Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand All of the smart people get on a boat and party and have a great time. Then the boat sinks. In a twist ending it was The Titanic.
The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien A giant floating eye wants his ring back but a bunch of dicks throw it into a volcano. In an unrelated subplot a gray anorexic leper also gets tossed into the volcano.
Twelve Angry Men by Reginald Rose Twelve jurors discuss a murder trial. None of them recognize renown actor Henry Fonda, who pretends to be an architect.
The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank A little girl hides in an attic for some reason. The authorities try to find her but are unsuccessful. She publishes her book and makes millions.
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers A depressing snuff novel about a deaf guy who kills himself. The film adaptation has a laugh track.
A friend(-ly stalker) sent me his completed novel (which is EPIC and will make him a googlianaire). I felt like the only thing it was missing were freshy awesome metaphors. Skip ahead a few emails and here are a few phrases I cooked up to enhance his manuscript. Please use these in your own writing be it a short story, novel, or suicide note but make sure you credit me as good people.
“her fervent pratfalls were like unto a fire god munching on coals…”
“like Pierce the aptly named knife-wielding maniac, she pierced the man’s arguments”
“her voice was like a trident MADE OF LIGHTSABER”
“she stole the kid’s sucker like a homeless guy peeing on a box of kittens.”
“her hair waved in the wind like a medusa army, a thousand strong”
"roughly she choked, much like a puppy at my Church’s annual puppy drownings"
“she ripped out the man’s heart and squished it like an orange in an avalanche.”
"there she stood as defiant as that actor who plays James Bond in that movie Defiant”
"her purse was dope, literally made out of cocaine."
Well, hey there. I’ve been Internet-less for a large portion of Summer yet somehow enjoying myself. Apparently there are “lifey” activities as fun as perusing Topless Robot or Cracked. Like fishing. Well, not fishing. But other things. And I’ve been doing them. Road trips, paintball, camping, grilling, horror movie-athons, et cetera. Now that I’m a graduated man I can do whatever my bank account permits i.e. purchasing a compact bow for the much needed manlification of my lifedom. Additionally, a certain relaxing (and nerdly) hobby has reappeared: the painting, configuration, and playing of Warhammer 40K. Pictures soon. Summer nearly over I’ve decided to finally begin a project I’ve mostly declined through my creative writing “career” - the creation & completion of a first novel. There’s an idea that’s been scratching the back of my brain meat for some time - a science fiction adventure-comedy (*urkle* I know I know…) that wouldn’t require Hemingway-level chops. It’s simple, sorta funny, sorta entertaining, and wouldn’t tear me apart if it flopped. So here goes.
I’m an expatriate - a global caste enlightened about other cultures and ignorant of their own. My parents didn’t have this problem. The old man hails from silent mountain men, regular Jeremiah Johnsons; Mom a lineage of New Orleans socialites.
Obligatory family photo.
The old man started working foreign assignments when I turned four. International accommodation held many advantages to a family man: cultural enrichment, sure, but also less taxes, a higher income base, and easy access to vacation cooldowns. Then there was the real estate, the Goddamn mystifying real estate. Case in point:
Sumatra, Indonesia (4-13 y.o.a.)
We couldn’t afford color blinds on our windows, not with kids in Disney shirts waving from the roadside, young women working the rubber trees, old men smiling with malachite teeth. There was the wealthy International conglomerate and the poor indigenous nationals and all that separated us were barbed-wire fences and fat bank accounts. I spent my day learning standardized U.S. History; my nights playing soccer with a ball made of teak root. Some locals dropped a hornet nest on my head. I thought 9/11 occurred in Kuala Lampur.
Tianjin, China (13-18 y.o.a.)
The skies were gray. There were no pigeons but deadly chemicals disguised as bread crumbs spread into the streets and iron spikes on rooftops. We couldn’t let the animals outside - I wondered if it was because of the poisons or the markets, where vendors lined their stalls with freshly gutted dogs. The Chinese saw us less as bourgeois and more as comedically autistic. Strangers would call their friends over to laugh at my large feet. A business man wanted my picture by a bull statue’s testicles. Poverty had been swept behind smiling skyscrapers and the endless ranks of cranes. Our U.S. passports could only get us so far. From there on it was knowing which barbershops cut your hair and which were fronts for brothels.
