A groovy place in cyberspace run by author Lolita Files. Come on in. Bring some Pepsi.
Lo Fun Fact #1
"Lolita Files" is my real name. It is not a pen name, as incredible as that may seem. There are plenty of Files family members and people who have known me for years capable of validating this. As for the "Lolita" part, my mother named me after the movie based on Nabokov's book, although she saw or read neither. To this day, she has no idea what a "Lolita" is.
Lo Fun Fact #2
I love fried chicken and fabulous shoes. If you ever want to get on my good side, send Popeye's or Mr. Chicken (my favorite spot in Cleveland) and a pair of
Christian Louboutins.
Lo Fun Fact #3
Never show up unannounced or without a Pepsi (preferably Pepsi Jazz Caramel Cream). Better yet, how about not show up at all?
Lo Fun Fact #4
I hate the telephone. Don't get mad if I don't call you. I don't call anyone. Don't call me asking why I don't call. Just don't call, okay?
Lo Fun Fact #5
I love the internet!!! I love communicating through the internet!!! You can e-mail me and odds are I'll e-mail you right back (if I'm not in the middle of a major project). Makes up for my hangup about the phone, doesn't it? See, I'm not so bad after all!!!
Lo Fun Fact #6
I can't stand IMing. Please don't IM me. You will get the cold shoulder. I don't like giving people the cold shoulder, so please don't put me in that position.
Lo Fun Fact #7
I have four five wonderful, slap-happy dogs and a bird (some kind of dove/pigeon mix), all of whom I love to pieces. If you meet me and ask me about my dogs and bird, we'll be instant friends. If you meet me and ask me why the f*ck I have four five dogs and a bird, see the above fun fact for how I will respond.
When F.E.A.R. (False Evidence Appearing Real) Goes Too Far. (REPOST)
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
I got to thinking about how black folks (and other cultures) of a particular era, region, and mindset can get caught up in the whole idea of someone "putting a root on them." I figured I'd repost this blast from the past that addresses that very thing. Are "roots" real? Do you believe?
A father, convinced he was the victim of a voodoo curse, drowned his two young children in the bathtub and then jumped to his death in front of a subway train, police said Thursday.
Franz Bordes, 39, died at Wednesday evening at a Brooklyn subway station. Investigators found several suicide notes indicating he was at odds with relatives of the children's mother, a Haitian immigrant like Bordes.
"They're using everything they can to destroy me, most of all voodoo," one of the notes read, according to police.
Being a child of people from the South and, hell, an African-American period, I'm all too familiar with all the talk about "roots" and someone "putting a root on you." Many an enterprising housewife/single mom in the 'hood made a living as "the root lady," taking money from folks who couldn't afford the extra expense in the first place in order to reverse the curse of whatever terror was threatening to take them down. A few visits to the neighborhood hex-maker/spell unbreaker gave many fearful people peace of mind. Most came home with some sort of talisman, candles, or lucky oil guaranteed to rid them of the bugaboos and death traps that were surely lurking nearby.
Heck, most of us of a certain age can spout, damn near word-for-word, Richard Pryor's side-splitting classic Mudbone bit, "Little Feets," featuring the quintessential root lady, Miss Rudolph, a three-legged monkey, and a disappearing tarantula.
That Miss Rudolph bit was both hilarious and terrifying to black folks because we all knew a Miss Rudolph or knew somebody who knew one. Tales ran rampant in black communities of the South of the root lady who could dry up your womb or make a man's dick fall off (...or worse). Speaking of which, y'all ever read my book, Child of God?
(Alright, that was a shameless plug, but this is my blog, after all.)
Anyway...I'm not saying that voodoo, hoodoo (which is different from voodoo), and roots aren't real (please, don't put a root on me for that!). Reality is an ever-shifting creature, manifested by one's force of focus and beliefs. But at some point you've just got to step away from this kind of fear, otherwise you'll never be at peace. Every presumed evil eye will send you running for the hills.
Since I brought it up, I figured I'd give you a *special treat*. For those who've never heard it, revel in the brilliance for the very first time. For those like me who know it as well as they know their own name, celebrate the magnificence of one of the brightest lights to ever shine on our horizon. For your listening pleasure, ladies and gents, I present...
