the doll fin

Just finished (I think, who knows) Auburn Magazine story on Auburn’s social media brat pack. “Brat pack” — that’s how I pitched it. Seemed like it’d hook them. It did. And it’s an easy way to describe it on a To Do list, etc. But it’s not like they’re pals or anything, despite being basically the same age and passing each other in Haley Center and rubbing L.A. elbows.

Me: blah blah blah Ricky Dillon.

Meghan: Does he have some connection to Auburn? What? That’s so funny. I had no idea he went there.

I’m writing too much here. I just wanted to embed these things before Vine dies, and it dies in three hours. Because I’ve been through a million vines today and man, Sara Hopkins deserves everything she can get her hands on. I’d seen the dolphin Christmas party back when I “edited” that thing that dude wrote on her for TWER in 2014 (back when Buzzfeed was if not a punch line, then as I put it, a “viral content repository”). But the second one is even better. Hopefully they’ll stay embedded. I’ll feel even dumber if they don’t.

Congrats on everything, Sara — you may be a genius.

scarlett robonahnnsen

This is the kind of money I want. “Can you build me a ScarJobot? ‘Cause I have ScarJobot kinda money.” Then you have people over and show them around and say “hey, have I shown you my ScarJobot?” Nothing weird about it, really. Just kinda fun and cool.

kate bush

I’m working so so so hard on a book, so no no no I say whenever I want to blog (and whenever I want to start an entirely new blog — multiple of times of day this happens, the battle consumes me), but I’m hopscotching around the desk top and there she is, Kate Bush, screengrabs from the other day when I allowed myself to take a step beyond “Wuthering Heights.” Something called Babooshka (a big word from my childhood). And a song called something else. We all watched as the Samsung beamed it to the Sony transfixed by the naked sincerity of it all. I had no idea. I mean, I guess I should have. But I didn’t.

Crop, save, repeat. And five days later, that’s what got me blogging!

kate bush 1

kate bush 2

kate bush 3

I mean, I’d still probably choose Princess Leia, just for the name recognition and sense of accomplishment. But I don’t know.

victoria jackson as mrs. claus

There’s something about her. Found this while writing this. She went to Auburn. There’s even more something about her.


Here she is at Auburn. Was so happy I found this. Unlabeled, but it’s her. I knew forever that she’d gone here. It’s one of those things you hear about. But never did hardcore digging. When I did, there she was, this golden Shira of the stage. In Auburn. In the early 80s. I could write a great short story. Normally I’d try to keep this to TWER because only TWER can have it and keep it and appreciate it. But no, it deserves to be out there. Just know I put it out there, that I have a special relationship with it. I’ve tried to email her a few times for interviews. Never works. You’d think it would work but it hasn’t worked. It’s OK.

victoria more

This is great, too.

can you tell me how to get, how to get to islamabaaaad

Went to sleep hungry for more Homeland and woke up to this.

You know, Claire Danes (I really hope that’s her real name) is a month younger than I am. And I think that we were probably for the briefest of times exposed to at least some of the same You-Can-Be-An-Actor-And-A-Great one stimuli that was out there for kids in the 80s. ‘Cause I was serious about it. Because I was good. I was a natural. My mom knew. Other moms knew. I was going places. Strong voice. Spot on reactions. Good looking. I’m sure I could have had a roll on a mid-90s teen drama if I’d pressed on. I’m not sure why I stopped. It’s not really important I guess. Point is, is that if I had—kept pushing, head shots, workshops, auditions—I can totally see Claire and I crossing paths at some point and becoming, like, audition pals. Are there audition pals? If there are, Claire and I would have been audition pals. I think we would have gotten along. Probably land roles on the same show or movie. Brat Pack 2.0. Become even tighter. Not romantic, just tight. Romantic tension, sure. That’s just the way it goes. But more brother-sister. (Is she an only child? I bet she is. That’s probably why I feel this kindred stuff. About to check. No–an older brother BUT he’s seven years older. So basically she is an only child. I mean, I have two way younger brothers, technically half, and I’m pretty much an only child.) But we didn’t and here I am sounding creepy but I’m not creepy, promise. It’s just that whenever I see her in something, which is actually pretty much only Homeland and I think some John Grisham movie–truth be told, I’ve only watched an episode or two of My So-Called Life but I really appreciate its vibe and role and everything–and I guess now Sesame Street, I just have this sense that we’d get along. Have I written about this before? I think I’ve written about this before. Maybe it was that thing about Madonna.

OK, I just read more of the Wikipedia entry. She was born in Manhattan and went to performing arts schools and stuff. BUT! I went to Montessori for like a year and did the gifted stuff (so long ago) later on and was I think maybe accepted by the Alabama School of Fine Arts, or at least was maybe encouraged to go. So I’m stickin’ to it “Briefest of time… at least some of…” That’s all I said.


[Cross-posted—cross-posted, yes!—on Matlog]

quelle difference

So many celebrities dying on Twitter. It’s always a a split second of ______ when you see it. Like the world, or at least your world, has to skip just a second to update to a world without , as of five minutes ago, Joan Rivers. (Unless of course it’s  Robin Williams and then the rest of your day is ruined. There’s no real getting used to that. No offense, Joan.) But this one was kind of weird, took an extra second or two, because not last night, but the night before I was hanging out with Joan Rivers.

