Hexan Biest Die(t)

I've been a fan of horror stories and the supernatural since I was a kid, avidly ordering ghost stories and "The Guinness Book of World Records" whenever the classroom's book club catalog came around. It shouldn't be a surprise to you, then, that I follow a similar theme on t.v. My favorite shows to watch, in 2016, are: Grimm, The Walking Dead, Sleepy Hollow, and Once Upon A Time. I also love science fiction, like Stephen King's "Under the Dome" (also a longtime reader) and "Extant"; both aliens-from-outer-space dramas.

But, the fables and fairy tales are my "hands-down" childhood favorites. "Grimm" even has a handsome Indian boy from the reservation doing a cameo as a wendigo*: the forest-haunting alter-ego of our evil and inhuman selves. Characters on the show change under stress into their animal spirits, like the rabbity office worker and the terrified mole-rat who prefers sneaking around underground to any type of contact, be it animal or human. People feel free (or not so free) to reveal their inner demons, like the weaselly back-stabber just waiting for an opportunity to get you alone in the company conference room, so he can turn his twitchy neurosis into a feeding frenzy to your deadly detriment.

Even the generic bitchy blond gets a turn at being a collosal bad-ass, by becoming the hideous decrepit witch she'd really be without all that makeup and surgery. In truth, she has rotting flesh and decaying teeth from typical show-business starvation. Half her hair is gone, too, lost to the stress and competition that goes with maintaining the dramatic lead, covered over by wigs and sew-on human hair that cost her thousands of dollars and years off her life sitting in salons. When we finally see her true soul-sucking form, it actually makes sense; now, there's a look that matches her behavior!

True to my form, I also like cooking shows, and for awhile I was a regular watcher of a timed contest utilizing funky basket ingredients that change with every episode. Sure enough, a "star" allowed the contestants from one episode to make her and her hippie friends a bratty Hollywood luncheon, with a few caveats. Ready? Okay, here it goes: the menu had to be carbohydrate free, fat free, organic, vegan, gluten-free, dairy-free, macrobiotic, and acceptable to the lactose-intolerant. She called it "compassionate eating",  a phrase designed by her much-beleagured publicist, no doubt. Oh, and no alcohol (too many calories). One of the competing chefs practically drained an entire bottle of booze in the pantry, wondering what the fuck this crazy bitch with her amount "food allergies" <cough anorexic> actually eats? Here's a hint, maestro: she doesn't. That's the challenge.

* https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wendigo

Musicals

I fucking hate musicals, especially the typically overblown, histrionic, tourist fare that's on Broadway. When my stepmother asked me to see one of her choosing during a recent trip to New York, I declined. In fact, I was horrified. What was once a huge bestseller in book publishing (my trade of choice), is now set by some idiot into a series of inane and jarring karoake-style songs. You know the kind: just when you start to get into the story, someone starts warbling their head off, completely interrupting the action. Why? WHY? WHY?! It's so insane. There's flashing lights, weirdo smoke machines, lots of rainbows and glitter and shiny moving parts everywhere you look (and I love big gay shows), so the tourists don't get pissed off at the $60 price tag.

Yeah, right. I don't trust the opinion of anyone who comes to see a Broadway show in an ill-fitting skort, wearing an "Asian lady who hates sunlight" hat (nod to "Family Guy" for that line, often set brilliantly to song), which further obscures any decent view you might have had when you first sat down in your seat. It's a horrid slap in the face to any of the native element in the crowd, like some poor slob wearing ratty jeans and a baseball cap to a fancy restaurant. Take off your fucking hat, douche! Show some respect for masters of the arts. Jeezus.

As far as I'm concerned, the only musicals I've ever truly enjoyed are South Park: The Movie and Team America: World Police, and both had the added bonus of lampooning major American actors and our sometimes dubious foreign policies. I'm sure I'd love their actual Broadway musical, The Book of Mormon, but when I requested seeing that as a show for what was supposed to be part of "my" 40th birthday gift, it was vetoed by my family for not being mainstream and/or cheesy enough, but more about my rotten birthdays later on, in December, when it finally comes around close to Christmas, a time when I also get gypped out of any real, legitimate gift that may cater to any one of my one hundred million interests. Uh, thanks.  
Stay tuned, folks. I'm just getting warmed up.

