liquorland

Ok, there's a quick, funny post on there. Y'all should check it out.


PHF's blog


Go there and then come back. I'll wait...

Actually, the conversation went something like this:

The Great: I want to go to Liquorland.
Me: Huh? (TG takes a bite of his licorice. I do too, and finally catch on.) Oh, you mean Licorice Land? How cute.
PHF: We drink too much in front of the children.
Me: It's a great name for a liquor store.
PHF: Yeah, right.
Me: No, it's a good idea. Liquorland. You should put it on your blog.
PHF: Liquor stores have been done to death. What makes this one unique?
Me: Well, it's Liquorland. There are rides and shit...

Prizes could be stuff like beer and coozies and free cab rides home and barf buckets. I'd go.

call your father!

I forgot to thank my blog sub for keeping the troops amused in my absence. He/she shall remain nameless but actually is a published author (the paid kind who makes a living at it). Sorry I yelled at you for using my message thingy to respond and not noticing that you said it was you. I was drunk. (see to hell and back in nine days) Lame excuse but there you are.

The other stand-in invitee had a very good excuse for not filling in, like death and stuff. Life sucks sometimes. I won't say any more, but if you got a dad still and you're on speaking terms at all, give him a call and say "hey." Let's strive for some cosmic goodness out of my friend's loss.

I'm listening to How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb. Good album, but Bono is getting mellow in his old age. Does anybody out there know anything about the guy besides his activism? Like, is he single or married, got kids, age, etc? I'd Google him but can you imagine trying to wade through the 500,000,000,000 hits? No way, dude. Good guy, Bono, but money don't buy looks.

Ok, I'm going to write more than one paragraph on the book before getting up. My goal for today is two pages, and I'm about two sentences into it. Buh-bye.

salad is just another name for satan

Went to Jason's deli salad bar today for lunch. Thought I should be good after working my ass off at the gym. See, isn't it smaller and perkier already?

Why, I ask you, do I run out of fucking lettuce every time I eat a salad from there? I always put in a lot, knowing that this happens. I don't know where the lettuce goes. Then I'm left with all the other crap and no lettuce to put it on, which is kinda embarrassing.

My "salad" consisted of (recreated by studying the order of sediment layers) lettuce (actually a lot and spinach too so I'm all Popeyed out now) cucumbers, peppers, white cheese, 3 olives (now where did I set that damn martini?) a teensy bit of pasta salad (there's that s word again - that shit ain't salad) some chopped nuts, another kind of cheese, yellow this time, broccoli (jeez, does anybody know how to spell that?) cottage cheese and I think that's it. All this was assembled while trying to corral my two year old who apparently has decided to become three early and turn into a screaming, hitting, Barney-loving ambassador straight from Hell itself. It ain't terrible twos, kidless people. That's just a big conspiracy put forth by an Eastern Syndicate to make us have more kids (and buy more crap from Gap for them) by thinking the nastiness ends at three. Ha! Ask any parent. Three is sooooooooo worse. Shit, she's so naughty that I have no doubt that if she got kidsnapped they'd drop her in the front yard with a written apology within the first five minutes.

But back to the salad, does all of this sound like salad stuff to you? I think it's weird, seeing it listed here. What kind of psycho am I? It must have some meaning to it. A salad is supposed to be some lettuce and dressing and if you're lucky some shredded carrot, right? P'raps a cherry tomato on the side. How did the Salad Bar become this... monstrosity, with pudding and fruit and mini muffins and graham crackers and mousse and salsa, for crissake, and seventeen varieties of dressing? It's supposed to be the skinny safe zone.

Of course, as usual, I ran out of lettuce half way through. It's with the fucking socks missing from the dryer, I guess. (Maybe the mice take them. They sleep in my socks and eat my lettuce. That sounds about right. Man, a bb gun would blow their little heads clean off, wouldn't it?) Then I was left with all that other... stuff. Not really a salad, but just stupid crap that no one in their right mind would put together.

