How Not To Suck

How Not To Suck showed up in my mailbox today. Man, if ever anyone needed instructions on how not to suck, it's me of late. Because I do kind of suck. But hopefully, this'll help me out. And hopefully, it'll help out others. It promises as much. From the description:

This book will change how you view yourself and the world you think you know. Admit it, we all suck. This book will make you face your own suckiness and lead you down the path to a suck free life. If not, you'll laugh a lot. Either way, it is better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.


For real, I've read this book. And I love this book. It is funny as hell. Whether it's rating the relative suckidity of various holidays or railing against drama queens, this book is filled with practical humor that really might make you pause before you go off and act like a royal asshole next time. And then the whole world would be cheerier. Or, if you prefer to keep acting like an asshole (like me), it'll help you pinpoint exactly what's so funny (and upsetting) about your behavior to others.

So have fun. This book does not suck.

Go Gwen!

Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz is on a tear lately. Stop by her blog and see if she'll be in your area for a reading, as she has a lot of them lined up.

I don't think I've ever known a more prolific writer than GJM, and she's excellent, so her stuff finds a home more often than not. She's been getting a lot pubbed lately, and is even in a new book. Nuvein's Cultural Anthology. Gwendolyn's story is "Going to Hell with my Eyes Wide Open." I know this story well, because it's the first one of hers I ever read and I was instantly a fan.



Nuvein is a really cool magazine. (They've also published someone else you know.) Huge to success to them and GJM for this book!

Crossing the Rubicon

Rome is back on HBO, and I don't have to watch another episode of Desperate Housewives this year. Joy.

I was slow to warm to this series, and though I still have problems with most of the casting, I really do like it. Historicals aren't the easiest thing to pull off, especially when the main plot points are well-known. I mean, it wasn't shocking that Julius Caesar got shived in the Senate, you know? And as far as this season goes, I'm quite aware of how things turn out for Octavian and Mark Antony and Cleopatra, as well as Octavian's mom and sister.

But the writers still managed to infuse plenty of drama and suspense into the series and make me tune in every week. Part of that is due to the subplots of Vorenus and Titus Pullo. Because while Vorenus and Titus are also historical figures, they've been fictionalized enough so that I don't know what the hell is going on with them. Like, will Titus end up being Augustus's Praetorian Prefect? He sure as hell should figure into Octavian's rise to power somehow.

Vorenus, I never really cared about him last year, and I still don't this year. Broody little Gaulish grunt. But I'll watch him act all black-hearted and bad-assed anyhow. I suppose it's meant to be compelling. Vorenus always was the "noble" one -- the thinking man who mustered the courage to do the right thing even if it was infringing on him personally. And now he's all despondent and dark, even though he's still reaching for redemption. Still. He bores me. He bores me because he thought he was so noble, which is why he acted right most of the time.

In contrast, Titus just is right and good. His character is an archetype -- the big, somewhat dim, loyal-to-the-death oaf who's entirely too passionate for his own good. In other words -- pure Alpha male, female fantasy fodder. And Ray Stevenson is hot enough to pull it off by seeming to be so unaware of his own appeal. Titus doesn't have to debate doing the right thing, he just acts on instinct and protects his friend, fucks the hot chicks, and fights like a bastard. I mean, yeah, he'll murder a guy in a jealous rage, but he's a Roman, so fuck it.



Making the night even better is how Rome is then followed by the second season of Extras. Ricky Gervais and Ashley Jensen (also lovable on Ugly Betty) are the antithesis of Entourage, even now that Andy Millman has his own sitcom on the BBC. The celeb guests are never wasted, whether it's David Bowie humiliating poor Andy or Orlando Bloom preening and pandering to be considered hotter than Johnny Depp. When Andy gets harassed in his local pub by an over-enthusiastic fan, you can't help but feel for him. But when he later gets so thoroughly eviscerated by Bowie, you can't but laugh as you feel for him. And then when he returns to the local pub and cozies to the creepy fan, it's both a funny and pathetic moment -- and one where most of us realize we'd behave exactly the same way.

And the best part of the whole night is that when these two series finish up for the year, they'll be immediately replaced in April by The Sopranos (more bloodthirsty Italians consumed with power struggles for survival and beset by betrayal -- YAY!) and Entourage -- the glittering, glamorous, feel good industry flipside to the down-to-earth, soulful Extras.

The die has indeed been cast, and Bree and her annoying Wisteria Lane pals can now kiss my ass.

Jackasses get hosed

I've got my new Jackass Number Two DVD and it makes me happy. I would love to write an eloquent essay about the whole Jackass thing, but I'm not eloquent. And they deserve better than that anyhow. It's all best summed up by Knoxville's shirt in one of the segments. It says Fuck Art. Let's Dance.

So there you go.

