because my life is more interesting than yours, and I think you know it

when the mask falls off, it sure makes a thud…
February 5, 2010, 3:51 am
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“To convince you, I’ll read Jean’s letters before I say more.  They were written to an accomplice and were purchased by Sydney.  There was a compact between the two women, that each should keep the other informed of all adventures, plots and plans, and share whatever good fortune fell to the lot of either.  Thus Jean wrote freely, as you shall judge.  The letters concern us alone.  The first was written a few days after she came.

“Dear Hortense:

“Another failure.  Sydney was more wily than I thought.  All was going well, when one day my old fault beset me, I took too much wine, and let slip the secrets of my past.  My new hosts now understand that I was once … a mime.  Oh, for shame! As soon as I had drunkenly slurred the word, they were disgusted and appauled.  Edward actually did a spit take! His brandy sprayed Mrs. Coventry in the face and in a fainting fit, she leaned too close to the fire and badly scorched her face.  The effect of this restored her to her senses almost instantly and she flew into a screaming tizzy.  It seemed as though there would be no way to make the awful wretch cease her screaming, until Gerald applied (with full force, I might add) the palm of his hand to her face.  This resulted in my obtaining a bloody lip, as I had to bite it to keep myself from laughing.  Mrs. Coventry can be so trying sometimes that I really do think someone ought to bring her to a field where she may meet her very (in my opinion) timely demise.  Edward did his best to aide me and my injured lip and I thanked him. What a useless lump of flesh. Now, Gerald on the other hand, there’s a man I’d like to take backstage and have my way with. Mmmmhm.  Actually, I did have my way with him.  Now, I know it was wrong, and we tried to resist the temptation with every fiber of our hot, longing, writhing bodies… But it was too much for us and we checked into a local inn. What a waste of 5 minutes. It’s sad, Horty, because I know I can never get that 5 minutes back.  Oh well.  At least I am still so advantaged as to have the old uncle wrapped around my little finger.  We shall marry next month. Do come to the reception!

Adieu, more soon.

Ps: This is a likeness that Edward has done of me. I don’t find it at all flattering, but the rest of the family think it very fitting. Your thoughts?


Blithedale, etc.
January 22, 2010, 12:58 am
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The Blithedale Romance as reality TV. Communal sleeping rooms? Confessionals? More drinking than actual work going on?

Yes, please.

How might this story have turned out had it been on network television, competing with the likes of Wife Swap, My Big Fat Redneck Wedding or The Simple Life (Priscilla would totally be Paris Hilton. Pale, waif-like, not a lot going on upstairs…)?  I’d like to think of Blithedale taking on a set up similar to The Surreal Life.

“The Surreal Life: Blithedale”


Christopher Knight as Silas Foster

Jose Canseco as Hollingsworth

Vanilla Ice as Coverdale

Charo as Zenobia

Jane Wiedlin as Priscilla

They would have their daily chores, just as they do in the novel, but in the evenings, instead of reading aloud or dressing in costumes impersonating works of art, they would meet with Sally Jesse Raphael (cleverly disguised as Westervelt) at which point she would air the “Dirty Transcendentalist Laundry” of the community.

“Coverdale,” she would say, “You admitted your dirty, carnal, lustful imaginings of Zenobia’s naked body in Confessional last night. Let’s take a look at that footage.”

At which point, Coverdale, would jump from his seat, but then stand frozen in horror as his detailed vision was repeated for the entire group to see.  Zenobia would perhaps be speechless for a moment or two, then playfully make a sarcastic, slightly cutting remark to Coverdale.  Coverdale, in interest of saving face, collapses into his chair, buries his face in his hands and sobs, “I wish I were dead… I wish I w-w-w-were deeeeeaaaaaaaddddddd.”

Priscilla would think about comforting him, but would be too nervous to actually make the gesture.

Silas Foster may choose to sit in disgusted silence.  Or, being of a coarse nature, would be greatly amused by Coverdale’s less than gentlemanly behavior.

This is the point that all the previews from the previous week would be cut from:

Hollingsworth, in a fit of jealousy and rage, stands up and throws his chair at the screen (missing Westervelt by mere inches).  He might take this opportunity to curse at Coverdale, Westervelt, or even Zenobia. Maybe even all three of them.

“Come on, Priscilla. We are outta here.”

And with that, Westervelt flips through his notecards, not knowing what to say next, killing air time, Zenobia kills herself onscreen by taking an overdose of whatever drug is fashionable at the moment, and Coverdale is irritated that no one seems to be paying any attention to him anymore.

Roll credits.

Free your mind…
January 17, 2010, 10:43 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

…and the rest will follow