Lecheria, Venezuela (18-22 y.o.a.)
We lived in a rich man prison - a network of mansions connected by a network of canals. Transport options included travel-by-yacht. I’d take the boat to the Mall, tie her up, watch a film with English subtitles. Or take her out through the break to open water, maybe visit one of the islands and fish like Ernest Hemingway. We said whatever we wanted about Hugo Chavez. The taxi drivers never agreed with us. Nothing could stop our wanton - not the insurgents, not the kidnappers who took our neighbors, not the pirates asking for agua with pistols behind their backs, not the man who collapsed in the Wendy’s drive-through with a bullet in his shoulder.
Santa Barbara, California (18-22 y.o.a. simultaneously)
UCSB. I met a variety of people, some who intended me great harm or disservice. UCSB. I’m idling incognito, an exclusive ooze, wasting away with a cynical smile. I don’t know the lyrics to Bohemian Rhapsody. I’m a little New Hampshire, a little New Orleans. I have scars on my legs from jungle hornets, a little red book full of Mao. I haven’t seen Shane or Zoolander or Groundhog Day. I think in languages I never use. I walk along landing strips and thumb airplanes. I would never play tricks on Gimpel the Fool.
I’m an expatriate, both brahmin and untouchable. Hear me roar! ramble.
Sitting in my weekly Literature Symposium. Today’s topic is Marvin Mudrick, the sardonic founder of UCSB’s College of Creative Studies and winner of 1925’s Silliest Name Award. I like to think he was the secret fifth founder of Hogwarts, but that’s a joke for another genre.
Hey, Desmond here with a random once-in-a-while opportunity for you (that is, my devoted reader) to hear me (that is, Desmond Wilder, secret agent) blab about whiny lifey stuff. This is an unusual occurrence as my narcissism usually manifests in snippets of my personal work - just check out this blog’s archives. I’m not much of an underdog, or underpuppy, or whatever the cuter equivalent would be. This is probably because I’ve had an unprecedented amount of luck in my life (a reservoir of magic that I incessantly worry about depleting) and thus my complaints are usually interpreted as critique, or commands.
I don’t do this often, so bear with me if it gets weird.
Sorry, just got distracted looking up the etymology of bear.
(Note the three undercubs)
Lately, I’ve lurked many a tumblr about feelings and sensitivity and sadness. It seems my internet friends (or as some might call them - pedophiles) have been experiencing more than their usual “fair” share of First World Problems in their various romances. The soup of the day (damn, I use a lot of parenthetical asides - sorry about that!) seems (also a lot of - dashes, which I’m sure are being used improperly) to be the inherent awkwardness and confusion that manifests in casual dating. This, dichotomous with the unprecedented rise in non-fiction writing at the College of Creative Studies (I call it the School of Ellen O’Connell), led me to dwell on the subject for awhile.
I came up with nothing.
But, as luck may have it (and I have a lot of luck), reddit sent me this picture!
Okay, here’s where I go nuts:
Sometimes I wonder how concentric everyone’s individual worlds are. If the 6 Degrees of Separation concept is a kind of social string theory, allow me to propose my haphazard, recently-trashed idea that everyone’s life is a petri dish being contaminated by other petri dishes. Imagine a Venn Diagram but there’s an infinite number of circles overlapping each other. Back to the petri metaphor, I don’t really think we can find objective truth while we’re in our shallow glass, but we can find older stuff lying around that has some interpretations of what we should be doing with our lives, how we should love (and hate) each other, and more nonsensical significance. In reality, these are books, television, religion, “Society,” other cultures, other countries. Sometimes the “suggested truths” have been entirely polished to logical perfection, but they’re still gems of subjectivity augmented by signs of authority.
Friends and their consolation, support, or even neglect and refusal, are a major influence in life’s kitchen sink of perspectives. Nobody has affected my opinion more than my best friends… as well as my parents, the cinema industry, and the writings of Tom Robbins, Kurt Vonnegut, and Chuck Palahniuk. They’ve forged me. They’ve tainted me, depending on how you look at it. All this leads me to perceive advice as contamination, moral codes as contamination, personal values as contamination (from an early age). Or maybe its mutation. Or adaptation. Or just transmission, remove the bias. Nobody is more honest about the viral implications of how we communicate ideas than the modern incarnation of the meme. Look! Memes spread from person-to-person like The Thing.
