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Archive for February, 2011

Charlie Sheen wants to write a gossipy memoir about his experiences at Two and a Half Men. He is asking for the starting bid to be $10 million. The title is to be When the Laughter Stopped, so was that like, season 2?

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Double D(ip)

This really fascinates me. A restaurant in London is serving breast milk ice cream. For about $22 you can have a frozen serving of momma’s milk, which is pasteurized (let’s hope!) and then churned with vanilla and lemon zest. It’s hilariously called Baby Gaga.

Other favors that will soon be available include Neopolitit and Strawbooby. Kidding.

What I don’t get is that it’s all from the same woman. Maybe a lot of people aren’t ordering it?

Honestly, I think it sounds kind of good, but I’m probably deprived since I wasn’t breastfed (see how you turn out?!)

(story courtesy of crazydaysandnights)

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Good God. I’m coming into the home stretch with my young adult paranormal romance.

I’ve written 175 pages in the past six weeks. That is lightning-fast for me, because I am not a speedy writer. I really wanted to get to 300 pages and finish by March 1, but sadly it looks like that is not to be. Damn February and its short number of days. It would have been so excellent for me psychologically to be done before I flip the calendar over, but there’s no way.

Oh, but I love my characters and their swooning and their problems and their magic! Good times. I cannot wait to start editing. I haven’t let myself read anything I’ve written so far, so it will all be (sort of) new to me when I read it–the second week of March, I guess.

After the YA PR is written, I will attempt to get on the Stephen King-recommended schedule of writing in the morning and editing in the afternoon.

The next project I want to write will either be the L.A. memoir (which I think I’ve written 200 pages of?) or my self-publishing experiment, which I’m thinking may be part of a true-crime book I wrote from 2008-2010. No one knows what to do with it, including me. I tried to integrate a relationship memoir with this ripped-from-the-headlines story and… it hasn’t worked yet. Although everyone who’s seen it has said it’s an intriguing idea.

Also, I’m getting a lot of love from the independent film community and I’m not quite sure why that is. Big sloppy love right back at ya, though, guys. I’m a great believer in the cosmic flow or whatevs, so there must be a reason that in the past couple months I’ve 1) Broken a news story about a classic Seattle theater closing, 2) Been mentioned by the Independent Film Channel and 3) Been given a pep talk by one of my favorite filmmakers, indie upstart Kevin Smith.

I don’t know what it means, but it means something and I’m gonna figure it out after this teen novel is done.

Until we meet again, I’ll be off surfing the universal waves and typing ’til my arms fall off.

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I really like Kevin Smith. I like his attitude, I like his sense of humor, I like his rants. I sort of named Dating Amy, the blog that launched my career as an author, after one of his films (even though my name is Amy). I love his films.

He had me with Clerks, of course, but it wasn’t until Ben Affleck’s Chasing Amy speech about the painting of birds bought in a diner that I realized there was no turning back.

And now I am in Smonologue #9?

So excited.

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According to Entertainment Weekly,

Another unbelievably tasteless tell-all memoir in the works: Jesse James has reportedly signed on with Gallery Books, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, to write a book that will divulge intimate details about his marriage to Sandra Bullock and his engagement to Kat von D.

Trade site Publishers Marketplace had just this to say under deal announcements:

Non-fiction: Memoir
Cheating former husband of Sandra Bullock, Jesse James’s AMERICAN OUTLAW, to Gallery.

The book is rumored to be coming out this year. Too bad they don’t say how much the deal was for. That’s the juiciest part. ‘Til the book comes out, I guess. Sigh.

Would his following even read a book like this? Or read a book in general?

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So my friends constantly appear dismayed, not to mention disbelieving, that I am the last person in the free world who still goes to Blockbuster. I go for the entertainment and not all of it is on the shelves.

As you know I’m doing this mini bucket list of things to accomplish before Mad Men comes back to AMC next summer. The first thing on the list, which is in no order at all, is: #1 See a Russ Meyer film.

So the other day I went to Blockbuster (and found out that their really cool manager that I loved isn’t working there anymore) and asked them about Russ Meyer’s Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! because I didn’t see it on the shelves.

The new manager, who I also love, said it’s not even in the system and that several people were suddenly asking about that particular movie. I told him the lead actress Tura Satana had just died and that’s probably why, etc.

