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.

Fangoria!

I'd heard, after the issue was already off the shelves, that there was a review of DANGEROUS RED in Fangoria. I was slackjawed. NecroDave sent the text of the review to me. It is a GREAT REVIEW.

(It does use the words "female horror writers," but doesn't hammer that, and thank god it didn't say "women in/of horror," at least. I mean, bridle as I do at any attention to the writER rather than the writING, I am indeed female, so I can't fault him for mentioning it.)

(Note: I'm aware that it's hypocritical to say that I don't want any attention paid to ME at all when, granted, I'm a Leo, and also, I'm doing this blog. But it's a PRIVATE blog. Only people who crawl around in my website, which they found because of my work, are going to read it. Yes, that's you.)

Anyway, I snagged a copy and it arrived today. (Halloween. Yes.)

I'm FUCKING INSIDE-OUT. When slackjaw goes overboard, and you turn inside out, you too will be thisaway.

1. Fango. That alone is fucking blinding. It was my favorite magazine for years and years; the only reason I stopped buying it was because I moved to a town that doesn't sell it. (And because it's too expensive for me to buy *single issues,* much less a whole subscription.) The one time I got suspended in school was because I got caught reading Fango (an issue focusing on NIGHT OF THE DEMONS and Linnea Quigley.) And reading Schow's "Raving and Drooling" column introduced me to his fiction. Okay?

I mean, I nearly wet myself the first time my name appeared in an *ad* in Fangoria.

2. Upon recieving the issue, I find that it is the Halloween Spectacular - fatter (and more expensive) than usual. Neat!

3. And the cover? KILL BILL. Big Tarantino interview. More important: big CHRISTOPHER LEE interview.

So this is a rad goddamn issue anyway!!

... and then yep, there's my review. All in color. Book jacket reproduced nicely. Review spells my name correctly. And you can't miss the fucking thing, because it's the FIRST one, and Robert pointed out the tab along its edge that said "Book of the Month."

Fuck, sorry, inside out again. Yow!!!

Robert's going to call me egotistical for talking about this. Someone's going to think I'm bragging. Of COURSE I am. But I'm also... baffled. I know I'm responsible for the book, but it's an item. It's like someone admiring my cool dog: I am making the dog who she is, but I'm proud of her for *her* sake.

No, I don't take compliments well.

Now would be a really good time to eat chili.

posted by Mehitobel Wilson at 9:59 PM

Kill Bill, Gunman in my Trees, 2-foot Dicks (Hard AND chewy)

I'm now all a'jack over the title - Kill Bill: like, "What's on the bill for tonight?" "Kill."

This stupid movie... I'm obsessed. Impassioned. I never considered myself a Tarantino fan: in fact, I sneer when I hear his name. Sure, I loved every one of his movies, loved 'em. But they were just movies, and the man himself was hip. Fuck him. Also, he annoys me when he talks. You know one movie I, lover of DRAGNET: THE MOVIE and JOE DIRT, will never see? DESTINY TURNS ON THE RADIO.

Last night, after seeing KB the third time, I tried to remember the last movie I saw more than once in a theater.

It was PULP FICTION. That one, I saw countless times. Other girls who got up early for work went shopping. I went to the matinee of PULP FICTION.

This might mean that I like Tarantino movies. I know for a FACT that I like Hal Hartley movies. That, I admit. I'm still sketchy on the "Tarantino fan" thing.

But by fucking god, I'm a KILL BILL fan. Like, I'd wear a t-shirt, buy a poster.

Double-bill this with HOUSE OF 1,000 CORPSES, the first movie during which I've ever in my life considered walking out early. (Well, I'd have walked out on MIDNIGHT IN THE GARDEN OF GOOD AND EVIL, but I fell asleep first.) I even sat through MAD LOVE in the theater. Loathed it, vibrated with hatred, but stayed. The only reason I stayed for CORPSES was because I didn't feel like sitting in the bed of the pickup while my friends stayed. I appreciated the jackoffery of it: I appreciated that a real fan got a big budget to wank his way onscreen and fit every love, from Shipmates to McFarlane's toys to Karen fucking Black, onscreen. But that appreciation aside, I thought the movie was crap.

If you're going to compile a collage of The Good Parts (sshh! this is the good part!), look to Kill Bill for lessons. There's not an element of KB that isn't a direct quotation from another film, but THAT IS FINE. In fact, it is DELICIOUS. He exploits exploitation flicks. Too super.

Tonight, I'm having another bliss-out evening: drinking beer, listening to good music, watching Codename: RikRak gnaw the motherfuck out of a rib bone (she ate all of her bull dicks*), smoking actual Marlboros, and goddamn if I don't have half a Monte Cristo in the fridge.

The other night, as I drove home from the theater, I noticed a lot of cop cars around. As I turned into my lot, my headlights swept over a guy, all in black, standing in my trees. With an assault rifle. Now, I'm already making the turn. I think, ofuck. He turns toward me and I see a badge. I now think, oh, crap. I know better than to abort the turn and drive away: my ass would be hauled from the car at gunpoint posthaste. Turning in doesn't seem wise, since there's a cop with a big gun hiding in my trees - but I do live here, and I have no choice but to turn in, and if something is going down, well, it's better to have the cop in MY trees than not here at all. And if they get past the cop, whoever they are, we have guns and a German Shepherd and a lot of serious desire to vent some violent tendencies, right here.