(Click the words "Little Feets" above to listen. Oh yeah, it's definitely NSFW---Not Suitable For Work. C'mon now, it's Richard Pryor. The fuck you thought?)
Here's wishing the happiest of birthdays to one of the nicest guys to walk the planet. His blog, I AM INSPIRED, is also a popular watering hole where many gather to share ideas. He's extra special to me so I wanted to show him some extra special love on The Zone today.
D.C. loves Schoolhouse Rock and devotedly has Schoolhouse Rock Thursday on his site every week, even though it's not always greeted with the same enthusiasm as some of his other posts. He just wants everyone to love Schoolhouse Rock the way he did as a kid and still does now. So here's to you, Big Guy...one of your favorite Schoolhouse Rocks ever. Enjoy!!!
I don't know how I missed this when it first aired a month ago, but I saw it over the weekend on a repeat of Saturday Night Live. I was SCREAMING at the TV, I was laughing so hard. It's Oprah interviewing the various candidates running for President in '08 as they each try to out-confess each other. This thing made my stomach hurt. Hopefully, you'll enjoy it as much as I did. (Major ROFLs at "Originally my name was Hitler Von Jewsarebad" and "I have slaves...and I'm keeping them, too.")
A Really Great Way To Hear Someone Say "I Love You"...
Friday, June 22, 2007
...if you're mutually feeling the person. And aren't gay. Because if you're not feeling the person and he's your best friend (and you want to keep it that way), then this is a really f*cked up way to hear someone say "I love you."
It sucks even more if you're gay (and they're not).
Herewith, a scene from one of my favorite movies about love gone awry, Chasing Amy (yes, that's Ben Affleck). Happy Friday!!!*
[click "play" (the arrow button) to watch]
*...and yes, I'm still trying to finish up that manuscript I'm working on. This is just another diversionary tactic.
Oh yeah, one more thing (and this is important)...
Let me make one thing perfectly clear: I love myself some Paula Deen.
I'm talking, love her like she's family. I know women like her. I'm related to women like her. Deep down, I am a woman like her. I'm a product of people from the Deep South (the Mississippi Delta). I spent every summer vacation of my youth visiting the heart and the heat of the Delta. I also lived in Montgomery, Alabama for five years during the time I worked as a corporate manager for KinderCare, and spent an enormous amount of time in Atlanta and Birmingham as well.
...is my favorite on the Food Network (and I love the Food Network, so that's saying a lot). Sometimes I leave it on all day, watching show after show or just letting it run in the background. I am an avid cook and appreciator of food, and, to me, watching people cook on tv is one of the most sinfully sensuous things in the world, more provocative than the most gonzo of porn (...not that I know anything about gonzo porn).
Which is why I'm worried about my Paula. I'm so afraid she's gonna just fall the fuck out one day, right there on tv, in the middle of gobbling a spoonful of butter pie, gulping a swallow of butter milkshake, or biting into a butter casserole. For those of you who don't know or watch Paula, she loves butter.
Butter, to Paula Deen, is second only to God and her boys.
Yesterday I watched her put a stick of butter in a pot of corn chowder (she has an endless supply of these creamy yellow sticks of death...expect to see her use at least three or four per thirty-minute episode). Once the chowder was done, she ladled some into a bowl, then cut two hunks from another stick of butter and put those ON TOP of the single serving of chowder. Then she plunged her spoon into that stroketastic bowl of buttery goodness and sampled herself a bite, rolling her eyes back in that way she does when she tastes something that (you and) she knows is simply scrumpdilly-deadlyishus. How is it that she has not suffered total cholesterol lock-up right before our eyes? How is the blood managing to chug through her veins? The passages must surely be pin-thin, so clogged they have to be with pure butterfat solids. A red blood cell doesn't stand a chance.
By all scientific and physiological measures, Paula should have keeled over from congestive heart failure at least two-three years ago. Yet there she is in her kitchen every afternoon at 4pm, armed to the teeth with sticks of butter, and I'm always right in front of the tv, her faithful little student/idolater, eager to see what she's going to suggest I shove a stick of butter into next. Yet something else perplexes me. When I make Paula's recipes, I get bigger. Miraculously, however, over the course of the four years-plus that Paula's been on the air, I've actually watched her get smaller, going from this...
...to this.
