A Would-be Writer Rejoices and then Laments...Yet Again

Call me "Lucifera Hikock". Why? I'm getting to that part...just be patient.

Shakespeare once posed the question "What's in a name?" Well, old-time Hollywood apparently thought "a lot"...and so did countless writers, from Mark Twain to George Eliot to Diablo Cody...which brings us right back to Hollywood and the Academy Awards this past Sunday night.

You might not recognize her by her given name, but Brooke Busey did something I, and countless other people, would love to do one day: She won the Oscar for "Best Original Screenplay". The name she uses is "Diablo Cody" and that film was "Juno".

Now, before I start being perceived for being all "catty" like apparently all women are...according to all women and 90% of men...I'm not being catty...I'm being tongue-in-cheek. It's not my fault this woman was once a stripper, sports more ink on her than Cher and Tommy Lee combined, probably sold her soul to the devil to get her script published and now even bears his name, and makes it perfectly clear to all that "this devil" won't wear Prada...well, Stuart Weitzman to be exact...but she CAN wear Dior. See? Sounds catty, but it's not.

I salute her.

If she can do what she did...perhaps she can open doors for others who want to, but don't want to do what she did before she did it...in order to do it. Confused yet? Actually, it's not my job to confuse you...in fact I don't even have a job...but here I sit anyway, banging away on my laptop, writing a blog only a handful of people will ever read - hoping one day to get that elusive proverbial break.

I'll admit I have no studio contacts in Los Angeles, I don't have an agent and no one in Hollywood would ever give me an opportunity to write no matter how many of my clothes I remove...actually, they might give me one just to STOP me from taking any off...but that's not the point here. The point is there are female writers out there who CAN write...for heaven's sake; three of the five nominees in the "Best Original Screenplay" category were women! That's basically my point. Hollywood, across the board, really needs to give more women opportunities...but, especially so as writers.

And Diablo Cody didn't get this award because she once was a stripper or uses a nom de plume that conjures up a wild west demon...she got it because she DESERVED it.

But...just in case I'm wrong and someone from Hollywood is indeed reading this blog...I have this nifty pen name I came up with...

A Trick of the Eye

I'm sure this has happened to everyone at some time...you catch a partial glimpse of a word with another following it, underneath it, etc., and you have to do a double-take as you think it says something completely different from what it is, most often enough, pretty risque...or totally nonsensical. This story centers around one such happenstance specifically.

I first did this a year or so ago travelling down Route 231 driving from Montgomery back to my house when out of the corner of my eye I see a little strip mall with about four or five stores in it...and one named, or what I spied it as, "PRECISION CRAP". I did that little "whatchoo talkin' 'bout, Willis" head thing and, of course, the word was not "CRAP", but "CPAP"...which, I know even less about than the other...but, naturally, I made a mental note to look up what "CPAP" was when I arrived home, which, even more naturally, I forgot to do on several dozen such subsequent trips.

But that didn't stop me from remarking to myself, and then, on later excursions, to my children, that had I ever really wanted a brilliant marketing ploy...naming a store "Precision Crap" would be sure to bring in a buttload of people...yes, pun intended. I'm not one to buy whoopee cushions or gag items from mall stores to give to my friends when they get married...but you can bet your as...(oh, that's just too easy)...let's just say you can bet more than a few dollars I would have sauntered into that store by now had the name actually been that. And who could blame me...and who wouldn't do the same?

Face it...the curiosity factor alone would (not to mention the overflowing parking lot from others with the same inclination as I) have gotten me to double back to take a looksie inside to see just what crap they are selling and why it is so precise. Would it actually BE bathroom items? Could it be a stool gauge? (Yes, someone out there is selling these...or at least I think they are.) Or is it more of the "difference between a 5/16 inch wrench and a metric one nearly identical in size" preciseness? How about those little metal slidey gap devises they put between that bent doodle of your spark plug and the plug itself kinda things? I mean, SOMEONE has to sell them...whatever they are called...and they ARE pretty precise. But a whole store devoted to those? Nah...I bet they'd have shelves and shelves of stuff LIKE that, or nothing like that...but precise nonetheless.

And who wouldn't want to buy at least something from the store so they could show their friends the bag with the words "Precision Crap" meticulously centered eight centimeters from each side, in exactly direct proportional pitched font to always, always maintain those measurements? They are, after all, THE precision crap specialists. They wouldn't get the big bucks for just approximate crap...anyone can do that...it takes nerves of 18/10 stainless steel to churn this stuff out consistently correct.

And speaking of being correct, I mentioned this whole incident to a friend, who knew exactly what a CPAP was...and I looked it up, and sure enough, he was right. They are masks to wear when you have sleep apnea...and when you suffer from that, you certainly don't want to take your chances at the "IMPRECISE CPAP" store...because, rest assured, their stuff IS crap.