Robert meets me at the car and tells me that there was a big car chase, the cops T'd him at our corner, and the chasees bailed and ran. I realized that the cop cars I'd seen were to funnel the suspects our way, and our treeman was supposed to get 'em.

I stayed indoors for as long as I could, but Eike really needed to pee. I didn't see any cop cars and couldn't see the tree guy, so I let her out and made enough "go pee, dog!" chatter at the door that if tree guy was still around, he'd hear it. But there WAS a cop car, unmarked, right there - I'd thought it was stopped at the stoplight. It was blocking my driveway. And the second my feet hit the porch, I got The White Light, that fucking blazer they have in the window, smack on me. I know very well that I'm to spread my fingers wide and drop my arms out a little from my sides while turning *stat* to face the car, fucking blinding light or not, so they can get a damn good look, and I do it. They look. They get on the com speaker and yell something at me, which I at first think is, "If that dog doesn't have any license, get it in the house."

She DOES have a license, but I figure if they're bitching about that, they're fucking pissy about having not caught the runners, so we don't fool around: I send her inside and go in after her, yessir, nothing to see here.

I was annoyed at the pissiness, really annoyed, but later it occurs to me that they may have said, "If that yard doesn't have any lights in it, get in the house." We don't have lights, it is dark back there. That would be a sensible thing to say.

But I don't put the pissy license thing past them, either.

Anyway, our tree guy (or a different one, or an additional one) was still lurking in the trees at my corner five hours later.

And, as usual, nothing was on the news about it.

*Bull dicks: I buy these for Eike, she loves them. They are cured, like jerky. But the question is, a bull is a bull when is HAS a dick. Once de-dicked, it's a steer. Eike's treats once belonged to a bull, but are now disenbovined, so the critter to whom the dick in her mouth belongs is now a steer. So whose dick is it? Bull's, or steer's? (Post edit: waidaminnit. I forgot - and this is really unlike me - I forgot about the balls, didn't I. Now it can be ANY ol' Cocque du Boef, be it steer or bull.)

She doesn't care. I do.

I used to get this catalog of furniture and fine walking sticks made o' pizzle. Glad I never bought the pizzle-leg coffee table, now that I have a dick-eating dog.

It's eight bucks for a 24" cow dick. "The Pizzle 24" is a perfect chew treat for medium to large dogs. Its great taste is sure to please your dog. The Pizzle 24" is hard on the outside with a chewy middle. It also lasts longer than most other treats that are comparable to it."

(You know, between the raccoon dicks and the pizzles - which, by the way, may last longer and please my dog, but still fade more quickly than either of us would like - I have a lot of disembodied animal dicks around the house. Before anyone tries to make some gender-politics judgement based on this, I'll add that I have plenty of other parts around here, too, thank you very much. I eat the soft ones and decorate with the hard ones.

Wow, that last line is basically my life motto.

posted by Mehitobel Wilson at 1:24 AM

Jeff! I really doubt you read this, since you don't read much if it ain't Nader or Chomsky - but I see that you're really fucking doing it. You're really fucking doing law.

I'm proud as hell. Proud Out Loud.

Holy shit.
posted by Mehitobel Wilson at 12:02 AM

Have you ever just, all the sudden, noticed that you're In a Good Mood?

Maybe you folks are in these a lot. I hear that happens. I am usually on edge, at best, and a heartbeat from violence, at, uh, second best. My closest thing, for the most part, to a "good mood" is when I'm asleep.

But now and then, I am just outright Good.

Now is one of those thens.

I swear to god, I'm easy to please. I'm lowbrow. Uncomplicated. I was once suspended because I was so fascinated by the skin of my thumb that I kept zoning out in Brit Lit.

Tonight is proof of this pleasiness ease.

The little good things include: week-old pizza, you know, how it gets as flat and hard as can be - the day before you worry about food poisoning? The day you caught it just in time? I usually miss this day, and think, "Christ, I'm going to be hospitalized in an hour, but I can't waste it," and eat it anyway. It's nice to feel safe about your food. Plus, it was chewy.

Rupert lives. Furthermore, Rupert will be in my living room again next week.

Eike, who has been a trial these past few days, was a doll tonight.

I got a whole hour to read tonight.

There's still beer in the fridge. I ain't dry yet.

The poor, neglected Hazelpie is on my lap, and loving it. (I'll have clawmarks tomorrow - she always fights to balance, because I am squirmy, but it's worth it.)

And not only do I have the newest - and, they say, last (hence FINALazy) - LMF ricocheting nicely between my little skully walls, but it's also FUCKING GOOD. This is bittersweet, of course - don't go, y'all, please, don't go - but I'm used to the bitter. The sweet, now - they did it right. The past couple of albums have been so commercial that they approached candy, and I loved them for their fury, originally. Loved them with Anodize. Did not love them so much with Sammi. And the hardon is BACK, here.

