BROOKLYN, NY –
The most important thing for any Multi-hyphenate (Writer/Director/Producer) to know before embarking on an independent film project is this: No One Knows Anything.[1]
First and foremost, you must always remember: This rule does not apply to You.
You are right and everyone else is wrong.
You are the only person who knows How It Should Be Done.
BROOKLYN, NY –
As I’ve written in these hallowed cyber-halls before, I have a fascination with SMITH Magazine’s Six-Word Memoirs; micro-compact stories whose pint-sized punch allows the reader to reel from their impact, left only to imagine the much, much larger story behind the Six. Some people, I have noticed, post frequently. Daily. Obsessively. In fact, SMITHTeens are posting several hundreds in a matter of weeks.
And while I don’t participate with any sort of regularity, I do wholeheartedly embrace the fine art of encapsulation. When life throws its armadillos under my chassis, one of the first places I run is SMITH, to record the moment in perfect, petite, posterity. And for my efforts, I’ve been delightfully rewarded. I read my Six-Word Memoir, Orgasm. Schmorgasm. A vibrator can’t spoon, on the same stage with Amy Tan. I won a dating advice book about why we don’t call bad dates back with, That booty call only rang once. And I just got my first Six-Word Memoirist of the Day accolade last week with Ex-Twitterer. New Urban Dictionary entry: ‘Quitterer’.
That’s right. I quit Twitter. I’m a ‘Quitterer.’
Which might seem odd, considering Twitter is nothing *but* encapsulation, and a 140-character limit should have been a natural fit for the soul of my wit’s brevities.
But here’s what I’ve learned about myself in the past six months I’ve been Networking Socially: I have become the Fire-haired Fürer of Stalker Nation.
BROOKLYN, NY -
For Sale:
2000 Cannondale SP500. Purple. Hybrid tires; perfect for streets and light off-road terrain. Climbing handles (worn), speedometer (needs new battery), pannier rack (no pannier bags) and shiny red bell (brand new, never used) included. Recently had full tune-up with no rides since.
Only one accident.
A small child.
15 months.
Struck.
BROOKLYN, NY -
I remember the day I got the email from Brad:
“Dear Kimberly, Thanks for writing, but we’re about to undergo a major website revision and we’re not accepting any new writers at the current time. Cheers, TNB”
Figures.
Getting published is an odds game, right? Collect 100 “No”s for every “Yes.”
At least The New Yorker had the decency to lie to me with their boilerplate, “Despite its evident literary merit, we regret to inform you…”
TNB cut to the chase.
No bullshit.
“No thanks.”
Fuck TNB.
BROOKLYN, NY -
Whenever I do something utterly stupid, my standby retort used to be: “I’m not your average dumb blonde, I’m above average.”
Blonde jokes have been as much a part of my upbringing as bad (read: fabulous) 80’s music, sunblock and weight issues.
A blonde and a redhead went to the bar after work for a drink, and sat on stools watching the 6 o’clock news. A man was shown threatening to jump from the Brooklyn Bridge, and the blonde bet the redhead $50 that he wouldn’t jump. Sure enough, he jumped, so the blonde gave the redhead $50. However, as friends, the two went back and forth about it; the redhead just couldn’t take the blonde’s money. Finally, the redhead confessed: “Listen, I have to tell you that I saw this on the 5 o’clock news, so I can’t take your money.”
The blonde replied: “Well, so did I, but I didn’t think he would jump again!”
But, for whatever reason, when I tell people I’m flaky, or dumb, I usually get brushed off with a “Pshaw!” “Pbbbbt!” or “Getouttahere!” even though I know, deep in my heart, the truth to be otherwise.
And so, to present my case to you naysayers: I offer Exhibit 9,272 of my extreme Bimbosity:
How I Totally Fucked Up TNBingo.
BROOKLYN, NY -
My engagement to be married began and ended on the same stage.
T— and I had met during our first summer together at a tiny summer stock company in Vermont. A summer hamlet, more known for its wooden bowl factory and old-time country marketplace than for its theatrical endeavors.
I was nineteen. We did five shows in ten weeks: three musicals and two straight plays, plus five late-night cabarets. I worked every show, including the cabarets: 110 performances in all.
I made ninety-eight dollars a week.
Before taxes.
BROOKLYN, NY—
So it’s three weeks out from our first TNB: Live! Reading Series and it’s only just occurred to me; after the venue has been booked, after the readers have been wrangled, after the equipment has been acquired and Facebook invites have gone a-flying and the audience participation games have been planned, that I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.
What was I thinking???
BROOKLYN, NY –
It surprises a lot of people to learn that I am not a redhead.
I am extremely fair-skinned, my grandfather was a ginger-haired Irishman, and I touch-up my roots religiously, so it’s an assumption most people make naturally.
So much so, that I get asked certain questions non-stop:
BROOKLYN, NY –
I nearly choked on my morning oatmeal when I stumbled upon this article from the BBC.
From the article:
Pet Shop Boys reject PETA request
Pop group Pet Shop Boys have revealed they have turned down a request by animal rights group PETA to rename themselves the Rescue Shelter Boys.” PETA Europe has written to Pet Shop Boys with a request they are unable to agree to,” reads a post on the band’s official website. But the band admits the request “raises an issue worth thinking about”.
BROOKLYN, NY -
Dear Future Boyfriend:
Please do not be nice to me.
Kindness will only be misinterpreted as interest. If you show concern when I am weary, call because you miss me, or twirl my hair adoringly between your fingers, the fortress around my fragile heart will weaken. If you remember my birthday, I will imagine you want something kinky in bed; like eating the cake you brought home off my ass. If you send me flowers for no reason, I will, naturally, assume there is a reason. And it will probably not be good. Open the door for me, and I’ll trip on the threshold of terrified; knowing that one day you’ll walk out that very same door. Buy me a present of any worth, and I’ll denounce it as one of many lovely parting gifts to come.
