Why doesn't real life have a soundtrack?
I enjoy listening to music. It's almost perverse how much I enjoy listening to music. If music were a solid thing, I'm sure I would be arrested for doing indecent things in public with it.
I always like having music playing while I'm doing anything around the apartment. Be it writing, cleaning, cooking, conversing with the cats, or engaging in witty repartée over Skype with some of my fellow sophisticants, there's usually music accompanying my hilarious hijinks. Right now, I'm listening to Guns' N Roses - Appetite for Destruction... it is soothing my savage breast.
So, now all I need to do is figure out a belt clip for a battery pack, attach some speakers, keep them in a backpack, connect it to my free iPod (thanks, moviesonline.ca!) and blast out the Vanilla Ice wherever I go.
Um, and by Vanilla Ice, I clearly mean whatever music you assume I think is awesome.
When writing, some specific scenes seem to call out for a certain type of music. In Behind Stone Walls, I found that Mr. Self-Destruct by Nine Inch Nails kept coming back to haunt me like the odour of a fart that gets trapped in the cloth of your pants.
RDL has proposed a contest of some kind for writers over at moviesonline.ca, and sleazy and Flagg seem to be thinking of polishing The New World Order for submission to Image Comics. I'm going to need to buy new speakers.