but I can never think of a title
Jul. 12th, 2005 03:44 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kleenexwomanA distraction: Put your playlist on "shuffle," take the first 20 songs, and add "In My Pants" to their titles. Now with silly commentary so you don't have to!
1. "Watching the Detectives In My Pants," Elvis Costello (what are the detectives looking for in my pants?)
2. "Drip Drip Drip In My Pants," Chumbawamba (cranberry juice and penicillin work for that)
3. "Heroin In My Pants," Lou Reed (I thought it went in your veins, not your pants)
4. "Shake Your Hips In My Pants," the Rolling Stones (assuming you aren't wearing those silly hip-hugger things)
5. "You've Got To Hide Your Love Away In My Pants," the Beatles (otherwise you'd get arrested for being a flasher)
6. "Beds Are Burning In My Pants," Madness (that must be uncomfortable and cramped)
7. "I Kill Children In My Pants," the Dead Kennedys (but do you get off on it?)
8. "Howl At the Moon In My Pants," Cheryl Wheeler (insert "moon" joke here)
9. "Empty Spaces In My Pants," Pink Floyd (so you get a smaller pair)
10. "Pinhead In My Pants," the Ramones (at least you're honest about it)
11. "Are You Hung Up In My Pants?" Frank Zappa (no, that's a hanger)
12. "Hand Of Doom In My Pants," Black Sabbath (molested by death!)
13. "Madman Across the Water In My Pants," Elton John (you donated your clothes to an asylum? How nice)
14. "Dr. Worm In My Pants," They Might Be Giants (well, they might fit her, I don't know)
15. "Raining Blood In My Pants," Slayer (yeah, I have this problem every month)
16. "Starman In My Pants," David Bowie (I have no objection to David Bowie's pants)
17. "Black Dog In My Pants," Led Zeppelin (bad doggy, get out of my clothes)
18. "It's So Easy In My Pants," Guns 'N' Roses (Axl's leather pants are far too tight to be easy)
19. "Chain Lightning In My Pants," Steely Dan (throw some static-stick sheets in the wash)
20. "Gray Matter In My Pants," Oingo Boingo (you better hope it doesn't leave a stain)
Yeah, that was nonsensical. But at least you've been lulled into a sense of good humor and are in the mood to be amused now, so you have to read the rest of my whiny entry.
I was looking forward to an evening of pleasant fandomness: Watching "Re-Animator" with commentary, then working on freaky fanfic until sunrise. But nooo, that couldn't happen, could it? I left "Re-Animator" at Mom's, because I am dumb. And as for fic...not working. I'm in this terrible, grumpy, lazy mood. I just want to bitch and rant.
Which is odd, because I was in the perfect mood for fic last night, and I was in a terrible mood then. Actually, I was in a different terrible mood, which makes all the difference. I was feeling jealous and bitchy, which is a very good way to get me to write.
I actually wrote about 8 pages: two of my Lorraine fic, which is coming out not at all like I expected it (I wanted it to be much more perverted and much less faux-literary); three of my eye-in-the-sky fic, which has been proclaimed "freaky" by the one person who has read it so far. This is good, because I'd rather have someone think my fic is truly freaky than just febrile, which I feared it was. And three pages of an inexplicable Tim/Danny which stems from an unusually linear dream I had a few weeks ago after a night of reading about voodoo, and which involves 1) A "get-out-of-death-free" charm you wear around your neck to give to Death instead of your soul, and 2) Walter Fagen and Donald Becker in unnamed cameos as witch doctors who share a soul. So far I have only written the "unnamed cameo" part, and I have no idea what to make Danny and Tim do with their new death-free toys. I've also been trying to force Crispin Glover, Jhonen Vasquez, Neil Gaiman, and Tim-n-Danny into a really strange RPS fic. Why? Some half-baked idea about a witch stealing their mystical properties of creativity, and also because I want them to have an orgy. For the moment I am contenting myself with reading Nice Hair, a webcomic in which Neil, Tim, and a person who I think is the lead singer for the Cure live in the same house and have wacky adventures. Why are they living in the same house? Well, because it is a webcomic, and it is the magic of webcomics that you can put random people together and force them to interact for no good reason and nobody questions it. Because it's a webcomic. It's magic.