Huh? Where'd those chins go? Oh, I know. They went to my thighs.
Which makes me wonder about Paula and all those magical wands of decadent yellow goodness. Is the Stickabutter Plan the new South Beach Diet? Should I be dropping one into my morning smoothie? Will a few sticks a day keep the strokes away? There's no limit to Paula's uses for them. Considering the fact that she's still practically a newlywed, I can only imagine what she does with a stick of butter in the bedroom.
And if you watch Paula's show, you know that's not a far-fetched idea. I think that might actually be a stick of butter she's shoving in her husband's mouth in the picture above.
Regulars around here know music is my first love, so I'm always open to hearing something new. I read about this cat...
...earlier this week on one of my favorite urban websites, ConcreteLoop.com. His name is Kevin Michael and he's being compared to the usual suspects (early Prince, early Michael Jackson, yada, yada, blah, blah, blah.) You know how they do when they label someone new as sounding like someone(s) familiar so we'll be inclined to give a listen. I know one thing for certain: dude's got some big ass hair.
I like this particular tune, which features Lupe Fiasco:
Here's the video for his song, Secrets.
[click "play" (the arrow button) to watch]
And here's an acoustic version of We All Want The Same Thing, just in case you want to hear more:
I've been listening to some old Jackson 5 and Michael Jackson while writing, and decided to pull up this post from early last year and repost it while I'm trying to finish the manuscript I'm working on. We should all tip our forties to MJ, version 1.0. He might not have liked himself then, but he sure was much easier on the eyes.
Look at all those African noses, pre-surgery. I love a black man's unretouched face.
...he's totally unreachable. Way off the Richter of anything remotely close to sane. So let's have a moment of silence remembering him the way he used to be:
This is a post that I plan on featuring from time-to-time, whereupon I'll pose a question regarding those things in life that I just don't get. Perhaps one of you will have an answer for me. Maybe there's more than one answer. Maybe you can just make me understand.
And now for my first question. We'll file this under..."A$$, with a side of lobster":
[click image to enlarge]
"Why do men eat in strip clubs?"
Is the food really that good? Does seeing exposed flesh make you hungry? Aren't you afraid something might jump off that naked chick onto your plate? Are you sure that steak is really au jus or are those drippings from somewhere else?
So many questions...
Okay, I'll leave it to you to help me wrap my brain around this. Please share. I'm just looking for answers to the mysteries of life.
What the hey, here's one more. This song got played to death when it first came out, but that's because it was an anthem of sorts for women everywhere.
Congrats to my fellow blogger and counterpart, D.C., over at the always-engaging and popular site, I Am Inspired, for his recent entry into one of the most referenced sites on the internet---the wickedly-fun Urban Dictionary.com, which also recently approached me regarding a phrase I used in a blog post and suggested I submit it to their arsenal. I did, and it was accepted, to wit:
[click image to go to the definition]
During a conversation we were having a few weeks ago, DamonD.C. happened to jokingly say a couple of words, then kept repeating them, ultimately combining them into one. As a person madly in love with the English language (and Latin), I get a little more excited than most over words. After a quick check at Urban Dictionary, we noted it wasn't in there. He submitted it, the editors at the site apparently agreed, and now, we are proud to introduce to you...
...for popping mad shit and making it count (which is the only way to do it, if you're gonna pop shit).
Should any of you submit a word to Urban Dictionary.com and are approved by the editors there (it may take a bit, so be patient), feel free to share and The Lo Zone will shout you out.
Let's join hands and fug the language up together!!! It's going down anyway...may as well make it a fun, family effort!!!
Of all the things I've seen regarding so-called "feel good movies," this one has to top them all.
This summer, Disney/Pixar has a movie coming out called...
In case you can't read that small print in the blue oval, here it is again. The fact that they have to parenthetically add the pronunciation does not bode well, either.
Check out the description of the story's hero...a RAT (!!!) named Remy:
That's right, y'all...poor Remy just wants to cook and all. You know, use his special talents the way he believes they were meant to be utilized...
...making delectable dishes for people who really enjoy a good meal.
They can tear your house to pieces almost as bad as termites, and can carry over THIRTY different diseases, including the BUBONIC F*CKIN' PLAGUE. Plus, they leave behind (literal) crap like this:
EWWWWW TO THE NTH POWER!!!
