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Post by ilovewinona on Nov 22, 2007 12:45:02 GMT -5
I just notice these things. One of my professors said I should join the Secret Service and he would vouch for me if I ever decided to join it. What do you guys think? ----- Yes! You do have a great eye when it comes to noticing details. ----- But join the Secret Service only if it pays very well, otherwise find some other job that pays better. You deserve the best! ----- Rusty
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Post by bigdaddy on Mar 6, 2008 14:31:09 GMT -5
LUNCH WITH ZAPHOD BEEBLEBROX
Winona Ryder ran her right hand through her hair and tilted her head back while feeling the sun. She was at the front window of her fave 'Frisco veggie burger place and that sun was wonderful coming through the large pane of glass. Winter was flowing out of her body like a warm oil. Okay, she thought. Not REALLY winter. Not like at Sundance or up north where her friends were still under hundreds of feet of snow to hear them tell it. But even just heading up to Sundance had taken days and days of sitting in the heat to get it's cold out. Frisco was windy and somewhere in the 40's today...she wore her white overcoat, reminded her of Bacall in...was it TO HAVE AND HAVE NOT? THE BIG SLEEP? One of them. Didn't matter at the second, although it would bug her until she would get up at three tomorrow morning and find out. Her man would wake up alone, find her in the living room going through that monumental DVD collection. And he wouldn't SAY anything. Just keep on going, make some green tea, and come back and curl up beside her under a comforter, pass her a mug and ask what was on.. She smiled at the thought of how patient he was and how well they fitted together. Meanwhile, the guy she was having lunch with brightened up a 100 watts, because HE thought his story had made that smile. Aw, let him, she said to herself. She had invited him out, dressed to kill for him, and now would deliver the fatal blow. Leaning over the table, she touched his knee, and watched him break out in a sweat. Winona giggled. She had dressed down for the meal. Lands End parrot green cashmere long sleeve top with a white tee underneath that glowed like the dotted line on a highway in the sun. The tee to attract the eye and the cashmere to whet his sense of touch that was sometimes EVERYTHING to him. Dockers...dark, dark brown. To remind him of that chocolate sauce that he had no defense against once he started to eat it. The stuff his wife, Susan, tried to keep him away from. And a pair of 500 dollar Italian shoes. Her lunch date was pale now, licked his dry lips and started to get a harried look in his eyes. The eyes were also bulging out of his head now. Somewhere between Raul Julia and Don Knotts. She laughed outright. Winona was totally faithfull to her guy. An he loved his wife to pieces. But this little flirty routine they did together now and then was a total trip for them both that dated back, what?, 20 years? He was saved by the tourist who came over to their table for an autograph. Easy to spot. Only tourists in 'Frisco were going outside without a coat on. He glanced over at Winona, who flashed a brief look of annoyance at the intrusion. Brief? You have had to know what to look for. The tourist wouldn't even have seen it. "Oh, I saw you on t.v. last nght" the lady brayed. "You were SO good in PETTICOAT JUNCTION. I wish you would come back to work. We NEED positive shows like that. You deserve one of those Oscars they give for TV, Miss Saunders." Winona shot him a glance devoid of all expresion. That did it. He leaned back his head and laughed. The tourist didn't even feel uncomfortable. Instead she focused on HIM and asked if HE was someone. He rolled the question around his tongue like a fine wine. "Am I SOMEONE?" he repeated. "Well, yes..yes I am..I've made a CD...here..." He passed over a copy."See? Me. Right there behind the piano. Want an autograph?" Winona was back to giggling again and had her 'pure mischief' smile on now."And remember to sign your REAL name, Zaphod..that will make it MORE valuable." The tourist stopped in her tracks."ZAPHOD? What kind of name is Zaphod?" Now Winona was grinning ear to ear. You don't get to do a Joseph Heller CATCH-22 riff everyday..especially as nicely set up a this one. "Why it's Zaphod's name, ma'am. Zaphod Beeblebrox." He puckered up like he had eaten a lemon by accident. Of course you know this meant war, he thought to himself. "Okay, photo time. This is your hubby? Hi. Hi. Pleezedtameecha. Your wife already spotted Lori Sauders. PETTICOAT JUNCTION? I'm ZAPHOD. I'm on this side. Okay Lori, other side. Now scrunch in TIGHT..and say CHEESE..."
