Mehitobel Wilson: writer, reader, chronic curmudgeon.

Tomboy bombshell cowgirl; lover of funk, attracted to roadsides.

Besotted with spots.

Friend to sleaze.

Admirer of filthy films, fleshy steaks, Hong Kong rap, new felt and pocket-knocking 8-balls; prefers 10 gallons of hat and 4 fingers of Jack.

Procrastination here breeds urgency there. Urgency begets sharper fiction. The dream: hone it to a splinter, and sink it deep.

So I'm here.

Gatto Fabulous

My desire to both garb myself as a giant furry cat-thing and honor the hideous beauty of 70s trash fashion is at a peak now. I hope it's a peak. So does Robert - when I found The Perfect Fur Coat (vintage, of course - one of those ubiquitous rabbit things, but perfect) he said, "Perfect for what? Embarrassing everyone you're with?" Nah.

I'm becoming more and more convinced that the redheaded gal from Car Wash has to be at least partly responsible for this. I, verging on insane, am becoming a motley mutt of her and the Rum Tum Tugger.

This street-corner grab bag kitten is, by the way, the only person who has bought a plane ticket in the past few weeks, according to the news. Not only did I purchase a ticket, I'm going through Logan. "That's not a vacation," my boss said. "You just have to get involved, dontcha."

Naw. But why be scared? For one thing, planes are safer today than they were three weeks ago. For another, fuck, I have to go somewhere. Big deal. Are people really scared, or are they just too bummed out to go on vacation? I understand the latter, but not the scared bit. I'm more scared of having some bitch throw blood on my rabbit fur, or of my carrier going bankrupt, than I am of something bad happening on the plane.

The salts are not going to like me at all. They are going to laugh at me.

I'm amused as hell by the slew of people who have applied for Air Marshal positions. My favorite breed of dog is a monstrous Turkish beast, the Kangal dog (sometimes known in the US as an Anatolian Shepherd.) This dog hangs out with sheep all day. He's huge and powerful, sleeker than a mastiff but as burly, and wears a pronged iron collar. This dog has no interest in anything but hanging out, patient and vigilant. He lays around, doesn't pace or roam. When the wolves come down in search of sheep, my beastie runs to meet them, to fight them. Badass. My dog is cream-colored with a black mask, bred this way so he'll look sheeplike to wolves.

He's like a plainclothes bodyguard. Kickass. And I think that's what a lot of these applicants want to be. That's cool. It might be even more cool to have attack dogs on planes, though.

Meanwhile: what kind of ego must Clive Barker have to pose for the cover of his own book? Good grief.

I'm going bonkers. Can't sit still. Want to run around and fidget all at once. Sit still to read, to write, to work? Just can't.



posted by Mehitobel Wilson at 12:41 AM

Manipulation: Story at 11!

Dear Ladies and Gentlemen of the News Media,

I understand that you, like the rest of us, are scared. I also think that a number of you are at least a little bit excited: this is the sort of time that can make or break a career.

But you folks fucked up. You never, ever should have let the words "Arab terrorists" stand next to one another. You should have, from the start, said "terrorists." Once there was a pretty good idea as to who was responsible, you might have expanded that to "terrorist members of a sect."

There's a difference between being artificially PC and oversensitive, and being fair. Y'all were in a hurry and you were not fair. Now you're all trying to shovel yourselves out of the new pit of hate and racism into which you've tossed most of us.

I'm sure it's very difficult for you. On the one hand, you have to massage the American mind towards acceptance of war and lives lost. You have to run "history of war" documentaries on the weekends, show films of Elvis leaving for the service, so our country gets its whole red heart athrob with readiness. Part of this instillation of blood lust requires us to see A Target, not individuals. "Kill 'em all, let God sort 'em out" - that's a necessary fighting stance. You can't, in war, pick and choose. You can't give the benefit of the doubt.

On the other hand, you've got the truth - you've got the fact that a skin color isn't a nationality, that there isn't a nationality, and that the resultant hysteria and inability to prop up an enemy in effigy has resulted in the further abuses of Americans. (Plus, the term "war" might not be as appropriate right now as, oh, "seek and destroy," or "rout and clobber," or "whup the living hell out of the folks who did this and the folks who stand between us and them." A war is when someone fights back. We'll see what happens.)

Americans tend to be like lampreys, latching on to the first thing they hear. The damage is done.

We do have to mete out a heavy dose of justice, but it's not a racial issue, and you shouldn't have made it one. It may have been inadvertant on your part, but the lack of attention and foresight is typical and dangerous.

Knock that shit off.






posted by Mehitobel Wilson at 5:16 PM

Burnin' Yearnin'

I'm going to New England. New England! New England on the cusp of winter! I could weep right now.

