March 19, 2005
What's Next in Hollywood Special Effects and Virtual Camera Movement? --- To Boldly Go
EXT. STREET -- MANHATTAN -- DAY Inches from the ground, the camera follows ANTONIO'S racing FEET through a rush-hour crowd. A forest of legs gathers as Antonio waits for a stoplight. Free again, Antonio's feet cross the intersection, dodge a spilled Slurpee, and turn down a RESIDENTIAL STREET. Scuffing through autumn leaves and restaurant handbills Antonio's feet are surprised by the snarl of a BLITHERING LAPDOG whose jaws fill the frame. The camera, spooked, tries to hide behind Antonio's ankles to no avail. A renewed barrage of yapping drives the camera up Antonio's PANT LEG. Dangerous teeth and gums can still be seen in the loose cuff. The camera turns and tracks up, up, up PAST THE KNEE and into the folds of a pair of VOLUMINOUS BOXER SHORTS. One final paroxysm of barking and . . . oh, boy . . . don't tell me . . . through the CIRCULAR GATE and . . . yikes . . . it's going to be a tight squeeze! INT. ANTONIO'S COLON --- NIGHT The camera floats into the cavernous calm, catches its breath for a moment and then . . . oh, brother! . . . we're on are way up, up through the sinuous tunnels like some grim gothic waterpark. The camera dives through a wall . . . bloody membranes . . . bleagh . . . and . . . daylight! EXT. ANTONIO'S NAVEL --- DAY The camera nests amidst the lint, surveying the world from beneath shade of Antonio's high-riding T-shirt. It pans down disdainfully to the distant dog below. |
March 03, 2005
a duel on the mediterranean
| Rob, I see you stressing out about how to convert Blue Company from an e-mail novel into a print novel.
Let me tell you a story. It was 1928 and the season had just begun in St. Tropez I was comfortably installed in my usual Palace Hotel suite and even though it was to go down as a summer of legendary hi-jinx I was in a considerable funk. Remember that in February of that year I had accomplished a near-sweep of the Italian national championships --- taking first in verse and painting, and second in calligraphy (due to the judging scandal that has since been discussed ad nauseum). |
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| From February onward however, the flow of incoming telegrams had dwindled to a trickle, and it had been months since I had received an invitation to compete. I even had been passed over for gala exhibitions in Bruges and Ajaccio. I believe it is not unfair to say, purely and simply, that the European stars of the Art were afraid to be on stage with me. | Paul gasped and muttered caution as my blade hissed about the noble noggin. |
| Convinced that my uncompromising attitude at the easel had rendered me too intimidating to even the ablest practitioners, I moped around my drawing room berating myself for my lack of career strategy. I remembered my Master's words: "save your energy; win by the slenderest of margins; don't burn bridges." What a fool I was, and so on. Even the creations of Paul, the Palace's chef de cuisine, could not budge my mood.
Then one night at the roulette table there appeared, through a veil of cigar smoke, a column of cinnamon chiffon fulfilled by one of the most charming musculatures my eyes ever squoze. The waiter (a friend) just happened to let slip within her hearing that the great so-and-so, champion of Italy, was in attendance and nodded in my direction. Her eyes flashed diamonds. Literally. A small stone was glued onto each lid, creating a soul-rippling sparkle with every blink. It was Masha. She claimed to be Russian nobility, but I doubted it. She was most certainly nobility of the flesh. I smiled at her elaborate malarkey and bantered on. We sat elbow to elbow for several hours and cheerfully lost her a small fortune. When she rose to retire, she bemoaned (in a husky whisper) that her door was broken and that her room, a few doors from mine, was doomed to be unlocked all night. She pressed my shoulder and was gone. As a changed into my pyjamas moments later in my suite I had a moment of vertigo. Could it be that I had misunderstood her signal? Could it be so easy? I caught sight of myself in the mirror. Reassured, I made sure the hallway was empty then tiptoed along it. There was no mistake. The afternoon light off the sea flooded Masha's bedroom as we awoke from our first bit of sleep, illuminating her felty skin, a chorus of empty bottles, and a richly framed photo portrait of the King of Spain on her nightstand. |
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| I arranged for Paul to bring us a Korean Spring picnic of stir-fried ferns, shrimp and green onion pancakes, and some of spicy stuffed cucumber kimchee he had been brewing for me in authentic heavy ceramics. | I conceived the plan of writing a love message to Masha on the surface of the bay beneath our balcony |
I can say with certainty that Paul was the only Cordon Bleu chef on the continent to be able (with my help) to prepare Korean food. Masha and I emerged from her room only at midnight and only to verify the spin on the roulette wheel. Several days passed in this manner. Relaxed and inspired, I conceived the plan of writing a love message to Masha on the surface of the bay beneath our balcony via the carefully choreographed manoevres of four speed-boats and some quite toxic dyes. We were so little conscious of ecological issues in those days! It's the kind of project I would be paid a susbstantial sum for, today, but I was in the hammerlock of love. Or so I imagined. Rehearsing the speed-boats on the dock a few days later, I was approached by a neatly dressed Spanish gentleman who requested satisfaction on behalf of another Spanish gentleman "whom discretion required remain anonymous." The time and place, his choice, were Sunday dawn in a private park near the esplanade. The choice of weapons, mine, was the usual saber. The only problem, aside from my risk of injuring a person