{ To Be continued}
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Post by bigdaddy on Mar 7, 2008 14:26:02 GMT -5
LUNCH WITH ZAPHOD BEEBLEBROX (II)
The tourists were gone after many thank you's. The two of them were waiting for their dessert and listening to their picks from the juke box. For Winona, the juke box helped make the place. Played real vinyl, and was square and white. An actual retro work-a-day juke box, not some remade thing to LOOK retro. She dug that it had spent time in the trenches. His selection was STEELY DAN; DO IT AGAIN. It was just finished the toy organ solo. Hers was going to be an old old Stones song that asked the musical question if she had seen her mother in the shadows. They sipped the flavored coffee and smiled contentedly. She had curled up in his arm and brought her legs up to her chest and rested the mug on her knees. He smiled and kissed the top of her head. Suddenly Winona felt him stiffen. "Oh my GAWD!" he whispered."'It's my WIFE and she has a GUN!" Winona didn't move an inch."Geek. Your wife SENT me." She could feel him turn his neck to look at the top of her head, and started up a rapid-fire female executive voice:"Winona. Susan. Need you to take Bobby out for lunch. He's getting TOO fat and sassy again. Needs to BURN some of that fat off the arteries. Take him around the block a couple of times. Kick him into overdrive, have him home for supper, don't stroke him out. He's no GOOD to me slurring or drooling. He'll be in the prime heart attack years soon. Thanks. You have my cel number." Robert Downey Jr. laughed at the flawless impersonation of his wife and shook his head."And what would YOUR guy think if he walked in?" "Told him all about us." "THIS will be interesting." "No. Seriously. Told him how we have a special bond that makes us something like family. Goes back to "1969"..and how we were there for each other when the media turned on us. How I got word to you when everyone ran that photo of you in the prison orange outfit -when you thought your career was over. How you never turned your back on ME during THE TRIAL How even then, you could make me laugh." Downey gave her a thin smile and said;"Will you STOP callling me Zaphod Beeblebrox, though? I didn't DO that guy." "Hey, they WANTED you in that part for HITCHHIKERS GUIDE TO THE GALAXY. You would have been GOOD. Might even have SAVED that movie. It needed SOMETHING." "Just like YOU could have saved GODFATHER 3?" "Let's not get RADICAL.." she gigged. "And besides, YOU, you made me cosy up to that lady right now that smelled like Wal Mart discount bacon. Dude, that was GROSS." "That was for SIGN YOUR REAL NAME ZAPHOD, IT'LL BE MORE VALUABLE.." he delivered her quote in a high squeek that made Winona howl. "By the way, how do you DO that?? You compare something to something else, and at first I think you are just being funny. But I'll bet a hundred bucks that if I took the time and trouble to actually track DOWN and SMELL some Wal-Mart discout bacon it would dupe that woman's order to perfection...and the only solution to that I DON' WANT TO THINK ABOUT.." "Which is???" she said with a wide smile. "That you have gone OUT and FOUND Wal-Mat discount bacon and KNOW what it smelt like in the first place..Kid, you ARE a wonder." She leaned over, squeezed his knee, and hid her smile with a sip of coffee.
