The Hills Are Alive... RUN!!!

The bell tolls for me afterward, I suppose. Tonight I drive down to Princeton to meet Dead Wrong, Corey Sloan, and the rest of the undead cast and crew of Zombie Etiquette, the corpse-driven talk show based out of  Princeton, New Jersey. Usually, preparations for a television interview normally consist of worrying what to wear and remembering not to look at the camera. In this case, the question is whether or not to go armed with enough firepower to take down a swarm of man-eating ghouls.

Don't get me wrong; I have no doubt that I was invited on to be asked about my latest book, Performed by Lugosi, and my role as a writer and film commentator. The show has had some great artists and stars on in the past, and most of them have actually been seen again, so the mortality rate of  the show's guests is actually quite low. For example, the line up for the show I'll be taping next Friday includes controversial singer, songwriter, and comedienne Jessica Delfino, actress/writer Alexis Iacono (Kiss Me Again, The Ten, World of Warcraft: Cataclysm), and clothing designer Pamela Ptak with Alternative Model Kitty Kat Kailei. Someone's bound to notice if one (or all) of them going missing.

But then again, I still have my concerns. How long can you remain in a room full of flesh-eating zombies before they start to lose their composure? Has the show's lack of on-screen guest eviscerations merely been a barely maintained safety record just begging to be broken? At what point do the par cans and tungsten stop being mere lighting and start acting as the heat lamps at a hot buffet?

Hence my dilemma. Do I stroll into a studio filled living dead fiends armed with nothing more than a smile and good intentions, or do I march in with fire axe in hand and risk committing a major faux pas? I'll most likely settle on the former; it's probably hard to interview someone while they cradle a shotgun and glare suspiciously. But I'll be sure to send updates to my Facebook and Twitter feeds to keep you up to date on my safety status. Of course, my last words on Earth might end up being a poorly spelled tweet about being barricaded in the green room, but I guess that's a risk I'll have to take. Wish me luck.

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Errata, by Charles Simic

                                          Image via Wikipedia 
Where it says snow
read teeth-marks of a virgin 
Where it says knife read 
you passed through my bones 
like a police-whistle 
Where it says table read horse 
Where it says horse read my migrant's bundle 
Apples are to remain apples 
Each time a hat appears 
think of Isaac Newton 
reading the Old Testament 
Remove all periods 
They are scars made by words 
I couldn't bring myself to say  
Put a finger over each sunrise 
it will blind you otherwise 
That damn ant is still stirring 
Will there be time left to list 
all errors to replace 
all hands guns owls plates 
all cigars ponds woods and reach 
that beer-bottle my greatest mistake 
the word I allowed to be written 
when I should have shouted 
her name 


errata - Charles Simic

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Short Story Saturday: The Unavoidable Dilemma of Chauncey P. Simm

The Unavoidable Dilemma of Chauncey P. Simm

by S. Michael Wilson 

            “Squeaky Cheese.”

            Those were the words she spoke to me before she walked out of my life forever.

Image by katiecarman via Flickr            She stood framed in the splintered doorway of our spacious loft apartment, her full lips stained and puffy from an excess of pistachio nuts. I knelt in the far corner, the random fragments of my Berlin Wall Commemorative Beer Stein clutched in disbelieving hands. Her glare traveled across the room like a retired postal worker on a three day excursion through Fort Lauderdale, pausing momentarily near the singed potted palm for directions to the pitiful loser, then parking a few inches from my tear stained face and delivering her scorn through a passenger door window cracked open enough to let the contempt out and keep the air conditioning in.

            There was a pause during which I was meant to do or say something, but my copy of the event’s script had accidentally made it into the washing machine with my Day-Glo Buddhist robes, the words running together so that all I knew for sure was that I was supposed to do something with a ‘P’ and an ‘E’ in it.

            The moment passed, lost like a child in Sears, and before I knew what had happened, she spoke those fateful words.

            “Squeaky cheese,” she said.

            Then the door slammed shut, and I could hear her turn on her heels and stalk away huffily. I tried to speak, but the words stuck in my throat like an olive laced toothpick. That was it. She was gone.

That Sinking Feeling...

Image via WikipediaI find that the older I get, the more I feel like the guy who accidentally joins a suicide cult, thinking it was some kind of social club. I can clearly empathize with the surreal sensation of confusion that must undoubtedly accompany the man as he stands there surrounded by smiling fanatics clad in purple robes, stares down at the Dixie cup of poison-laced grape juice clutched in his hand and thinks to himself, "Did I miss something?"

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