But I will say that even though Number Two made me laugh just as hard as the series and first flick did, there was a bit more of an edge to it. There was supposed to be more of an edge to it, because clearly they wanted to top the first one. But it's not just from the stunts getting more severe and the pranks getting more brutal. It's been four years since the last movie was made, and four years in a body that's got 30 years of hardcore wear and tear on it is pretty substantial. Even the baby of the crew, Bam Margera, is getting a bit old-er. Ehren McGhehey's hair is thinning and his front tooth was missing for most of the skits. When they'd show the guys naked -- which was a lot (the Dickhouse logo isn't a rainbow for nothing, kids) -- you'd see the gnarly aftermath splotched and scraped all over their flesh. It was those brief moments when I'd think that Pontius didn't have it so bad drinking the horse semen. Puke and it's over. But how long did Bam, Johnny, and Ryan suffer after taking those crowd-dispersing pellets?

I won't go so far as to say that it seemed like Knoxville has a death wish. Quite the contrary, it kind of seems like he's overwhelmed with trying to fit everything into his life all at once. After the first movie, he was criticized a little, with people saying that he left radical shit to Steve-O and the others.

I don't really think that was a fair criticism, as his shtick has always been a bit offbeat from the rest of the crew. He did the riot-testing and shooting himself shit and was better with the off-the-cuff quips while pulling pranks. (I mean, really, I still grin when I think about him saying, "I hit a dog," when he returned the destroyed rental car.) And as the ringleader, it always was kind of his thing to help goad everyone else into being a jackass, too. And it's his over-the-top, shotgun cackle that works as a laugh-track for the bits. Someone's howling in pain -- sometimes Knoxville himself is -- but then there's that contagious laugh, and then everyone else is laughing like a lunatic, too.

They may be all busted up, but they're having the time of their lives.

But maybe Knoxville took some of that criticism to heart and decided to risk life and limb -- repeatedly -- for this second venture. Don't get me wrong -- he's crazy as a shithouse rat, alright. But he's not stupid, either. He is also an emerging movie star, if anyone can ever find a role to mesh his electric charisma with his edgy sensibilities. (Johnny -- call me! I'm writing something for you! For real!) And the most worry we ever see etched across his face isn't when he's waiting to be charged by a yak, but during the end credits, when he's laying on the ground with a bloodied scratch across his face and someone comments that his face is fucked up. And in yet another instance, he literally gets shot, but points to his face and asks if it's alright and then says he's fine as long as his face is unscathed. Vain? Perhaps a bit. But pretty funny, too. And considering he reportedly makes 5 mill a picture, not so irrational a concern.

I think he does have the capacity to make a career out of acting. I mentioned in another post that he showed promise in the little-seen The Ringer. He was just a little TOO flattened out into a "nice guy" in that role, but he still made it work. Maybe it is a matter of pride that he felt compelled to go back and do another round of Jackass.

They closed out the first flick with a spoof of all the guys being old men, still hobbling down the street, Steve-O in his leopard thong and Knoxville in his Chuck Taylors, with explosions going off and jackassy shit going on. But four years later -- and four years older -- they did come back and do it all over again, and did it bigger and badder. And I have a feeling it wasn't to prove anything, but just because no matter what else they do, they all know that Jackass will be the best time of their lives. Even if the bruises last longer, and the cuts go deeper, and the falls are taken harder. They still cackle like maniacs through it all.

But this news today pleases me anyhow. I don't really care about Madge and what she's up to. But just like I'm glad to see Knoxville get some other work that probably pays the bills more than Jackass, I'm also glad to see the same for Pontius, Steve-O, Preston, and Wee Man. (who I guess is also on that new reality show about becoming a cop.) It's nice to think of Steve-O getting a paycheck that doesn't involve puking up his guts or impaling himself with a fishing hook. Even if it probably won't be as funny.

Damn. I guess I did write that essay. But at least it wasn't eloquent. Fuck eloquent. Let's Dance.

Delurk week

I learned from my pal Jason Shaffner that it's national delurking week.

It blows my mind that we only have 52 weeks a year and we've pissed one away over something like that. But, you know. When in Rome...

So to both of you lurkers out there reading, I highly encourage you to say "hello" to me this week, even though odds are I'll have nothing useful to comment upon.

Happy New Year

Happy New Year

So, kids. How were your holidays? Mine were strange. Manic. Some bad shit happened, but also plenty to be grateful for. I got some nice gifts, and though I won't bore you with an enumerated list of merchandise, I do want to share my favorite one. Behold the splendor:



I laughed so hard when I opened it up. And I'll tell you, I never breathed a word to anyone that it was my "it" item of the year. One of my witty, clever friends sent it to me and it just made the tail-end of my 2006.

I hope we all have some good laughs like that in this upcoming year.

