So, as far as the Wicked Witch of the West is concerned, the wide-brimmed pointy black hat, frumpy schoolmarmish dress, and black kicks that look like my 103-year-old great aunt’s prescription shoes isn’t a witch costume, it’s just her regular clothes, right? Unless witches have some kind of uniform. They don’t really seem that organized. I know they have covens and whatnot, but those seem more like the equivalent of garage bands in the witching world. Like, let’s get together in a dank cave and jam out on some spells and stuff. Like our coven on Facebook, etc. There isn’t a federation of witches or anything. Which is why cauldron standards are never consistent.
Witches, can I give you some fashion advice? Marc, sorry if you were about to give your own witch fashion tips. Don’t let me stop you. This world is big enough for both of us to tell witches how to dress. Witches, you need to show off more of your bodies. Don’t hide your light under a bushel. Just because you have a wart on your nose doesn’t mean you have to have a wart on your sense of your own feminine beauty. Warlocks, on the other hand—cover it up. Sorry, nobody wants to see it.
Ah snap, I was kind of hoping this was going to be a big screen version of the HBO show and we’d see some salads flying.
Oh my dapper digi-scribe, are we even looking at the same trailer? Because I just see Rachel Weisz wearing black and if she’s a passable witch then next thing you know Leonardo Decrapio will be playing Hoover.
But forget about that – I can’t decide what’s cooler – the fact that your grandmother is 103 years old or that you referenced the long lost Leonard Cohen outtake “Prescription Shoes”? And, ( speaking of shoes ) this movie is coming out so far in the future that the TSA will be working at the box office by then. Why would I possibly need to know about anything that’s happening next March?
By then when you go to the movies you’ll be taking your shoes off quicker than you can say Borealis and emptying your pockets even before you get to concessions.
As per your question – hmmm – let me finish frying this winkle and think about that. I was always under the impression that once you entered Oz there was no such thing as regular clothes. I figure it’s sort of like Long Beach or Compton where even the monkeys are sartorially splendid.
And, I’m not sure what burg you call home but here in NYC witches have one of the strongest unions in the nation. I believe that if we loosen the ban on Turkish imports you’ll find that the standardization and quality of cauldrons will improve.
You’re not still trying to whip up grog and potions in one of those godawful Israeli forged pieces, are you? They aren’t reliable and I find that things tend to stick to the sides. Rarely the same side, now that I think of it.
By the way, your last comment is downright pernicious and having been in love ( or at least in a band ) with several Warlocks in my time – I’m going to act like it didn’t even happen.
But, I ask you – James Franco – chewing off arms, Howling, stoking bongs, making art – what can the man not do?
And, how do we stop him from trying?
Side question: is the only way to get to Oz via tornado? I thought the public transit system here in Atlanta was bad. Who decided to develop a tornado-only transportation system? Is there a portal inside the tornado, or does the tornado slip through some thin place in reality? I suppose it’s possible that Oz is just another layer on top of our dimension, vibrating at a different frequency, and spinning fast in a clockwise or counter-clockwise direction is the only way to break through to it.
Which explains why every time I stir my coffee too fast, I end up falling on a good witch and knocking off her ruby slippers.
Again with the witch fashion advice, but good witches need to fasten their slippers more snugly on their feet. Seems like they can’t take two steps without some farm-bred Kansas girl and her little dog falling out of the sky and knocking them out of their own shoes. And by farm-bred Kansas girl, I’m referring to myself, of course.
I recommend velcro ruby slippers. It may not be the most aesthetically pleasing, but at least you won’t have to walk around Oz barefoot like one of your witch cousins from the deep South. Besides, it’s all about how you carry yourself, velcro ruby slippers or no. To slightly reappropriate the definition of the word “fancy” from a Shakespeare quote, “Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart or in the head?”
Besides the fact that you’d get to your destination a bit dizzy and your hairdo might need some attention – I fail to see the down side of traveling by tornado. There might have to be some disclaimer in your insurance policy involving what you’re liable for upon landing – but, if a witch has to die to ensure a softer touchdown – so be it. And, if that witch happens to be rocking a pair of ( pardon the pun ) to-die-for slippers – even better.
Reality itself is a mighty thin place. Once you’ve boarded a tornado, whether you’re spinning clockwise or visa versa – I’m pretty sure that you’re on your way to a different dimension.
Did you know that in Australia the water rushing out of your toilet spins in the reverse direction than it does on our Hallowed Ground?
Without going all Newtonian ( Isaac not Huey ) on me – what’s that all about?
Speaking of Hallowed Ground – I never knew you were from Georgia. That might explain the ease with which you recommend velcro slippers. And, since when is looking like one of my witch cousins from the deep South a bad thing?
There are certain recently deceased British tattooed torch singers that have made an entire career based on the look ( minus the mustache ) of my Aunt Belvah from Yazoo, Mississippi. More importantly, I have to thank you for clearing up the actual syntax of that Shakespeare quote.
Because I always thought he was asking for the location of some high end baked good that he misplaced. I figured he’d last seen them near the fireplace or in the bathroom.
“Tell me where is the fancy bread?”
“In the hearth or in the head?”
Oh, and maybe you know because you’re from Georgia – on what occasion might one take bread into the bathroom?
The only way I’m taking bread into the bathroom with me is if it’s been fermented into yeast and then turned into beer, which I will then drink in the shower. You hear that, bread? You need to transform from your caterpillar-loaf-form into a butterfly of alcohol before you get to come into the shower with me. Also, women take note. You too will need to turn into butterflies before you’re allowed to take showers with me. Or at least get a butterfly tattoo on your ankle or something.
This is probably why I shower alone all the time.
We’re born alone, we die alone, we massage Pert Plus® into our scalp alone. It’s in the bible—you can look for yourself. In the shampoo section. Jesus had a lot to say about keeping your hair shiny and manageable. He united the shampoos and the conditioners into one easy-to-use bottle. This also explains why the devil got split ends as soon as he was cast out of heaven.
Brother, brother, brother – we’ve got to hang out more often. Because I haven’t seen any truly inspired drinking in the shower since my lost weekend in Genoa with Oliver Reed.
He was a lot less picky about his shower partnerships than you seem to be. Take it from me. And, he had a tattoo I wish I’d never seen on an appendage that had it’s own caterpillar-loaf like quality.
Born alone? Die alone? Pert alone? Perhaps the ancient dinosaur Todd Rundgren was right in his assessment of what you and Leroy need?
And, while we’re on the subject of shepherds and celibacy -
Did you know that Lather, Rinse & Repent was slated to be the 11th commandment until they ran out of room on the tablets? Don’t you hate when that happens? You wake up at four in the morning with the sonnet that’s surely to launch you into Pulitzer orbit and you can’t find any room on the bedside tablet. That’s why I’m sticking with papyrus.
Yup. A fresh quill, a dry ream of hemp papyrus, a bottle of Dr. Bronner’s Magic Soap (Pert who?) plus a couple of cases of Pabst – and we’re off to be The Wizzard.
See you back in Kansas.