See, Tavis Smiley gets me every time.For about a year now, I switch it back to PBS at night to make sure the kids don’t wake up to “Amish Sluts” or something and there’s this Tavis dude who appeared out of nowhere. And his name’s Tavis. Tavis Smiley. That’s his name. And the show has this ridiculous, late 80s public access intimacy to it that makes you scratch your 2014 head for a while, that you know you’ll never be able to really describe properly to someone. But then there’s all these mega A-listers on there and it’s like they’re totally honored. And somehow,I got to hand him to him, it works. And I keep watching. I lose at least another 10 or 15 minutes of sleep. God help me, I guess I’m a Tavis Smiley fan. And yeah, the other night, Tuesday night, it’s me and, Tavis, and Joan Rivers. And she’s looking very Joan Rivers and talking very Joan Rivers. But she said some really inspirational stuff. I know. It’s wild. But she did, so inspirational I almost started quoting it during a big heart to heart with someone the other day. Move forward. Keep moving forward. It’s cliche I guess. Everyone says it. But something about it coming from Joan Rivers, during a conversation about that legendary snub from Carson I’ve only just now really started hearing about,  I don’t know, it really resonated and I’ve been drawing a little strength from it. So rest in peace, Joan Rivers. Thanks, Joan Rivers.

vhs valhalla

The Incredible Story Of Marion Stokes, Who Single-Handedly Taped 35 Years Of TV News

I recently had the Santa talk with Sadie, which is a post for another time (she threatened to kill me in my sleep, ha ha ha #1992nbcminiseriesworstfearnightmareLOL) I’m sure will never come. But it’s weird watching the magic drain from your child’s eyes, magic you put there, your magic. She’s fine of course, and the different kind of magic is in her eyes now and focused on Phoebe, making sure Christmas never dies and such. And it makes me reflect on my own history with Christmas, which used to be such a huge deal for me, I mean, huge, pre-Santa, post-Santa (if there is such a thing). And I think I’m beginning to get back that do-nothing joy of Christmas morning a bit, though nothing like my own childhood of course, which is totally impossible. But if there was one thing that could get me there, I mean right back there, as there as you can get, maybe even further—that clock-less miracle moment stretched to an infinity of no school and nothing but pure toy pleasure (a new Nintendo and 10 games and a snow day and pizza and your mom napping and 2 p.m. forever) it would be stumbling all “sure ma’am, I’ll help you with that, and hey, Merry Christmas… oh wow, those a lot of boxes, you’re getting rid of them?” onto effing 35 VHS years worth of local news. I mean, holy Lord. Of course I’d actually need some fantasy computer digitizing presents for Christmas. And I’d need to start a blog where I somehow didn’t care about what anyone thought about what I thought about anything, but you let me worry about that part, heavenly daydream Santa. You put me in VHS Valhalla and I’ll find a way to get over myself.


Why am I this way? Why is that such a turn on (9. slang  a person or thing that causes emotional or sexual arousal)? I remember reading some Christian angel warfare novel (non-Peretti) when I was 14 or something and the main character first person angel’s name was Recorder and I remember really identifying with Recorder. I mean, you should see my room, my office, and I’m told I’m officially like, in the one percent of individual Carbonite users in terms of storage, most of it photos of strangers — or at least photos. And home movies. And writings and screen caps and scans, and I guess I should just stop thinking about it. That’s who I am. And the woman in this story, according to her kids, was just religiously committed to recording and keeping the local news not (solely?) because she was some OCD case, but because she was straight up convinced that what she was doing had worth beyond making her feel good, that it would be used one day, needed one day, vital one day. Which is totally how I feel. Which I know is hoarderrific, I guess, judging from the psychologists on the hoarder shows — I mean, that’s what you do, hold onto it because you think you’re going to need it. And I do that, but only stuff with sentimental value, and only because then I think I can make art with it—a constellation of reference points to connect. Some sort of wonderful novel based entirely on the freshman year folder in the closet i never use, stuff like that. I mean, i actually have plans to write a novel entirely about a church trip based only the cinematographically nauseating video i took of the trip. I think it’d be awesome. And going back to the news stuff… because, yeah, of course it was news. Because there’s something about that local TV news. There’s a vibe to it. I think I actually wanted to be a meteorologist growing up, like Jerry Tracy. It was awesome to keep up with who was new, who was leaving, who was moving to a new station, who was–oh man, is that Mike Royer?–getting baptized, bragging to people that my mom froze or helped freeze or whatever Janet Hall’s bra when they were both in high school together… a few years back I even wanted to write a novel about the local Birmingham news market or whatever… and oh MAN if only that woman lived in Birmingham, I could TOTALLY do it! DO YOU KNOW HOW AWESOME THAT WOULD BE? I WOULD BE THE FATHER OF ENTIRE NEW LITERARY FORM.

God bless you, Marion Stokes.