Just bitchin', writing

#ThomasGibson and The Insidious Art of Attraction

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Never been a fangirl.

Made it through pre-pubescence and adolescence and entered adulthood without papering my bedroom walls or my locker at school with depictions of male (or female) pulchritude. Never stood in line for hours to gather with adoring masses bent on ogling an idol on stage or screen.

Never swooned. Never sighed. Never stalked.

Felt kind of superior because of it. Wore my immunity like a smug, intellectual haz-mat suit. The rest of you can waste your time mooning after people you’ll never meet or really know. As for me? I’ll forge ahead with ‘real’ life…

But then…

Gibson.

Not a tsunami. Not a thunderclap.

Rather, an insidious invasion.

Innocent channel surfing. Hmmm…nice voice…easy on the eyes, too…this guy’s fun to watch. I put the remote down, unaware of the treacherous terrain I’ve entered. Like Little Red Riding Hood, flitting from butterfly to butterfly, I am drawn, episode by episode, along a path the destination of which I would never have chosen.

I begin to pay attention to more than physical attributes. The multifaceted character, a dark and stoic FBI agent, lures me in.

But I’m not a fangirl.

It’s just an intriguing depiction by a talented actor. It’s subtle with twists and turns that begin to fascinate. More. Want more.

So, being a writer, I frown when a television show’s plots don’t reveal enough or go far enough. In the back of my mind, as I’m otherwise engaged, idle musings begin to form. Next thing I know, I’m writing my own tales of Hotchner. I discover a place that wants them. Fanfic. With trepidation, I enter.

But I’m not a fangirl.

It’s just fun to have a place to write where editors and publishers aren’t staring down your neck, picking at every word. It’s freedom from having to compromise and capitulate. I can write my heart out without censor. And that’s where the devious, dark Hotchner makes his sly entre into my literary soul.

But I’m not a fangirl.

Fast-forward.

Three years later, this fictional character has become my guilty, secretive hobby. Someone who sits on my shoulder and whispers scenes and dialogue; who opens himself up to endless, psychological investigation. Someone with whom I now look forward to spending time.

And then, he’s gone.

With guillotine swiftness and scalpel-keen incisions, he’s gone.

I am bereft, blinking in the sudden glare of reality when I wanted to continue, feeding off of the tragic shadows that surrounded the Hotchner. The tremor that quakes through my peripheral, little world starts small, then spreads. I sit at my keyboard with nothing to say. The blood has drained from my writer’s brain. Somehow, some-when, Gibson’s portrayal snagged me and infiltrated my carefully cool psyche; his departure not only crippling my hobby, but my capacity to write at all.

I realize I’m in mourning. I realize…

Oh, crap. I’m a fangirl.

Worse…I’m a fangirl grieving for a character I didn’t know had taken control of a sub-level of my mind.

Damn you, Gibson, you magnificent bastard…how the hell did you manage that?

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#Bowie — Life Like a Rainbow

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I don’t usually pay tribute to the passing of people I’ve never met, but today…

…oh, today of all days…I have to acknowledge David Bowie, gone from us at age 69 after a very private battle with cancer.

When I was little he was already a colorful burst, exploding without apology across music, movies, pop culture. He was unique, odd, strange, quixotic. His style was chameleonic, a constant reinvention of freedom of expression.

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‘Sham glam’ was the term that birthed into my child’s mind when I first saw him. It’s still my private label for the style of a firebird. I’m the girl who gravitated toward beads and glitter and rhinestones and color, mostly because of watching people like Bowie at my fashion-formative age.

So today I’ll play his music and tonight I’ll watch ‘The Man Who Fell To Earth’…

…and I’ll do it all spangled from head to toe…

Thank you, Mr. Bowie, for a life like a rainbow.

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Saliva With Your Sprinkles

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Oh, dear.

Another silly celeb spouting stupidity.

Oh, dear.

So in case you haven’t heard, a minor celebrity named Ariana Grande went into a donut shop, bellied-up to the counter upon which rested a tray of the pastries…licked them…and turned away muttering how much she hates America. Then she stuffed a previously un-licked donut into her mouth. All in plain view and hearing of the shop’s surveillance camera.

Clearly, this woman will never be honored for her intellect.

There was and still is a huge outcry about her comments on hating the country that shelters her.

I honestly don’t care. Maybe I should. But I don’t. See…I’d have to respect her to care what comes out of her mouth. I don’t.

Oh, wait…I need to backtrack here.

I DO care tremendously about something that came out of her mouth. Saliva.

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She licked donuts that she had no intention of buying or eating. I hear she tells her fans she’s a vegan, but she did chow down on a non-vegan donut while in camera range…just not one of those she licked. The issue of lying to her fans about her diet doesn’t interest me in the least.

What I do care about is her complete lack of personal hygiene. I don’t care how low her IQ is; she should know not to trail her spit on other people’s food.

The woman herself has no relevance in most people’s lives, so her opinions are powerless. ISIS will not be recruiting her anytime soon, I’m sure.

And although there might be a pre-pubescent fan base somewhere who’d love to suck on her saliva, I doubt the donuts she defiled were meant for them.

So rude.

She’s made some bumbling attempts to apologize for her ‘I hate America’ statements, but not a word about her deplorable lack of manners and hygiene.

And now I have to amend my statement that Ms. Grande has no relevance in my life.

I will never look at donuts again without wondering if someone else’s DNA is lurking among the sprinkles…

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