{To be continued}
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Post by bigdaddy on Mar 8, 2008 22:30:52 GMT -5
LUNCH WITH ZAPHOD BEEBLEBROX (III)
"You're pretty unique yourself..how many guys have a copy of their own CD on them, AND know the PETTICOAT JUNCTION cast that well?" she beamed back. "I use that thing to win bets. You know how I like to go on about music. Well, sooner or later someone says if I know so much, why don't I just MAKE one of my own. It goes south from there. It sells for 99 cents on Amazon." Downey replied with a wry smirk. "As for PETTICOAT JUNCTION, remember '1969"? When we were filming, it used to be on that superstation. Watched it every afternoon. Heard Shadoe Stevens say it once;"Why would you CALL a town with three STACKED women HOOTERVILLE?" Winona leaned forwards to laugh some more. "Even before Susan called, I was gonna get in touch with you. Kick around old times "1969" turns 20 this year. Time goes fast, hon. And Kiefer is out of town AS USUAL.." "When Kiefer and I talked to each other between takes, we always thought YOU would wind up the biggest star of the three of us.. Wait a minute, Susan DID call??" "Yup. IRON MAN. It's gonna be a hit, Bobby. Saw it myself. Preview. You're good. In fact it's not just some of your best, it might be some of the best in ANY Marvel spin off.. And it was Marvel's most complicated golden age character." She handed him a bag from under the table. "And you're getting fat and sassy and need me to sweat it out of you again." Downey ignored her punch line and slowly shook his head."I still don't get it.." "When it comes out, Make-A-Wish is going to be asking you to spend a day with kids who have brain tumors the size of pears and cancers so scary you'll wake up in a sweat for weeks. Susan wanted me to kick in some swag for you to give out. She KNOWS you, guy. Figures you won't think just YOUR stuff will be enough. And you'd put off asking me or forget to ask. "What was her quote? Yeah;'for a star, he has enormous self doubt...' "Winona shot him a sidelong glance and allowed the unspoken irony to sink in."She's a good influence on you.." Bob Downey sighed. "Yeah. She's good. And TODAY might be the last time I can get away with that stunt with the CD, after my face is splashed everywhere. Hey, WHEN do you think that tourist couple will clue into WHO is on either side of them?" "You, April max. The movie opens on May 2nd. Me? When is STAR TREK out??" "Hey, some kid who is hip will spot you...Lori Sauders be damned. But what about your Sundance film? THE LAST WORD?" Ryder had that distant look in her eye she got when mentally adding something up." Probably direct to video. AGAIN. Don't get me wrong.It's good, it's just not LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE good." "Meaning, 10 million to buy it and a 100 million at the box office." She gave out a low whistle in admiration and nodded her head at his quick uptake." Yeah. And you should have been THERE when they got that ten mill...everybody thought it was lunatic. That they'd NEVER make THAT much..." "Geez, come away with me, kid. Let's make a CD together. You on guitar and lead vocal. Maybe get that man of yours on deck...does HE know all the words to LOUIE, LOUIE and LAND OF A THOUSAND DANCES?" Winona sniggered."The question has NEVER come up. And you KNOW I hate the sound of my own singing voice. Besides, I do my best to keep it seperate anyway. Do you know when Johnny and I were together we must have turned down a dozen projects to get us on the screen as a pair? They wanted the next Tracy and Hepburn." "Hey, talking of Johnny, did you dig SWEENEY TODD??" The distant look again."When you make a musical you either go for a singer you hope can act, or an actor you hope can sing. Johnny IS a good singer for an actor, Tim and he are a good fit. I don't think they could have done better...okay, he's not as good as Len Cariou, the guy who did it on Broadway, but I think he's a better singer then just about anybody else they could have got with a name...what did you think? YOU'RE the pro here.." Downey smiled back pleasantly."I love it when you analyze stuff, you know that? Spoken like a true producer. And, by the way, with your nomination,YOU are probably the closest ANY of us will come to a Grammy." Winona ducked her head and gave out her shyest smile. "No. Really. Also, my CD sells for 99 cents on Amazon. Johnny's goes for 20 bucks. YOUR cassettes go for 90 bucks and aren't even ON CD. Not bad.." Winona gave him a barely vocalized thank you. "Okay..lets see that son of yours...pics...hand them over...I know you have 'em on ya..." There were, in fact, two stacks in seperate envelopes. She heard about schools and getting older, and new rock groups and new girl friends and weekends when he saw him. He narrated. She laughed and cooed and asked questions. The juke box played YOUNGBLOOD, by THE COASTERS. Then JOE WALSH: LIFE'S BEEN GOOD. And for that afternoon it was very good.
