I can't find any bloomin' electricity on this damned desert island
It just isn't meant to be. This defies logic, but then so does a grown man writing stories of make believe. Twice now I've tried to add a movie to my Desert Island list. Twice offered a near promise of its impending post. Twice tried writing the entry. I have two drafts (a few thousand words at least) saved away in the old blogspot bank. Good movie. Multiple reasons why it's likeable. But something in me says it isn't meant to be. I'm boring you, I realize. I'm sorry. But it's true. I can't explain it in discursive terms (he's throwin out the big money words now, hey? hey?!), but this particular movie just doesn't want to get added. So, as it turns out, the Desert Island won't be televised after all, for now anyway. You're gutted. I know.
By way of compensation, here: the title of a short story I have a first draft for that I'm sure I'll be ready to share in no more than four or five years, max. It's called, "The Jew With the German Shepherd" and I only have four other stories to polish and spit shine before I get back to that one.
In the meantime, might I recommend the latest fiction and poetry at Cha: An Asian Literary Review. They're doing good shit over there. This story, here, is a primo example of some of that shit. Sorry, feeling a bit cussy this evening. Goodnight.
Wait! In this spirit of outrageous generosity (and in rather a derivative style of an author I write about all too often) I give you a picture of two ducks. Because, in the words of my immortal beloved, they're good guys. Yeah.