OK, this is so damned important that it calls for me to embed a YouTube video in this blog for the fourth time.
Watch this, dammit!
And I repeat the first YouTube vid I’ve ever embedded, Paddy Chayefsky calling you to action:
A poster over at Gear Diary has cloned the electrons of Stephen Fry’s now globally-famous cri de coeur about smartphones and other like pocketable devices.
Go read it here.
Thanks to Jim Moat for the email tip.
Yeah, you still can’t get it from Fry:
We’ve enjoyed extensive web traffic over the past few days. As a result, the Forum and Blog will be shutting down from Saturday 6.00AM-12.00PM (British Summer Time) whilst we upgrade the server.
Please return for the latest on Stephen’s blog and events in the Forum.
And for those of you (which probably includes Fry himself) who doubted I’ve read his novels, here’s one of the many bits I scanned and carry around with me in my PDA (currently a wretched Palm LifeDrive):
Jane’s house found itself somewhere near Onslow Gardens. There was money in her purse, no question, courtesy of her Uncle Michael no doubt, and, like every rich, ignorant girl these days, she passed herself off as an interior decorator.
“People saw what I’d done with the flat,” she said, as the taxi drew up outside a standard South Kensington white-pillared portico, “and asked if I could help them out too.”
The interior lived up to my ripest expectations. Hideous flouncing swags for curtains, raw silk instead of wallpaper, you can picture the whole sham shambles for yourself, I’m sure. Barbarically hideous and as loudly wailing a testament to a wholly futile and empty life as can be imagined. Just how fucking idle, just how rotting bored, do you have to be, I wondered, to sit down and dream up this kind of opulent garbage? She was standing in the middle of the room, eyebrows raised, ready for my gargles of admiration. I took a deep breath.
“This is one of the most revolting rooms I’ve ever stood in all my life. It is exactly as hideous as I expected, and exactly as hideous as ten thousand rooms within pissing distance of here. It’s an insult to the eye and fully as degrading a cocktail of overpriced cliché as can be found outside Beverly Hills. I would no more park my arse on that sofa with its artfully clashing and vibrantly assorted cushions than I would eat a dog-turd. Congratulations on wasting an expensive education, a bankload of money and your whole sad life. Goodbye.”
That’s what I would have said with just two more fingers of whisky inside me. Instead, I managed a broken, “My God, Jane . . .”
“Like isn’t the word . . . it’s, it’s . . .”
“They tell me I have an eye,” she conceded. “Homes and Interiors were here last week, photographing.”
“I’m sure they were,” I said.
“You should have seen the place when I moved in!”
“Such a sense of light and space,” I sighed. Always utterly safe.
“Men don’t usually appreciate such things,” she said with approval, moving to the drinks table.
“Fuck you, you mad, sad bitch,” I said inside, while “Even a man couldn’t fail to be knocked out by this skilful, tasteful blend of the ethnic and the domestic,” said my cowardly outspread arms.
– The Hippopotamus by Stephen Fry; pgs. 21-22
Right then. Hurry off and go buy his books. They are hugely funny, witty, and intelligent.
Previously in this blog:
Someone Bop Stephen Fry On His Noggin, Dammit
Since bloody yesterday I’ve been trying to get to his blog! No go! Argh!
Stephen Fry: I’ve read every damned novel of yours that’s been published in the U.S. Email me your damned blog since it seems I can’t get to it!
I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead: The Dirty Life and Times of Warren Zevon by Crystal Zevon
— lyme?! All-lime and all-green furnishing and clothes? Christ, we were all insane… First, to do shit like that. Second, that we bought it.
I hate it when they put it both ways in their own materials… is it Heartsick or HeartSick or even Heart Sick?
Someone just wrap me up and trank me. I’m so far behind in what I want and need to post here, plus I’ve totally lost track of who my Friends are on MySpace.
There I was walking past Borders Books in lower Manhattan earlier this week and there’s this frikkin book splattered big in the window.
Today I’m slogging through a monstrous backlog of MySpace Bulletins and it turns out the author of that book is one of my Friends!
Here is the fantastic good news via MySpace Bulletin:
NEW NOVEL FINISHED … 563 pages
563 double-spaced pages, that is.
I feel like I’ve had my brains yanked out my asshole. So tired and worn out. Disoriented. No internet or phone (cell off) for nearly 2 months. With the exception of my mega-movie friend, Dontal, no human contact whatsofuckin’ever.
Brutal, baby. Brutal.
I don’t think I’ve ever been this exhausted. I feel like I could just fall asleep and never wake up. (And I wouldn’t care.)
But it was worth it, I guess. The book is really something special.
It’s a lot of things: a youngish bohemian tale (of “artists” wanting to make an impact and, of course, achieve fame), a story of alienated non-conformists (so it has a juvenile delinquent quality), a Thelma and Louise (“buddy love” or “girls on the lam”) story, a sexploitation and S/M (and, yeah, femdom) romp, a lampoon of auteur (a.k.a. ego) film-making, a satire of media celebrity and “true-life” tabloid sensationalism. The tone and humor of the novel is somewhat like Running With Scissors or Dry, but told with the bluntness and crude language of Charles Bukowski at his best, with sardonic touches reminiscent of early Chuck Palahniuk. The claustrophobic, downtown, drug-addicted, end-of-the-line feel is a bit like Party Monster. The fatal love these two gals share is somewhat like Heavenly Creatures. And, yeah, I have to emphasize, it’s a comedy, despite its mock-serious tabloid title.
This fucking novel is really the very best work I’ve every done. On a story level, Tarantino on steroids. Bold and demented, totally packed with vulgarity, obscenity, and crazy in-yo-face behavior. Did I also mention it’s an epic tribute to exploitation movies? Especially “Bad Girl” cinema?
I think I also manage to turn my protagonist (one of the two, actually), Dolores — my crazy, Latina, wassup! non-conformist — into a three-dimensional character. That’s one thing that exploitation films don’t do well: add much character dimension. This girl is crazy, but she’s also real.
The full title of the book is: PERMANENT OBSCURITY: or a Cautionary Tale of Two Girls and Their Misadventures with Drugs, Pornography, and Death
Here’s what the novel looked like originally, when I wrote it out by hand (759 double-sided index cards):
This is what it looks like today, as I printed it out: 563 pages + 2 title pages
This is the title page, as I conceived it: white letters on black. (It’s supposed to be a black comedy, after all.)
As you can see, the real author is Dolores. Dolores Santana. I’ve just been a fuckin’ secretary, taking dictation. This bitch rules! Oh yeah, I use the word “bitch” a lot in the book. (Also, “cunt,” also “ho,” also “twink,” also “slut,” but not “heffah.”) Sorry. I am formally apologizing to old-school feminists as of this moment. (It’s how Dolores talks; she made me do it! She might say to me now: “Yo, stop being such a bitch!”)
Congratulations, Richard! I can’t wait to get the published book to read!
Previously in this blog:
Richard Perez Sends Word Of His New Novel
M. Dylan Raskin Returns To His Homeland!
School Shooters Are Weakling Crybabies Who Should Shoot Themselves First And Thereby Help Improve The Human Race
M. Dylan Raskin – Part 2 (of 2)