a quick note from Simon - who knew?
So, Sera is mysteriously out of town but flashed a special Jew Signal in the sky to remind me to tell our bloggy mishpuchah that she's got an essay up on Why We Write, a site where film and TV writers tell about how they ended up that way. Sera's piece is a juicy recollection of her angsty youth, which will furnish you with both understanding and delight. Nu, so read it already.
OK, enough pimpin' for one post. I know what you're really wondering: where's Sera?
Since we exist to stoke your imagination, we invite you to use the comments section to concoct short narratives about where in the world our smokin' Jewess might be (extra points if it's done in the style of a bodice-ripper paperback). Or, if you prefer, about where I might be going when I leave town tomorrow night. No fair chiming in if you actually know. The winner will get a shout-out in a future post, which could possibly mark the start of a dizzying rise to fame (and subsequent Britney-level crash-and-burn). So get to scribblin'!
6 comments:
Sera – a woman aroused, her heart aflame - tore open the curtains to the privileged cloister of Business Class seating. "My cocktail?,", she insistently demanded. She had some serious thinking to do on this flight, and that called for generous imbibement of colorless alcohols.
Flight attendant #2 (non-speaking role) shot her an acid glance, but the gentleman flier at seat 8B, turning to assess the woman standing just behind his shoulder, offered a more promising appraisal. Her eyes met his; they roamed each other’s geography with discreet curiosity. "I've got a flask of Belvedere in my briefcase," he proposed after regaining her gaze. "Have a seat and tell me something no one else knows, and I'll share it with you."
Sera's mind whirled. This guy was well-tanned, clean-shaven but heavy-bearded, with a strong nose and large but delicate hands. His voice rumbled right through her as he spoke. Plus, he had brought liquor on board – clearly, a man of unique talents. How could she say no?
"No. Thank you.," she added as an afterthought. She didn't have time for high-altitude footsie with some random, handsome, Semitic-looking guy. It didn't matter if he had special alcohol-hiding skills, or that his airplane reading was QB-VII. She needed to concentrate, not fornicate. Alcohol was an aid to both but she only had time for one. After all, she was on her way to PITCH THE BIGGEST SCRIPT IDEA OF HER LIFE DIRECTLY TO MARTIN SCORSCESE AT ZABAR'S THAT VERY AFTERNOON!
Meanwhile, in the meadow, a bulge formed beneath the fecund sod. It grew taller and larger, driven by some subterranean force that rhythmically propelled the soil higher and higher until the earth itself broke open in luscious loamy rifts. A hand, clad in a filthy utility glove, forced its way into the golden air, followed by another. The hands scrabbled for purchase on the lawn, and then a balaclava’d head emerged from underground. Heaving with exhaustion, he tore the cover-all cap from his head with a muddy glove and looked around with grey, dead eyes. Simon had escaped. From where, he could not tell. But he knew for sure where he was going, and there was no way Martin Scorscese could stop him. He sniffed the air – Zabar's was close. Maybe too close. Maybe not close enough. But he had to get there. He had to stop her. That script was his.
Oh and there were snakes on that plane! Did I leave that part out?
Nice read at why we write Sera.
Peter O Toole asks for your support.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZxVeim0lL0g
Seth Macfarlane is a scab
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KOcCxbcM1iY and WGA strike should be over by now.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H5rp2GnBA4g
if a little blogwhoring might be forgiven:
this is about an apache dance
Eagle Dance
will daniel marry me?
Congratualtions on the end of the WGA Strike and the new contract!
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