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On Perfection and Making Stuff


Image by this lady.

I think one of my follies as a writer- and as an actor and probably as a person as well- is my insatiable need to make everything big and perfect.  Everything.  Like this blog is not just a blog: this a canvas on which I must smear the bloodpaints of my soul and offer humbly to the Gods of Creativity and their various consorts.

And that is why I have not updated since September.  Bloodpaintings on a regular basis are harrrrd.

So, no more perfection.  Perfection is nice every now and then, but let’s be real.   Perfection is not an accessible weekly goal.   I’m not saying my past work has been beyond reproach.  I think what I do is quite close to reproach.  Adjacent, really.  It’s the striving for perfection that fucks me up.  It hinders all creative conquests.  It’s like saying to a month-old baby “GET UP!  GET THE FUCK UP!  WHY AREN’T YOU RUNNING MARATHONS, YOU LAZY SACK OF SHIT?”  Babies can’t run marathons, no matter how much you yell at them.  Babies need to learn how to walk, and then walk without falling, and then run, and then run without falling, and then run for a long time, and then run for an even longer time, and so on and so forth.  At some point, the baby will also have to learn not to poop in his or her pants.  Or maybe diaper dependency is actually a good thing thing when you are running 26 miles.  What I’m trying to say is, I’ve never run a marathon, but if I had I would not have been a baby.

If I am trying to say anything with this little bit of word-mess is that it is okay to fuck up.  In fact, it is necessary and inevitable.  If you try to make everything perfect or even exceptional you are going to end up frustrated and disappointed with a blog that has only five posts in the last year.

So no more perfection for me.  No more bloodpaintings, no more soul-canvases no more crying out to the Muses for validation.  I’m just going to make stuff.  Making stuff feels pretty good.


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The 15 Best Nonessential ‘Breaking Bad’ Characters


15. Paul, of TwaughtHammer fame

14. Lewis, Walter Jr.’s best/only friend

13. Jesse’s little brother

12. German Dipping Sauce Scientist

11. Remote Control Car Kid

10. Fake Heisenberg

9. Mistake Fake Heisenberg

8. That Lady That Works at Los Pollos

7. Charlie Rose

6. That One Lazy-ass Student (“I think I may have ADD…”)

5. Ken Wins

4. Walter White’s Mom

3. That Woman Who Freaked Out About The Candles At Ted Beneke’s Birthday

2. Marie’s Toaster

1. This Guy

Image from uproxx.com because I'm in a hurry

Image from uproxx.com because I’m in a hurry
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Summertime Depression Is A Thing; Just Admit That You Have It


Available on vinyl!

I think we can all agree that summertime as an adult is the absolute balls.  What was once a welcome respite from academic drudgery becomes a waking nightmare of sweaty fatigue.  No day at the pool for you, adult.  You’re an adult.  You should be doing adult things.  Take those swimmies off.

So, you get sad.  You are not alone.

According to WebMD summertime depression is a thing.  Says the website:

SAD typically causes depression as the days get shorter and colder. But about 10% of people with SAD get it in the reverse — the onset of summer triggers their depression symptoms… Why do seasonal changes cause depression? Experts aren’t sure, but the longer days, and increasing heat and humidity may play a role.

Independent studies have also noted:

Yeah, no shit they play a role!  No one gets an automatic vacation once the temperature hits eighty.  We’re adults, and we have to go to fucking work no matter how much underboob sweat accumulates.  The beach?  Fuck you, I live in Ohio!

People with a history of depression are more likely to suffer from summertime ennui.  I know that my first serious bout of depression occurred during the summer following my college graduation.  Of course, at the time my hearty dose of summery listlessness was served with a side order of dear God, what happens now???  The latter may have influenced the former, but my body still remembers that summer was when The Sad Times began.  I deal with it the best I can, and so can you!

Here is a short list of proven methods that help alleviate summer depression.  Try one or five today!


Yes. Eat the ice cream.  Do it.  This is the entire reason summer exists.  Stop worrying about your “swimsuit body”.  No one is going to see you in a swimsuit when you’re in your pajamas playing Robot Unicorn Attack for eleven hours.  Go out, eat a delicious frozen treat.  If not now, then when?  Columbus Day?  Ice cream is for the living.  Prove to yourself that you are alive.


No pleasure, no rapture, no exquisite sin greater than central air.  You would make love to it if you could.

Just listen to this song!  It’s impossible to listen to this song and feel depressed.  Just listen to the trumpets!   As soon as the brass kicks in you’re back in 1997 driving to the 7-11 with your friends (you lived in South Jersey at the time and that’s all there was to do).  Good times.  And look at this guy.  Look at him dance.  He has one job in the band and that job is to dance!  How can you not feel better thinking that someone literally lives to dance?  You can’t!  Take that sadness and skank it out in your slushie-fueled time machine.  Skank it out!


This show is like ten minutes of Effexor in cartoon form.  It seemed specifically tailored to the hearts and minds of an entire generation that has only known accumulating disappointment.  This show has adventure.  It has time.  It’s short and sweet and it’s a cartoon you can watch without having those weird pants feelings you get from My Little Pony: Friendship Is Magic (while we’re talking about that…why did you have to take a delightful cartoon like My Little Pony and turn it into porn?  Can you leave us one thing childlike and innocent?  Oh, I’m sorry.  You’re depressed right now.  Sorry, I forgot about that.  But, seriously.  Dude.)