of importance (a thing never to be done lightly), was that the time nearly exactly co-incided with my scheduled bit of aquatic language arts. I would have to wrap up the duel, leap immediately into a waiting car, and arrive nonchalantly at Masha's bedside in my dressing gown and find a way to rouse her (a heavy sleeper) and escort her plausibly and casually to the balcony --- all inside 20 minutes. Instead of increasing my physical training in the intervening days before the duel, I took to bed in high dudgeon, consoled only by Paul's astonishing terrine of Egyptian vegetables, duck and blood sausage bound with revealed goose fat. Sunday arrived and I would be lying to say I had slept well. The strict regime of bedrest had produced a high degree of nervous agility, and I felt ready to jump out of my skin. Anything can happen in a fight. I arrived on the grounds with Paul as my second. I guessed immediately that the figure in the domino half-mask twitching under an alder was to be my opponent. To this day I believe it to have been the King of Spain, but it cannot be confirmed. I questioned the President of the Duel about the mask and he assured me it would not block my opponent's vision. Shirts off, wrists bandaged --- all was in order, but my opponent continued to confer with his attending surgeon. My watch thundered desperately in my pocket. I could imagine the speedboats already waiting at the dock, the pilots' eyes on my balcony doors. My opponent at last stood ready. His opening was shaky, but showed pluck, and, more importantly, training. I would have to be skillful. All targets on the body are permitted in saber fighting, and I parried, feinted and drove for the head. Paul gasped and muttered caution as my blade hissed and danced about the noble noggin. I got close the first time, and reached my target the second; I managed to snag the black lace of the domino and rotate it nearly a quarter turn on my opponent's face. Blinded, he cried out, waved, and I held back. He readjusted and we began again. A second time I turned the mask, he waved and I paused. Then I lunged from the left I managed to pull the mask nearly off. Understanding my strategy, he conferred with his seconds. Despite my hurry I had to remain calm, icy. The issue was weighed --- honor, or the revelation of identity. His seconds offered Paul a draw. I refused. I was furious. I had been roused from my bed, distracted from my art. All for what? Nothing short of an apology would do! With all the subtleties of the mighty Spanish tongue put into play, a statement as close to being an apology as it could be --- without actually being one --- was foisted into the negotiations. Paul gestured toward the church clock. I sighed, bowed, and acquiesced.
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| But the crucial hour had passed. As I dashed up the hotel stairs I could see already that my speedboats had dispersed, and a huge ugly fishing vessel was scribbling obscenities on my smooth writing surface! | Despite my determination to stay grumpy, I began to chuckle at the thought of it . . . |
Demoralized, I collapsed back into bed, and rose again, gloomily, with Masha in the early afternoon. Dead-set on sunning herself she dragged me to hotel's vast pool, where I sulked beneath an umbrella despising glass after glass of champagne. The text I had prepped for the bay was still rich within me, and, as texts will, needed to take the air. Despite my determination to stay grumpy, I began to chuckle at the thought of it, then, still trying to hold it in, began laughing. Unable to fight it any longer, I threw on a loose shirt and some linen pants and ran to the nearby home of my tailor and convinced him to open his shop for me for a few purchases for which I paid double. And so it happened that Masha looked up casually from her fashion magazine to see, floating in the swimming pool of the Palace Hotel, St. Tropez, written in coils of red ribbon, one of the finest, silliest, simplest, most touching quatrains that has ever flowed through my torso and out my fingers. It sprang from the same impulse as the quatrain that would have been in the bay, but of course it had to be quite different . . . a swimming pool is an entirely different medium! The literary critic of Figaro, vacationing there at the time, burst into tears on the spot. As for Masha --- I realized not too many weeks later that she was not looking for a husband, but rather, for a rich husband. I was crushed. But I soon recovered. The moral of the story is that if, some fine Spring day, you absolutely must have a Korean picnic, it is a thing that can always be done. And, oh yes, dear Rob, when you are changing media, don't over-think the matter. The new medium tells you what it wants and all you have to do is listen. |
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July 06, 2004
advice; things to do
| romance advice to allen, 2 | ||
But humorously, Allen . . . B & B. Breathe and Be yourself. Although it's fun to get intense about a new love interest, don't put too much gravity in it. Don't get too goal oriented. Don't assume a liaison is what you want. Take it step by step, and ask yourself at each step: "Is this really working for me? Is it really still fun?" I know you, my friend. your love of winning can blind you to the big picture. Treat yourself to a big picture snapshot every 20 minutes or so to keep your perspectitve. Look at things, say . . . from the other side of the solar system for a moment. That said, bon chance, mon ami! May the sun's wind be at your back and the moon's gravity at a 34 degree forward angle toward your intentions! |
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advice; things to say
| googlepoem, romance advice to allen | ||
| ... My Petpet! This is my Barbat named Turkey! He's really great! I love it when he
says "Coooo Unsyn"! I think he says I'm cool!! Back to the Top! My Abilities! ...