The Little Cottage

The smallest cottage in town.

A few weeks ago, I received an email prompt about a new rental property on the market. As soon as I saw the picture, I knew I'd go see it; it looked so wee and small, like the perfect fairy tale cottage from a chidren's fable. The afternoon I went looking for it, I walked in the wrong direction, away from town. A neighbor called out to me as I stood on the sidewalk perplexed. After we talked, I headed back towards town, to the south side that I rarely walk to, near the railroad tracks, because it's in the less prosperous part of town. When I found the house, I thought it was perfectly lovely, though it needs a bit loving care. 

It is indeed a small one bedroom, though my neighbor told me she always thought it would make a nice taxi stand, given its' proximity to the town's railroad station. I see it's future in a much cuter and quainter way: that of the local pie shop, dressed up in brightly appealing candy colors, the trim hand-painted with floral motifs, decorated by the charming lady behind the counter, who shows the townspeople love and care with her crisp, frilly aproned self, briskly dispensing advice and attention along with her expertly made pies, in a feminine counterpoint to the many pubs in town for the men.  

What do you think?

Mushrooms

Speckled specimen.

I've always loved mushrooms and their shapes. They bring to mind fantastical fairy tales about leprechauns, those whimsical shapes that capture the artistic mind with a naturalist bent. I had a yellow polka dotted, painted wood cutout of a mushroom on my wall as a kid, decor that was sought to match the bright walls. I also loved the scene from Fantasia with the dancing oriental mushrooms. What kid didn't? The very first piece of art I did at Oneonta State (a SUNY school, enough said) was an Alice in Wonderland piece of psychedelia with a giant 'shroom that I put on our front door. It went with the giant tie dye tapestry we bought for about $15 (we haggled with the hippie who went door to door) that hung from the ceiling. We also took a tossed couch by the side of the dorm with no legs, put it on top of a tipped over bookcase, and covered it with a black and white cowhide I bought at a farm goods store in West Texas.

Me and my best friend were the first people to get "written up" (cited for partying) on campus, in the very same dorm her older brother was an R.A., and we're chicks, so overnight we became infamous. Within a few days, the sorority girls from Long Island, in their matching Champion sweats, slouchy socks, and top knot ponytails, wrote nasty remarks about stoners on the drawing, and then someone jacked it. In retaliation, we spray painted cracks about them in hairspray on the mirrors in the common bathroom (our commentary about their dependency on beauty products and their cliched 80s hairdos), and then lit them on fire so they would be visible in burnt scorch marks, a brilliant piece of impromptu performance art that was angry, hilarious, and true, which was our punk ethos at the time. We made the scene, and the best guys around wanted to hang out and party with us, which made us even bigger targets, but by then, we'd already surpassed the dorm in hijinks, so we were golden. It kicked off one of the best, funnest, fruitful, and most stable parts of my life, but more about that in the future. Suffice to say, whenever I see a cute patch of them, I still think the same thoughts: they're funny, sweet, cheerful, happy and also edible, but please don't go foraging without an expert. The difference between an edible one, a trip to Mars, or a slow, agonizingly painful death can be a minute one, so don't do it. If you're interested in mycology like I am, check out some resources on the subject, like this one: http://www.amazon.com/The-Pocket-Guide-Wild-Mushrooms/dp/1620877317/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1382549928&sr=8-2&keywords=Skyhorse+mushrooms.

Mama and baby 'shroom.

There's also a bunch of nature hikes with guides you can take in the area New Yorkers, so have at it you freaks, and I mean that in the best, warmest way possible: http://www.wildmanstevebrill.com/.

Live life, and prosper.

http://www.pinterest.com/mariedoucette/nature/.