Tuesday, November 05, 2002

Carrie White's ass looked cute...covered in pig's blood.

Brian DePalma's Carrie is dated, but good. There was a short-lived musical version of Carrie which I never (unforunately) saw. Carrie 2 The Rage!!! Apparently not the rage. Maybe it should've been set in a rave. Burning glow sticks and pacifiers set to hard core techno? I don't know. And now I just got done watching a new three hour television version that I, at first was unreluctant to watch, but did. Not that bad actually. It was modernized, had some parts from the book that weren't in the original one and had a sexy gym teacher. Funny, cos 2day I was at the video store with Dawne searching for Charles Manson documentaries for her school project. Last one was on Rosanne Barr. No. Rosie Perez. No. Parker Posey. No. Rosie O' Donnell. College, eh? Anyway I was looking through the horror section and noticed how many either classic Stephen King film adaptations there were in there or how many utterly horrible translated works there were. It's reported that S.K.'s quitting writing. That would make me sad. He's one of the best writers around. I don't want to get into it. The arguments. What sucked, blah, blah. Mass production crap. But he's good. I read my first S.K. novel when I was in fourth grade. I've read everything of his except for the Talisman/Blackhouse-which for the life of me, I can't get through. I've tried a million times and I just can't do it. He's allowed to quit though. It's his right. He's in pain. He says all of his ideas have come full-circle. That's okay. But I don't trust him. You can't take the WRITING DEMONS away from that type. He'll try to quit and just won't be able to. If I am like him in any smidgen, if I have one ounce of the sickness that he does. Please God(s), there's no hope for him. He's doomed forever to put combinations of letters and syntax on empty spaces. Good luck. It won't ever happen.

Anyway, this Carrie movie reminded me of high school and if I was cursed and had to repeat high school, I would take the often-ignored-Eliza-Doolittle-type of girl out. Just as long as she didn't mind drinking a couple of Pre-Prom beers in a park somewhere. I actually never went to my senior prom. I went to a girl's senior prom when I was a sophmore, but she ended up getting Bronchial Pneumonia and I surprised her on that night at the hospital with a corsage, Taco Bell and in my tux. I made the nurses cry and they even turned a blind eye when we snuck outside to go smoke a cigarette. Her lungs be damned. I was too busy to go to prom when I was a senior. I told everybody I wasn't going, and then...it was all over. I overslept on a couple of final activities, arrived late at a senior barbecue, lost twenty bucks in the school pool, went to some dumb parties and watched wrestlers spit tabacco juice in dixie cups. My father never had any interest in me or school activities anyway. Just my hair length, earring and my attitude. But out of nowhere he bought me a Grad Night ticket. I wasn't even planning on going. Most of my friends weren't. But I think that my father was afraid of the three a.m. police phone call telling him that his son was dead or in a Tijuana jail cell. So I went. Had nachos in a bowling alley, hung out and played blackjack with the girl that I had a crush on for almost all of high school, won a mini tape recorder in a raffle that I actually got alot of use out of years later. I used it to interview bands for a magazine. I sat through ceremonies. That was it. I played a game of basketball with Joe in front of my house the first day after graduation and then eight days later my father gave me a $300 dollar check on my birthday. I didn't get for graduation (not that I expected to) and thought that this was a combo gift. My father told me that it was for moving expenses. I asked when was I moving? He said Tomorrow. I put down the drumstick that I was eating and watched him walk into his bedroom. I wasn't hungry anymore. I left the next day. One month later I was awakened on a Greyhound bus by an ex-gangster from the Bronx telling me to, "Gett up nigga! We in Pittsburgh! "

Eat your heart out Stephen King.
I've got some horror stories too.
You just have a lot more money than me and are a much better writer.

I suck.

But you aren't listening to "Tiny Dancer" by Elton John right now are you? Thought not.

Pig's blood! Redrum! They're coming to get you Baaarbaraaaaa! Dead By Dawn! Dead By Dawn! Candyman! Candyman! Candym-

Oink! Oink!

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