A Play, With Words, In Three Parts

For your 'entertainment' I present...a "blogumn" in three parts (all basically read in the present tense):

Past:

Here I go to sit in yet another doctor's office - frantically showering, dressing and guzzling a glass of water before I proceed in my attempt to break the sound barrier in order to make it from my house to my destination in less time than is humanly possible without the intervention, or invention, of a time machine...unless I hit absolutely no lights, which I am sure the likes of Stephen Hawking NEVER add into their equations when formulating new theories.

Calculations aside, only being assisted by a wormhole, alien abducted or...perhaps...could it just be that nothing says "drive and determination" like driving WITH determination?

Past Present:

Suffice it to say - I made it there on time...and even managed to jump out of the elevator before my riding occupant, i.e., another lady, did. Yes, I am, in such cases, psychic...I just knew she'd go into the same office as me...and she did.

So, I filled out my form, same form as always - info never changes. Why they make you fill it out each time is anyone's guess; they just must like having something to shred at the end of the day. The shear bulk of my pre-shredded slips of paper over the years alone would undoubtedly have amounted to one "less than full-sun-given" scrub pine by now.

Enter my former elevator companion. "I'm sorry, but we ARE running late today...so it may be a while" the receptionist, outwardly begrudgingly...yet inwardly relishing, alerts her. Now those are fourteen words no patient wants to hear. Why...oh why can't they CALL you to let you know that you can indeed use the brake pedal en-route to your appointment? You know, they can put a man on the moon (or at least fake it well) but they can't call you on your cell phone to tell you they know full well it's going to be a LONG wait??? It's not like we are still in the days of Gilligan's Island...no Professor and a coconut phone. Wake up and smell the Venti Latte Decaf Two-Percent Sans Sugar...technology HAS progressed a bit, correct? Would a call kill these people? They could even write it down and shred it at the end of the day just to add to the pile of stuff from my life which gets tossed without so much as a sideways glance. Aren't I worth it? I mean, they still do take my checks and not just the number...so my paper heap must be worth at least a [parking] token...which, by the way, they don't dole out anymore so I have to park in Lower Slobovia when I park, thank you, Baptist South - Morrow Tower people.

Now, with notebook (I am presently writing in) in hand, I sauntered back up to the receptionist station..."Can I 'borrow' a pen?" I ask (all innocently). She looks up ever so slightly from her "look who is going to be inconvenienced today by sitting unnecessarily long at the doctor's office" appointment book, and proceeds to tell me that I can use either the purple or blue one. I go for the purple. (My daughter likes purple.) Ordinarily this would be a massive clue for the more astute "Agatha-Christie-types"...only someone with prior intent to abscond with a nifty "drug company freebie pen" would give a flying fig about the exterior colour it was...but no red flags were raised and I am now writing with my "newfound" pen. The tiny things in life keep me going...and this was by far one of the tiniest. Lo and behold, I am called in to see my doctor...MY doctor was on time...THIS time. Time to put away my notebook which is supposed to scream "Johnny Depp playing J.M. Barrie in 'Finding Neverland'"...yes, take note everyone sitting in this waiting room, for *I* have a notebook...I fancy myself on the writer's playing field of the guy who penned "Peter Pan". Sigh...I am such a dreamer. Wait...isn't that what that film was about??? Hmmm...ironic?

Present:

I gave my daughter a pen today. It was purple. I wouldn't say it was the cheapest present I've ever given her as it cost me $165.66 with back payments duly tendered. And, speaking of irony...I even had the audacity to write my check out with their...uh...strike that...MY daughter's pen!

Some High School Musings...Not That There's Anything Right With That

I was just thinking, reminiscing if you will, about my high school days. The impetus of this thought happened to be a blurb that was in my daughter's school's newsletter which stated something to the effect of "these are the students who haven't had any Class I infractions since the start of the school year"...and, she was, because she is so incredibly good, one of them. Which brought me, apparently, to this thought...why, I have absolutely no clue (that's just the way my mind works I guess)...

...when I was in high school, we had smoking breaks.

Okay, they weren't exactly "sanctioned" smoking breaks...but, nonetheless, we were allowed to smoke between classes.

Which called to mind some sayings which I found hilariously funny at the time (none of which I ever heard uttered...then OR now):

"There will be a five minute smoking break at the flagpole...guidance counsellors will be passing out matches in their offices beforehand for anyone who needs them."

"We 'frown upon' bumming smokes off the construction workers. The construction workers are the ones in the white hats and not wearing designated uniforms."

There was also one about "in back of the pod" and "Marlboro's" that I have since forgotten. Everything is funnier when you are saying it at three in the morning or in front of your kids at rapid fire pace...especially when you haven't eaten all day and had a Martini.

This, again, was not sanctioned at my school...but we did it anyway (we were so brazen back then): Who else my age remembers getting cigarettes from their teachers who were on duty to watch us kids during our lunch breaks outside? And why was it that shop teachers never had any problems with doling out smokes?

Ah...the good old days. No wonder I am the way the way I am. Endless thanks, Mr. Hollowell!