I'll go deaf all over again, thanks to this fucking disc.

(Did I mention that I now feel firmly validated, smug even, in my LMF jones? All along, I've made no secret that I have no clue what they're singing. And, though my initial interest was sparked by Sam Lee's involvement with them, he's just King Doorway, the guy who's led me to many a passion. I had faith in LMF. When I heard they were breaking up, I went on a hardcore buying spree, knowing that their shit was about to become expensive. One of the things I finally bought was DARE YA, the documentary about them. And they are all more intelligent, more socially sensitive, more worldly, and more properly angry than I ever expected. Some of the lyrics are shallow, but the foundation is solid, and the shallowness has a purpose. I was down on faith before, and now? I'm just fucking down.)

So, yes. Thursday has treated me well. All hail Thursday.

Off now to burn the FUCK out of the Loudest LMF Mix Disc Ever, just for my car.

{LMF ADDENDUM: From the sales page at YesAsia.com:

"They are known for their songs of mockery and that is what they offer you again together with frequent use of foul language on their farewell album LMF – Finalazy! Even though their rude straightforward lyrics that express their dissatisfaction have become the target of harsh criticism, the band 's fans will be pleased once more!
This version comes with a Bonus CD!

Warning: Part of the lyrics may cause feelings of disgust. "}
posted by Mehitobel Wilson at 12:11 AM

I like results. I don't even like embarking on a damn thing unless I know I'm going to do it well, do it right, and do it until it's done. I don't like open-ended shit, and I don't like complete spontaneity. (Some is okay: "Hey, let's do this!" is okay, if we actually do it. "Hey, let's do this!" followed twenty minutes later by "nah" or "instead, let's do THIS" drives me bugfuck.)

Tonight: went out. (You don't understand. I got to leave the house for the whole night. Robert Eike-sat. I WENT OUT. Amazing.)

Goal 1: buy Fangoria, because it says nice things about my book.
Bust 1: that Fango was replaced this morning by the new one. Fuckers.

Goal 2: buy Baldur's Gate for Xbox, so Tony and I could cheat and build up characters, because we heard we could transfer them to BG2.
Bust 2: no used BGs in town.

Sub-score of Goal 2: bought a slutty animegirl figure for Robert, and the Voldo figure for me. (I'm disinterested in Voldo as a playable character these days, but he's still got rad design.)

Goal 3: pick up heartworm & flea meds for Eike.
Bust 3: the vet closed early, and though we breached red lights to make it in time, "in time" didn't count tonight. Crap.

Goal 4: eat yummy beef & noodles. This, I actually did, though they weren't get-faint good. They were pretty disappointing. Not a "bust" though, because they were still edible. Nothing edible sucks. Mai Wai's insane perfect nectar pork of the gods has spoiled me.

Goal 5: see KILL BILL.
We made it on time (sorta. We got there just as the LotR trailer was ending, which I consider a big defeat. Oh well, reason to go again.) I will say these things:
I love violence. (Don't even talk to me about real life - yes, I know enough about violence here, too, and I know enough to think that, with my propensity to step up *eagerly,* I'm lucky many times over to be alive.)
But screen violence is extra yummy. I'm digging stuff like VERSUS and, to an extent, ICHI, that are comfortable dropping extraneous crap like "plot" and "characterization" in favor of cutting to the motherfucking chase. Kick, cut, kill! Throw me geysers of blood and raw attitude. And KILL BILL isn't just comfortable with this exclusion, it rejoices in it.

Folks (and reviews) have said that it was a violent bloodfest. I have become slightly inured to such gushing directives, "You'll love it, it's rank" - because their thresholds are lower than mine. I was, finally, actually satisfied by a new (US-made) movie.

I hear that Vol. 2 will have more expository stuff in it. I almost wish it wouldn't. I wallowed in OUTRIGHT BLASTED RAGE. Loved the shit out of it. Tried to convince Tony to turn right around and go back for the next showing of it. We're going this weekend instead.

My only concern is that I already have dire fantasies of mass-murder. I never thought to throw in Bruce Lee catsuits and Steel of Sonny. This, then, led me to think, I will start training, I will take lessons. This in turn led me to remember that I just turned 30, and am too old to leap around and bisect the spraying fuck out of anybody I damn well please. (Or not. I'm thinking with ballet-brain. In ballet, you're done early, way early. In violence, maybe you don't get done.)

(Actually, in college, I decided to be a superhero - Dangerfox. I was going have a sawblade mohawk, wear a wetsuit, carry a Samurai sword, and wear rollerblades with steel, actual-blade wheels that threw sparks when I skated and slit throats when anybody was rude or just looked like a fucking idiot. So I guess the catsuit & steel thing has crossed my mind before.)

The soundtrack was rad, too.

Then, off to Walmart, where Tony bought a lot of bullets, and I bought hair curlers and a hambone for Eike.

Bullets for him and hair curlers (oh, and slippers) for her, from Walmart: lord.

Yeah.

(I know how to work bullets. Tomorrow, however, I have to figure out how to work curlers. I suspect I'll be asking for bullets by the time I meet curler #4.)

posted by Mehitobel Wilson at 1:14 AM