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Post by Charles on Mar 9, 2008 17:03:19 GMT -5
Great stuff, Big D!!!
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Post by phil on Jun 14, 2010 19:43:44 GMT -5
the vagabond I love
adrift traveling dusty roads to nowhere under skies ev'ry shade of blue
dinner! spaghetti made of your shoestrings warming palms above crackling embers alighting like fireflies
quiet stream slipping over polished rocks foot falling into soft sandy bottom
wayward aiming for the bright moon rising above the black pine tree line
drowsy huddled in the chill with nothing to share except the whole wide world
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Post by twistytale on Jun 15, 2010 11:24:07 GMT -5
Nice Phil. You're a natural writer. Its obvious you like vagabonds. They can't always keep themselves silent(despite that old film irony)...even though they must always try.
I hope you don't mind that I follow you with my own, umm...free-writing...
the vagabond I need to love...
the journey is long and always winding vast corny fields for others' little patience for this wayward vagrant that courses...
Mid-day, the hour is usually tiring Hunger for the tramp is so familiar A woody stream by the tallest tree Garment strings catch his fishy feast
Next, a weary nap before the twilight Dreams come with their loving hues Until its time to wake, for goodness sake Moving along place to place without rest not knowing what to take, for his quest
The lonely night is dark, yet the moon is full the stars twinkle like their beacons of hope And for this vagabond, he needs to find his own silent, guiding light... For I should know that the world's time is nearly well spent...
---
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Post by phil on Sept 30, 2010 20:38:55 GMT -5
The Pleasure Of Her Company [/center] The elderly station master, satisfied that at least time was still moving, stuffed the gold watch back into his vest pocket, and looking over the top of his glasses saw the sleeping girl on the hard wooden bench, her chin resting on a thin book of some kind she hugged to her chest. He moved closer and turning his head and holding his glasses steady was able to make out the faded typewritten ‘by Sofia Coppola,’ and he looked at the girl’s face and thought she looked like that Louise Brooks from his youth. She opened her eyes at his breathing. He asked, ‘You Louise?’ She blinked, and replied sleepily, ‘A long time ago.’
Only her dark eyes moved to observe. A little girl in a knit blue cap opposite was holding an ice cream cone loosely and crying. Three doves in fighter formation swooped down from the purple clouds in the pastel yellow Indian sky and landed on the bench arm opposite. They bowed out of sync but it pleased her. ‘The pleasure is all mine,’ she laughed. They replied with deeper nods and launched on a new mission. The girl stopped crying, mouth agape, astonished at the woman who could talk to the birds. A gray wire-haired terrier sauntered by and made short order of her lowered ice cream cone in two bites.
She thought of Sir Anthony, her heart full, and listened for the train. She spoke a line written on page 28 twice. It didn’t seem right, out of place. He would know how to interpret the meaning of those words, and make a lucid suggestion etched in granite just above a whisper as always. She was thinking how he always spoke softly so she’d lean in closer to him, oh that blue-eyed handsome devil. Sofia was like that too. On the phone the writer only spoke two soft sentences at first meeting, trusting the professional with a well-traveled suitcase labeled permanently in destinations such as Lydia, Charlotte, and Kim, would know her character quick and hit her marks, three arrows bull’s-eye.
The station master wound his watch and pressed it against his left ear to prove he was alive, and not hearing a tick began to weep. The quiet man had arrived for some script-tuning and stood for a moment at the bottom step. He easily spotted the beautiful woman before descending. She rose from the bench and stepped out onto the illuminated platform with a second chorus of white doves at her feet, and with a child only comforted by a mother’s fairy tale to prevent a silent scream in her dreams, the steam from the train signaled the end of the scene like a director yelling Cut. Print.