We both know chivalry is dead. Let’s keep it that way.
BROOKLYN, NY –
I’m a big fan of SMITH Magazine’s 6-Word Memoirs. So much so, I often find myself encapsulating everyday events both large and small into six-word sound bytes without even being aware of it.
For those of you in the dark about 6WMs, Ernest Hemingway once wrote a story in six words (For Sale. Baby Shoes. Never Worn.) and is said to have called it his best work. SMITH has taken this idea and marathoned with it.
With the Oscars just two weeks away (Feb 22nd), some of you may be finding it difficult, in these trying economic times, to fork out the $12.50 on a single movie ticket. So I present, for your consideration, a condensed review of each of the major* nominees.
All in just six simple words.
BROOKLYN, NY –
Filmmaker Kevin Smith jokes about the Platypus in the opening disclaimer to his film: DOGMA
Remember: Even God has a sense of humor. Just look at the Platypus. Thank you and enjoy the show.
P.S. We sincerely apologize to all Platypus enthusiasts out there who are offended by that thoughtless comment about Platypi. We at View Askew respect the noble Platypus, and it is not our intention to slight these stupid creatures in any way. Thank you again and enjoy the show.
The Platypus
Genus: Ornithorhynchus
Species: Anatinus
While categorically a mammal, the Platypus has physical characteristics of birds and reptiles as well. Studies have proven that the Platypus was the first species to diverge from reptile to mammal and therefore, evolutionarily speaking, it is sometimes thought of as The Missing Link.
BROOKLYN, NY –
A friend of mine said something to me the other day:
“A man would rather date a smoker than a woman who is overweight.”
Another friend of mine confessed that she dislikes overweight people. “Not just the usual chubby that we all get to be from time to time,” she said, “but really fat people. “ She told me just couldn’t find anything to relate to. Felt nothing but disdain and disappointment and from the sounds of it, actual contempt.
And both of these women are people that I consider to be kind, understanding, generous, humanitarians. People who care about people. Give-you-the-shirt-off-their-back types.
I just couldn’t wrap my head around it. As someone who has struggled my whole life with weight issues, I have been plagued by these two conversations ever since.
BROOKLYN, NY –
Dating’s a bitch.
And this is the time of year when it’s easier to plop in front of the TV with a bottle of Veuve and watch a House marathon rather than suffer through, as the only single person* in the room, the forced jollity of holiday events. You start to miss the days when your mother pestered you about your dating life. Anymore, she just slaps on her Colorform smile, tells hyper-enthusiastic tales of others – who got married even older than you – and passes the twice-baked potatoes with a heavy sigh; resigned to the fact that the children born to your siblings are going to be the only grands she’s going to get.
(*For the record, no, my widowed grandmother does NOT count, thank you very much and besides, even she has a boyfriend, so suck it!)
BROOKLYN, NY –
They cut down the tree in my backyard today.
Well, technically, I suppose it’s not my backyard. It’s my downstairs neighbor’s. It’s a yard in which I own shares, but do not actually possess – one of the quirks of co-op living.
Except that I also co-opted the perks of having an enormous old tree outside my windows.
This tree was a lush Emerald City during the two short months of summer when I first moved in. It gifted me with dappled skyline sunsets, it whispered sweet nothings as the morning breezes fluttered through the leaves and kept me company as I drank my coffee on my fire escape-cum-veranda. It gave home to fat, chattering squirrels who entertained my cats and its leaves turned innumerable and dazzling colors before their inevitable descent into my downstairs neighbor’s backyard.
I wonder if he just got tired of cleaning them up.
BERLIN, GERMANY –
I have long held the contention that German is comprised of merely 50 root words, endlessly rearranged and combined to make it one of the most complicated and difficult languages known to man.
Example: The two syllable darling known in English as a “matchbook” gets expanded to the whopping five syllable “Streichholzschachteln” which literally translates to something along the lines of “box of wooden sticks that you strike”.
Seriously.
But if you break these impossibly long words down into their smaller components, you can easily suss out the definition based on the roots.
Here are a few examples.
LONDON, ENGLAND (Gatwick Airport) –
As I was being driven to Schiphol airport today, my driver told me a joke.
What do you call someone who speaks two languages?
Bilingual.
What do you call someone who speaks three languages?
Trilingual.
What do you call someone who speaks one language?
I winced; dreading the punch line.
An American.
AMSTERDAM, THE NETHERLANDS –
** Warning: this post is not for anyone under 18, faint of heart, or my mother.**
When you think of Amsterdam, certain things immediately come to mind:
BROOKLYN, NY -
I’m a filmmaker.
A multi-hyphenate.
Writer / Director / Producer is usually how it goes.
Except if I were to choose the order, it would be Director / Producer / Writer.
When I write, I prefer punchy, active sentences.
I don’t usually go much further than: Who? What? How?
Let everyone else fill in the blanks.
The person reading a screenplay has neither the time nor the patience for long, esoteric descriptions about the Hero’s freakish allergy to shag carpeting. Nor do they care to read extensive passages about the psychosomatic development of said allergy due to the heartache caused by one Love Interest after their first sexual encounter in 1978 in his Aunt Rita’s Airstream, which had not only the floor, but the walls lined with the stuff; and who, years later, coincidentally enough, happens to be standing across the room from Hero at a party. Unfortunately for Hero, he notices her just after having lost his trousers in a round of Strip Twister. Having fallen on his pants-less ass in shock at the sight of her, his derriere begins to swell three times its normal size. (131 words)
