together into one extremely large and inflamed country gentleman and demand satisfaction! Your disgusting ignorance and arrogance makes my gorge rise. It rises like a tiny lifeboat, cast adrift on a turbulent sea of bile, about to be fatally dashed against the rocky shore of my spleen. Did you grow up in the country? Are your bones made from the same weathered wood that is featured in our charming fences? Does cool country water flow through your veins instead of blood? Is there manure in your hair? No? Then forever be silent on matters pastoral!

Of course that's a broccoli tree. Where in blazes did you think broccoli came from?

And Let's Not Even Get Into the Woo-Woo Crap...

Back in 1982 Wim Wenders made an interesting little documentary called Room 666 . In it, he had various directors sit alone in a hotel room with a camera and answer a series of questions on the future of cinema. Godard gives a largely impenetrable but very Godardish speech. Werner Herzog decides it's very important to take his shoes off before answering the question. Fassbinder looks tired and defeated, and died not long after the film was made. Yılmaz Güney's segment was made on an audio cassette that had to be smuggled out to Wenders, as the Turkish government wasn't letting him speak to the press.

Steven Spielberg spends his entire segment bitching and moaning about how hard it is to get the money to fulfill his vision. He made this statement while working on fucking E.T., and after he'd earned more from Jaws and Close Encounters than the other directors in the film saw in their lifetimes all put together.

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull sucked.

UPDATE: Took spoiler out of title. Some spoilery stuff in the comments still.

Feeling a Little Peaked

For some reason it's taking me forever to finish Mervyn Peake's Gormenghast trilogy. I'm a third of the way through the second volume, but it's taken the better part of two weeks to get there. Lately, every time I pick up a book I get sleepy. Either this lovely cool spring we're having is very conducive to snoozing, or I've got an undiagnosed medical condition that's killing me by inches. Whichever, I wish I could stop falling asleep while holding heavy books over my face (I like to read while lying on my back). I don't think my nose can take another involuntary smack.

Also falling asleep reading Peake means your dreams tend to be populated by creatures like Abiatha Swelter.



It's hardly restful.

Some of My Crimes

1980: Used a fake ID to vote in the presidential elections. I was only seven, but I was just that passionate about John Anderson.

1986: Violated Sizzler's "All You Can Eat" policy by eating more than I could.

1993: Charged with grand theft auto after making an unsuccessful claim that stealing a Volkswagen that was sitting in a puddle was kosher under maritime salvage laws.

1997: Sued for breach of contract after delivering a three hour lecture at the Learning Annex in Topeka on the importance of canine portraiture in the works of the Pre-Raphaelites, instead of the introductory "Joy of Juggling" course I had promised.

1999: Target of a seemingly endless stream of nuisance charges while working a part time construction job in Clearwater, Florida. A junior assistant DA finally let me know my problems would go away if I would take the "HUBBARD WASN'T ALL THAT" bumper sticker off my pickup. Opted to head back north instead.

2004: Charged with indecent exposure in Portland, Oregon. Acquitted after pointing out that Utilikilt's sizing charts did not take the wide-hipped yet long-legged gentleman into account.

2007: Nearly caused an international incident when my telegram to Doris Lessing —warning her that a restraining order was in the offing if she didn't stop showing up drunk on my lawn at 3 o'clock in the morning— was intercepted and printed in The Guardian. Libel charge was quietly dropped after I produced surveillance camera footage and a thick folder of fervid mash notes in Ms. Lessing's distinctive hand.