I'd wanted to do an end-of-year wrap up with some of my favorite things from 2006, but I never really got around to it. My job tends to keep me pretty busy in the month of January, but hopefully I'll be able to check in and fill you in on some of my latest idiotic obsessions that I should probably keep quiet about. (Case in point -- I've been watching "The Ringer" on a semi-daily basis on Cinemax and have decided that Johnny Knoxville isn't just a glorious Jackass, he's also becoming a decent actor. Oh, have I mentioned that I drink profusely over the holidays? Impaired judgment and all, you know. Anyhow.) Farrelly brothers movies aside, if it's quiet here for a while, I apologize. But I'm around, and I'll be back to spew some not-so-well reasoned blatherings at some point.

Season's Greetings from Asbury Park

Holiday Poem

'Twas the night before Christmas, all white with snow,
I was sitting home waiting for the fat man to show.
The cookies were baked and the tree was all trimmed,
My stocking was hung and the lights were all dimmed.
On the stereo King Curtis played soft and I started to snooze,
I admit I had one, or two, ok... maybe four shots of booze.
I sat back to wait and became rather sleepy,
And from there things went awry, got downright creepy.
Cause a buzz or a dream can't explain what came next
The events that unfolded have left me quite vexed.

My peace was disturbed when I heard a loud clatter.
A strong gust knocked over my glass and vodka went *splatter*.
I jolted and tensed, suddenly spooked and confused.
I heard a low laugh; wry, breathy, and dark, but also amused.
"Oh screw me," I said as I got really scared,
"Getting robbed on Christmas? Shit. Dammit. Crap. Merde!"
Then the air got all cold, and the sax faded low,
A door creaked shut, then a laugh, "Heh. Ho."
It wasn't from far, this sound was terribly close.
The hair on my arms rose, I knew this was a ghost.

I took a deep breath and smelled salami no less
My mind was all hazy, this was causing me stress.
The smell made me think of my dead Uncle Sal,
But Sally was friendly and I sensed this wasn't a pal.
"HEY! HO!" it said again and it gave me a shiver.
When I turned 'round and saw him, my knees sure did quiver.
This wasn't my uncle, and it wasn't a trick,
I was standing in front of a guy dressed like Saint Nick.
But something was wrong, and I craved a martini,
Because this fellow resembled James Gandolfini.

"I've been sent as an ambassador," he said with a flair.
"To take your requests. That is, if you dare."
I just stood there dumbly, blinking my eyes,
Unsure if this visit was my curse or my prize.
"You're a very bad girl," he said full of malice.
Suddenly I wished I'd visited my brother in Dallas.
"I’m also here to warn you," he said full of glee.
I thought, who is this punk that is threatening me?
But I looked at him again and I couldn't stay mad,
Although he's a gangster, he's also a really sweet dad.

Gimme a break, you thought I'd still be afraid?
Dead, alive, ghost, whatever, I had it made!
He shouted again and I squealed with joy,
But the look on his face said he wasn't a toy.
He went, "You have to atone, you gotta do something nice,
"Listen to me now, I won't be telling you twice.
"Think smart and think hard, and then say something quick,
"I am a present sent instead of St. Nick."
"Alright, that's enough," I said as I poured us a drink.
"What's going on? I need time to think."

"Listen to me," Jimmy, he said it quite loudly,
"You've had a nice year." And at that, I beamed proudly.
He was right, it was true, in three collections I'd been pubbed,
And for a Pushcart I'd been nommed, nothing had flubbed.
Fate had been kind, I'd really been lucky,
With that sort of year, who cares if the money from it was sucky?
Then Jimmy surprised me, as he stated his case,
It felt like a great big merry old slap in the face.
"You're naughty," he said, "and that's not all, there's much more,
"You're a gambler, a drinker, and a bit of a whore.
"But I've come anyhow, because you're really quite brash,
"To take down your wishes, which I'll grant in a flash."

It's been a good year, oh yes, that's quite true,
But as much as to luck, I owe it to you.
I did lots of writing, this I know well,
But without fabulous readers, it wouldn't be swell.
So to Jimmy I said, "A kind word or a read, those things I hold dear,
"I want to send out greetings to those who helped me this year.
"Now give me a moment, the words I must carefully choose,
"To make sure I offend no one, be they Gentiles or Jews.
"To everyone I wish mostly for happiness and lots of good cheer
"And for all these things to continue throughout the next year.
"So whether it's Christmas or Hanukkah, I hope you have fun,
"These are my greetings, but wait, I'm not done,
"Let's not forget the Buddhists and Muslims -- both Shiite and Suni,
"And for myself? I hereby wish for a naked George Clooney!"

"It's been a good year, so on some others I'll brag.
"Myfanwy, she's great, she's in a book and a fancy lit mag.
"Ellen Meister's another one, she's really quite grand,
"Her book's a big hit, let's strike up the band!
"I wish for her the same as I wish for myself:
"A visit from George, he'd make one sexy-bitch of an elf.
"Ah but I hope you excuse my pervy, self-serving digressions
"This year was a smash success for her Secret Confessions.

