The Warrior Queen’s Parting Words and the Retirement of Eloquent Eloquence
For those of you who have been among the loyalists, you know how much of this site has been devoted to that sassy lil’ momma from Virginia. Not content to be the progenitor of the WhiskeyBabyNinjaStar, she decided also to give birth to the Cannonball Read. When I first announced that I was going to try to read 100 books in a year, Pink signed right up. I said, “Seriously? You expect me to challenge a chick with cancer? Don’t they hate me enough on Pajiba?” She said, “What? Are you scared?” You’ll never know the humiliation of reading chicken sounds via email. Even the Bluth family dances pale in comparison.
But what few recall is that The Eloquent Eloquence began the day Pink announced her fight against leukemia. When we awarded our first crappy Amazon DVD back in the days when that was the reward, it was the day Amanda began her fight. And, my God, what a fight! It tracked across several states, through multiple doctors brave and malevolent, through treatments that would send most of us reeling for the nearest witchdoctor.com. I was bitching because I couldn’t find time to read while working my crappy job. She was trying to get pages in in between crippling spells of vomiting and trying to raise a precocious three year old.
She hated sentimentality, at least when I offered it. If I wrote how proud of her I was, or how she was my hero, she’d tell me to shut the hell up. She’s a fucking warrior, kids. She wouldn’t want us to erect a statue. She’d want to be carried to Valhalla on her shield. She’d want us to shout a lamentation that would shake the foundations of heaven and spill the wine of the gods. And then she’d want us to fight twice as hard.
Today, we will retire the EEs with memory of our fallen heroine. It began with her fight, and it ends with her fight. When you read through these ten comments, remember her. Remember her fight, and remember her spirit, and remember her humor.
Goodbye, Pink. You’re so cool, you’re so cool, you’re so cool.
10. (In response to the dream combination of novelist as lyricist with musician as composer): Excuse me for a moment while I smack Jay in the back of the head hard enough to make his eyeballs pop for insulting Cousin Tori. Take that! My first choice would have honestly been Virginia Woolf posthumously pens lyrics for Tori Amos, but that seemed way to Women’s Studies 101. My other options: Nancy A. Collins writes lyrics for Madonna. Poppy Brite writes for The Cure (to easy and obvious) or Muse. Tom Robbins writes for R.E.M. Weird Ben Folds moment: A number of years back, Mr. Pink and I stumbled onto an exhibit at the Smithsonian featuring the history of the piano. There was a book for writing comments at the end of the exhibit, and right above where I signed was a little note from a one “Ben Folds”. I went apeshit running around the museum looking for him. Mr. Pink was not amused.
9. (In response to the Explicit Ills trailer): Damn, those are some of the most beautiful, well-groomed poor people I’ve ever seen in that trailer for Explicit Ills. Rosario Dawson looks like she stepped out of a shampoo commercial to demand her kid’s asthma medicine. I guess that’s why you don’t see a lot of movies sympathetic to the poor people in Appalachia. ‘Cause nobody would be fooled by actors with full sets of teeth and clean hair playing hillbillies living up in the holler.
8. PublishedI’d like to share a fun little song we sing in the Pink household. See, a long while back, Little Pink learned the word “boobie” and its definition. (Women have boobies; men have pecs. Fat men have boobies.) However, in addition to being a curious little fart, Little Pink is rather chatty and was given to declaring “BOOBIES” at random places and inappropriate times. So Momma Pink and Daddy Pink had to sit him down and a declare that “We don’t talk about boobies.” What does Little Pink do? He turned the lecture into a song. We don’t talk about boobies! We don’t talk about boobies! We don’t talk about boobies! Boobies! Boobies! Boobies! Booooobies! YEAH!
7. Right lads, now, I know there’s not a faint heart among you, and I know you’re as anxious as I am to get into close action. But we must bring them right up beside us before we spring this trap. That will test our nerve, and discipline will count just as much as courage. The Acheron is a tough nut to crack… more than twice our guns, more than twice our numbers, and they will sell their lives dearly. Topmen, your handling of the sheets to be lubberly and un-navy like. Until the signal calls, you’re to spill the wind from our sails, this will bring us almost to a complete stop. Gun crews, you must run out and tie down in double quick time. With the rear wheels removed, you’ve gained elevation. and without recoil, there’ll be no chance for re-load, so gun captains, that gives you one shot from the lardboard battery… one shot only. You’ll fire for her mainmast. Much will depend on your accuracy… however… even crippled, she will still be dangerous, like a wounded beast. Captain Howard and the marines will sweep their weather deck with swivel gun and musket fire from the tops. They’ll try and even the odds for us before we board. They mean to take us as a prize. And we are worth more to them undamaged. Their greed… will be their downfall. England is under threat of invasion, and though we be on the far side of the world, this ship is our home. This ship, is England. So it’s every hand to his rope or gun, quick’s the word and sharp’s the action. After all… surprise is on our side. So maybe it’s not conventionally inspirational, but something about the way all that crazy 19th century navel terminology just rolls off of Russel Crowe’s tongue just makes me feel special and all soft on the inside. Because I am a big dork.
