This video below is from the bizarre movie Wicker Man (1973). A man investigates the cult murder sacrifice of a girl on a pagan island in Scotland. (Nick Cage did the laughable remake.) Britt Ekland tries to seduce the investigator through the walls of the inn. He’s a virgin. He’s tortured as she calls out to him and bangs on the walls. Youtube doesn’t allow the complete video because of Britt Ekland’s titties and ass, so maybe you’ll rent the movie if you want to see those, and you do. This movie is brilliant. It transports you very effectively to another planet where the laws of gravity are different – here’s a place where you’ll be completely ungrounded. Britt Ekland’s song is bizarre because it comes out of nowhere. It’s haunting, lovely and disorienting. I swear I’m going to sing this karaoke one day. I think of her as a witch in this scene.
The second video from the movie is a very short lullaby. The women in this scene are so strangely disconnected that they stroke and groom their victim, who is about to be killed, as if he would be soothed by it. With the lullaby playing, the scene reaches your gut. The ‘comforting’ of the women and the song make you think of being a child in your mother’s loving arms, yet you’re being prepared for a fiery death. You wonder for a second if perhaps this is a good thing, to die by fire, then you shit your pants.
I edited the hell out of my book of short stories, so I was surprised to spot a misplaced modifier a couple of days ago. A few friends read some of the stories before they were published but they were just proud that their lovely friend Sandee had written pretty stories. Grammatical errors and structural defects weren’t on their radar. They read it and said, “Yay! Sandee wrote a book!”
I’ve been a writer and editor at different jobs. While I know it’s hard to spot grammatical and structural errors in your own work, I thought I was up to the task. The editor at Calliope made just a couple of changes to my short story for the sake of clarity, so I was confident in my editing ability.
I fixed the error for the hard copy version of the book. If I hadn’t used all of my book budget money for advertising, I would have purchased an editor, a big, hunky 25 year old who wouldn’t mind working in my apartment sitting on my lap. I’m looking into it for my other book.
Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell had a steamy chemistry. I read that Marvin Gaye says they didn’t have anything going on. When I see their video — doesn’t look that way to me! She was such a cutie, very flirty with him. They’re sexy to watch. She’s alive, so animated with personality. This poor girl died when she was 24 of a brain tumor. I watched a documentary about her. Marvin Gaye was devastated by her death. She experienced much in her short life. She enrolled in medical school and dated James Brown!
Since it’s all about me — if I had achieved a modicum of her success at that age, I would be dead, too — no disrespect — much love! Oh the gifts of drugs and liquor I would have happily imbibed as a brash young, conceited and self-centered writer. I suppose that’s why I did not achieve that success as the sweet sweet universe was protecting its special little Sandee — pah.
So now at the age of 151, I’m transrolling (no, this word isn’t in the dictionary or Wikipedia — I made it up) my Kindle book into a hard copy book, going back and forth, back and forth, back and forth with Amazon’s Create Space ‘specialists’ who hate my rotten guts as I’ve called them 25 times. But nevertheless I get closer. So, while we all wait for my monumental achievement, please, if you will, enjoy Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell:
CORRECTION: Tammi Terrell took premed courses — oops!
I was thrilled to find inexpensive dental care. At the medical building on the upper west side, the young black woman dentist jogged around busily. I followed her up and down spiral stairs to tell her my dental woes. The offices were decorated brown, in a seventies style. She stopped and asked to see my teeth. I opened my mouth. “Oh yeah,” she said nodding and stepping away quickly as if able to determine the extent of my problems. “We’ll get that fixed right away. In fact we have a program.” She said I qualified for a pro bono program. I was in heaven. “Let me make a call” she said, picking up the receiver from the multi-lined phone on the large brown reception desk. The receptionist had left for the day. Most of the lights in the reception area were turned out.
The woman the dentist called came quickly. She was a middle-aged short, stocky woman in a brown suit with sensible shoes. “Hi Sandee — yes you qualify for our program,” she said smiling. “You’ll fix my teeth for free?” “Yes indeed,” she said. I couldn’t believe this was happening. I felt like I had won a lottery. She asked also if she could see my teeth. She moved in and put her hand on my waist near my behind. She asked me to open my mouth. She peered inside then stuck her tongue in like a lizard. “Wha?!” I pushed back. “Wait, come, I have to see. For the program,” she said officiously. I felt like a prisoner about to be raped. She grabbed me and stuck her tongue in again. I pushed her off and wrestled her to the floor before running out of the building.