"Matt St. Amand's no fool and these are the facts,
"This year he pubbed his first novel, called Randham Acts.
"J.D. Riso is a sweetie, that's really quite true,
"I loved reading her new novel, it's simply called Blue.
"Then there's a guy, we all call him Biff,
"His writing is fluid, never stilted or stiff.
"He's got four novels, he's a writing machine,
"He makes me so jealous it hurts in my spleen.
"My dear old friend W.B., I hope he makes a good buck,
"His book is a riot, it's called How Not to Suck.
"My agents, Bernadette and Gretchen, you're truly a delight,
"You dealt with my troubles and helped make them right.
"Mark, you'll be a big hit on TV, that's what I think,
"Thanks for the boost, and thanks twice for the link.
"Don Capone is my buddy, and for him this year was a thrill,
"We all love his stories, collected in Sunset Hill.
"To Rebel Press I owe tons of thanks and gratitude,
"In Rebellion he pubbed a story of mine, and it wasn't even lewd!
"So readers and fellow Rebels, let's give him a snap,
"And if that's not your style, you're welcome to clap.

"Ruthie's Club pubs prose and pics with some spice,
"And to me this past year, they've been exceptionally nice.
"I landed a story with a place they call Phaze,
"My hopes for success, they surely helped raise.
"Zane is a slick one, and she did me a favor,
"by putting my story in the book called Caramel Flava.
"Mr. Jakubowski is a cool one, let's call him Maxim,
"He put my story in Mammoth, and it's really a brash one.
"And for this next one I'll give thanks all through the night,
"I finally made it into the collection by Susie Bright!"

"I'd be quite remiss if I didn't mention AI,
"Sweet singing Elliott was the apple of my eye.
"To the Yaminions, I hereby do tip my hat,
"And hope your year is as happy as Simon's head is so fat.
"Though cupcake lost out to barbeque loving Taylor Hicks,
"The year was quite fun, and on Daughtry I took my licks.
"Next season will be grand, this theory I will posit:
"To keep ratings up, Seacrest will come out of the closet!"

"So for all these good times, all these folks I do thank,
"But just a couple more, before my mind goes all blank.
"So now to the folks who give us scribes quite a kick,
"Let's hear it for reviewers, they're all very slick.
"Whether we find them online or in a print mag,
"they give us great blurbs and reasons to brag.
"I got one from Kirkus, ain't that a kick?
"But take care of them all, won't you St. Nick?
"Last but not least, to all the readers, my sincere thanks galore.
"My only wish is that next year, I can gain a few more."

"Well that's very nice," Jimmy said with a smile.
But I knew that his cheer was covering his guile.
"Your news is quite nice but your wishes were lame.
"Think bigger, think bolder, think fortune and fame."
It took me a moment, but then it was perfectly clear,
I knew the perfect wish for all the writers here.
So I sucked in a breath and chose to go quick,
Because these iambic couplets were making me sick.
So I clapped and I shouted and let out a squeal,
"The same thing for everyone -- a six figure book deal!"

And then I leaned in, to give Jimmy a kiss,
But he backed away, and it went down like this.
I tired to cajole him, my eyes got all mooney,
But he said, "You never should have dissed me for that 'madigan George Clooney."
Crestfallen and shocked, my jaw dropped to the floor,
And I watched very sadly as he walked toward the door.
In spite I lashed out, "You're just on TV, you're no Al Pacino!"
In parting, he said, "Hey babe, watch it, you're no Mira Sorvino."
"Pardon me," I said, "But she's and actress and blonde and really wealthy."
"Class ain't from money," he said. "You should be feminine, more like Melfi."

So these are my final wishes: To everyone, be of good cheer,
To the writers I wish you prime pubs all through next year!
To reviewers and readers, I bless you some more,
Happy Holidays forever to you and to yours.
I hope you have a have a great time with those you love bestly,
And that your holiday is even gayer than Carson Kressley.
May your days be cheerful and burdens be light,
Thanks for reading my blog, and this lame poem tonight.
It took patience and timing and caused me some stress,
But the result leaves me pleased, but also perplexed.
Blame it on cheer, or call it good luck,
I made it through this whole story without saying "fuck"!

But as Jimmy walked toward the door, I was really quite sad.
And knew this gift was also my punishment for being so bad.
All would have been well if just for the night he'd have stayed,
But this was a rhyming first-person, dammit, and I didn't get laid!
But then Jimmy halted, and then he brightened my day,
He said, "I'll give you one more for yourself before I head on my way."
I wished big and wished bright, with all of my nerve,
And then I shouted it loudly with plenty of verve.
Same wish as last year:
"I'd work hard on a screenplay and never be lazy,
if you'd get me a film option from Martin Scorsese!"