Unless it was on top of lettuce.

to hell and back in nine days

Went to see the extended fam over the holidays. For us that means (since everyone else lives in the same state) more driving than visiting. With all the driving we spent 300 bucks in gas and approximately 42 minutes with each family.

Holy Jebus I'm HUGE!! (No, that's not a typo. That's how my very clever niece says Jesus in Jesusland, and I stole it. Say it out loud. It's funny.) I have to go work out and starve myself for two weeks per beer, which will end up taking the better part of 2005. I guess I forgot to pack my willpower, because everytime a family member wandered near with a beer I grabbed and guzzled (G&G). It's a bad habit I've got, as anyone in my playgroup can tell you.

Let's see: I think I'll recap backwards since that's how I recall it. Plus, I'm going to run out of steam soon so why waste a lot of time trying to recall things I went through ten days ago (especially when the time in between was filled with much beer and a mind-numbing amount of food.)

An hour ago:
Finishing sorting laundry. I've got enough to run through the rest of the year now, so no one needs to bring me any more.

PHF disposed of the requisite dead mouse in a trap.

Showered (had to wash the Kansas off me).

Put up a Christmas tree, sans ornaments, so the kids can start bothering us on a more regular, annoying basis about exactly what they want for Christmas; replete with accompanying suspicion and guilt that we're raising two spoiled brats. Ahh, the holidays. Yeah, there are already presents under there.

Discussed upcoming sixth birthday festivities with the Great. He wants an army birthday, at the house. Just a small affair with thirty or so of his favorite friends.
Oh, and tanks.
And soldiers.
Uh, I think they're all in Iraq, honey. All the live ones, anyway.
He woke up in the middle of the trip to KS and said, "I can't believe I'm going to be six." Yeah, me neither.

Today, Sunday:
The drive home took two hours longer than expected due to slick-as-snot roads and mor-fucking-onic drivers. They did get marginally better the nearer we got to Denver.

Got yelled at again for being obnoxious and loud and drunk the prior night.

Passed approximately 249 cars in the ditch. Well over half were flipped totally over.
How do you do that anyway? 99.999% of them were folks heading OUT of Colorado. Come again, loser!

Thank you, Interstate Highway System for the nice blinky signs warning us that the roads might be icy in spots, as well as the kind recommendation that we drive carefully. Nice of you to notice the two inch thick slab of ice that they call I70. I'm sure the distraction caused many a driver to look away and go into the ditch.

I was cozy in my new way cool KU sweatshirt. Ah, the old alma mater. Looks like the Hawks might've actually decided to play some basketball this year. It could be a nice departure from the dry spell.

Saturday Night:
Drank beer with my sister-in-law's sister (whatever, you figure it out) and I believe we did our auntly duty of completely mortifying my niece in front of her boyfriend. Cool kids though. All goth and shit, or whatever you crazy kids are calling it now. Got to love it, this kid never gave her parents a moment's trouble and now she closets up and listens to music all day. Still makes straight A's though, so the rebellion is not complete. I predict much partying in college ahead for this young woman.

So funny when the S-I-L-Sis leans over and goes at the top of her voice: "SHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Don'ttellanybodybutIthinkI'mdrunk."
When she wasn't saying that she was saying, "Ican'tbelieveyouwrotea
booklastyearandnobodytoldme!" I corrected her by saying, "Fo'booksh.Iwrodefobooksh."

Got yelled out repeatedly because the others in the family couldn't hear the dialogue to It's a Wonderful Life over our banter. Excuse us for wanting to talk instead of taking a nap on the sofa after driving across two states to see our beloved extended family. Thanks for the warm welcome. As if you all haven't seen the movie ten times every year since the thing was filmed. Yeah, no one in my family reads my blog. I'm all broken up about it, cantcha tell?

Funniest moment of the night: when PHF woke up from the sofa and said, "Honey, you gotta drive back to your mom's. I'm too sleepy." Much laughter ensued. PHF was not amused.

Yesterday:
Kinda boring

Friday:
Went to other brother's house in "the country." Met the new horse and some chickens and dogs and shit. Kids ran wild, cried often (no naps). Got drunk.
Went antiquing and found old wooden water skis for 34 bucks. Way cool for the lake. Really cool. No, not to use, moron. To decorate with. As in, our house. Yeah, we got better stuff than futons and anemic plants.

