Net, lock, flipped: an exercise in fiction; three word Wednesday

Rupert Murdoch appears to have recouped some of money lost in the recent OJ Simpson fiasco when his publishing arm received an unexpected windfall of $1m (£501,000) from the rival television network ABC.

See my post at BC if you haven’t.

And the book will be published. People will buy it. The media might have started this quest toward tastlessness, but Americans seem to love it. People do have choices. People don’t have to watch a TV show or buy a book. In an era when Brittany and Kevin’s divorce was front page news, we can act with our pocket books or our silence. But do we?

As I have said before I hate being so frigging earnest. Many bloggers who are writers complain about their rejections. A bit too much for my taste. Writers do get many rejections. Are they writing bad imitations of chick lit because they know it sells? Can’t write what you don’t feel. Might be able to write about what you don’t personally know, but when writing about modern day life, it is best to personally know it. Other writers receive rejections because the material is quirky, or people just don’t feel passion towards it or like it. That’s what writing is about and always has been with the following exception.

While there are many publishing houses this is where consolidation of the media plays a part. There are no Grove Presses or City Lights now. There is blogging and writer/bloggers can speak out. Nobody is stopping us but us.

Hey people give me discounts because I called for Bush’s Impeachment before it was popular, and have always written about politics, even when people did confuse the Bush White House with God and his reception committee. Nobody is censoring your blogging. You can write that reality shows suck in part because they don’t use writers or many paid actors.

Members of the radical right did try to censor my blogging. Because I’m a New Yorker I reacted as a one. I yelled back. Then I deleted as The First Amendment doesn’t apply to an individuals blog.
***********************************************************************

Gawd I have to link, every Wednesday to the one with the horrible screen name who I now call The False Messiah as he gives the words.
If you want to know why I call him that, it’s in his sexdating test on his blog.

I didn’t post my results. Basically I’m the slut you like to wake up to. Took it twice. Changed some answers if they both fit. Will probably post it on Friday as I don’t think that I will have time for a podcast.
*******************************************************************************
Loved loved loved last night’s Boston Legal. Jerry looked and acted like a normal person with Aspergers–except for the little dance and some facial expressions, but he will learn. Denny’s jealousy of the friendship. Wow, twelve year old girls don’t act like that.

Shirley–Candice Bergen looked ten years older and it wasn’t make-up. Lincoln was over the top, but who cared?

My one complaint is that I really want a James Spader hour. On top of Boston Legal. He looked great last night or I’m getting real used to him being middle aged. The way he treats both Denny and Jerry, this is a mans man. If I were Denise….

Then again if I were anyway near James Spader I would die on the spot. Never really had a crush on an actor before. Actually never had a real crush on somebody I didn’t know personally, even if just a little.

In some ways I wish BL would go back to the early days as when Spader defended his childhood best friend, Andrew McCarthy, in an inspired though sort of cliched bit of casting. McCarthy was on trial for murder, Alan got him off because he couldn’t believe his best friend could be guilty. However….And BL can’t go back. But it has to be a bit less cartoonish.

I think the Sunday episode and last night’s were written to be a two hour special. Would have been much better and somehow less cartoonish. But it’s always brilliant in its weird way, and pushes the envelope on network TV in ways many people don’t see.

It’s not afraid to explore human weakness, and my life is richer for that.

This is fiction and done fast.
************************************************************************************

The Upper West Side, early-1980’s

Tressa put down the phone. She had no idea why the boys always thought that straight girls liked to go to gay discos. The better piano bars and drag shows could be fun, but never the hell hole that’s Marie’s Crisis near Sheridan Square.. She knew gay hell holes. Once she had been taken to The Anvil and The Cockrin in the meat market. Men had mistaken her for a drag queen because of her 30’s vintage black velvet gown. She wore black fish-net stockings under the black velvet thick stiletto sandals. Net with rhinestones topped the thick velvet straps.

Idiots. She didn’t have an Adams Apple.

Tonight she was going to a four or five course dinner on Sutton Place. James came from old WASP money. Unlike her best friend Dale he didn’t over do things. Dinner would be opulent, tasteful, fun, and nothing excessive. Unlike Dale he wouldn’t serve a pound of Beluga Caviar to a diner party of six. Everybody would get pleasantly tipsy on Cristal or Dom Perignon, Stoli that had been kept in the freezer, good wines…okay the boys liked to drink. She would have one or two glasses of champagne and many hits of pot.

She flipped through her closet as she decided what to wear. It was like Dale to call her and tell her to behave. Sometimes she used the wrong fork on purpose at one of Dale’s dinners, because she knew how crazy that drove him. His father was a school custodian, her father was an entertainment lawyer who had taught her to set a perfect table by the time she was eight. He loved talking about his waiter in the Catskills days during college and law school days.

Really using the right fork was so unimportant when people took entertaining so seriously that it wasn’t fun. She had to make her own fun. The boys were great for caustic wit, but sometimes you need some down home humor.

Perfect. A vintage red rayon dress that showed off her body. She didn’t even question why it was so important to dress well for Gay boys. It was like dressing for other women but more so.

Tressa put on black eyeliner, silver sparkle eye shadow over taupe and beige in the eyelid, much mascara, illuminated blush, and red lipstick. Make up like this was her disguise. She looked tawdry yet elegant for a hooker. Not a luxe hotel hooker, but one who did private parties. In real life she worked in PR.

She put on red pantyhose with seams, a red bra, the dress, heavy stilleto red pumps, a rhinestone and red stone chocker.

The television intercom rang. She looked down and told Dale she was on her way. Tressa put on her red leather fitted at the waist then flared out jacket, told him she was on her way, and went to lock her door.

It was a good evening. She won Trivial Prusuit despite Dale being her partner. He might have known opera, a little. She knew that Janet Guthrie had been the first woman to win the Indie 500..

Tressa did love the fuss Dale and the other boys made over that, as they had made over her appearance. She loved being on display but not in competition. Tressa could relax and be herself. These boys didn’t want to ravish her body. They wanted to admire it.