Tuesday, April 23, 2013

Mugatu 2: Renaissance monster





For those of you who think the Mugatu was just some weird conglomeration of King Kong, Godzilla and Bigfoot, let it be known that he was a creature of many manifestations/talents.




As witness the Mugatu action figure. I can't find out how tall he was, but. . . wouldn't you like to have one?
(Look OUT, Captain Kirk!)




Here he is, still in the unopened box. Calling eBay!




This is, presumably, Lego Mugatu. Note the ferocious look on his face.






Rockin' Mugatu. Perhaps left over from an early Star Trek convention. The color one would make a great banner.






Just a closer walk with He.




The softer side of Mugatu. Who knew he could be that cute?








Monday, April 22, 2013

MUGATU!: or, Battle of the Star Trek Monsters



We all know the Gorn,
and since I was born
He always scared me silly.




He attacked Cap'n Kirk
Cuz he wuz such a jerk. . .
Such scenes always gave me the willies.




But then came a blur
Made of spikes and fun fur
Mugatu was  mean and unkind




He was six different monsters
Kind of all stuck together
Desilu couldn't make up its mind





But old Furr-a-saurus 
Had to join the angel chorus
When Bones went and whipped out his phas-ier




It went zap and kazoom
And the monster went boom
Didja ever see anything craz-ier?








Just in time for Earth Day. . .

 
 

Sunday, April 21, 2013

An unspeakable act





The position at the start is as follows: 

Man's left foot behind the right, left toe at the heel of the right, both toes turned out—his partner's right foot in front of her left, her right heel at the toe of her left foot, both toes turned out.





The man raises the left foot and at the same time raises on the toe of the right, turn both toes in, twisting on the ball of the right foot. 




With the feet in this position, both toes are twisted out, with the man's left heel in front of his right toe—his partner's right heel in front at her left toe.






The man raises his left foot, at the same time rising on the ball of the right foot, and twists both toes in, then puts his left foot behind the right one, and on the balls of both feet twists both toes out—his left toe behind at the right heel. 




His partner raises her right foot, at the same time rising on the ball of her left foot and twists both toes in, then puts her right foot in front and on the balls of both feet turns both toes out—her right toe in front at her left heel.




A toddle movement is taken through-out all the steps, on the foot on which the weight happens to be. 




(Excerpted from: Dance Steps That Will Never Die: The Charleston, 1929)





Where did this come from?????



Camel Blues




If you steal a camel, I’ll have to make a bet
You’re better off with a stringy marionette.
A real one doesn’t make a good pet
‘Cause it drinks once a year, and gets you all wet.




If you’d like to be in the worst kind of debt,
Bring home a camel, then take it to the vet.
“He’s covered with sand! He’s a lousy pet!”
The bill is $90.00, not gross but net.




It’s true, he’s the worst thing you’ve ever met,
‘Cause he tries to run away, and you have to grab a net.
After a while, you decide you’ll just let
The creature fly away on his own hired jet.


Saturday, April 20, 2013

Friday, April 19, 2013

The Glass Character: an excerpt (the glove scene)




The Glass Character:  an excerpt (the glove scene)

My third novel The Glass Character is a fictional account of a young girl’s experiences in Hollywood from approximately 1921 to 1932, in which she develops a relationship with silent film comedian Harold Lloyd which evolves into an obsession.


The story:

Muriel Ashford, a. k. a. Jane Chorney is working as an extra in a Harold Lloyd movie and will do anything to be close to him. Lloyd's right hand was badly injured in an explosion at the start of his career in 1919.  In this scene, Muriel comes upon him preparing his prosthetic right hand before facing the camera.





One day while I was trying to find a hat I was supposed to wear in the next scene (a hat with a veil, meaning my face would be totally obscured: what a great opportunity for an unknown actress like myself!), I stumbled upon Harold preparing himself to become the Glass Character.