[/font]
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Post by Charles on Sept 30, 2010 23:06:27 GMT -5
Very nice, Phil . . .
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Post by Deleted on Oct 1, 2010 18:19:53 GMT -5
The Pleasure Of Her Company
Charming and pleasant. I really liked the whole angle with the doves. However, I'm not sure how I should interpret this...vignette. If, at all, there even is an interpretation for this story's overall understanding.
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Post by phil on Jul 30, 2011 20:27:25 GMT -5
Roaming Heart
[/b] She reclined in her trailer and pushed the book off to one side upside down. Reconsidering damage to the spine, around the part of the story where Holden introduces his sister, she carefully closed it with two hands and cushioned it against her left hip.
The walls were bare even 7 weeks into the shoot. She never could make this place her home like she could in other strange locations, even with the tacked San Francisco bay postcard above the wash basin. She closed her eyes, hopefully sighing to dream of a love that would last, but spun uncontrollable into a scene where she was juggling four balls to an appreciative audience of midgets, bouncing one ball off the head of fool Scorcese, to the roar of high-pitched laughter of the little people. They gave her a standing ovation, but she couldn’t tell. One gestured for her to follow, promising beautiful hope in a hopeless world behind one door, but it led to a dark, damp room of skeletons with water dripping from above.
The continuous pounding at her trailer door startled her awake, she rose bolt upright, her face streaked with unscripted dry tears. Shedding her robe, down three steep iron steps, she was whirling on a golf cart at speed-bump speed, passed by an old guy resembling Vincent Price on a bicycle with flowers in the front basket blowing her kisses. ‘Step on it, Jeeves!’ she breathlessly demanded, and the puzzled driver floored the miniature pedal, stalling the intrepid humming electric buggy. Vincent came to her rescue.
Makeup touched up her pale face removing unforgiving dream marks, and a nice woman, she remembered her name was Rose, with white hair gingerly removed tatters radiating in lower regions of her gown resulting from the North by Northwest scenic bicycle tour, a ride narrated by the gentleman from silent Erich von Stroheim film days of ‘27 to exploding blood packets in Santino Corleone’s vest in the colorful ‘72 days. A thin lisping upset man refused to touch her hair, so she did the best with her ringless fingers.
She was happy. Scorcese, without his monocle or blast horn, re-shot page 61 of the script, and she was pleased about all the kissing in fake daylight with closed flickering silent eyelashes.[/blockquote]
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Post by Charles on Jul 31, 2011 11:11:56 GMT -5
Lovely, Phil . . . you always leave us wanting more . . .
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Post by phil on Aug 1, 2011 17:42:49 GMT -5
Thanks, Charles!
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Post by Deleted on Aug 3, 2011 17:45:23 GMT -5
"For always roaming with a hungry heart." — Alfred Tennyson
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Post by phil on Aug 29, 2013 22:25:06 GMT -5
the vagabonds He never minded having her around. It was like setting a saucer of milk out on the brick stoop expecting a vagabond cat to show, watching from a hidden place, holding the breath in to keep from scaring it away. Despite her complaining that he never had any good records to play, he could always fire off an unstoppable paragraph or two on the typewriter just having her around. Just having her shoes at the door and the way she smelled. And that familiar cigarette taste when he kissed the girl.
'You don't have anything', she'd say, sorting through faded covers with pealing edges. 'You always like the one about the man and his dog', he'd say, dabbing the white-out. 'Play that one', he'd say, looking at her, face warming when he'd get her to smile. She'd fingertip the vinyl, drop the needle, light another cigarette when the voice greeted the guitar. He'd type with the downbeat, following her mournful eyes to the water streaking against the window of her nest, outside so, so cold.
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