They do not, I repeat, DO NOT cook delectable dishes for anybody!!!
So what I want to know is, who pitched this shit? And how in the hell did the suits in the room reach the conclusion that it was a great idea for a movie? I'm guessing it was pitched by a homeless fellow (who's now rich and laughing his ass off) on the upside of a meth high, who managed to finagle his way into a meeting, and it went a little something like this:
Homeless Fellow: So there's this rat, right, yeah, this rat, this rat...and he wants to be a cook, yeah, a cook, 'cause he really loves to eat and is real good at cooking shi...uh, stuff...
Suit #1: Did you say...a RAT?
Homeless Fellow: Yeah, yeah, a rat, a rat!
Suit #2: But rats are filthy! Who would want to see a story about a cooking rat?
Homeless Fellow (getting nervous): But, uh, he's not just some regular rat.
Suit #3: Not regular? Well, what kind is he?
Homeless Fellow: Uh...he's French. Yeah, yeah, he's French, and he loves French cooking, yeah, uh, and he's really good with herbs and cream sauces, and he ends up working with this chef and the chef's dishes become very popular with his patrons...
Suit #1 (rubbing his chin): Hmmm...alright, alright. So what'll you call it?
Homeless Fellow (momentarily stumped): Uhhhhhhh, um, er, hmm...how about...'Ratsputin'? No, no, how about 'Rat-a-tat'...
Suit #2: 'Ratatouille'? Did you say 'Ratatouille'?
Homeless Fellow: Yeah, yeah, I said that!! That's it!! 'Rat-a-tat'...that word.
The Suits look at each other. The Homeless Fellow's about to piss himself.
Suits #1, #2, and #3: WE LOVE IT!!!
Homeless Fellow: Um...you do?
Suit #2: It's fuckin' brilliant.
Suit #3 (suddenly nervous): Have you gone anywhere else with this? You haven't talked to anybody at DreamWorks have you?
He collapses in a heap on the floor, visions of meth heaven dancing in his head.
Ten-to-one the pitch for this movie happened just like that.
Only Disney (or DreamWorks) would try to take a story about shitty ass, disease laden vermin and make it into a magical tale about finding one's destiny.
Look at the rat standing on the edge of that pot.
Are those parsley flecks in the soup or are those shitlets?
When your kids start bringing home nasty ass pet rats they've found in the streets because they want their very own Remy to love, well...I'm just saying, I won't be surprised if rabies shots hit an all-time high this summer.
Just in case you're still thinking rats are fun to have around, check out this little video from an incident at a NYC KFC/Taco Bell earlier this year. This is what it really looks like when you have rats in the kitchen. Enjoy!!!
...presented us with the following script excerpt:
EXT. LUXURY APARTMENT BUILDING - NIGHT - ESTABLISHING Higher-end type apartment complex. Luscious grounds envelop the tracts of buildings. The chirp of crickets fills the night.
BARRON (V.O.) I have to get showered.
INT. BARRON’S APARTMENT. BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS Very expensive apartment, yet sparsely furnished with a man’s touch. BARRON NAVARRO, late 40’s, and JULIA FORD, late 20’s, lie nude beneath the bed’s satin sheets. Barron is rugged, good looking and appears younger than he actually is. He props himself up on his elbow, looks down to Julia’s eyes. Julia, a knockout, turns to face him. Barron uses his free hand to move a lock of hair from Julia’s face, running it behind her ear. She looks up at him, smiles.
BARRON
I just hate leaving you. (beat) Always hate leaving you.
Barron leans down and plants a long kiss on her lips. After the kiss, his eyes linger on her.
BARRON (CONT’D) (raising eyebrows) Mmmmf... I have to get going.
JULIA I know. Let’s not get your better half angry.
Barron slides out of the bed and heads toward the master bath. On his way he stops at the dresser drawers. Julia rises to a sitting position, watches Barron. Picking his wallet up from the dresser’s surface, he spies Julia watching him via the large oval mirror. He shoots her a quick smile, takes four one-hundred dollar bills from the wallet and places them atop the dresser, next to rows of colognes, framed photos and several prescription medicine bottles. Barron turns to her as he enters the bathroom.
BARRON Be out in a minute.