Southerners (and cowgals) aren't supposed to crave the North, no sirree. Le sigh, le mew, le gimme.

When I was in first grade, we did a project in which we each had to pick a state and make a little parade float and do a little show. I picked Maine. I always picked Maine. For years and years I refused to eat lobster, insisting that my first bite of lobster could only occur in Maine, that no other lobster would count. Eventually my greed got the better of me and I did eat a lobster tail, but I had a quiet discussion with the food beforehand, declaring that it was just a fling, that it should not get attached, that I had my cap set for the lobster waiting to die for me in Maine. It was a decent piece of tail, but I still feel guilty about it and was only weak that once.

The place I might be visiting is very near Maine. I could, in theory, slip away and run like the wind, and eventually cross into Maine, at which point I must race to the shore and hyperventilate. On the way, I could stop in my second-most-desired stoppin' spot, Gloucester. Gloucester, home base for the salts. THE SALTS! I love salts. I love their houses. I love their cruddy beards and their gruff voices and their scars and their sweaters and rainslickers. SALTS! Sigh, sigh, sigh. I could be a barmaid amongst the salts. I could roll out the barrels.

All of this is too much. I'm going to scream...

Meanwhile, I've stumbled across a source of heaps, wads, scads of LMF songs. A whole mess of 'em. More. A whole 'nother disc's worth.

If you're wondering why I'm not talking about writing, why I'm concentrating right now on visiting friends and listening to Hong Kong hip-hop and so forth, it's because horror, at the moment, is not something I feel like writing. Most of my own work is inspired by my scorn and disgust at how people behave. Right now, I want to lay off. No need to shake my finger at them, no need to kick 'em while they're down. I just want to be calm for a while, just hole up and think of the people I love.

But there are some things being done right now that might deserve a keystroke or five. I'll see what I can do.


posted by Mehitobel Wilson at 4:11 PM

Lazy MuthaFuckaz

It's amazing what chugga HK hip hop can do for my mood. Today I achieved the first LMF album and I couldn't be any more entertained. Well, if I were somewhere other than the office, hot chill hittin' the PBR and jumping to the phat Phar-East beats - uh, no, I can't even keep a straight face typing it. But the album (Lazy Mutha Fucka) rocks with the same rockitude that got me hot for LMF upon hearing their second album, Lazy Family. The third, LMFamiglia, will take a little getting used to, but used I shall get.

I wish I had a cd player in my car. Or a tape player, for that matter. I want LMF all the livelong day, til the cows come home.

Did I tell you to go play at DJTommy.com? His new album is out, Respect for Da Chopstick Hip Hop. It could be better. It's pretty sparse, and it's polluted by silver-tongued chicks singing loo-loo-loo songs that make me dive for the 'next' button.

Joe Bob Briggs has commentary regarding 11 September and the ongoing aftermath; it's good and worth reading. Hurts.

I'm making a real effort to look away from the vortex of depression and strive for calm. Ommmm. But all this time I've been thinking I need to chill out - maybe I don't. Maybe I need to just exert myself so much that my boundless nervous energy finds yon bounds and fails. I could pogo myself into a coma of calm. I lift weights but that's slow and careful, and I think I need raging and dashing and whaling on things. There is nowhere hereabouts to rage and dash. Is this why people that dance (coordinated sylphs that they are) are always so happy? Because they've shunted all the piss and vinegar out of their glow-stick-grabbin' muscles and are left in happyland?

I'm not going to dance.

It's a sad day for the Blue Ribbon. (And for the Bull, for that matter.)

My people, oh, woe. I have a collection, a flock, a bevy of people living beneath my wings. It is a tiny bevy, composed of fewer than 10 people, but they are very safe beneath my wings. HOWEVER, they are flung to the far reaches of the world - and I can't get to them. Worse, it will be difficult to get to them any time in the forseeable future. Airlines are losing so much money right this second and cutting so many people that, once it's all functioning again, I expect ticket prices to be even more exorbitant than they are now. My people, they are far! I can not drive to soothe my chickens! They certainly can't soothe me from there, or there, or there - but, ah, that's not what they are there for. I am the shoulder for the few, and do you know what happens when they can't find a properly tough shoulder? They do stupid things, or go berserk, or crumple up and cry. SHOOT. I'm SO sick of being far away from my people.

It's not an issue of lonliness - just heart pain that 90% of the people I like best in this world are so. Goddamn. Far away. Out of reach.

Uh, oh. Time for more LMF, looks like. I will send them to my bevy. I will play them myself, smile, and shadowbox until I'm calm.

I hope.
posted by Mehitobel Wilson at 2:38 PM

11 September, 2001

This is such a terrible day.