Oh, and I've got new ideas for original things, yes. I just need to get back into the swing of writing non-fanfics. Can I have permission from the universe to use my ex-girlfriend as a character, please? It's just that she'd be the perfecttest subject character for this, is all. I promise I'll treat her sympathetically. If not, can I have permission to mercilessly mock other people? Because I'm going to write a story about zombies, dammit, whether it's appropriate or not.
It's not weird that I write the most when I'm jealous. I know why this is. When I'm jealous, it's because I feel like nobody's paying attention to me. My ex-girlfriend has a new girlfriend, or my friends are making nice with each other instead of me, or my brother won't hug me. Frustrating. So I write something that I think will impress people and make them pay attention to me.
Writers are introverted attention whores, anyway. All artists are. It's not the creativity, really--it's satisfying to just make up things, or keep them in your head, or keep them for yourself. It's the exposure--being published, being shown, getting comments and reviews. "Look at me! Look at me! No, wait, don't look at me, look what I can do. Look at this story I wrote. Isn't it great? Didn't it change your life? Oh, yup, I wrote it. Not that it's me...but it's a part of me, really. I'm so great. It's such a little, little story, do you really like it? Gawsh, I'm flattered. So when do I get my Pulitzer?" Because really, what do I have to offer? I'm not particularly witty (I can barely speak in real life) or sexy (I can count on one hand the number of times I've had anyone hit on me, and while I pretend as though I'm glad of that because I don't want to be considered pretty, it secretly bugs me once in a while) or capable (I can't fix things or handle people very well). So hey, here's this thing I made. Tell me how great it is. Tell me how great I am.
There wasn’t a sign above the door to creak ominously, or even a door of black mahogany carved with strange and disturbing figures. The shop wasn’t even on a narrow and winding street lined with mysterious stores. Instead, the shop stood between a liquor store and a bar, the door was a screen, and the sandwich board on the cracked sidewalk read, “Kid Charlemagne, Witch Doctor: We do philters, charms, medicinal herbs. Good prices, inquire within” in peeling sans-serif letters. Danny laughed and went inside.
His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light. The shop was small, almost cramped. The back wall was lined with shelves that had Mason jars stacked neatly on top of one another. One wall was covered with tacked-up papers; the other had a small altar wedged into the corner, and a gleaming saxophone and wooden blues guitar leaning against it. Most of the shop was taken up by a small card table. There were two men sitting at it, leaning back in rickety chairs. One was wearing sunglasses and smoking, the other had a slouch hat pulled down over his face.
The man in the sunglasses indicated the empty folding chair in front of the card table. “Sit down.” He had a soft, rich, strained voice.
“Room for everyone in here,” said the man in the slouch hat. He had a deeper voice, with just a trace of an accent.
Danny sat down and nodded at the instruments. “You guys play music?”
“Sure do,” said Sunglasses.
“Hot jazz, smooth blues,” Slouch Hat added.
“Every Saturday night at Steely’s next door.”
“You come see us some time. You like it.”
“Not as good as you, of course.”
“Yeah? You know me?” Danny asked.
“Sure do. You the red-headed boy at Madam Wong’s, you dance like a skeleton stripper.” Which was an interesting image, Danny had to admit.
“Not many bands nowadays use saxophones.”
“You got a good voice on you, boy.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Wait, do you actually want my voice? I mean, in exchange for…” Danny knew he sounded incredulous, but he was already making plans. He didn’t have to sing if he just composed, after all. And he could learn sign language…
Slouch Hat chuckled. “You been listening to too many stories.”
“What would we want with another voice? We’ve already got two of our own.”
“Don’t get us wrong, we like your voice just fine. It just sound better on you.”
“Thanks. Listen, which one of you is actually Kid Charlemagne?”