I stood on an abandoned avenue, shaken and out of breath after running. Above was bright blue sky and thick white clouds, but everything was gray. Gray concrete slabs of sidewalk were crumbling and pieces were missing. I walked to an area with a fence that had a destroyed building behind it. The area looked like war torn Bosnia, with dilapidated, smoke-colored abandoned buildings and crumbling tenements.
Young men and women came out onto the street from a door on the side of a dilapidated building. They had hair to their waists. They were thin like high fashion models, dressed in pink, turquoise and yellow flowing clothes. On the crumbling sidewalk by the fenced area, they set up children’s rocking horses with bright colored manes, a toy trombone and toy drum set. The models played the toys like they were in a band. They banged the horses and drums with sticks. The ones playing the horses and drums stooped to play their instruments as they were so tall.
This was my dream. I didn’t include the part before the dentist’s office where I’m on a seventies styled bus on my way to the dental office. That would’ve made this already long post longer; besides, I didn’t think I needed to use that part… Thanks for reading! What kinds of crazy dreams do you have?
Wouldn’t it be great if I could maintain the idea that my success should be defined by the quality of my relationships with people? It would be cool if I could make my goal everyday to be of service to people simply in my attitude or otherwise. If I appreciate that work is a place where my success can be demonstrated in how improved my relationships with my coworkers are, then I can be more easily satisfied with my life.
I feel satisfied when I offer my help without any expectations or think of work as a place where I can be of service to people, leaving my ego out of it. It’s an accomplishment to figure out a way to get along with difficult people. A difficult relationship can be a challenge that helps me. I try to understand where these people might be coming from. I also examine myself truthfully, to handle negative feelings I have about them. I stay humble and try not to be so easily offended. I don’t walk around beatifically, but I want to give off energy that makes me approachable. Sometimes it’s not like that though. I don’t want to talk too much about this because I fall short, as it should be — that’s where the lessons are. I’m not a guru. Life sucks a lot of the time and I am not a Pollyanna.
A woman at my job had a hiatus. When she came back she said she had been thinking about me. She said that I helped her see things in a positive light. She gave me a gift. Actually she gave me two gifts, one was a physical gift along with a card and a special note to me, the other was the gift of love and appreciation. Another example of this type of success I experienced after a job assignment that I had was over. The office manager there said that she would miss my smile. She said I was a class act. I realized that I succeeded in what I was trying to accomplish, that what I had hoped to transmit was actually received.
I finally figured out how to make smiley faces with a colon and close parenthesis symbol. After my frustrating search on the wordpress screen for buttons to click that would yield me the yellow orb of idiotic expression, with or without teeth, I looked for clues in the comments section — you guys really like those things in the comments section. I found nothing, after peering at length for any clue that might be hovering around the yellow heads. Scrolling, scrolling downward — I get more comments these days — I spotted it — a naked colon and close parenthesis symbol — what the?! Why, this must be it, I thought. But somehow it didn’t take in this person’s comment box — it didn’t flesh out. Putting my analytical mind to task, I concluded that sometimes having an ellipsis at the end of a sentence interrupts the full fleshing out of these amazing creatures. This poor person may not have known this. I practiced in my own box — as I always do — and — blam! — I got a head. I was so proud of myself because I even figured out if you use the colon and open parenthesis symbol, the reverse, you get a frowny face. But my excitement was muted when I saw that someone had festooned their box with a live animated head, with the ability to open and close their mouth in hideous, mocking laughter. I got over it however because today I figured out how to edit a comment on facebook!
I’m only on the blog and facebook and the twitter for four months. And while I have a twitter account I’m too overwhelmed to use it now. So it just sits there at present. I swore up and down Broadway that I would not succumb to any of it. But I realized that if I would be publishing a homemade book, that I had to do my own sorry-ass piss poor marketing — so the twittering, facebook and blogging it shall be!
