I was surprised to see a comment on one of my posts which led me to this review.
How much do I love that reviewer and her review?
This was a very bright spot of this early morning, seeing as the opiate of sleep has remained elusive tonight and I've scared myself watching SUPERNATURAL.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
The Serpent's Lair
Oh yeah! THE SERPENT'S LAIR is up on the coming soon section of Changeling Press. The cover is up in all its hotness!
Another reason to read genre
Last Sunday after the fon-don't fiasco, I found myself obsessing over mortality. The tiny voice inside of me said I was lucky that my mom was okay, but someday, chances were, I would either get a call or have to make a call.
Clearly my head wasn't a good place to be in, so I needed to vacate.
I went to Borders and bought FROM DEAD TO WORSE by Charlaine Harris and THE SUGAR QUEEN by Sarah Allen.
I can't rightly express how grateful I was to have those books. For hours on Sunday life was kept safely at bay and my mind didn't turn traitor. I was safe.
I don't know what I'd do or what kind of person I'd be without books. And I hope I never get the answer to that.
Clearly my head wasn't a good place to be in, so I needed to vacate.
I went to Borders and bought FROM DEAD TO WORSE by Charlaine Harris and THE SUGAR QUEEN by Sarah Allen.
I can't rightly express how grateful I was to have those books. For hours on Sunday life was kept safely at bay and my mind didn't turn traitor. I was safe.
I don't know what I'd do or what kind of person I'd be without books. And I hope I never get the answer to that.
Nicest thing I read all week
John Scalzi posted about the cutbacks at his local library and a commenter said the sweetest thing. Turns out Stephen King gives substantial support to the library in his town.
I love knowing this.
I love knowing this.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Girls' Night Out
The women of my family went out last night for fondue and festivities.
Should've been a good time.
I had been looking forward to it all week: lotsa fancy cocktails, good food, and plenty of laughter.
Traffic was hellish and parking was a nightmare, but we (Mom, sisters Emma and Ella, good sister-in-law, niece, and widow Penelope) were all in good spirits. The waiter was cute and talkative, even if he was slow in bringing our drinks and waters.
The entree course arrived. By then, the cheese of the first course had settled into our stomachs, the buzz from the drinks had hit our heads, and the steam from the fondue pots had increased the temperature to New Orleans' July.
Everyone was scrambling to put their meat in the boiling broth, laughing at the confusion over the fondue forks and pieces that slipped into the murky depths of the pots.
My mother set down her fork and said, "I'm done."
While we looked at her, her chin slipped to her chest and her eyes closed, as if she had decided to take a little nap or send up a little prayer.
Maybe the concern started as a whisper and God knows, the realization was slow in dawning, but the good SIL and I began to shake my mom's shoulder, asking if she was all right. Her words were slurred and trailed off.
Someone was saying she had a stroke. Emma called 911. My SIL and I put wet napkins around her neck and to her forehead.
Time stretched like Silly Putty. A woman from the next table came over and took my mother's wrist. She said, "She had a pulse. Her hand feels cold and clammy."
I remember thinking, "Don't tell me that. It doesn't mean fuck-all if she had a stroke and 911 is giving attitude to my sister and I'm not ready for my mom to die."
I think I was thinking that. Maybe not in words because overarching everything- the slow downed time, the coolness of the napkins, the heat of the ridiculous pots- I was thinking PLEASE. Please be okay. Please don't die. Please I don't want you to die. Please wake up now. Please.
My mom started to gag, and my sister passed an empty bowl down, and we held it while my mom was sick. She came to right after that.
By the time the EMTs arrived, she was alert. One of them said a guy was coming to check her vitals, and she replied, "Make sure he's young and good looking."
When we told her to take off her suit jacket, she protested. "What and show my flab?"
Her vitals checked out and the EMTs left after she signed a refusal to go to the hospital.
The bus boy came over to clear out plates and asked us how everything was. Postcrisis means a return to normalcy, even though that question was a real life, "Aside from that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the show?"