“Does it matter?”
“Both.”
“Two souls, one body.”
“I thought it be one soul, two bodies.”
“Is it? I can’t count.”
Danny closed his eyes for a second. The two men were blurring, and he couldn’t tell their voices apart. “The sign said you do charms.”
“Sure do.”
“That be us.”
“Best in the city.”
“Plenty of others, none as good.”
“Lady Nightshade.”
“The Babylon Sisters.”
“Brother Lew Garou.”
“Doctor Wu.”
“Professor Wormbones.”
“They all massisi…”
“But we hang tough.”
“So what you need?”
“Success? Want the records to fly off the shelves?”
“Love charm? Want a groupie but she won’t put out?”
“Want your very own zombie?”
“A dead man to dance with?”
“No, no, none of that.” Danny shook his head.
“Don’t keep us guessin’, boy.”
“We ain’t got all day, oh no.”
“Very busy.”
“As you can see.”
“I want…” Danny drummed his fingers on the table, unsure of how to phrase his request. “I want what Tim got.”
“Tim?”
“Never heard of him.”
“He came in here last week. Pale, kinda skinny, big eyes, really messy black hair? Like he hadn’t brushed it in a month?”
Sunglasses nodded slowly. “That Tim.”
“Nice boy.”
“An artist, yeah?”
“Making his movies about skeletons.”
“Dangerous.”
“You love death too much, you call it to you.”
“Smart what he did.”
“Smart what he got from us.”
“Keep him safe.”
Danny nodded. “Yeah! That’s what I want.”
“A death charm, yeah?”
“Keep it ‘round your skinny neck.”
“Give it to the reaper when he come ‘stead of your soul.”
“It only works once, you know. Death isn’t stupid.”
“I know,” Danny said. “How much does one cost?”
“How much your life be worth?”
“I don’t know. How much did Tim pay for it?” Danny bit his lip.
“Five thousand dollars.”
“Generous.”
“Nice boy.”
“That’s rent for a year.”
“And a little offering to Legba.” Slouch Hat nodded at the altar in the corner. Danny recognized Jack Skellington’s head, complete with bow tie, sitting on a little black dish.
“He made that out of modeling clay, right here in front of us.”
“For the ceremony.”
“Talented.”
“He gonna go far.”
“Five hundred,” Danny said.
“Your call.”
“Gotta be cash.”
“We don’t trust checks.”
“Fine.” Danny dug out his wallet and slid the money across the table.
Sunglasses took it and carefully counted the bills, then tucked it in his shirt pocket. “All right.” He nodded at Slouch Hat, who got up and began to rummage around in the Mason jars. “You know how this works?”
“Not really. Do I have to?”
“We take a little bag and we put some things in it,” Slouch Hat said, “and we make it so it taste like your soul to our friend Death.”
“We do a little ceremony, we call on a few gods, you make a little offering.”
“Give a little bit of your soul—don’t worry, it grows back.”
“How do I do that?” Danny was beginning to worry. “I don’t have to die or anything, do I?”
“Chill, man. You ain’t gonna become a zombie.”
“Listen,” Sunglasses said. “On stage, when you’re singing. You’re expressing yourself, right? Expressing your soul. When your friend Tim makes his little creatures and draws his drawings, that’s his soul going into them.”
Danny snorted. “I thought voodoo used your hair or toenails or whatever.”
“That’s old stuff, man. Weak. Your toenails be part of you, but they ain’t alive. Ain’t your music more of you than your toenails?” Slouch Hat returned with a leather cord, a scrap of orange fabric, some flat bits of red plastic, some kind of bone, a dead lime-green spider, a bit of metal, something burnt, and a tiny dried blue flower.
Danny eyed the collection of items. “What do those do?”
“Ancient secrets. Can’t tell you.”
“Now you got to put them on the altar like we tell you.”
“I thought I was paying you to cast the spell or whatever.”
“You paying us to help you make it.”
“It won’t work for you if we do it.”
