Doing The Creep

Unfiltered Anger by Louise Dyer

Unfiltered Anger by Louis Dyer

I’ve been doing a mental dance since the beginning of the year: two steps forward, one step back, then zombie creep forward.  My last burst of energy in late February turned out to be a bit premature.  Mental and physical exhaustion struck within hours, laying me low for a few more weeks.  It’s not the return of Winston, the black dog of depression, but Aunt Flo and her little hellish puppy Minnie O. Pause, have been really working my last nerve.  Anguished calls to Dr. F. at Mayo Clinic yielded entreaties to be patient for at least two months do the drugs could build my system.  Protracted whining to Dr. G. yielded dismayed looks and yet another ingredient in my expanding chemical cocktail.  As you might suspect, patience is not my forte.

This led to the most extreme sulk since RA failed to provide a full frontal in Between the Sheets.  Well, maybe not that bad.  The apathy proved so severe that I couldn’t be arsed to do anything or care about it.  Dr. G. queried whether fear, resentment, anger, or depleted fortitude fueled this fugue and what could be done about it.  Long story short, a fit of rage over a situation jolted me out of the fugue while the meds finally started kicking back in.  On one hand this is great; on the other, I wonder about rage as a primary motivator.  Anger is not my forte either.   My upbringing did not encourage it,  and forced me to push it down.  So going from apathetic to livid in minutes is equally disturbing and scary.  They say depression is repressed rage.  Clearly, that swamp needs more draining.  And so it goes.

Meanwhile, I’ll creep back with more writing here.  Small steps. Still small steps.

Fanstravaganza 4: The Experiment


The Man had a nice buzz going.

He sat before his laptop sipping the third glass of pinot noir, something he was now in the habit of doing whenever dealing with his fandom.  It seemed to smooth over the annoying aspects of some admirers, leaving him feeling calm and serene.  He felt comfortable with social media now and had committed no gaffes since The Fiasco on Twitter.  He’d updated Facebook sporadically and approved the launch of his own official website. He’d even commandeered a laptop and tweeted for his colleagues during a Twitter Q&A session.  His PR people were chuffed. Even the Red-Haired Bloke congratulated him for establishing a solid social media presence so quickly.

He smiled.  Nobody knew about his most satisfying presence as Alia.  He’d created her as a semi-regular blogger and respected member of the community.  Her steady outpouring of short stories had garnered a respectable number of subscribers.  Now that she was solidly established, he felt the urge to expand his horizons.  The stories were nice, but he worried that his readers might become bored.  Alia needed a bit more verve – more edge.  Newer, younger fans liked racy and naughty.  So he decided to step outside his comfort zone as a writer and treat them to something totally different.  It wold be a great experiment.  He could do this.

Taking a deep breath, he leaned forward and began to type.


The Man’s foot tapped impatiently as he waited for the laptop to boot.  He’d waited all day, not peeking at any of Alia’s email or her blog.  Part excited and nervous, he’d prolonged the suspense for as long as he could stand it.  Hopefully, his story had been well received. He’d worked so hard on it and felt so delightfully naughty in the process.

He clicked through to Alia’s blog, spotting the story’s title, “The Honey Pots and the Hungry Bandit,” and scrolled down to the comments.  Oh, loads of comments!  He read eagerly.


He beamed.  Yes!

“My favorite line was ‘He struck deep into her, bringing forth a gentle moan with his meaty, galloping, Machiavellian beast into her womanly undiscovered country.’  Clearly this satire is a stinging indictment on the patriarchal perspective on female exploitation. Bravo!”

The Man’s smile tilted.  Satire? Okaaay.  I’ll take it.

“Oh Alia, this is the funniest porn I’ve ever read.  ‘Her breasts slapped him in the face like two giant pendulums as he stormed her glistening pearly gates again and again and again.’ LOL!”

He frowned and sniffed. Porn?  Wasn’t this erotica? His research said to be descriptive but not clinical…

“Alia, this parody is priceless!  My fave was ‘She guided his throbbing, marauding arrow into her unspoiled forest.’”

He sighed.  Okay, maybe I did let Alia get a bit carried away but don’t women like this kind of stuff? Wasn’t there some bodice ripper novel called Sweet Savage something?

“Hey, I haven’t laughed this hard since going back and reading an old copy of Sweet Savage Loving from the 1970’s.  Good job!”