Perfectly Frank

Happy Birthday, Mr. Sinatra.

Let Nothing You Dismay

It's the time of year lots of network shows roll out the red, snow-covered carpet for Santa and air their very special, heartwarming Christmas shows, whoring themselves out in sweaters and snowflakes to match the theme of the kitschy Gap and Target ads. I, being the sentimental fool that I am, for the most part enjoy these. Taking the buche de noel this year has to be NBC's Studio 60.

They had writer Matt fighting to air a Christmas show -- not because it makes for good product placement or ratings stocking stuffers, but just because it's jolly. And it wasn't just a matter of coming up with Holiday themes, the quest included the ludicrous scampering and scrounging to come up with coconuts for snow for the set. But that's not enough. As if. They also had enough nobility, bravery, and do-goodery coming from everyone else in the cast to make Frank Capra blush. I mean. Seriously. Somewhere, Jimmy Stewart was watching this broadcast and saying, "N-now that's cockle-warming."

Of course, that's the one drawback to the Studio 60 characters -- they're so fucking wonderful it loses a bit of conflict and makes me feel small about myself. I mean, even George Bailey got pissed at the newel post, yelled at his daughter to stop playing the damn piano, and drunkenly rammed his car into a tree. But no seasonal stress can break the spirit of ye merry gentlemen and women of Studio 60. Even though Jordan had what society at large considers a sleazy past and regardless of Danny's coke addict history, there just aren't any sharp edges to these characters. They're going to do the Right Thing all the time, damn the consequences. And best -- there are no consequences! No one gets fired or gets anyone else fired. It all works out for the best and a quality sketch comedy shows airs every week!

Nevertheless.

I like it anyhow. It's not Dexter, which I love, and which you should be watching, too. It's Studio 60. And that's fine by me.

But I also give Schlamme and Sorkin extra props for their good cheer with this episode, because they did me a favor. As part of the storyline, they featured a group of New Orleans musicians organized by the Tipitina's Foundation. And during an extended musical interlude, they played an original arrangement of "O Holy Night."

The lead trumpet decked my halls, that's for sure. And though I like jazz, I'm not an aficionado of current musicians, so I didn't recognize who was pulling that beautiful tone from the horn. Behold! The glorious wonders of the web. I got the lowdown from NBC's website, and found out all about the Tipitina's musicians, and learned that the trumpeter was Troy "Trombone Shorty" Andrews. The song they performed on the show is currently available for free from iTunes, but, since I'm an American to the core, I was a good trick and went the extra distance and picked up a copy of Andrews's CD, The End of the Beginning.

So, good on Schlamme/Sorkin for giving the stage to the musicians that night, and also for giving me the present of some new music to investigate. They put some classy Ho Ho Hoing into the holiday Ho Ho Whoring.

1 out of 3

Michigan got screwed. That's all I have to say about that.

It's Dec. 5, and I'm already thoroughly disgusted with winter.

But! On the bright side, I just read a great non-fiction story in the new edition of Edifice Wrecked: "Boracho Bolivar" by William Reese Hamilton.

Peacock Blues

Well, the networks are really kinking up my game now. NBC seems loathe to relinquish Thursday nights to Ugly Betty and Grey's Anatomy and it's pissing me off. I could care less about the thetan-infested comedy Earl, but I really do love The Office, and, given my silly affection for a jackassy Baldwin and an appropriate girl-crush on Tina Fey, I really dig 30 Rock, too. But, like Dwight Schrute trying to match wits with Jim Halpert, NBC seems intent on failure again, so instead of opening up a whole new night, like Wednesday -- when there's nothing else on -- they're going to stick their best shows up against the water-cooler shows of the year.

Stunades.

I could see how they wouldn't want to put 30 Rock on Monday night, just before Studio 60, because it'd reinforce the meta nature of the shows to an off-putting degree. I mean, they basically have an entire network revolving around shows about Saturday Night Live, and even SNL just isn't good enough to really fan that interest. Also, it'd draw comparisons to the titles. The 60 minute show about SNL is called Studio 60, and the 30 minute show is called 30 Rock. Was that intentional or just really poor coincidence?

But still. Why doom themselves and let these perfectly good shows flail around with a smaller audience than the Green Grove Retirement Community's annual production of "A Christmas Carol." They're insisting on the formerly flagship Thursday night lineup? It's dead, NBC. It's more dead than Robert DeNiro's real emotions.

If Jordan McDeere really was running the network, I doubt she'd allow this to happen. Someone needs to remind them that Seinfeld wasn't always a hit. It was a little show with a little audience. And when NBC first shuffled it around, they plopped it up against the then hugely popular Tim Allen comedy Home Improvement. What happened? Seinfeld got slaughtered in the ratings. But it finally found a home on Thursday night and became, well...Seinfeld.

