Quotendquote

Mini fiction and micromusings about internet life, books, sex, food and red-headed girls.

What to do, what to do.

RSS
Email
AddThis Social Bookmark Button האח הגדול Turtles

You can search by topic.

  • Administrative (1)
  • Bibliphilia (4)
  • Brain power (2)
  • City life (1)
  • Digitality (5)
  • Evil (2)
  • Fetish (5)
  • Fictionettes (6)
  • Food (1)
  • Football (1)
  • Net (2)
  • Noise (1)
  • Notes To Self (3)
  • Old things (1)
  • Seriously Now (1)
  • Supershorts (1)
  • Television (2)
  • Time travel (1)
  • Turkey (1)
  • Uncategorized (7)
  • Writing (2)


  • Or just search those tomes of old.

  • October 2009
  • September 2009
  • July 2009
  • February 2009
  • January 2009
  • October 2008
  • September 2008
  • August 2008
  • May 2008
  • April 2008
  • March 2008
  • February 2008
  • January 2008
  • November 2007
  • October 2007
  • April 2007
  • March 2007


  • To Reiterate: Ah, Tilda.
    Thursday February 28th 2008, 11:06 pm
    Filed under: Fetish,Television

    When I set this rickety connection and finally got the obscure ABC feed stable enough to run, the image of the red carpet filled my screen. And Tilda Swinton was there: no one interviewed her. She was just in the background, unnoticed, and in her black dress with the one sleeve she seemed like a statue of something alien and wonderful – a wonderfulness too strong for ABC. And then again, sitting behind some actress as they were giving the awards: her hair the exact shade of rust and cut in short, angular strokes, and her eyes: she was too pretty for this tacky room with its tacky women, too good for Hollywood and strange here. You wanted her back in the far northen Scotland or in a movie, not idling with these idlers. You wanted her to be Galadriel, because when she’d say that she will not be dark, but beautiful and terrible as the night and day, you’d believe her. And you just knew they nominated her for Best Supporting Actress because they needed another face on that screen when they give it to someone so much tackier than her. And when she won, we were as surprised, her and me.

    And when she gave the speech she was sexy and commanding in a way women aren’t in this world. She was unphazed about this Disney Princess dream. Which made her all the more worthy.

    Tilda, Tilda, be mine. Or better let me be yours. Israel’s not Scotland but we have beaches and in the winter they are sometimes gray and stormy; we could walk them like bullets through a storm and your hair will rust in the rain. We could enjoy falafel and it’d be like Lambas in our presense, two kings of the oceans. And you will be Gabriel, ageless and sexless and sexy, and the gap between our years on this Earth will burn between us. I’d have you have me for all eternity, but I’d be content with one day. Ah, Tilda.




    Duchovny, You Bastard
    Friday November 30th 2007, 6:12 pm
    Filed under: Television,Time travel

    It’s a slow day in 2007. I get in my time machine and fly to 1996 to watch television with myself. We’re at our parents’, sitting on the gray couch, the one we’ll throw away two years hence. My ’96 self has the remote. I had it last time.

    “So what do you watch in the future?” he asks. Fran Drescher is nasalating and the audience finds that funny. A self-content butler smiles at himself. Niles? Giles? What’s his name?

    “Not much,” I say. “Not much. Although I did watch this thing that was–but… no. You wouldn’t like to… no.”

    “Come on,” he says. “Tell me.”

    “No,” I say. “No. Okay. It’s this show where… This is funny. Gracie Sheffield has sex with agent Mulder and punches him in the face. You know, for kicks? Yeah. And later…”

    The smile withers on my lips. My ’96 self looks at the TV as the Sheffield girls fight about some prom date or a secret they were supposed to keep from Charles Shaughnessy. “Please tell me that you mean Maggie,” says me.

    “No, man,” I say, and suddenly I understand why you must never, ever, bring news of the future back in time. “I’m sorry. Madeline Zima.”

    “And David Duchovny,” he says.

    “I’m sorry,” I say. I put my hand on his shoulder. He shrugs it off.

    “What’s it called?”

    “Huh?”

    “The show,” says me, looking away. “What’s it called?”

    “Eh… I… Forget it,” I say.

    We watch the rest of the show silently. Only the recorded audience laughs.