He was usually quite secretive about this, so I was taken aback that he was dressing in the prop room. His character was only half there, still wearing the white pants he often wore on the set. His sweater was off, revealing a hard but hairless chest. Once again, without his glasses, I had the impression of a much-better-looking Douglas Fairbanks: all that was missing were the riding breeches and the self-important smile.

He was at a quarter turn with his back to me, and didn’t hear me at first. I began to literally walk backwards, knowing I should not be there, but unable to stop looking at him. Then, stupidly, I ran into a large metal pole (what was that doing there?), banging my head hard. My scalp began to smart so much that tears rushed into my eyes. At the metallic ringing noise, he started, suddenly turning around.






For half a second I saw confusion, even alarm in his eyes. Then he quickly covered it with his usual smiling graciousness: “No, no, come in, Muriel. (He knew my name?) I’m just getting ready.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean. . .”

“It’s all right, don’t be.”

There was something strange about Harold’s eyes. You couldn’t get away from them. But he was so pleasant most of the time (I had never been at the receiving end of one of his famous explosive tirades) that you wondered if you were imagining it. His eyes tugged hard, drew you in as if you were being pulled on a chain. I gave way to the tug, and stood shyly while he fiddled with his prosthetic glove.

All the while he talked to me in the most flattering way, asking about where I had come from, how it felt to be working in movies, about my aspirations.  I am afraid my responses were stilted and not very truthful. The fact was, I wanted to be Mary Pickford, and fast. This sitting in the background reacting as a choir with two dozen pretty but untalented girls was wearing thin. Most days I did not even see Harold.

While he worked at the glove, which had to fit as tightly as a second skin, I saw what was left of his right hand. I was very surprised that he would allow me to see this, though I knew he did not wear the prosthesis in public, rightly believing that hiding it would only make it more apparent. Oddly enough, maybe due to his magician's sleight-of-hand, nobody ever seemed to notice it.

I had assumed there would be some vestige of thumb and forefinger left, but they were sheared off clean, with half the palm gone. Later I was to find out that the doctors had to keep removing tissue to prevent gangrene.








The glove was hardly just a glove. That was only the part that showed. What held it on was a tightly-wound bandage reaching all the way up to his elbow. At times the edge of that bandage showed just past his cuff, but the primitive cameras of the day did not reveal it. 

When the glove was on, he held both hands out in front of him.

“Quite a sight, eh?” he said, with a little Harold smile. Not a trace of self-pity. There were certain emotions he simply would not harbour.

“So what do you think?” It was an impossible question, even a bit cruel. What was I supposed to say?

“It looks fine, Mr. Lloyd. I’m grateful you recovered so well.”

“Please – “

I knew what he meant.

I fought to get the word out. “Harold.”





He gazed at me a moment with a speculative look. I allowed myself to wonder if he was going to kiss me, or do worse, which seemed to be his way of breaking in new girls. But I knew I was too far down in the pecking order (so to speak) to receive this kind of favour.

“Muriel, would you do something for me?”

In my heart, I said: anything, Harold. Anything.

“Would you dance with me?”

My heart dropped. Dance, as in the razz-ma-tazz contests he and Bebe Daniels used to win almost every night with their fire-breathing versions of the Charleston and the Black Bottom?






“I – don’t know what you  - “

“Like this.” He reached out with his good hand, touched my shoulder, drew me to him very gently.

My head reeled. I could smell his white makeup, the pomade in his hair. He pulled me into his orbit, and propelled me around so lightly that I soon forgot my utter incompetence on the dance floor. I was reminded of Arab sheiks who controlled their steeds with a silk thread.

This close, I could feel his radiant body heat. Harold wasn’t very tall (he had fought as a bantam-weight in his youth), so we were almost the same height, and at one point his forehead lightly bumped against mine.

We slow-danced (as slowly as Speedy could ever slow-dance) for one complete turn around the room. Thank God it was early enough that no one came in.

Then he put me away from him. Did not step back, did not push me, but  put me away.

“Thanks, Muriel. Just wanted to see if I could still do it.”