Barron shuts the bathroom door halfway. We hear the sound of the shower turning on. Steam slowly emanates from the half closed door. Julia stretches her back, rubs the muscles in the back of her neck, moans. After a deep sigh, she slinks out of the bed. Quick shots of Julia as she slips the black pants of her pantsuit up over her panties, then the white, very revealing shirt, and finally the jacket and shoes. The sound of the running shower in the background, Julia approaches the dresser, looking up at herself in the mirror. For a long beat she stares into her own eyes.
INT. BARRON’S APARTMENT. MASTER BATH - CONTINUOUS Steam shrouds Barron as he scrubs his body with soap against the torrent of piping hot water. He blows water away from his lips to speak.
BARRON (loudly, over the water) You free Friday? I was thinking we could take a drive up to the city. Maybe stay at the Roosevelt like we did last summer?
INT. BARRON’S APARTMENT. BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS Julia drops her stare from the mirror to the cash on the dresser’s top. She takes the bills, folds them and drops them into her pants pocket.
JULIA (monotone, loudly) Yeah. (lower) That sounds nice.
Julia’s eyes scan the collection of personal effects upon the dresser’s surface.
INSERT: Close up pan of framed photos. BARRON and BARRON’S WIFE, mid-40’s. Photos of various children. Parties. Holidays. All smiles and happiness, juxtaposed against: Slow zoom on Julia’s sad eyes. Julia’s eyes move to the rows of pill bottles. She picks one up, turns the prescription bottle around in her palm. Julia huffs, shakes her head.
INT. BARRON’S APARTMENT. MASTER BATH - CONTINUOUS Barron steps out of the bath, shuts the shower off. After drying himself with a towel, he moves to the sink. He picks up a brush and combs what genetics has left of his salt and pepper tinged hair. He lifts his chin as he proudly eyes himself in the mirror. Barron goes to exit the bathroom, a towel around his waist.
INT. BARRON’S APARTMENT. BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS Barron steps from the bathroom.
BARRON Fortunately, my wife is leaving for...
Barron spies Julia’s legs on the floor past the bed. He leaps past the bed where he finds her, back down on the floor. Julia’s eyes stare at the ceiling, her head and neck twitching. She’s trying to say something.
BARRON (CONT’D) Julia! My God!
Barron, shocked, moves to pick up her hand, dead weight. His head jerks as he kneels down next to her.
BARRON (CONT’D) (panicked) Julia! What is it, baby?!
Only her eyes, streaming tears, move. Unblinking, her panicked eyes move until they’re staring straight into Barron’s.
JULIA (croaking words out) I...I can’t move...
329 votes later, here's what you thought:
[click image to enlarge]
There were 36 votes of Excellent!!!; 26 votes of Meh, it was okay,and 5Really Shitty's.
The REAL eye-popper in all of this, however, were a whopping 261 votes of REALLY GOOD!!!
There were ZERObleeding eyes, so, once again, we'll hold the Visine.
I've known the writer of this piece for quite some time now, well over a decade. He has one of the most wicked senses of humor you'll ever encounter, and is steadfast and dogged in his determination to conquer Hollywood with his writing talents. He's our very own resident comic, The Lo Zone's self-proclaimed "token white boy"...
I'm in the midst of doing a rewrite as I finish up a manuscript and, as is often the case, have been listening to music to motivate my creativity and/or reflect the moods of my characters.
For better or worse, one of my favorite artists EVER is Miss Helen Folasade Adu, aka Sade...
...who are collectively known as Sweetback when they play without her and are extraordinary in their own right as well). The entire band, with Sade, is also known as simply...Sade.
So for a stretch of time last night, I was working while listening to her hit parade of heartbreak. I skipped all the sappy stuff (nothing against sappy, but I needed to be in a dark mood) and went straight for the gut-wrenchers. I decided I'd share with you the top three songs from her wretched, thorny garden of ugly love.*
Next up in her reign of pity is what's arguably the world's second saddest song (you'll see why it's not the first in a minute). It's a lovely little ditty called Pearls, and it's so bleak on a lyrical level that it made me never want to go to Somalia, lest I see that woman scraping for shit by the side of the road. Here ya go...
Huh? Shit. That's a lotta tears. Much too much of a burden for anybody.