Got drunk. Oh yeah, I said that.

Thursday:
You all did it so you all know what we did. But my turkey was better than yours so nannynannybooboo!

The Great spent the night with his cousins. He was served pancakes the next morn and requested them "dry." Much speculation went on as to the significance of this decision (Possible psychological ramifications of dry pancakes on six year olds. Was he scared to ask for syrup or just relieved to get breakfast at all? Or was he getting sick?) Finally I asked him and he said, "I just always wanted to try it that way. It was yummy."

When asked if this is how he'll be taking his pancakes from now on he said he'd get back to us on that. I can't believe he's going to be six.

Got to see a real Purple Heart from WW2, toe tag, and dog tag, etc. The guy didn't last long. More on that later.

Monday-Wednesday:
The visit to this section was fine, all got to sleep in the same room. Builds character or some bullshit, I guess. Actually it was fine. Gave me a chance to dry out a little between attractions, as this section doesn't do much drinking.

One point of interest was that their cat died so The Great helped bury it and made a headstone and stuff. Quote of the day from Grandpa: "I'm just glad we didn't find him in pieces all over the yard."

I sincerely agree.

Friday-Sunday:
Drove to KS Friday night. I was absolutely no help with driving or keeping PHF awake. I dropped off at my usual ten pm bedtime. When we got there I gave my mother-in-law her hostess gift (a festive spatula and dishtowel from Crate and Barrel) and she bust out laughing on the driveway.

"Why are you giving me a spatula on my driveway at two in the morning?"

I was too tired to get out the word hostess... anyway, much slappiness ensued. Shopped, talked, ate, drank much beer.

Holy Mother of God am I ever glad to be home.

Guest Host #43

So I am the invited guest host #43. I got the number off the bus I rode the other night. Being a guest host won't do justice without some lame number behind it.

I got little to complain about today. A few itches, a couple of hairs out of place, but nothing else.

However, Saturday was different. One of my friends is moving across country and we had a goodbye dinner. Lost for words is the way to discribe the conversation. We sat, between a plate of sushi and time ticked away. Her waiting for me to say something supportive. I trying not to spill my guts in sorrow.

Damn annoying and frankly I ain't ever doing it again. Next person who decides to leave town before I do is getting a goodbye card and I am blocking their phone # until they leave. No hassles and ends fast.

The sushi place was a packed house. (See I know that our blog host HATES sushi so I am giving it equal time.) And being it was in downtown Denver and snowing like hell, it only makes sense that the majority of patrons had on low cut dresses, tiny coats and, of course, high heels. Yes, even a few guys. I was cold looking at them. The best part was most could not use the chopsticks. Eating sushi with forks is way, way, sick people. It was like a bad movie. I wanted to rush over grab the forks and run for the door.

It's over and so is this post. Thank you Jesus.

gobble gobble gob--- DAMN that turkey is gooood

I'll be taking a little hiatus over the holiday. I might post midweek, if I get the chance. I plan on using this time to work on the book, visit with family, and oh, yeah, EAT!!! With any luck, I'll return ten days hense full of hilarious dysfunctional family anecdotes and the joys of traveling with small children...

Happy Turkey Day to all and be sure and say a little prayer of deliverence for all the good Toms out there. I wish you all the turkey and fixins you want and none of the accompanying holiday guilt...

Praps I'll search for a guest host... Hmmm. Warning to anyone who subs in for me: this is a rough crowd. Be firm.

I'll leave you with this:

Yesterday I saw a guy playing a game with himself. (No, not that kind of game. Get your mind out of the gutter.) He was rolling 3 pennies like dice and writing down the results (I assume heads or tails, but I wasn't close enough to confirm that) on black paper (yeah, the pencil wrote in black.) He was older, dressed neatly and casually, so this being Boulder he could be anything. I wish I'd asked him, "Hey mister. Whatcher doin' that fer?" What do we think? Nutter or Professor or passing the time? Or some combo thereof. I wonder... He did have that evil grin on his face...

like I know anything about it...