Aforementioned TimDanny w/Steely Dan fanfic-snip above. Thoughts? Suggestions? Plotbunnies? Dunno if it's worth continuing, but it was fun to write. I do eventually want to write a Tim/Danny thing for real.
1. "Watching the Detectives In My Pants," Elvis Costello (what are the detectives looking for in my pants?)
2. "Drip Drip Drip In My Pants," Chumbawamba (cranberry juice and penicillin work for that)
3. "Heroin In My Pants," Lou Reed (I thought it went in your veins, not your pants)
4. "Shake Your Hips In My Pants," the Rolling Stones (assuming you aren't wearing those silly hip-hugger things)
5. "You've Got To Hide Your Love Away In My Pants," the Beatles (otherwise you'd get arrested for being a flasher)
6. "Beds Are Burning In My Pants," Madness (that must be uncomfortable and cramped)
7. "I Kill Children In My Pants," the Dead Kennedys (but do you get off on it?)
8. "Howl At the Moon In My Pants," Cheryl Wheeler (insert "moon" joke here)
9. "Empty Spaces In My Pants," Pink Floyd (so you get a smaller pair)
10. "Pinhead In My Pants," the Ramones (at least you're honest about it)
11. "Are You Hung Up In My Pants?" Frank Zappa (no, that's a hanger)
12. "Hand Of Doom In My Pants," Black Sabbath (molested by death!)
13. "Madman Across the Water In My Pants," Elton John (you donated your clothes to an asylum? How nice)
14. "Dr. Worm In My Pants," They Might Be Giants (well, they might fit her, I don't know)
15. "Raining Blood In My Pants," Slayer (yeah, I have this problem every month)
16. "Starman In My Pants," David Bowie (I have no objection to David Bowie's pants)
17. "Black Dog In My Pants," Led Zeppelin (bad doggy, get out of my clothes)
18. "It's So Easy In My Pants," Guns 'N' Roses (Axl's leather pants are far too tight to be easy)
19. "Chain Lightning In My Pants," Steely Dan (throw some static-stick sheets in the wash)
20. "Gray Matter In My Pants," Oingo Boingo (you better hope it doesn't leave a stain)
Yeah, that was nonsensical. But at least you've been lulled into a sense of good humor and are in the mood to be amused now, so you have to read the rest of my whiny entry.
I was looking forward to an evening of pleasant fandomness: Watching "Re-Animator" with commentary, then working on freaky fanfic until sunrise. But nooo, that couldn't happen, could it? I left "Re-Animator" at Mom's, because I am dumb. And as for fic...not working. I'm in this terrible, grumpy, lazy mood. I just want to bitch and rant.
Which is odd, because I was in the perfect mood for fic last night, and I was in a terrible mood then. Actually, I was in a different terrible mood, which makes all the difference. I was feeling jealous and bitchy, which is a very good way to get me to write.
I actually wrote about 8 pages: two of my Lorraine fic, which is coming out not at all like I expected it (I wanted it to be much more perverted and much less faux-literary); three of my eye-in-the-sky fic, which has been proclaimed "freaky" by the one person who has read it so far. This is good, because I'd rather have someone think my fic is truly freaky than just febrile, which I feared it was. And three pages of an inexplicable Tim/Danny which stems from an unusually linear dream I had a few weeks ago after a night of reading about voodoo, and which involves 1) A "get-out-of-death-free" charm you wear around your neck to give to Death instead of your soul, and 2) Walter Fagen and Donald Becker in unnamed cameos as witch doctors who share a soul. So far I have only written the "unnamed cameo" part, and I have no idea what to make Danny and Tim do with their new death-free toys. I've also been trying to force Crispin Glover, Jhonen Vasquez, Neil Gaiman, and Tim-n-Danny into a really strange RPS fic. Why? Some half-baked idea about a witch stealing their mystical properties of creativity, and also because I want them to have an orgy. For the moment I am contenting myself with reading Nice Hair, a webcomic in which Neil, Tim, and a person who I think is the lead singer for the Cure live in the same house and have wacky adventures. Why are they living in the same house? Well, because it is a webcomic, and it is the magic of webcomics that you can put random people together and force them to interact for no good reason and nobody questions it. Because it's a webcomic. It's magic.