... Re: calling all bed-wetters and ambulance chasers. agreed, i also love it when he says "sinew" and uses alliteration. god bless the bookish boys. ... ... comes bursting thru that door, mama leaps and hits the floor Calling himself Louis Quatorze, he's so young and dangerous Oh I love it when he says so seriously ... ... I would love to meet him. hehe. He is my favorite player. I love it when he says lets gamble. sends shivers down my back hehe. Posted ... ... In short, love, emotion and broken hearts," Donnelly says. I love it when he says "wee,'' which he does every couple of sentences. ... ... I love it when he says "all our fears fall on deaf ears" and "they burned the roads ... I LOVE Dragonball Z! It's the best show ever! And Captain Ginyu is the best character! I love it when he says "GOOOOOO GINYU!" and shoots his Ginyu-shot! Yeah! ... ... Custom (Admins Only). REMOVE. BAN LOCK TOTAL ERASE. lol, i love it when he says "we did them" or when he shouts "COMING" stuff like that. ... .. t-shirt. On the back it would say "It's harrrible." "You are just the cutest thing eh-va!". I love it when he says that. But I don ... |
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May 16, 2004
googlepoem, imminent arrival
... Richie returns home, and everyone comforts him ... b: 11-Dec-1979 pc: 149 w: Beverly Bloomberg d ... The Cunningham's 25th Anniversary is next week, and Marion wants to ... ... Saginaw returns home to play division rival Sault Ste. ... dioxin levels for a new round of testing next week. ... Board President Beverly Yanca says the Board and ... ... Commander Robert Merriman; during the next week they re ... feminist Canada: Emma Goldman returns home to her ... Green Acres, The Beverly Hillbillies, & Hooterville ... |
May 02, 2004
googlepoem, beverly found, 3
... Q: I'm in Tokyo for this week's Macworld and I'm ... The phone in my hotel room seems to use a strange connector. ... We're not decent!" and we're totally cracking up. ... ... I will never be able to say without cracking up. ... Phone conversation, overheard at work today: "No, no. ... soundtrack as you blast through the streets of Tokyo? ... ... Tuesday, i'm back from my tokyo business trip ... work done at night (but no phone connection) so ... halfway through, we both started cracking up...at ourselves and ... |
googlepoem, beverly found, 2
Cyber Romance Readers Meet for Off-line Conference ... All sub genres of romance will be represented ... & Director, Radisson Miyako Hotel Tokyo - Aestheticism and ... its recently introduced OFF-LINE telephone help service ... ... Romance Languages Resource Page Funded by the Consortium for ... Press, Radio/TV, Telephone Links to hundreds of ... agencies compiled by the Italian Embassy in Tokyo. ... ... at all about Shin-Fuji, a small town between Osaka and Tokyo. ... her back to bed, ready to resume the romance that had ... It works less well on the telephone. ... |
May 01, 2004
googlepoem, beverly found
... I don't know." "She is in Tokyo for the ... The phone is working, but please just let the answering machine ... I'll just be a second," he heard her voice from the ... ... posture had transformed the moment he heard her voice, his strange ... house, was still in her apartment in Tokyo. ... lacquered table sat her cell phone, its handset ... ... it is my second day in tokyo, and it is just the most amazing place. ... She surprised herself as the phone suddenly flew ... But when I wasn't looking at her, and heard her voice, I knew it was her. ...
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April 16, 2004
poem, beverly, missing
| Moonlit Night (after Tu Fu, ca. 760) | ||
Moonlit night in the southern sea
she watches from some room,
While faraway I think lovingly of her and her crew
Fragrant humidity, her curly hair floating and silicon-sparkling in the pale beams; her arms shine.
When will we lean in this old window,
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March 24, 2004
poem, re: beverly
"Meeting a Tourist on Her Way Back to the Capital" |
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I gaze west toward my home, the contrail is endless
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March 23, 2004
country song; re: radio as bonding @ long distance
| After Wang Ch'ang-ling, "Hearing a Flute on the River" | ||
| I picture you there / in your tent in the sand With your little radio / clutched in your hand Tryin' to sleep in your helmet, thinkin' bout me Keeping calm in the storm listenin' to BBC We get it here, too / after Conan is done The moon on our Jeep / 3 a.m. with my cup |
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March 16, 2004
game, your turn
| Your Turn | ||
Draw one LifeChangerTM Card from the top of the deck. Cards include: Fall In Love |
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March 09, 2004
googlepoem 'grassy public area'
... and fingers smoothed Jim's temples, lips kissed his brow ... just another emergency
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googlepoem, found mar 2004 by 'wordsman |
March 08, 2004
song, 'you juice up my cortex'
| to the tune of John Denver's "Annie's Song" (You Fill Up My Senses) You juice up my cortex You plunge my whole brain stem You trigger reactions It worked so great last time |