6. (Expressing her distaste for Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland): All the Sonics ‘round the RVA parts closed, but they keep showing the commercials. What the hell! It’s torture. I finally got to have one of those crazy sinful milkshake concoctions last summer at the Outer Banks. Initially, I was excited about Burton’s Alice adaption, but now that I am reading more about it, I’m skeptical. Disney managed to pull Tweedledee and Tweedledum over from Through the Looking Glass but keep the rest of the original story fairly intact. Now Burton’s pulling out shit from all over Carroll’s canon. The White Queen? Anne Hathaway? In Looking Glass she’s an old woman who turns into a goat. Johnny Depp as the Mad Hatter is a brilliant choice. Helena B-C as the Queen of Hearts could work. She’s loony enough. But now the story is starting to veer too far from the original source material, which is perfectly wacky for Burton in its true from. Why’s he gotta mess with it? Curiouser and curiouser. Can you tell I’m an Alice nut? Can you?
5. That’s right bitches! Four more! I am determined to at least out live McCain, whether he takes the election or not. Because apparently everyone is expecting the man to drop like a sack o’ somethinorother. Like tomorrow. Vermillion and others interested in Cannonball Read Rules are: 1. Nothing under 200 pages 2. Short story collections must contain six or more stories. 3. No graphic novels And I think that’s it. Prisco and I have to keep it simple. ‘Cause we’re simple minded. First one to 100 books has no life!! Yeah!!
4. (In response to the Dead Snow trailer): Aw, who the the hell cares if the movie’s cribbing ShockWaves? It’s crazy zombie action and an opportunity for me to jibber through the whole movie in my best Swedish Chef voice. Yippee!! And you don’t see many zombie/snowmobile actions sequences. ‘Cause folks, that’s what the world needs right now. Zombies. Snowmobiles. Together.
3. (From the Getting to Know You comment diversion): *Wandered over here from Go Fug one particularly soul-sucking day in Corporate Hell. Thought, “Damn this is funny. Lots of profanity. Must read more. Must hide when people come around the corner.” *RVA baby! Shout out to the 804! *Used to consider myself a stay-at-home mom, but now it’s more like professional patient. Chemotastic! *Smug married to Mr. Pink, college sweetheart. Mother to Little Pink, awesome toddler extraordinaire. *If I did the dating thing, I guess either True Romance or 28 Days Later would be my choices.
2. PublishedThis year, my son determined my Halloween costume, so for the first time as been wrested from me of what is normally my favorite challenge of the year. I am fresh out of fun ideas; my toddler has captured my costuming mojo. Shameful, because the Mister Pink and I have a long standing tradition of crazy, inspired costumes. But in college one of my girlfriends, in a fit of intoxicated creativity, took a packet of those glow-in-the-dark stars and stuck them all over her black outfit. She frolicked about the whole night exclaiming proudly, “I AM THE UNIVERSE!” I dunno; it kind of worked.
1. As the resident cancer queen here, I can’t help but gag all over this bullshit. The legacy I want to leave my family should I start coasting out this world’s door is not going to be on some fucking half-baked reality show promoting my misery. My kid deserves better. I think I’m hunting this Probst asshole down and unleashing my acid-tinged chemo blood all over his opportunistic face. I’m the real Acid Alien Queen, baby, and on behalf of folks out there struggling to overcome disease and death, I’m going to wrap his ass up in a cocoon and plant little crazy alien babies in his stomach. Then we’ll film that shit for some killer reality TV.
Finally: Here are three honorable mentions, which perfectly encapsulate who AlabamaPink was:
WHAT THE FUCK LADIES! Here I am reading along, intrigued by the lesbian pundit lady on TV (I hardly ever watch the news channels,), and then…wait…WHAT? ME? Damn people. You made me get all weepy-eyed. I’ve been loving Paheeba Day and the reviews. A great distraction and entertainment as I await the newest brand of chemo. Pajiba has been the most unlikely but most incredible virtual family I could have ever imagined. Every day I am amazed by the love and support I’ve received from folks I’ve never met. Kind makes me scared to meet anyone in real life. I’d hate for the real me to be a disappointment from the AlabamaPink me. I love you people. You’ve been part of this wave of love and prayers and positive energy that has kept me going through this stupid cancer shit. You are all teh rock star.
Okay, y’all just need to stop because I am sitting here bawling all by myself in front of my laptop. I mean fucking-A BierceAmbrose, that’s some of the most awesome, heart-filling stuff I’ve read. Give yourself a big squeezy hug for me. If the nurse comes in while I’m all weepy and snotty, I’ll blame it on a really sad episode of “Intervention” because I can’t think of an easy way to explain why I’m crying over Dildo Oscars on a website called Pajiba. Hardy hardy. Let me blow my nose. Or I can blame it on the chemo, ‘cause this shit is making me feel weird-o weird. Anyway, my nomination for this list is a daring, sassy young Victorian girl by the name of Alice. She’s been my hero since I was a wee Pink myself. Who else would take on the Queen of Hearts? “Why you’re nothing but a pack of cards!”
There is nothing fucking cheesy about being thankful. So there. Having said that, despite the entirely crazy and frustrating year that I have had, I have an enormous amount of things to be thankful for. And I could totally blabber on about each and every one, but here are my biggies. ~Little Pink and Mr. Pink. They are my rocks. Except way cuter. ~Grammy and Pappy Pink. You never know how much you need your parents until, well, you need them. I am also thankful they live in the same city. ~My surprisingly huge network of friends that popped up so quickly, like mushrooms in my yard after a rainstorm, to support me and love me and carry me through this bullshit. You guys rock. And you know who you are, rock stars.