The waiter was all set to serve dessert (a choice of chocolate fondue), but the meal was a stone in my belly and I pushed for us to leave without the final course. I don't think anyone wanted to linger.
I left the waiter a killer tip. I remembered the three times emergencies happened when I was a server- two pukings and one passing out- and all three of those tables stiffed me. I wasn't going to make the same mistake and gave him $130 on a $400 bill.
Because I wasn't thinking clearly, but knew that this shit stays with you as a server.
My mom was fine today. The nausea was gone and she didn't feel faint at all. General consensus was that the combination of wine, cheese, and heat overwhelmed her. She's going to make an appointment with the doctor on Tuesday.
I placed myself in denial today, except for when I remembered and then I couldn't stop crying. It's a funny old world. A funny, fucked-up, fragile, old world.
The joke of the evening: In our family, fondue is a fon-don't.
Should've been a good time.
I had been looking forward to it all week: lotsa fancy cocktails, good food, and plenty of laughter.
Traffic was hellish and parking was a nightmare, but we (Mom, sisters Emma and Ella, good sister-in-law, niece, and widow Penelope) were all in good spirits. The waiter was cute and talkative, even if he was slow in bringing our drinks and waters.
The entree course arrived. By then, the cheese of the first course had settled into our stomachs, the buzz from the drinks had hit our heads, and the steam from the fondue pots had increased the temperature to New Orleans' July.
Everyone was scrambling to put their meat in the boiling broth, laughing at the confusion over the fondue forks and pieces that slipped into the murky depths of the pots.
My mother set down her fork and said, "I'm done."
While we looked at her, her chin slipped to her chest and her eyes closed, as if she had decided to take a little nap or send up a little prayer.
Maybe the concern started as a whisper and God knows, the realization was slow in dawning, but the good SIL and I began to shake my mom's shoulder, asking if she was all right. Her words were slurred and trailed off.
Someone was saying she had a stroke. Emma called 911. My SIL and I put wet napkins around her neck and to her forehead.
Time stretched like Silly Putty. A woman from the next table came over and took my mother's wrist. She said, "She had a pulse. Her hand feels cold and clammy."
I remember thinking, "Don't tell me that. It doesn't mean fuck-all if she had a stroke and 911 is giving attitude to my sister and I'm not ready for my mom to die."
I think I was thinking that. Maybe not in words because overarching everything- the slow downed time, the coolness of the napkins, the heat of the ridiculous pots- I was thinking PLEASE. Please be okay. Please don't die. Please I don't want you to die. Please wake up now. Please.
My mom started to gag, and my sister passed an empty bowl down, and we held it while my mom was sick. She came to right after that.
By the time the EMTs arrived, she was alert. One of them said a guy was coming to check her vitals, and she replied, "Make sure he's young and good looking."
When we told her to take off her suit jacket, she protested. "What and show my flab?"
Her vitals checked out and the EMTs left after she signed a refusal to go to the hospital.
The bus boy came over to clear out plates and asked us how everything was. Postcrisis means a return to normalcy, even though that question was a real life, "Aside from that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the show?"
The waiter was all set to serve dessert (a choice of chocolate fondue), but the meal was a stone in my belly and I pushed for us to leave without the final course. I don't think anyone wanted to linger.
I left the waiter a killer tip. I remembered the three times emergencies happened when I was a server- two pukings and one passing out- and all three of those tables stiffed me. I wasn't going to make the same mistake and gave him $130 on a $400 bill.
Because I wasn't thinking clearly, but knew that this shit stays with you as a server.
My mom was fine today. The nausea was gone and she didn't feel faint at all. General consensus was that the combination of wine, cheese, and heat overwhelmed her. She's going to make an appointment with the doctor on Tuesday.
I placed myself in denial today, except for when I remembered and then I couldn't stop crying. It's a funny old world. A funny, fucked-up, fragile, old world.
The joke of the evening: In our family, fondue is a fon-don't.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Songs what got death in them
I was thirteen when I heard "Detroit Rock City" for the first time.
My head exploded.