  • Yoga?


I guess.

Well, there you have it.  If you try all these things and your summer is still at the bottom of a depression well, I don’t know what to tell you.  Maybe try therapy.  Or drugs.  Or both.

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Let’s All Geek Out Together

I went on The Mary Sue today to check the number of Facebook likes on my last post see what was new in the world of geekery.  The first thing I saw was this:
Which made me do this:
Sometimes I think we are living in the best of all possible time lines.
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Ambien, My Bitch-Goddess


Last night I spent twelve hours working as background on an overnight movie shoot.  Seven to seven.  P.M. to A.M.  Twelve hours spent pretending to eat coleslaw and not looking directly at the camera.  When the shoot wrapped, I had very little time to rest as I had dog walks scheduled for the afternoon.  I needed $85, and I made it on my own terms.

I finally made it home at around 4:30.  Despite my fatigue, I did not want to go to sleep right away.  I just wanted a small nap to rest and recover.  After all, the coming night still beckoned; adventures cloaked in black velvet sky waited for me.  The balmy evening air whispered to me one word: a promise.  A promise of what Nyx had in store for me, and that word was “laundry”.

So, I just needed a nap.  I usually take Ambien for a full night’s sleep.  With my keen knowledge of pharmaceuticals I deduced that half my regular dose (normally 10 mgs) would be enough for a few hours of restorative slumber.

It turns out that’s not how Ambien works.

Let me preface what I am about to say with a warning: Ambien is a hell of a drug, and not to be trifled with.  Don’t ever take it.  Get a good night’s sleep the old fashioned way, with good bed hygiene and regular nighttime rituals.  I take Ambien because my lifestyle does not afford me good bed hygiene or regular nighttime rituals.  If that’s true for you, too, then for God’s sake, take the Ambien.  Sleep is important.  Treat yo’ self!  Just only take it as prescribed, never recreationally, and never with the ghost of Heath Ledger.  Okay?  Great.

That said, I am so very high right now.

I had experienced the joys of sleepless Ambien before, usually when circumstances had forced me to wake up before the drug’s effect wore off.  Did I tell you I had a crazy schedule?  Seven-to-seven, dude.  And let’s not even go into my 24-hour catering from hell experiences (you can read about one of them here.  The effects of the drug, when the user is awake are…pleasantish.  Magical, even.  Right now my body feels like it is gently swaying, like the hem of a sun dress.  My mind…my mind feels what I can only describe as “elastic”.  Ideas flash upon me that are at once both brilliant and stupid.  For example, do you think if mankind had never invented the wheel, horses would have evolved into pegasi?  A normal brain would not ask such a thing so boldly.  An Ambien brain knows no shame.

Again, though, don’t take Ambien to get high.  It is one habitual motherfucker.  Ambien will fuck your brain shit up and not even feel sorry about it.  Seriously, ask Heath Ledger.  Oh, you can’t because he died.  Because he abused Ambien.  And his ghost isn’t real, it’s just your Ambien-induced delusion.  Ambien is not candy.  It’s not even the chalky kind of candy you buy by the bag at CVS.  Ambien is evil.  Ambien is the devil.  You do not want to dance with this devil, because the dance isn’t over until Ambien says it’s over, and Ambien really loves to dance.

Unless you need it to sleep.  Then, Ambien is cool.

..Or would horses have evolved little wheels in their hooves?

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Amanda, why have you not posted anything in two months?

image by Chris Sims

Actually, I’ve been very busy in theatre.  Acting and such.  Because I am legit as f***.

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REVEALED! The Mr. Softee Lyrics You Thought You Never Needed To Know!

Ah, the Mr. Softee Song.  Our official warm weather national anthem, keeping time with the heartbeat of America.

Did you know that the Mr. Softee Song actually has lyrics?  I did.  A long-haired fledgling comedienne version of myself figured it all out back in 201o (start at 2:09 for relevant information; start from the beginning for weird information about my cat).

I miss my hair sometimes.

So I solved the mystery of the Mr. Softee lyrics: not a merry jingle, but a desperate cry from the darkest night of the soul.  A tortured banshee wail, lamenting the hopes and dreams that have cooled us through the heat of  summer’s cruel reality.  Hopes and dreams that have melted, like a once-frozen dairy treat, under the punishing gaze of Ra’s visage.

You know.  Summer.

Last week, though, the New York Daily News challenged what was has been since 2010 indisputable truth.  They have blasphemed the name of Softee and infantilized the unforgiving wrath of summer.  Why, and based on what?  What flimsy evidence have they?  Oh, some “sheet music” that was “copyrighted” in “1960”?  Well, let us see, then.  Let us read these words of heresy and see how they compare.


The creamiest dreamiest soft ice cream you get from Mister Softee.

For a refreshing delight supreme, look for Mister Softee

My milkshakes and my sundaes and my cones are such a treat.

Listen for my store on wheels ding-a-ling down the street.

The creamiest dreamiest soft ice cream you get from Mister Softee.

For a refreshing delight supreme, look for Mister Softee

S-O-F-T double E. Mister Softee!

…my God.

I have wasted my life.

And I still miss my hair.