And speaking of Studio 60, I like the show. I really do. But I could like it a whole lot more. Sorkin's proven that he's the technical master of jazzy dialogue, and I mostly enjoy it and appreciate it. Matthew Perry, Bradley Whitford, and even Amanda Peet have risen to the challenge of being able to snap and pop with each other and give their exchanges crackle. But the heightened, rapid-fire pace sometimes bears a striking resemblance to John Coltrane's "Blue Train," for which one critic adroitly coined the term "sheets of sound." It's an amazing album, and really showcased Coltrane's genius. Technically, it's a masterpiece. And yet, artistically, it can be almost defeating for the listener. Once in a while, you just think, "Take a goddamn breath, dude!"

And that's what Studio 60 is lacking. There needs to be a pause once in a while. A moment to let things settle, or congeal. And that's what the romance between Matt and Harriett should be. They've got their clever banter, but once in a while they need to stop and like each other. Sorkin tries to position those moments in there, such as when they stand and listen to Sting perform "Fields of Gold" on his mandolin. But it's just not working for me.

I've been reluctant to give myself over to the reason why, because I really don't like to rampantly bash women. But Sarah Paulson? She's not up to the task. She's been grossly miscast in that role and it's never going to mesh. I was doubtfu of Amanda Peet in her role. Peet, some people don't like her, but I think she's a fine rom-com actress with a goofy appeal. And she didn't really work well in the first episode when she had to be the superwoman producer with the superhero ethics. But since then? Well. She's a bit of a drunk with a supposedly sordid sexual past who makes wisecracks that no one else gets. In other words, she's just aces.

But Paulson sucks like a virgin on prom night. First, she's supposed to be a brilliant comedienne, and yet she's just not fucking funny. Supposedly Matt fell in love with her because she's so charming and funny. But all I can see of her is a bitchy, uptight, hatchet-face who thinks she's really marvelous. And her lisp? Not sexy. It really screws up the delivery of Sorkin's snazzy lines.

I realize that the relationship is a construct. It's a microcosmic representation of our country's divided political beliefs, and it should be illustrating how we can find common ground and love for each other while letting them build plots around hot-button issues. I like the idea of that. But, unlike the Alan Shore/Denny Crane relationship on Boston Legal which has the same construct, the problem is that this relationship doesn't make the leap from intellectual construct to entertaining characters. It's forced, and Paulson is phony. Also? I already get my fill of a sunny, skinny, lispy blonde with a struggling workplace romance on Grey's Anatomy.

Which brings us back to where we started. NBC is piling it all onto Thursday in what seems like a frantic, desperate shot to reclaim the evening. I think the highly underrated Scrubs is set to join the lineup, too. But someone who is in charge at that network needs to stop thinking like a proud peacock, take a goddamn breath, look around, and come up with a different game plan.

The Secret is Out

Ellen Meister just got a great review from Entertainment Weekly for the audiobook version of her novel, Secret Confessions of the Applewood PTA, narrated by Lisa Kudrow.


The book is terrific, and Lisa Kudrow does a great job with it.

Justin Holt -- Orion

Happy belated birthday to Justin Holt! He's got a new story live at Oxyfication called "Orion." I really dug it. It's got some holiday flavor and soul.

Third time's the charm

I hope. I fear the the third consecutive post about myself is actually grotesque. But, you know. Someone has to do this shit.

I found this review from Kirkus Reviews for Best American Erotica 2007, edited by Susie Bright.

I was amped when I read it, because it mentioned my story, and I thought it looked good. But my reading comprehension skills are a bit lacking. (Irony, thy name is Wannabe-Writer.) Perhaps this isn't so much a compliment as a backhanded compliment? I can't decide. The relevant portion:

"Not all the stories possess the same level of skill, but most match Bright's exuberantly positive attitude toward sex. Among the best of those are Susan St. Aubi's "Taste," in which two late-night bakers treat each other to secret delicacies, and Susan DiPlacido's "Heads-Up Poker," featuring a strip-poker game where every player comes up a winner."

Um. So, that's saying that my story isn't very skillful, isn't it? Fuck. But, it kind of also says that it's hot, right? Fuck yeah!

BAE 2007 isn't available yet, but you know I'll let you know when it is. But if somehow all this blatant talking about myself has gotten you whipped into a frenzy, thinking, "Wow. This chick has her name in pink next to a tasteful picture of a woman's ass on one book, and her story garnered what she construes as praise in another one. I think I need to check this shit out!" then I have the solution for you. My story, 'Twas the Night After Christmas is currently the top rated erotica e-book on Fictionwise. Since it's only $2, you can pick that up, and, if you do, remember that if you drop me an e-mail (susandiplacido at aol.com) telling me you bought it, I'll send you a free copy of my paperback book, Mutual Holdings.