Oh, and I've got new ideas for original things, yes. I just need to get back into the swing of writing non-fanfics. Can I have permission from the universe to use my ex-girlfriend as a character, please? It's just that she'd be the perfect
It's not weird that I write the most when I'm jealous. I know why this is. When I'm jealous, it's because I feel like nobody's paying attention to me. My ex-girlfriend has a new girlfriend, or my friends are making nice with each other instead of me, or my brother won't hug me. Frustrating. So I write something that I think will impress people and make them pay attention to me.
Writers are introverted attention whores, anyway. All artists are. It's not the creativity, really--it's satisfying to just make up things, or keep them in your head, or keep them for yourself. It's the exposure--being published, being shown, getting comments and reviews. "Look at me! Look at me! No, wait, don't look at me, look what I can do. Look at this story I wrote. Isn't it great? Didn't it change your life? Oh, yup, I wrote it. Not that it's me...but it's a part of me, really. I'm so great. It's such a little, little story, do you really like it? Gawsh, I'm flattered. So when do I get my Pulitzer?" Because really, what do I have to offer? I'm not particularly witty (I can barely speak in real life) or sexy (I can count on one hand the number of times I've had anyone hit on me, and while I pretend as though I'm glad of that because I don't want to be considered pretty, it secretly bugs me once in a while) or capable (I can't fix things or handle people very well). So hey, here's this thing I made. Tell me how great it is. Tell me how great I am.
There wasn’t a sign above the door to creak ominously, or even a door of black mahogany carved with strange and disturbing figures. The shop wasn’t even on a narrow and winding street lined with mysterious stores. Instead, the shop stood between a liquor store and a bar, the door was a screen, and the sandwich board on the cracked sidewalk read, “Kid Charlemagne, Witch Doctor: We do philters, charms, medicinal herbs. Good prices, inquire within” in peeling sans-serif letters. Danny laughed and went inside.
His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light. The shop was small, almost cramped. The back wall was lined with shelves that had Mason jars stacked neatly on top of one another. One wall was covered with tacked-up papers; the other had a small altar wedged into the corner, and a gleaming saxophone and wooden blues guitar leaning against it. Most of the shop was taken up by a small card table. There were two men sitting at it, leaning back in rickety chairs. One was wearing sunglasses and smoking, the other had a slouch hat pulled down over his face.
The man in the sunglasses indicated the empty folding chair in front of the card table. “Sit down.” He had a soft, rich, strained voice.
“Room for everyone in here,” said the man in the slouch hat. He had a deeper voice, with just a trace of an accent.
Danny sat down and nodded at the instruments. “You guys play music?”
“Sure do,” said Sunglasses.
“Hot jazz, smooth blues,” Slouch Hat added.
“Every Saturday night at Steely’s next door.”
“You come see us some time. You like it.”
“Not as good as you, of course.”
“Yeah? You know me?” Danny asked.
“Sure do. You the red-headed boy at Madam Wong’s, you dance like a skeleton stripper.” Which was an interesting image, Danny had to admit.
“Not many bands nowadays use saxophones.”
“You got a good voice on you, boy.”
“Mm-hm.”
“Wait, do you actually want my voice? I mean, in exchange for…” Danny knew he sounded incredulous, but he was already making plans. He didn’t have to sing if he just composed, after all. And he could learn sign language…
Slouch Hat chuckled. “You been listening to too many stories.”
“What would we want with another voice? We’ve already got two of our own.”
“Don’t get us wrong, we like your voice just fine. It just sound better on you.”
“Thanks. Listen, which one of you is actually Kid Charlemagne?”
“Does it matter?”
“Both.”
“Two souls, one body.”
“I thought it be one soul, two bodies.”
“Is it? I can’t count.”