Hmm, okay, they liked it 40 years ago.

“Alia, you know the book ‘50 Shades of Grey?’ You should have named this ’50 Shades of Purple Prose.’ Keep up the good work!”


He stared at the screen forlornly.  His porn story was a success, but his erotica career died. Maybe he should have researched more?  He glanced over at his copy of 50 Shades.  The novel was a runaway best seller after all.

Sighing, he picked up the book and began to read.


Richard III or the “Battle” of RA vs. PL

[Everybody knows this, but I’ll state it for the record: this post is pure speculation and conjecture on my part. I don’t even remotely know anybody who remotely knows Richard Armitage and Phillipa Langley.  I’m simply adding my 3 cents worth because 1) I need to force myself back to blogging and 2) there’s nothing new to talk about apparently until Christmas.]


But whose Richard III? Art by @Flodwyns on Twitter

I don’t give a damn about Richard III.  Yes, I’m a history buff and watched the Channel 4 documentary with Phillipa Langley. The discovery of the king’s remains was quite remarkable and an achievement.  To my disappointment, there were no new clues suggesting what sort of man he really was: man or monster?  Simply, the king’s bones were found; now they can be laid to rest.  My historical interest ended there, but my fascination with the players around Richard III began. So, yeah, I’m not a Ricardian.

Unfortunately for the Ricardians, the Channel 4 documentary did them no favors. Through the magic of editing and selective interviewing, they came across not only as dedicated and passionate about their man, but also narrow-minded, obsessive, and possibly delusional.  I suspect the network did not go out of its way to interview less colorful fans along the Ricardian spectrum; that’s not as interesting to viewers after all.  In the center of this sat poor Phillipa Langley, depicted as a tenacious woman, but ultimately, the poster child for That Fan And How Not To Be, as she shook, trembled and half fainted over the bones of a man dead 500 years.  I have no clue as to the type of person Ms. Langley is actually.  However, by the end of the special, I felt chagrinned and sad that a televised show which was supposed to celebrate the discovery, ended up robbing Ms. Langley of dignity and credibility.  For me, “man or monster,” turned to “is or isn’t she crazy?”  Channel 4 sowed the seed of doubt about her, something that may come back to hurt her, especially when persuading people to buy her script.

This is where things get interesting again.

Ms. Langley has a script about Richard III.  Anxious to strike while the iron is red hot, she set up her bandwagon by telling the press that Richard Armitage, her main choice to play the king, was in Los Angeles flogging a script (the assumption being it was HER script). Such serendipity!  RA, a smoking hot property fresh from The Hobbit and touted actor to play Richard III, was in L.A. pitching to Hollywood Types, a script connected to a smoking hot international discovery.

As soon as I heard this, I thought: “O rly?”  For over six years, RA has been trying to interest investors in his own Richard III project (the assumption being it was NOT HER script) in which he never at any time mentioned Phillipa Langley.  But such serendipity!  He could set up his bandwagon and use his emerging world exposure  from The Hobbit to pitch to Hollywood Types his project connected to a smoking hot international discovery.

But wait, did Ms. Langley’s statement mean he was now on her bandwagon instead of the other way around? What has followed in the last few weeks from RA, has been the most excruciatingly coached noncommittal AND distancing remarks he’s ever uttered.  He has stated he’s spoken to Ms. Langley in the past. It’s highly likely he has seen the special and its slant on her.  We have no clue what they said to each other or when, or that his being in L.A. at that time had anything to do with her although she wanted the press to think so.  He can’t say “yes, I’m on her bandwagon,” because that might scare off wary Hollywood Types.  He can’t burn bridges and say, “WTF, no way we are connected,” in case her project does come to fruition first and he is sought for the lead.  Also, he can’t say anything because it’s premature and unprofessional to discuss a project before the ink is dry on the contracts and the PR machine is in place.  So poor RA must continue with the damage control.

Can’t wait to hear what she says next.

EDIT: Our Jane in the comments pointed out that she thought their projects were one and the same.  However, this bring me back to whether he should admit he’s on the bandwagon with Ms. Langley.  Could he still be circumspect while throwing her a crumb and acknowledging her in some way?  I just have a hunch (yes that’s a legal term) that something else is in play besides circumspection.