What do you mean the main character of the song might not make it out alive? The hero of that song goes out on a Saturday night and gets into a horrible car crash.
"I gotta laugh 'cause I know I'm gonna die."
Holy shit.
Then Meat Loaf sang "Bat out of Hell" and that hero actually sees his mangled body and his soul soaring upwards.
The fifties were the best for songs with high mortality rates: "Teen Angel," "Leader of the Pack," "Tell Laura," etc...
All these tunes served up the moral that prom queens don't always make it to graduation and a leather jacket might look cool, but doesn't protect a body going over the speed limit.
No one is safe and a catchy chorus can't stop the Reaper.
My head exploded.
What do you mean the main character of the song might not make it out alive? The hero of that song goes out on a Saturday night and gets into a horrible car crash.
"I gotta laugh 'cause I know I'm gonna die."
Holy shit.
Then Meat Loaf sang "Bat out of Hell" and that hero actually sees his mangled body and his soul soaring upwards.
The fifties were the best for songs with high mortality rates: "Teen Angel," "Leader of the Pack," "Tell Laura," etc...
All these tunes served up the moral that prom queens don't always make it to graduation and a leather jacket might look cool, but doesn't protect a body going over the speed limit.
No one is safe and a catchy chorus can't stop the Reaper.
When the internet is a bad puddytat
I just spent a chunk of time trying to find out if Rob Zombie is in any way affiliated with the song "Bodies" (Let the bodies hit the floor, let the bodies hit the floor).
Apparently Drowning Pool recorded it, and the fact that there's tons of people who believe Zombie sang and/or wrote it is one of those mass delusions that occur from time to time.
Like being convinced the Roman numeral four was at the beginning of STAR WARS.
Ah well. In honor of mass delusions and psuedo-satanism:
Apparently Drowning Pool recorded it, and the fact that there's tons of people who believe Zombie sang and/or wrote it is one of those mass delusions that occur from time to time.
Like being convinced the Roman numeral four was at the beginning of STAR WARS.
Ah well. In honor of mass delusions and psuedo-satanism:
Saturday, October 3, 2009
What little boys are made of
My sister Emma called the other day. She had stepped out of the room for two minutes and when she came back, my little nephew (not the littlest cat burglar, but his brother) had an ant trap in his mouth.
Yup. In a room full of toys, the kid decided to play with the one object that could poison him.
He was fine, but it drove home the point that I like children much better when they reach the age that they can be left alone in a room for fifteen minutes without doing themselves harm.
If he ends up doing weird stuff when he's a teenager, I'm going to blame it on the ant trap.
Yup. In a room full of toys, the kid decided to play with the one object that could poison him.
He was fine, but it drove home the point that I like children much better when they reach the age that they can be left alone in a room for fifteen minutes without doing themselves harm.
If he ends up doing weird stuff when he's a teenager, I'm going to blame it on the ant trap.
Jennifer's Body (spoilage)
I was all set to be a fan of JENNIFER'S BODY: I'm already a fan of the "high school is hell" and "teenage girls are hell" metaphors and was in the mood for a horror flick.
I was a bit disappointed.
There were parts that were great- the second half is stronger- but they made me wonder why the other parts of the movie weren't up to that level.
The song the evil emo band sang during the killing? Brilliant! The dialogue for most of the movie? Self-consciously hip (yet kind of out of date) and distracting. It wasn't even that playful Whedonspeak that resembles nothing teenagers would actually say, but still does the job.
The showdown was awesome, or had the potential for awesomeness, but it was stuck in during the end credits.
It was great seeing Amy Sedaris, Cynthia Stevenson, and the guy from JUNO, OZ, and LAW AND ORDER in bit roles.
I wish I had liked it better. I was all ready to.
I was a bit disappointed.
There were parts that were great- the second half is stronger- but they made me wonder why the other parts of the movie weren't up to that level.
The song the evil emo band sang during the killing? Brilliant! The dialogue for most of the movie? Self-consciously hip (yet kind of out of date) and distracting. It wasn't even that playful Whedonspeak that resembles nothing teenagers would actually say, but still does the job.
