Prince may have cursed the Camry

Theory: Every once in a while, your life needs to blow up.

My car may or may not have died tonight. It seems to be alive at the moment, but it may have suffered a serious palpitation or stroke or other serious event that signifies an impending death.

I was almost home. Less than a mile. Zooming along, singing along to my Prince CD.

YOU. I would DIE 4 U.

And the Camry answered. Without a sound or a warning. I stopped at a red light, and felt the brake pressure change. Everything jammed. The dash lit up: Battery light, Oil light, and Check Engine light. Hello, old friends. I’ve never seen you all at the same time.

On my good list: The AAA operators, the guy who came to tow my car to my house, and the state policeman who waited behind my car while I crossed the McGrath Highway to the local Burger King to use the restroom.

PEE. I would DIE 2 P.

Naughty list: The two women working at Burger King who decided to close 20 minutes early, and would not let me in to use the restroom. I wasn’t planning on ever buying a Whopper in this lifetime, but I must now cast bad juju at you and all of your establishments from this day forward. I hope the cattle rise up and trample all over your kingdom, fuckers. Thanks for nothing. May you be spend a lonely evening crying into your work smock, watching a cardboard crown circle a toilet bowl endlessly like a cheap metaphor for whatever dreams you may have had in this sad, finite life.

Not how I wanted my evening to go, but I’m at peace with it. Sometimes life needs to shake you up, challenge you. Whatever happens with the car, I’ll handle it. Life will be challenging, and then I’ll figure it out.

 

Emcee Pink

Mike Pence. If you were to make up a name for a governor who was so goddamned no-nonsense, he looked like this hair was tattooed on for the sake of efficiency, you might just land on the name “Mike Pence.”

Mike Pence. A name you can trust, without a bunch of unnecessary vowels and syllables. All-American, like shitty reality shows, shitty sitcoms, and shit beer.

Mike! Pence!

Our country needs a vice president with a name that hits hard, but with a thud like a blunt object. You want businesses to treat gays with the respect that the constitution and the Supreme Court affords them? Well, here’s a stack of bibles for ya, bucko. Enjoy the THUD of GOD. How do you like that? Mike Pence don’t play around, no sir.

We are not a nation of losers looking for handouts. Mike Pence! So all of you slow elderly losers, and smelly unemployed losers, and undateable disabled losers can go blow it out your loser a-holes. OK? OK!

Mike Pence!

But, how will it end?

The world seems mad at the moment. It seems as if every coalition formed over the last century is in danger of disintegrating. Up is down. Black is white. The worst of 80s fashion is back, and Donald Trump is a serious presidential candidate. It feels as if we’re all walking around in a shared fugue state, just lumbering forward into a pointless future, pointlessly.

None of this is new. History is rife with tales of calamity. We’re overdue for some major worldwide catastrophe.

At least it won’t be boring. I’m already on the edge of my seat.

Words You May Use To Describe Me

If a member of the press asks you to answer questions about me, I hereby authorize the following descriptive terms. Be sure to pepper any list of my vast, impressive accomplishments with astonished references to my humility. I thank you. ~kc

  • Diabolical Villainess
  • Wealthy Socialite
  • Coffee-Loving
  • Shapely
  • Comely
  • Any other adjective ending with -ly
  • Whip-Smart
  • Survival-Oriented
  • Well-Accessorized
  • Brilliant Light in a Dark World
  • A Book-Smart Dame With Legs That Go For Miles
  • A Leggy Dame with Brains That Go For Miles
  • A Smiley Dame With Gams That Belie Her Braininess
  • The Brainy Gam Lady
  • Humble, To a Fault

 

Does Anyone Even Want This Salad?

I’m boring lately. I hope it’s all for good.

My life right now consists of me getting as much writing done as possible. When I’m not writing, I give myself hell. I have about 90 pages of a first draft of a screenplay written so far. On some days, I imagine my Oscar acceptance speech and my 60-Minutes interview with Anderson Cooper. Those are the good days. The salad days.

And then, after a while, that salad turns into a soggy mush of unrecognizable, insubstantial nothing, as salad does. I don’t know what you’d call those days.

  • The Overcooked Spinach Days?
  • The Toothless Tapioca Days?
  • The Days of The Red Pen of Harsh Self-Reproachment?

typewriter reading: Bullshit.

Right now I’m in the middle of a salad time, and I’m trying to stay with it as long as I can. Let’s just get this thing written. And if it turns out to be insubstantial crap that leaves a bad taste in your mouth, so be it. At least I won’t have it over my head any more. I will go out and move on with my life, which is… wait. Who am I? What am I doing?

Maybe it’s bullshit. I can’t know at this point.

50 Ways To Give The Finger – #10: The Valentine Finger

Screen Shot 2015-02-14 at 12.37.14 PMThe Valentine Finger can be administered on any day of the year, not just the one special day that we set aside each year to exchange Russell Stover’s Creme d’Monstrosities for sex.

What the Valentine Finger communicates to the recipient: Why, yes –I will be enjoying a movie that I want to see at home with a glass of wine and chocolates that I love. And thank you for reminding me how amazing that will be. I do love you, after all.

When to use it: When you are in line behind a bickering couple, when you are standing in front of a hideous Valentine’s Day display, when a bridal bouquet is thrown in your general direction, or when a couple takes their Love-gazey, finger twiddly display out in public.

UP NEXT: #11 – The Delicate Kiss-Off Finger

It’s Winter in Boston. Time to Crack UP.

Screen Shot 2015-02-06 at 1.20.36 AMThat special time is here! Bring on the Netflix and red wine! It’s time for the cold and snow of winter to finally push me to my breaking point.

The end of my driveway is marked on either side by an 8-foot hill of frozen, dirty snow that extends 7 feet into the road. The driveway mounds are massive. There could be people in there, in all honesty. In order to get out of my driveway, I need to maneuver carefully around those monsters with a 12-point white-knuckled blind turn.

What is the rational response to this frigid claustrophobia? I don’t know, but my irrational response is impotent rage. I’ve kept it under wraps so far, but my inner monologue goes like this: “Ngahhh! Beep-beep! Whores!! Hatehatehate!”

I want you to find a recent weather map. Got it? Ok – Is it just me or does some angry god have a vendetta against the Boston area? It just keeps coming, and every storm is aimed at us. Also note that we have a charming historic transit system that breaks down in the cold, just like it did in 1897. History comes to life!

There is nowhere to put this snow. Nowhere. This much is clear. You can shovel snow and throw it on top of the nearest snow mound, only to have it roll off the mound and back down to your feet, as if to mock you. I waved to my elderly neighbor yesterday as he essentially poked weakly at the end of his own 8-foot driveway mound with a shovel. I felt sad for him. For all of us.

It’s cold. It’s going to get colder, somehow. And the weather people show open disdain for commoners like me . I read headlines like “Think It’s Cold? Just Wait ‘Til You See What We Have in Store For the Weekend!” Fuck you, cheerful weather man. Right in the eye. Right. In. The. Eye.

Also, I’m trying to write a screenplay that tells the story of a depressed, recently divorced woman and her miserable winter in Boston. It’s a dark comedy. Write what you know, they say.

I apologize for the rant. And for the weirdness. I stand by the weather man thing, though.