Or, if you prefer to spend bigger, there are handy links right over there ---->
where you can easily Amazon order either of my other books.

Thank you, and I apologize. We will return to the regular blog proceedings here shortly, I believe. And I'll try to refrain from future hard-sells such as this for the duration of the holiday season. Though I don't promise to not slip something in here or there.

Mammoth Happiness

This weekend, I got my contributor copies of Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 6, edited by Maxim Jakubowski in the mail. Whoo! I was really excited, because one of my favorite stories, "Neon Nights" is included in the anthology.

I'm not certain of when the exact release date will be, but I *think* I have the Amazon link for it already, even though the cover picture they show is different than the one Amazon has up there. Here's the link: Mammoth 6, but here's what the cover actually looks like: (beware, not work friendly!)



I've already read a couple of the other stories, including "Blindness" by Donna George Story and "Lucky Numbers and Marlboros" by Gwen Masters, and those knocked my socks off. Anyone who reads erotica knows Donna and Gwen, because they rock. So I was thrilled to be in a lineup with them. Even more of an ego boost (though still not quite enough to make me get that name-on-my-back tattoo) was when I flipped the book over and looked at the back cover. (again, not so work friendly)



Do you see it? Please look carefully, as I don't want to indulge in the assholery of pulling out my red pen and circling it. There are lines of acceptable self-pimpage, and I fear that'd be crossing it.

Rebel Press Pushcart Noms

Rebel Press announces its nominations for this year's Pushcart Prize.

Roof Whirl Away, by Tom Saunders, Rebellion: New Voices of Fiction
Bloodlines, by Susan DiPlacido, Rebellion: New Voices of Fiction
On the Bridge, by T.J, Forrester, Rebellion: New Voices of Fiction
Everything is Something to Somebody, by Marcus Grimm, Rebellion: New Voices of Fiction
Quiet, by Katrina Denza, Rebellion: New Voices of Fiction
nineleven, by Donald Capone, Stories From Sunset Hill

Congrats to all the nominees!

Susie Bright on writing

Writers, both published and unpublished, should really read this: Susie Bright's A Devil's Argument. It's both depressing and empowering, because it's all so right on.

Susie says:
"The Market is not “your friend”; The Market does not have your self-interest at heart. It can be an intoxicating place — the money changing hands, the competitions, the auctions, the promotions and premiums — but it isn’t a place that puts art first, or people first. It puts money first, and that requires a measure of illusion and exploitation that must be endured in order to reach your desired audience."

But that's not the full gist of the article. I don't want to creflo the entire piece, so go visit Susie's blog to read the whole thing.

Tattoo You

What I'd like to share with you today is something that happened as a consequence of yesterday's blog post here. It's the one directly below, where I have the picture of Chris Daughtry and label it "asshole." Someone took such offense to that post that instead of flaming me here or sending me a scathing e-mail, they e-mailed one of my publishers. (!) Can you stand it? Oh yeah. This person sent an indignant e-mail to one of my publishers, complaining about my word choice and how it offended them and how they'd never buy a book from me or my publisher. (!!) AND, get this, they're going to post the link all over to Chris Daughtry fan sites in outrage. (!!!)

I ask you -- Can it get any better than that?

Madone!

At first, I was shocked. Shocked primarily because this is the fellow this person is valiantly defending against being called an asshole:


Secondly, I was shocked and sad, because clearly this person never checked in and read any of my American Idol recaps while the season was rolling. I know this because there were a plethora of pictures and words tossed around during those couple months on this blog that I'm sure would've sent this person into overdrive with their uptight umbrage. I mean, I'd made it pretty clear what I thought of Daughtry over that time: How he's by very definition not a rawker. He's a fraud of a rawker. He's a perfect fit for the commercialized, watered-down, processed, shitty fraud-rock like Creed-Nickelback-Fuel that's marketed to the American public. Daughry is a frawker.

But I got over my sadness at being previously ignored and the joy just bubbled out of me. I mean, can you imagine how my head swelled? Someone had paid attention to me! Someone was so moved as to write to my publisher! Suddenly, I felt relevant! Oh, the fucking ego boost it was.

I was still a little surprised by it, of course. I mean, in the spring, when I heavily engaged in the Daughtry bashing, I got plenty of flame-mail sent my way from Daughtry fans. But that's the thing: Those fans were direct. Those fans were witty and engaging and passionate and the exchanges were, frankly, pretty fun. Certainly, some of the messages were concise, let's call them, and consisted of simply, "your a bitch." But most of them were much more erudite and flamboyant, and we had some great exchanges. But then a half a year later, out of nowhere, comes this lone fan who's an uptight, mirthless little narc. It wasn't the sort of behavior I'd expect from a Daughtry fan. It was the kind of behavior I'd expect from a Claymate.