The showdown was awesome, or had the potential for awesomeness, but it was stuck in during the end credits.
It was great seeing Amy Sedaris, Cynthia Stevenson, and the guy from JUNO, OZ, and LAW AND ORDER in bit roles.
I wish I had liked it better. I was all ready to.
Homage or rip-off
I picked up a book from the library and couldn't make up my mind if it was a rip-off of Charlaine Harris or an homage.
Or maybe Harris's ideas have become part of the vampire mythos.
Hard to decide.
I love when authors include shout-outs to other authors in their books. Gaiman pays tribute to CS Lewis a bunch of times in different stories and makes the reader feel quite smart for recognizing it.
This book walked a thin line. I'm not saying the author plagiarized, but there was that uncomfortable closeness of plot, character, and details.
I guess synthetic blood could be said to have entered the vampire mythology to take its place next to crosses (effective or ineffective), the sun, and blood-sucking. It could be I'm being too hard on the author.
Could be.
Or maybe Harris's ideas have become part of the vampire mythos.
Hard to decide.
I love when authors include shout-outs to other authors in their books. Gaiman pays tribute to CS Lewis a bunch of times in different stories and makes the reader feel quite smart for recognizing it.
This book walked a thin line. I'm not saying the author plagiarized, but there was that uncomfortable closeness of plot, character, and details.
I guess synthetic blood could be said to have entered the vampire mythology to take its place next to crosses (effective or ineffective), the sun, and blood-sucking. It could be I'm being too hard on the author.
Could be.
Friday, October 2, 2009
What am I supposed to do with your kid?
Last year, David Sedaris opened his reading with the following story (paraphrased): he was talking to a special ed teacher and asked, "Isn't it true that most of your students aren't handicapped in any way. Aren't they mostly assholes?"
She replied, "Yes."
I have four students who aren't in special ed, but require special modifications. On the lists of things I have to do to ensure their educations are bright and rosy is the contingency that if they feel overwhelmed, they can leave the room and go to some welcoming adult (administrator or misguidance counselor) who will pat their shoulders and say, "There, there now."
Four of them, which is slightly more ridiculous than when I had eight students with IEPs that all said they had to sit by the whiteboard and next to the teacher. I'm still waiting for someone to tell me how to do that without creating a dimensional rift or having them sit on each other's laps.
The school has a schizophrenic approach to special education: a honking chunk of the population require special services, but it seems random. Not to mention the fervor with which misguidance counselors try to get students out of special services, counting on the goodness and willingness of the teachers to provide unspoken modifications for the students.
The four are a handful, which is the politest restatement of Sedaris's observation. It's going to be one long year in that class.
She replied, "Yes."
I have four students who aren't in special ed, but require special modifications. On the lists of things I have to do to ensure their educations are bright and rosy is the contingency that if they feel overwhelmed, they can leave the room and go to some welcoming adult (administrator or misguidance counselor) who will pat their shoulders and say, "There, there now."
Four of them, which is slightly more ridiculous than when I had eight students with IEPs that all said they had to sit by the whiteboard and next to the teacher. I'm still waiting for someone to tell me how to do that without creating a dimensional rift or having them sit on each other's laps.
The school has a schizophrenic approach to special education: a honking chunk of the population require special services, but it seems random. Not to mention the fervor with which misguidance counselors try to get students out of special services, counting on the goodness and willingness of the teachers to provide unspoken modifications for the students.
The four are a handful, which is the politest restatement of Sedaris's observation. It's going to be one long year in that class.
Visiting Bon Temps
Last week before the load of work I piled on myself came crashing down, I reread the Sookie Stackhouse series.
I was looking for the third-to-last and penultimate books in the series at Wal-mart. Their book section was out of order and I took a couple minutes to arrange the series on the shelf- I didn't want some other customer to have to hunt and seek like I did.
I still can't find FROM DEAD TO WORSE, which is supposed to be in paperback.
I enjoyed my visit to Bon Temps (show not withstanding, I still pronounce the "p" and "s" in Temps). The books get better with every reread.