When I sell another book and I don’t know who the person is, I get excited. My first 16 sales were people I knew. A friend or family member would say, I’m going to buy your book. I’d look at my records in Kindle and, voila, another sale, to John. It was an, awre, kind of a thing.
The last few days amidst spasms of PTSD after dental surgery, I trudged through part of the process of turning my Kindle book into a hard copy book, using Amazon’s Create Space online publisher — following technical instructions — bleh. I’m formatting the pages of Mean-Spirited Tales to fit into the Create Space template. It’s tedious. For anyone considering using Create Space, there’s a nice man there. He walked me through the technical instructions. I told him that he had great communication skills and that he was very suited for the job. I hope he didn’t think that I meant that he should stay in a job like that all of his life, though I’m not a job snob. How could I be, with the job I have? But you know how some people are.
The key to life is knowing you, and being humble about what you can do — you can do it, you can do it, you can DO it Sandor! Oh yes Sandor’s my other pseudonym — Sandor’s a superhero — anyway, I must remind myself of my capable me. ‘Remember when you completed the Kindle book technical publishing process Sandor? Sandor, remember when you rode the Nitro Roller Coaster at Great Adventure and survived, although the paramedics carried you off in a catatonic state?’ These accomplishments are very nice reminders of what Sandor is capable of doing.
Gee Whiz! I tell some people I’m a death metal enthusiast and they think it’s 80s hair metal music. No, I’m afraid I don’t do 80s hair metal. However, I do listen to a lot of old-school death metal. I have a Mortician, Obituary and Nocturnal Dominion station on Pandora. The music on either of these stations has similar elements to these primary groups. Pandora has introduced me to a lot of new groups as well. Pantera and Metallica are soft compared to this music, besides they’re also commercial. Death metal can be progressive and very arty. It’s nihilistic and iconoclastic with morbid undertones. That’s so me. It’s not a bad thing. It’s severe and inaccessible to people who have certain musical expectations rhythmically or lyrically, etc. Some of the lyrics are brilliant. Some of the lyrics are vile and would be considered offensive for various reasons. (I don’t listen to neo nazi black metal or far right metal.) Some lyrics don’t make sense but I don’t care, just as long as they’re screaming and beating me over the head. I tend to glaze over what they’re saying in these cases because the abstract elements are too essential. I was always into metal — except for those 80s hair bands. I started with Led Zeplin, Black Sabbath, et al, but in the eighties I gravitated to independent stations and started listening to a segment called “Hell Hole,” and I was in Heaven. The music was punk, death metal, gothic. I never looked back. I just like it hard. What can I say? I do listen to other music but death metal is church music to me. The primal elements help my rage. There’s also humor in this type of anti-music. The screaming and growling is so refreshingly absurd. I’ll be old listening to it. I came home from the traumatic dental experience in excruciating pain and it so soothed the angst of the savage beast:
I wrote this a while back. This is probably as political as I’ll ever get on this blog. I look at this now and say, “Oh my, so much anger.” But really, who the fuck eats frosted cake in a business meeting?! How does SCB come up with this stuff? A couple of you have seen this before, so please, feel free to skip. Here it is: Corporate Sheet Cake!
Dawn of the millennium, 1999: my nervous breakdown manifests itself as clinical anger. I smear on war paint and get on the A train. Beware the person who opens a newspaper too wide into my space, who sits next to me and bangs me with their elbow while searching for gum, who rests a bag on a seat while the train is crowded…
Flowing with the stream I’m a fucking human lemming on 42nd Street. GOD FORBID I walk west while everyone walks east — these gray-suited motherfuckers would knock me down!
I get to the corporate hell-hole without a bruise, without running into co-workers on the way demanding exhausting talk. I don’t like a lot of the people here. Most are aggressive, game-playing, conniving, shit-eating grinners – back-stabbing, pus-filled goons. They keep the system going in circles with great numbers of casualties all over the world. Consciousness…
My tooth was extracted. The trauma has subsided — the excruciating pain, the nausea from the medication… The dentist gave me prescriptions, extra gauze, and two whole sheets of instructions. Among other things, for the first day I was forbidden to blow my nose, open my mouth widely, or play wind instruments. Dang, no wind instruments. Question. Is a penis a wind instrument?