Nevertheless, it tickled me. I was insufferable for about 23 minutes, becoming quite the self-important asshole. I mean, can you imagine? To work and toil and scribble and write and publish in obscure anonymity for years, and now, suddenly, I'd finally done it. I'd ignited someone. I'd inflamed someone. I'd made a statement bold enough to be controversial enough to get "superiors" involved. Controversy! Fuck, it was exciting. I'd arrived. Briefly, I considered getting a tattoo of my own name emblazoned across my own back!

But then, of course, reality hit as the giggles stopped. I remembered: Oh yeah. I'm not relevant. I'm nobody. I'm just a bitch with a blog. And someone just got miffed that I slammed their crush.

But I do still hold out hope that the whiny, narcy person will make good on her word and link my site all over the place. I really hope she remembers to post an indignant link at MJ's! Maybe it'll gain me a few readers come February when the new season starts, or at least remind people to check back in.

In the meantime, in case she's checking here today to see if I addressed her concerns, I have two very choice words for her. I know you didn't like my use of the word "asshole." (Frawk fans, such tender sensibilities and so easily offended!) So here are two extremely choice words you're probably going to like even less: Thank you. Seriously. It's over something extremely silly, and it was brief. But for that brief second -- okay, 23 minutes -- I really felt special.

Oh. And also? This is the guy you got all worked up over:


Yep. Still an asshole.

And so am I.

But he's an asshole with a crappy, mass market CD. That's a lot more success than I'll ever know. But hey, life is fair. At least I'm an asshole without a tattoo of my own name scrawled across my back.

Idol releases and Idle Idols

Remember when I used to blog about American Idol? Yeah, that was fun. Well, I've kept up with some of the news, but didn't want to look like an obsessive freak so I don't post most of it here. But here are a few little snippets I felt worthy of passing along.

So. Chris Daughtry has released his CD. Here's all I have to say about that:


Also, Taylor Hicks has a really cool website, though you have to suffer through hearing that crappy song that was foisted upon him by 19E. But in cool news, his official blog is Gray Charles. A while back, Gray Charles was going to fold up shop, because he was a fan and the blog caught fire when Taylor got so popular, but it got overwhelming for the guy. But Taylor knew who was saucing his barbeque (that sounds dirty and I don't intend that), and now Gray Charles is in business. Good on Taylor.

And, of course, I have to comment on my cupcake, Elliott Yamin. He doesn't have a slick website or newly released CD. But he's got a Myspace page. (I fucking hate Myspace. Nevertheless, here's mine! Please be my friend, as I have none. Fucking Tom is my only friend. And yet here I sit ragging on Chris Daughtry even with quantifiable proof that I'm a loser.) Anyhow. Back to Elliott. He says he's hard at work on an album and that it'll be out soon. He says (through Myspace) that his first release will be a cover of Donny Hathaway's "This Christmas."

Free Paperback with e book

I've mentioned this before, but I've got a newly released story available from Phaze called "'Twas the Night After Christmas". This is a holiday themed story, and it's plenty steamy, and it's available as an e book for just a couple bucks.

I'm running a special giveaway for this ebook. If you live in the continental U.S. and you purchase a copy of this story from either Phaze or Fictionwise, you can drop me an e-mail and I'll send you a free copy of my paperback, erotic romance Mutual Holdings.

I'll work on the honor system. You don't have to forward me a receipt or anything. Just drop me an e-mail at susandiplacido at aol.com or, if that one doesn't work, susan at susandiplacido.com. (remove the spaces and replace at with @) Tell me that you bought a copy of "'Twas the Night after Christmas" and that you'd like a copy of Mutual Holdings, and give me the physical street address where you want the book sent to, and I'll get it popped in the mail to you.

This deal is good as long as supplies of Mutual Holdings lasts, but I have an awful large stock, so I expect it can last quite a while.

It's as simple as that. Though, do remember that with me, flattery gets you everywhere. So if you happen to mention that you enjoyed "'Twas the Night" and gave it a good rating, there may be a small little extra something sent along in the package with Mutual Holdings. I mean, 'tis the season and all.

So here's everything you need to know:

The Titles & Deal:
"'Twas the Night after Christmas" -- $2. Purchase this, and you get Mutual Holdings sent to you via mail. Mutual Holdings got four stars from Romantic Times, so this isn't a dog I'm pawning off on you here.



Review of "'Twas the Night After Christmas":
"Ms. DiPlacido is an excellent author with an obvious command of her
characters, capable of giving the reader just what we need to maintain
interest. I wholeheartedly recommend this book." ~ 4 Hearts from The Romance Studio

The place to buy:
$2 - 'Twas the Night after Christmas from Phaze

$1.45 - 'Twas the Night after Christmas from Fictionwise