Me: You guys don’t really carry exploitation films, do you.
Him: No. Corporate is really careful about that. They want this to be a family friendly kind of place.

I love Blockbuster. I do. When I first moved to Seattle after 9/11 the employees there literally supplied some of the only interesting conversation I got in my first few years here.

But family-friendly standards, seriously?

I may not be online much this weekend because I’m getting my family together to watch Antichrist, Deadgirl, Se7en, and Hostel, which feature genital mutilation, teenage necrophilia, horrifying Biblical perversity, and, among other things, an eyeball hanging out of a woman’s head.

I will be renting them all at the big BB.

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I was feeling discouraged about writing today, so I randomly wished that director Kevin Smith (Clerks, Chasing Amy, the upcoming Red State) would give me a locker-room style pep talk about my writing.

Damned if he didn’t do it.














And then, because it’s Kevin Smith:

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Huge Hollywood news out of the getting-hard-to-ignore self-publishing realm.

So when she couldn’t get a traditional book deal, Amanda Hocking wrote and self-published the Trylle trilogy. It’s a cute, fast-paced paranormal romance about trolls and a seemingly regular teenaged girl who gets called back to become queen of their kingdom.

Minnesota twenty-something author Hocking is a true self-publishing success story, and has sold something like 500,000 of her books directly through Amazon in less than a year.

Today she announced that the first book in the series, Switched, which I loved, by the way, is going to be adapted into a screenplay by Terri Tatchell, who penned Best Original Screenplay nominee District 9.

This kind of independent, enterpreneurial stuff just thrills me.

Congratulations, Amanda, and I cannot wait to see über dreamboat Finn on the big screen.

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I could only make it through a little bit of The Matrix. I just have to start owning the fact that I fucking hate dystopian sci-fi unless it’s Blade Runner. Or Brazil. But not this.

I really like Keanu Reeves, too, but the film just seemed silly to me, probably in part because I’m coming in too late in the game and so many things have borrowed from it that now the original seems derivative. [There's a trope named for this phenomenon, but I'm too lazy to look it up. Like when someone had only seen Seinfeld in rerun form and they're like, "This has all been done before," when at the time it was first shown it hadn't.]*

Even though I can’t say I truly gave it a chance, I at least attempted to give it a chance.

So that’s #3 on my mini-bucket list that I have to complete before Mad Men comes back.

I also tried to rent Faster, Pussycat from Blockbuster and hilarity ensued. That’s a post for when I have more time because it really was very funny.

* Okay, that trope is literally called Seinfeld is Unfunny.

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Like Lady Gaga, I'm coming out of my shell musically


When I was in college I had a really cool international relations professor named Brian Job (pronounced like the biblical one). I had him for an early morning class the day after Valentine’s Day once and he looked at us after lecturing for about fifteen minutes and said that we collectively looked terrible, depressed. Then he laughed and said, “My little daughter is at a fun age because she doesn’t know what Valentine’s Day is supposed to be yet.”

That’s how I felt watching the Grammys last night. I enjoyed them with the unjaded enthusiasm of a kindergartener.

See, I know who these people are because of their reputations. Rihanna is the woman who got beat up by Chris Brown on the way to the Grammys two years ago, Lady Gaga is the one who wears meat, Arcade Fire is the group that was a trending topic on twitter for a week when their last album came out.

But I had no idea about their music. At all.

Last night I reluctantly caught the last hour and a half of the awards, positive I would literally not know one artist. But of course on came Mick Jagger, Barbra Streisand, Kris Kristofferson and I was able to recognize the others like Rihanna ’cause, you know, they’re superstars.

And to the surprise of nobody but me, I recognized the songs they performed because I’ve been to movies and the drug store in the past five years.

I loved lat night’s Grammys. It doesn’t bother me who’s overrated or underrated because I’m so out of the loop that I have no personal feelings on the matter. And Rihanna and Gaga are really good. After the show finished with a performance by Album of the Year winners Arcade Fire (who I correctly identified as being the band from the Where The Wild Things Are trailer), I hit up iTunes.

I’ve listened to “What’s My Name” and “Bad Romance” on repeat all morning. They’re really good!

Prediction: This Justin Bieber kid is gonna be huge.

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