Anyway, if you care to see the rest of the godforsaken lyrics to that most unhappiest of tunes, click HERE. Otherwise, here's the video for the aptly titled, King Of Sorrow. I would say "Enjoy," but it'd sound stupid. So, um, listen and weep (or not).
[click "play" (the arrow button) to watch]
*If you survive all these songs without the slightest bit of malaise, congratulations...you're officially numb. If it makes your heart a little heavy, sorry.
I've received several submissions over the past few months, and not all of them are in novel and short story form. Some are screenplays, teleplays, stageplays, song lyrics, poetry, you name it. If it's got words, people have submitted it for review. Today's excerpt is from a screenplay. For those of you who have never read a film or television script before (or a play), the rules are a bit different in terms of what's including in the writing. There are various elements present, from the description of the environment to the character's dialogue, and lots of other things in between. "INT."means the setting is inside, "EXT." means the scene is taking place outside; the description of the location and the time of day immediately follows; words like "ESTABLISHING" define what kind of camera shot it is. In this case, an establishing shot is one that is wide enough for you to see enough of the scene to get an idea of what's going on. An "INSERT" shot is one where the camera cuts to a close-up of something of relevance within a larger shot so that the audience can see it with greater detail. Further things that you'll notice in this type of writing is that the actions of the characters are described both in the general directions and sometimes parenthetically during their dialogue. Oh, and the word "BEAT" (when it appears within dialogue), means a pause.
Yeah, yeah, it can seem complicated at first, but you get used to it. Reading and writing scripts can be great fun (seriously!!!) This excerpt is a bit longer than our past submissions because you need to see enough of it to get a feel of what's taking place. Here we go:
EXT. LUXURY APARTMENT BUILDING - NIGHT - ESTABLISHING Higher-end type apartment complex. Luscious grounds envelop the tracts of buildings. The chirp of crickets fills the night.
BARRON (V.O.) I have to get showered.
INT. BARRON'S APARTMENT. BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS Very expensive apartment, yet sparsely furnished with a man’s touch. BARRON NAVARRO, late 40's, and JULIA FORD, late 20's, lie nude beneath the bed's satin sheets. Barron is rugged, good looking and appears younger than he actually is. He props himself up on his elbow, looks down to Julia's eyes. Julia, a knockout, turns to face him. Barron uses his free hand to move a lock of hair from Julia's face, running it behind her ear. She looks up at him, smiles.
BARRON
I just hate leaving you. (beat) Always hate leaving you.
Barron leans down and plants a long kiss on her lips. After the kiss, his eyes linger on her.
BARRON (CONT'D) (raising eyebrows) Mmmmf... I have to get going.
JULIA I know. Let's not get your better half angry.
Barron slides out of the bed and heads toward the master bath. On his way he stops at the dresser drawers. Julia rises to a sitting position, watches Barron. Picking his wallet up from the dresser's surface, he spies Julia watching him via the large oval mirror. He shoots her a quick smile, takes four one-hundred dollar bills from the wallet and places them atop the dresser, next to rows of colognes, framed photos and several prescription medicine bottles. Barron turns to her as he enters the bathroom.
BARRON Be out in a minute.
Barron shuts the bathroom door halfway. We hear the sound of the shower turning on. Steam slowly emanates from the half closed door. Julia stretches her back, rubs the muscles in the back of her neck, moans. After a deep sigh, she slinks out of the bed. Quick shots of Julia as she slips the black pants of her pantsuit up over her panties, then the white, very revealing shirt, and finally the jacket and shoes. The sound of the running shower in the background, Julia approaches the dresser, looking up at herself in the mirror. For a long beat she stares into her own eyes.
INT. BARRON'S APARTMENT. MASTER BATH - CONTINUOUS Steam shrouds Barron as he scrubs his body with soap against the torrent of piping hot water. He blows water away from his lips to speak.
BARRON (loudly, over the water) You free Friday? I was thinking we could take a drive up to the city. Maybe stay at the Roosevelt like we did last summer?
INT. BARRON'S APARTMENT. BEDROOM - CONTINUOUS Julia drops her stare from the mirror to the cash on the dresser's top. She takes the bills, folds them and drops them into her pants pocket.
JULIA (monotone, loudly) Yeah. (lower) That sounds nice.