Charlaine Harris has a great knack for the first person and world-building. I love the way Sookie shakes the bottle of synthetic blood every time she takes it out of the microwave. I love the details of the bar and the town. I was reading the description of the library and had to take a second to admire how the details were worked in. No info-dumping, just adding another layer.
I love how the big words Sookie uses in her narration probably came from her word-a-day calendar even when Harris doesn't state that fact.
It's comforting to reread the series from time to time. The books may seem light and simple, but they're not. Harris manages to keep humor in the stories, despite the darkness of the plot.
I love the books as a writer and a reader, and for the question that always pops up in my head: How does she do that?
I was looking for the third-to-last and penultimate books in the series at Wal-mart. Their book section was out of order and I took a couple minutes to arrange the series on the shelf- I didn't want some other customer to have to hunt and seek like I did.
I still can't find FROM DEAD TO WORSE, which is supposed to be in paperback.
I enjoyed my visit to Bon Temps (show not withstanding, I still pronounce the "p" and "s" in Temps). The books get better with every reread.
Charlaine Harris has a great knack for the first person and world-building. I love the way Sookie shakes the bottle of synthetic blood every time she takes it out of the microwave. I love the details of the bar and the town. I was reading the description of the library and had to take a second to admire how the details were worked in. No info-dumping, just adding another layer.
I love how the big words Sookie uses in her narration probably came from her word-a-day calendar even when Harris doesn't state that fact.
It's comforting to reread the series from time to time. The books may seem light and simple, but they're not. Harris manages to keep humor in the stories, despite the darkness of the plot.
I love the books as a writer and a reader, and for the question that always pops up in my head: How does she do that?
Recap of last week
Last week, some idiot English teacher assigned essays in all her classes without realizing it until too late. That's right, by Thursday, I had ninety essays to be corrected, with fifty more coming the next day, as well as class work assignments.
When I got home on Thursday with a bag full of papers and more on the way, I did the only thing that seemed right at the time: I went out and bought Dan Brown's THE LOST SYMBOL.
And stayed up to read the entire book.
I enjoyed it immensely. I think there's an awful lot of shit being tossed Brown's way, but I have to say that I enjoy his books. He has a great knack for setting. THE LOST SYMBOL takes place in Washington, and don't you know I want to take a little trip there before the year is out? Brown put the yearning in my heart.
I have two techniques for dealing with a pile of work: one is to power through until I'm finished; the other is to put off for a time. I realized as I was driving to the bookstore that reading THE LOST SYMBOL was my "This strawberry is delicious" moment.
A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.
When I got home on Thursday with a bag full of papers and more on the way, I did the only thing that seemed right at the time: I went out and bought Dan Brown's THE LOST SYMBOL.
And stayed up to read the entire book.
I enjoyed it immensely. I think there's an awful lot of shit being tossed Brown's way, but I have to say that I enjoy his books. He has a great knack for setting. THE LOST SYMBOL takes place in Washington, and don't you know I want to take a little trip there before the year is out? Brown put the yearning in my heart.
I have two techniques for dealing with a pile of work: one is to power through until I'm finished; the other is to put off for a time. I realized as I was driving to the bookstore that reading THE LOST SYMBOL was my "This strawberry is delicious" moment.
A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.
In the wick of things
I have to confess to a bit of disappointment that I haven't posted in a couple weeks.
In the grand scheme, it's no big deal, but I don't want to be a person who can't stick with things.
Geez, Scalzi balances writing books, consulting for Stargate, and raising a daughter, and still has time for Whatever.
When I created the list in my head of things I needed to atone for on Yom Kippur, forgiveness for neglecting personal and professional responsibilities was at the top.
In the grand scheme, it's no big deal, but I don't want to be a person who can't stick with things.
Geez, Scalzi balances writing books, consulting for Stargate, and raising a daughter, and still has time for Whatever.
When I created the list in my head of things I needed to atone for on Yom Kippur, forgiveness for neglecting personal and professional responsibilities was at the top.
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