“You can do anything.” As soon as the words had escaped, I knew I had gone much too far.




(CODA. It's rare to find a photo of Lloyd without his prosthesis, but a couple of them do exist. In this one he is bowling with a custom-made ball to be used with three fingers.)





http://margaretgunnng.blogspot.ca/2013/04/the-glass-character-synopsis.html



Thursday, April 18, 2013

Is it Friday yet?




Though I swore I wouldn't post any more Harold Lloyd gifs, here I am doing it again. I'm making my own now, along with Facebook banners (yes, I am actually dipping my toe back in the poison waters of Facebook) and stuff. And this one turned out so well, after about a billion tries. As the rain teems down - no, not rain, but a sort of solid jelly of water suspended in the air which seeps into every crevice of your being, including your ass - I find I don't want to go out, don't want to hope, but somehow Harold has jumped up again.

I just miss him, is all. I fell deeply in love with him while writing The Glass Character, and never got over it. Nobody else gets it, apparently, or cares. I have this awful feeling that if anyone else had written the exact same novel, tlhey'd be at the top of the bestseller list. There's something about me. It's bad. Karma? Karma always reminds me of Carmen, a girl in Grade 5 I couldn't stand.




Harold Lloyd actually lived. He wasn't a fictional character, so making him into one took some doing. I wanted to capture all the paradoxes, the apparent contradictions in his personality. He came from this hayseed rural Nebraska background and was a hard-working, uncomplaining, roll-up-your-sleeves type, yet at the same time he could step out on the town looking as elegant as any leading man. When he took those glasses off (and by the way, he was the one who invented the term "glass character", though everyone else said "glasses'), nobody recognized him, and far from being insulted by it, he liked the fact that he could go about Hollywood and remain in cognito.

I am in danger here of telling his whole life story. I couldn't, there's too much of it, some of it kind of loony. There is no doubt he was eccentric, and became more that way as he got older. He fancied his Greenacres mansion was a sort of Heffneresque retreat for curvaceous young beauties whom he photographed in the nude (in 3D! Harold was always ahead of his time.) They were all there to sample like so many chocolates in a box. Meantime his wife suffered from loneliness and depression. How much do we pay for fame?




Hmmm, these gifs ain't bad. I spent a long time on them today. For almost a year, I turned away. I turned my back on all the failure, having my work thrown back in my face, or (worse) totally ignored. It seems I wasn't going to make a go of this, after all. The angel cake fell flat, the elation that had lasted a year and a half just died.

So why is it returning now?

I have this relentlessness in me, but I am not sure it is good. It's this inability to give up, even when I probably should have long ago.

I tell myself, look, I proved to myself that I can be published. So that must mean that it can happen again.

Even though this is bullshit, part of me must believe it.




It's not in the cards for me to be successful, or so I tell myself. I had that one little taste (well, two. But as with any peak time in life, did I really appreciate it? I assumed it would be that way "from now on".) But I realize this is just a load of complaining and I have to get on with the task of writing.

I cannot imagine writing another novel, but I couldn't imagine Harold until he jumped into my head. I thought researching a novel would be agonizing, but it turned out to be the most enjoyable part. I wanted to use everything I could get my hands on. Natural curiosity became obsession, the most enjoyable obsession I have ever experienced. 

I could lose myself in that world. My own world is boring and frustrating and I am left with the feeling I will never get what I want. 

But why did I think I could buy my way into happiness with a book? Aren't writers just about the most wretched people on earth (next to actors)? As for success, can't I be just as unhappy without it?

It bears thinking about.


http://margaretgunnng.blogspot.ca/2013/04/the-glass-character-synopsis.html






Spring, spring, it's SPRING!








Spring

NOTHING is so beautiful as spring—




When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;




Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;




The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush
The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush
With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.




What is all this juice and all this joy?
A strain of the earth's sweet being in the beginning
In Eden garden. Have, get, before it cloy,





Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,




Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,
Most, O maid's child, thy choice and worthy the
winning.