You’re a real blue flame special, aren’t you, son? [Update]

I was taking a break this week, but having drunk little enough last night to keep me under the limit, and woken up with a hangover as a reward, and having lost another fucking fountain pen – which may be a karmic metaphor for the current state of my writing, I’ll get back to you on that one – I feeling highly irritable and quite frankly, am in the mood to tear someone a new arsehole.

I was (in the spirit of taking a week off) quite… happily sitting at my desk glaring at the world with a furious eye. That was, until I discovered that in the long list of useless, tired, unoriginal, shamelessly plagiaristic fucking cunts that inhabit Hollywood, someone else is getting on the remake – oh, sorry, the re-interpretation – bandwagon, and is doing a new American Psycho.

Because the year 2000 is soooo long ago, and anything made then must be soooo dated and inexplicable to the current world of blu-ray, hi-def obsession, which soon enough is going to lead to striking everything prior to 2005 from the historical record because, let’s face it, the entire world wasn’t quite crisp enough before then, and it’s just so hard to suspend one’s disbelief when remembering the budget SFX.

Waaaaaait a minute here, does that mean the entire 90s will cease to exist?

You fucking betcha. Kiss goodbye to your teenage years motherfucker, they no longer have any relevance.

But, but what about Point Break? Does that mean…

Yep, remake already in the pipeline.

Oh well, I guess I’ll just go and crawl back into my nostalgic hole over here then.

Yeah, you do that, you fucking dinosaur.

I’d laugh, really, at the very mention of thinking about maybe even considering to do a remake of Point Break, if it wasn’t so desperately sad.



You know, fuck Gatekeepers.

Yes, I am tangentially referring to Literary Gatekeepers – agents, and publishers and the like, who keep many a good author down, because they don’t fit into a prescribed mould of what it means to be a commercially viable Dan Brown… um… I mean writer.

Primarily, however, I meant Office Gatekeepers. You know, those petty bureaucratic receptionists who are so mind-numbingly bored (which is surprising given the average time it takes for a question to echo off the inside of their skull and come back out their mouth, only to have you ask it again) that they spend their days harassing people for parking in the staff parking lot, even though they have a clearly visible permit on their dashboard, and fielding phone calls to their boss by asking who’s calling; putting you on hold; coming back and asking you where you’re calling from; even though you told them already; putting you on hold again; coming back and asking you what it’s regarding; putting you on hold; coming back and asking you if it’s urgent; putting you on hold; coming back to tell you the boss is not available, and can you call back later, and then cracking the shits with you when you ask to leave a message.

That. Is. Your. Fucking. Job. You are a secretary, you’re entire point is to fucking well take messages.

Whew, ok. I feel mildly better now. Time for more coffee.


[Update]: So, yes, it would seem like the fountain pen fiasco is indeed a metaphorical comment upon my writing. The wifey found it a short time ago… in the Garage. Which, if I am not mistaken, is where real men go to make things. Lesson: Keep track of your shit. Get back in the garage and get shit done.

Of course, it might also be a comment on the fact that my writing belongs in a dusty box stashed away from the light of day…


~ by Gethin A. Lynes on December 9th, 2011.

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