I have recently realized that I am a George Person.
For a long time – during my own extended (and yes, hairy legs and armpits and partial dreadlocks and all of it. Don’t judge. I was young and foolish then.) dirty hippie phase – I thought I was a John person, but I now realize the error of my ways. Granted, I could write about two hundred blog posts on the errors of my ways alone, but regret is a useless emotion.
I think I’ve mentioned that I rather hate Paul. I do. It’s nothing personal (or is it???) but just a few bars of “Listen to What the Man Says” can send me screaming from the room. Even the Musak version is intolerable. And “Someone’s Knocking At the Door?” Well, I just hope that someone is a hired assassin with orders to shoot to kill.
I don’t give a shit about Ringo either way, and let’s face facts here: although obviously superior at the art of survival and avoiding embarrassing marriages to one-legged gold diggers, Ringo is no holds barred the ugly one (or, in Jersey Shore parlance, the grenade.) If he wrote any songs, I don’t know about it, so luckily he’s at least relatively blameless in my mind.
So anyway, if a gun is held to my head and I’m forced to choose – or if I happen to name a blog after a latter-day John (and probably Yoko in some form. Seems she had her paws on everything.) song – I will state George as my favorite. And as it so happens, he was rather a hottie (at least in profile). And I do very much like the song “Here Comes the Sun” although the rest of the Beatles catalog is what I expect to have to listen to should I be unfortunate enough to one day find myself in Hell.
I hate it all; even the ‘classics.’
Blackbird: take those broken wings and hobble yourself outside…quietly.
Yesterday: Whine, whine, whine, whine, whiney baby whiner whine.
Yellow Submarine: Anthrax to my ears.
Can’t Buy Me Love: I’m sure the boys now realize the error of that sentiment. Poverty can nuke love, but money can certainly get you back in the door.
Eleanor Rigby: Ghastly
Sexy Sadie: Weren’t you listening? I hate it all. I don’t care that they’re a treasured and iconic band and people around the world love and worship them. You can have them. Give me The Stones or Jimi Hendrix or Muddy Waters or Leonard Cohen any day and keep that LSD I am the eggman sitting on a cornflake crap to yourself.
In other news, I think I mentioned that I had planned to be done with the rough draft of my new book on Friday (as in three days from now.) Not so much. You know what they say about the best laid plans…
Well, I don’t know what rock you’ve been living under, but what they say is the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.
Why do they say that?
Well, enter the internet with the following enlightenment: “The saying is adapted from a line in ‘To a Mouse’ by Robert Burns: ‘The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men /Gang aft a-gley.’”
Anybody got a translation on Gang aft agley? Apparently that was how we English-speaking types once said “often go awry.” Something tells me my plan to build a time machine and return to the days of the American Revolution could melt down in simple language barrier/semantics problems.
Wouldn’t that be a funny short story? You return to some romanticized, celebrated time not THAT long ago (250 years doesn’t seem THA T long, really) only to find you can’t understand a goddamned word anyone’s saying.
It’s the little things really…
So where was I? Book not done in three days.
Woman rethink entire plot and find self re-writing 21 chapters in one week. Woman no happy, yet realize this good thing in big picture.
Why I’ve started talking like a caveman I have no idea, but the bottom line is that I ended up going over the story with someone last week (Thursday, I think?), realized a character I wanted to add and one I wanted to delete and a general inconsistency with my main character and some plot twists and overall storyline strengthening that would be beneficial…and then I couldn’t bring myself to write the final chapters. It made no sense without first fixing everything else.
So there you go.
And there I go: back to extended editing/rewriting so as to keep to my schedule (sort of) and be done with the rough draft NEXT Friday.
Then I’m going to work on a romantic comedy screenplay where there is absolutely no time travel, but extensive use of the word “ovaries.”