Danny closed his eyes for a second. The two men were blurring, and he couldn’t tell their voices apart. “The sign said you do charms.”
“Sure do.”
“That be us.”
“Best in the city.”
“Plenty of others, none as good.”
“Lady Nightshade.”
“The Babylon Sisters.”
“Brother Lew Garou.”
“Doctor Wu.”
“Professor Wormbones.”
“They all massisi…”
“But we hang tough.”
“So what you need?”
“Success? Want the records to fly off the shelves?”
“Love charm? Want a groupie but she won’t put out?”
“Want your very own zombie?”
“A dead man to dance with?”
“No, no, none of that.” Danny shook his head.
“Don’t keep us guessin’, boy.”
“We ain’t got all day, oh no.”
“Very busy.”
“As you can see.”
“I want…” Danny drummed his fingers on the table, unsure of how to phrase his request. “I want what Tim got.”
“Tim?”
“Never heard of him.”
“He came in here last week. Pale, kinda skinny, big eyes, really messy black hair? Like he hadn’t brushed it in a month?”
Sunglasses nodded slowly. “That Tim.”
“Nice boy.”
“An artist, yeah?”
“Making his movies about skeletons.”
“Dangerous.”
“You love death too much, you call it to you.”
“Smart what he did.”
“Smart what he got from us.”
“Keep him safe.”
Danny nodded. “Yeah! That’s what I want.”
“A death charm, yeah?”
“Keep it ‘round your skinny neck.”
“Give it to the reaper when he come ‘stead of your soul.”
“It only works once, you know. Death isn’t stupid.”
“I know,” Danny said. “How much does one cost?”
“How much your life be worth?”
“I don’t know. How much did Tim pay for it?” Danny bit his lip.
“Five thousand dollars.”
“Generous.”
“Nice boy.”
“That’s rent for a year.”
“And a little offering to Legba.” Slouch Hat nodded at the altar in the corner. Danny recognized Jack Skellington’s head, complete with bow tie, sitting on a little black dish.
“He made that out of modeling clay, right here in front of us.”
“For the ceremony.”
“Talented.”
“He gonna go far.”
“Five hundred,” Danny said.
“Your call.”
“Gotta be cash.”
“We don’t trust checks.”
“Fine.” Danny dug out his wallet and slid the money across the table.
Sunglasses took it and carefully counted the bills, then tucked it in his shirt pocket. “All right.” He nodded at Slouch Hat, who got up and began to rummage around in the Mason jars. “You know how this works?”
“Not really. Do I have to?”
“We take a little bag and we put some things in it,” Slouch Hat said, “and we make it so it taste like your soul to our friend Death.”
“We do a little ceremony, we call on a few gods, you make a little offering.”
“Give a little bit of your soul—don’t worry, it grows back.”
“How do I do that?” Danny was beginning to worry. “I don’t have to die or anything, do I?”
“Chill, man. You ain’t gonna become a zombie.”
“Listen,” Sunglasses said. “On stage, when you’re singing. You’re expressing yourself, right? Expressing your soul. When your friend Tim makes his little creatures and draws his drawings, that’s his soul going into them.”
Danny snorted. “I thought voodoo used your hair or toenails or whatever.”
“That’s old stuff, man. Weak. Your toenails be part of you, but they ain’t alive. Ain’t your music more of you than your toenails?” Slouch Hat returned with a leather cord, a scrap of orange fabric, some flat bits of red plastic, some kind of bone, a dead lime-green spider, a bit of metal, something burnt, and a tiny dried blue flower.
Danny eyed the collection of items. “What do those do?”
“Ancient secrets. Can’t tell you.”
“Now you got to put them on the altar like we tell you.”
“I thought I was paying you to cast the spell or whatever.”
“You paying us to help you make it.”
“It won’t work for you if we do it.”
Aforementioned TimDanny w/Steely Dan fanfic-snip above. Thoughts? Suggestions? Plotbunnies? Dunno if it's worth continuing, but it was fun to write. I do eventually want to write a Tim/Danny thing for real.
