Just the writing, thanks

Besides the existence of this quirky stew of mine I dabble in cooking now and again or when seized by the brilliant idea of the day, what occupies my hours during the day is working on my stories. I just decided not to take an unrelated job and it made everything so clear to me. I'm going to pull a Diablo Cody ("...and be a stripper?" my best friend quizzed me, but no, I reassured her) and go check out a couple of screenplays and sit down and make one with all my drug rep ideas, or from the other story, about the Sonoma sisters. Maybe I'll be like Hal Hartley and just make a bunch of stories about different people in the same constellation.

I keep having all of these visions of the people and the way they're being filmed, the colors and the bouncing flesh and the buildings and the sky. Seriously. I see this stuff. I'd better get it down before it's gone, eh?

And I hear the Rolling Stones now and I am amazed at how gone I was on them and how misogynistic they are -- it's taken 20 years of distance from a mysogynistic father to recognize those lyrics. The ultimate hit was seeing Gimme Shelter a year or so ago -- and also that chapter in the book by a girl growing up in NYC and meeting her idol, Mick Jagger, at a party when she was a teenager, but all he could see or say was "boobies" when he looked at her. Those two things really slammed that door shut for good. If you know me, just imagine what "Brown Sugar" sounds like to me now. I knew a little about the incorrectness of that song when I was a kid, but I had no idea then how it would feel.