The sky here is beautiful, and heartbreaking: no contrails, no glitter, just birds and clouds, some rain, some sun, black and blue. It makes me so very sad to look at that bare sky and know why it's got to be that way today.




posted by Mehitobel Wilson at 5:35 PM

Sweet and Sour

I skulked into Atlanta's Star Bar last week to see Arab on Radar. This, my friends, is my ultimate idea of fun (if "fun" means "leaving the house") : arrive in strange and unfamiliar city. Check into motel. Bathe. Sally forth in the dark rain to a strange and unfamiliar bar.

[Note: the Star Bar is exactly the sort of joint at which I'd become an instant regular if I lived in Atlanta. Go there. See bands. Mind the sweet little punk girl puking in the bathroom. Admire the Elvis shrine - it's impressive.]

Once in said strange and unfamiliar (yet extremely comfortable) bar, commence drinking cheap beer. Deflect advances from guys with the very easy excuse, "I drove five hours for this show." Girls who drove five hours for a show are not going to put out. Advancing locals disperse. Local girls, however, suddenly find you far less threatening. Soak up the atmosphere and the PBR. Enjoy the bands - even the sucky one, because they've got to be bold to suck that hard in public.

Even if your friend's band isn't playing, you have fun. If your friend's band IS playing, you are happy to find that they got a good turnout, the kind of whooping folks who scream for more (and are given NO more, thank you very much) - and that they kick everlovin' ass. Accost friend after show and be the last ones in the bar (other than the suave bartender, Prince Quickdraw on the lighter detail, second only to my local bartender hero, Fastest Flame in the Game, the almighty Chuck) - then quaff Dew and shoot the shit until too sleepy to continue.

Sigh. About as perfect a time as I can recall having, really. Just fucking great. Funny how just one night's jaunt can help so much, isn't it?

I was only at DragonCon for approximately four minutes. Rather, I was only there for a day and a half, and only without a beer for 4 minutes. Nobody recognized me due to the fact that I was wearing pink chenille. When, Saturday night, I dolled up in slinky drag - well, a couple weeks ago I said the following things would happen: I would

5. Get pulled off-course by the devastating pheromonal draw of menfolk dressed as Stormtroopers (don't ask, I can't answer)
6. While in stealthy pursuit of Stormtroopers, get thrown over the shoulder of at least one Klingon
7. Draw blood. I've drawn blood every year so far. I wish I had photos of Robert's cherry-tomato eyeball.

Hokay. This year, I'm the one that bled - got stung by a bee, causing me to roar, "I'm getting stung by A MOTHERFUCKING BEE!" before turning the little fuck to butter. This year, I did get pulled off-course by the Stormtrooper lusts - but it was, er, not so stealthy this time. Fortunately all my tattoos were covered and I was smiling a lot, so none of them will ever recognize me again. I also was called "mean as cat shit" by someone to whom I was absolutely NOT mean (yet) and ended up, somehow, at a porno party, at which I could not bring myself to be appalled by the behavior of the attendees because, after all, it was their territory, and I was the guest. Had they come to MY room stark naked and inserted things into one another, I would have gone into shock.

If any of you arrived at my reading and thought I looked suspiciously like John Shirley, it's because I cancelled it and he got my slot. I'll remind you that I have a tendency to faint when too many people are looking at me at the same time. Hell, two or three people is too many.

Two points on manners, now:
1. If you're going to attend a concert, that's your choice. I'm talking to you, you snotty fucks in the third row at the Ghoultown show. If you don't like the band, it's your choice to leave. It is also your choice, which, I see, you exercised, to stay and spout nasty comments throughout the performance. And it's mine to tell you to shut the fuck up.

2. Do not ever attempt to get into a tragedy cockfight with me, or with anyone else. For one thing, I'm not going to play along. My shit is MINE, and it's not fodder for party conversations. Some kid dared start in with some trip about how he'd seen The Mean Streets because he'd seen a corpse once. This anecdote came up three times. The third time, it got ugly. Word to the wise: I understand that your shit has impacted your life. I understand that you might even be obsessed about it. It does not, however, make you anything other than an exploitative, whining wet end when you use it as cocktail conversation.

Honestly, Point 2 - it's been a long time since I've seen that in play. I'm excellent at avoiding small talk, I guess, and therefore rarely get spoken to by the small. But, for chrissake, who uses shit like that as small talk? Let's say I say to you, "I know everything about horror and agony, babe, because I saw a dead body once." Let's say that I say that to you, and meanwhile, you, unbeknownst to me, witnessed your child get eaten alive by wild dogs, got your arm bitten off while you tried to save your child, learned that your gnawed-off arm still held in its hand the scalp and eyelids of your kid. That's not likely, but it's not UNlikely, either, is it, now.

Idiots abound. They make me achingly grateful for the good folks.





posted by Mehitobel Wilson at 8:06 PM