What did I write on page 2?"

I am 28 fucking years old and I still haven’t learned that, apart from actually putting in work, the most important rule of writing is saving your document!!!

R.I.P. Document 1. I wish I had saved you when I had the chance instead of thinking Ooo, let me just finish this sentence, I’m on a roll. And then watching the screen flash and all my work disappear. Good times!

Sometimes it’s fun to pretend that your celebrity imaginary best friend has written something specifically geared toward you, so I’m going to pretend Neil Gaiman’s New Year salutation was just for me:

[ed.: My dearest Shaunsaurus,] May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you’re wonderful, and don’t forget to make some art — write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself. [ed.: Love, Neil]

Now I have even more incentive to get some serious writing done. Thanks, Neil!

 

This morning I was doing a quick shave in the shower using one of the new disposable razors I recently purchased. As I was shaving I kept smelling something weird…and coconuty. For a second I thought I was havign a stroke, but then I realized where the smell was coming from. MY RAZOR.

I picked up the package. “New! Scented Handles! Hawaiian Tropic Scented!” it read. What. the. fuck. and. why.

Why? Why would you need your razor to smell like anything? I know they’re always trying to make razors seem more advanced and amazing than they really are, and there are only so many ways you can market them, but come on. I understand women caring about how their shaving lotion smells, but this isn’t even some kind of gel on the blade that is transferred to your skin, it’s the fucking plastic handle.

And what about the choice in scent? Hawaiian Tropic? Why couldn’t they choose something that conveys that it will sooth you as you shave if they insist on making the damned razor scented? Hawaiian Tropic, really? It’s like they said “I think we should combine an obnoxiously fake coconut smell and reference an organization that has been sued for sexual harassment countless times, ladies love that.”

I’m sure these are the technological innovations people of the past envisioned. That we would not only have disposable razors, but ones that reek of eau du Beach Blanket Bingo from the 50s.

Ugh, and I bought a six-pack, too. Let me know if you need some random ass Hawaiian Tropic scent in your life.

This morning on the train, I looked down at the woman sitting in front of me and thought to myself “What an ugly hat.” A moment later, she stood up and said “Hello everyone, I would like to provide you with the daily Word. Today’s is ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged.’ Amen. Thank you.”

Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat!?

Monday after work, I read a great romance novel by someone I have actually spoken to (albeit online). It was a fun read, and inspiring because the author is just a normal person like me.

Tuesday after work, I watched four episodes of Full Metal Alchemist and then read book 1 of Harry Potter.

On Wednesday, I spent some time outlining two romance stories I’m working on, one of which is about faeries and the other is about demons. I then read book 2 of Harry Potter and started in on book three. All of this was done while drinking pear cider beer.

It has been a fucking awesome week so far.

I woke up this morning at around 5:00 a.m. and didn’t get back to sleep for about 2 hours. I kind of enjoyed just laying in be and thinking while it was still quiet out and light was just starting to filter in through the blinds. One of the things that crossed my mind was Conan O’Brien’s premiere on TBS the other night. I’m not a huge fan of his, but it inspired this little story about Jay’s reaction.

It was cool in the bunker. Jay pulled his silk robe closer to his body, enjoying the slide of the material against his skin. Somewhere in the sprawling mansion above him, he knew his wife searched for him. They were supposed to leave for the charity golf tournament an hour ago, but he needed to watch one more time.
On the two big screen televisions situated in front of him were the images that had revealed to him his demise. Freeze framed before him were the images from both his and Conan’s show at exactly 11:45 on Monday night. On one screen, Conan’s eyes were screwed shut, his mouth agape with ecstasy as his hands gripped an electric guitar with the ease of a rock star. Jack White’s face rested near Conan’s shoulder, his face contorted mid-croon as he sang into the lanky ginger’s ear. On the other screen, Jay saw himself, sitting at his desk pointing at a Photoshopped picture of a squirrel. His face was slack, resigned.
He heaved a sigh and leaned back in his chair, resting his chin on his chest.
“Cesar,” he called quietly.
The compact Central American man emerged from behind one of the luxury cars flanking Jay’s seat. His fleet of expensive toys required an army of undocumented workers, and sometimes they bought him more pleasure than the automobiles themselves.
Jay hit the play button on one of his remotes, and the strains of Conan and Jack wailing “Twenty Flight Rock” echoed off of the concrete surfaces of the underground garage. Jay’s last refuge.
“Dance for me, Cesar.”

I often write little scarps of things on my smartphone. I’ll try to start posting more of them here, so they aren’t lost forever when my phone inevitable conks out.

The other day I had the opportunity to see a cinematic masterpiece available on Netflix instant watch and decided to partake.

White Dog is a 1982 American drama film directed by Samuel Fuller using a screenplay written by Curtis Hanson loosely based on Romain Gary‘s 1970 novel of the same title. The film depicts the struggle of a dog trainer named Keys (Paul Winfield), who is black, trying to retrain a stray dog found by a young actress (Kristy McNichol), that is a “white dog”—a dog trained to viciously attack any black person. Fuller uses the film as a platform to deliver an anti-racist message as it examines the question of whether racism is a treatable problem or an incurable condition.

 

Save the dark meat for me!

 

 

If you think you’d enjoy the tale of a misguided young white woman willing to risk it all to save a racist German Shepard, then this is the movie for you. I didn’t watch the entire film, but what I did see was hilarious. If you don’t want to see a movie that has racist dogs, gratuitous use of fake blood on a white dog so that you can see the handprints od the person who applied it, sappy 80s anti-racism messages, and motherfucking BURL IVES, then we can’t be friends anymore.

I’m introducing a new feature at Shaunasaurus:  Side Eye Master of the Month. The recipients of this prestigious honor have mastered my favorite expression, the side eye. The side eye is the look you give someone when you’re contemplating whether to ignore them or pop them in the head. I usually reserve it for Tea Partiers, some Libertarians, old ladies who walk too slowly in front of m, annoying people on the subway, annoying people at bars, annoying people at the bank…ok, basically everyone I come into contact with (except for you, dear reader).

Today’s master is Sherri Sheppard, of The View. She may be stupid enough to think that cavemen rode around on dinosaurs, but that hasn’t prevented her from getting her PhD in Side-eye-ology:

 

"She's lucky this ponytail is stapled on, or else we'd be tussling."

Mamaquin said there's be days like these...

I really don’t know how this got in the tree. It’s fairly high up there. I’m thinking this may be a Real Doll domestic violence situation. I haven’t seen Andrew McCarthy around for a while. Maybe he was on the bad shit and freaked out? “You’ll never leave me Emmy! Not without your LEGS!”

Terrrorism: (n.) The act of trying to get some lazy assholes to stop using black people as free labor/sexual objects. (Definition from the Sons/Daughters of the Confederacy Dictionary of Self-Delusion, vol. 5. 2010.).

Oh, irony.

Photo from Ta-Nehisi