And look! I’m doing it too, perhaps more in a “there’s DNA in my vegetables!” homeless person ranting kind of way.
Which reminds me. I was supposed to talk me, and about my life. Sorry. Next time?
Pretty sure you've always wanted to see me naked.. Well.. I'm feeling pretty adventurous today so go to datelink5(dot)com (switch [dot] with .) then sign up and find my profile under the username 'lolsummer69'. I hid my face in the pictures. but I want you to guess who I am and then hit me up on Facebook lol. Good luck.
Is this some kind of sick game to you? I followed all of your instructions and didn’t see one nudie picture, not one. I trusted you and all I have now is disappointment and failure and possibly a computer virus. Who do you think you are, lolsummer69? How can you do this to people?
I was perusing my Facebook Notes (hey, if I’m narcissistic enough to name my blog Desmond Wilder: Self Construction, I can Facebook stalk myself too…) and came upon this little diddy I wrote back on November 4th, 2008, when then Illinois Senator Barack Obama smacked John McCain down, son! Someday this might supplement amounting evidence that I’m a misogynist, but today, here’s to my short-lived career in political writing:
"Does this Oval Office make my butt look fat?" By Desmond Wilder
"Speaking of Sarah Palin, she said she’s a life-long member of the National Rifle Association. Which may explain why she’s in favor of shotgun weddings." —Conan O’Brien
Elections today. I know, scary right? By tonight, this very night, we will find out who the next President of the United States will be. I have to say, it’s such a relief. After eight years of “The Decider” making bad decisions, I’m prepped for a change of heart, a new breath in the White House.
Which brings us to Elections. I’m not too serious about either of the two candidates, although honestly I’m leaning more towards Obama than McCain. However, there is something (or someone) that scares the dickens out of me, and that, my friends, is Sarah Palin.
I am terrified of living in a world with Sarah Palin in the White House. It makes me cry at night. Hypothesize with me (we can hold hands):
McCain becomes President. The Democrats groan, most of the Republicans groan, but McCain made it fair and scare and he’s in. Then he kicks the bucket and good ol’ Palin diva becomes the next Pres. Can I get a Darth Vader, “NOOOO!!!!” ? Because if Palin becomes President, we’re doomed. It’s not because she’s a woman, it really isn’t. Hillary Clinton had a whole slew of qualities and opinions and political agendas that probably would have made her a fine prezzie. So do McCain and Obama. But what does Palin have to offer? What does she know? What’s her policies, other than baby Jesus rode dinosaurs and everything can be solved by shooting at it with a helicopter? What’s going to happen when real-life dilemmas and situations crop up in the Oval Office? You can’t get married every time something goes wrong.
Terrorists? Machine guns and helicopters! Iran? Machine guns and helicopters! Gay marriage? Machine guns and helicopters! Abortions? And so on.
When McCain dies (it’s only a matter of days), I’m jumping the next train to Canada. I grew up with Canadians, I’ve heard great things about Canada. They have great hockey teams… well that might not be the best example of Canadian awesomeness… BUT they have French people… um… never mind… but also there’s dog-sledding and thousands of places to snowboard, and they say there are more moose (or meese?) than people up there. In fact, I think the Prime Minister’s a moose. So Canada, ho!
WAIT… What am I saying? Sarah Palin eats moose babies for BREAKFAST! With helicopters and machine guns! Even Canada’s not safe. Nowhere’s safe. Giving Palin the Vice Presidency is really just giving her a free Presidential ticket, and that’s going to be a very bad thing for everybody. For the whole world. America’s economy and world affairs are on an all-time low right now, and the last thing we need is this annoying brunette trying to fix things. She doesn’t understand world affairs AT ALL. “Russia is right over the border” and “Afghanistan is our neighboring country” just goes to show. “What’s the role of the Vice President, Missus Palin?” “Uh… the VP runs the Senate?” She’s like the hot, sexy version of Cheney! She’s dumb, she’s Republican, she’s conservative, she doesn’t belong in the White House, and she likes shooting things. SO NO PALIN, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!