Happy Birthday to PHF!!! You're so old, but I love you anyway!!

Yesterday a friend called me to ask me for writing advice. Hopefully she doesn't consider me some kind of expert because of this blog. While I maintain many firm opinions about my craft I think of them only in relation to myself, and I don't profess that they are worth the bandwidth it costs Google to get it to you. I write about them here because the dialogue with myself helps me sort through it. Also, I lead a largely boring life and shit to write about just doesn't happen that much.

That round of self-depreciation aside, I don't think I helped her much. I went at it with a "if you want external permission to do what you want to do, I'm here to provide it" sort of attitude. Not always the best approach, especially with a good friend who actually wants the God's Honest Truth as it channels through you, and not good if they don't know exactly what it is they want to do, which is why she called in the first place. So I fucked about, contradicting myself, telling her to work on this; or no, work on that... In short, I was caught off guard, and since I write better I talk I thought I would try to rectify it here.

The question was: "How do you decide what to write?"

Quick answer if you're rich: "Write what touches your heart."
Quick answer if you're poor: "Write what sells." And if you're lucky, it's what touches your heart, because it's got to do that to sell.

I think there's a tremendous act of balance that goes on during the writing process. Between working on the draft you're on, all the other ideas floating around, how what you are working on right now affects everything that has gone before, waking up each day wondering if there are any words left, and oh yeah, laundry's calling... In a nutshell, my friend has one nearly finished marketable piece, another potentially marketable piece that is percolating, and this other... book. Great idea, but she isn't liking it as she's writing it.

This rang a bell. My second book was one of the most difficult things I've ever had to wade through. I set a goal (and met it) of a minimum ten pages a day, and I wrote that book in about three months. For me, though, it was a no-brainer. I had to insert some serious discipline that would get me through it relatively quickly.

I like these guys, these characters who have taken up residence in my brain. I like 'em a lot. I dream about them. I run to my study mid-meal or mid-conversation to jot things on notecards about them. I look for them in crowds. I know them better than I know anyone, including my kids and PHF. Unfortunately though, the second book in the series is an in-between book. Think "The Empire Strikes Back." It's not happy. The characters aren't happy. They are losing the war and losing themselves, without immediate resolution. Bad shit goes down.

At that point, late last year when I was typing madly trying to finish it, I didn't know where the series was going, no end was in sight, and all I had was this teensy string of faith that it would be ok in the end, somehow. And to find out how it would be ok (by writing books 3 and 4), I had to finish Taming The Tiger first.

And it sucked the big one. It wasn't a fun book to write. I didn't like the characters when I wrote it. They do nasty things and they are irate and make stupid mistakes and they abuse those who love them (especially me!) I didn't even like my writing when I wrote it. I quit reading what I'd written because I'd get so discouraged. I also experienced a lot of outside pressure to submit the first book during that time. I knew what I wrote in the second book would affect the first, and it did - the painful process of writing Taming the Tiger made Sovereign Legacy a better book for sure. I had to be firm on occassion, and claim my process for my own. Great for me as a person and a writer, but not so great for relationships.

I'm proud of that book, though. I think it's my best work to date. Some have told me it's talent that makes it good, I would say it was discipline that makes it good. Discipline is why it exists at all. But there was still something else that I can't deny affects my writing, especially in that book. Urgency is what my friend called it, and as soon as she said it I knew she was right.

There are lots of things that motivate writers, I think: practicality, discipline, talent... but there's that urgency behind all of it that we can't put aside, no matter how much we want to. (Of course the problem comes when we don't feel that urgency about doing the work to get contracts; and that's the difference, I'm learning, between those who are published and those who aren't.) Urgency is as uncomfortable as hives you can't scratch away, but I'm learning to like it too. When I feel it, I know some good work is coming on, something I'll end up liking. That urgency, tempered by a little editing, translated into good writing in Taming the Tiger, and I've seen it happen again and again since. I'm even recognizing it in others' work.

So to my friend I would say, "Work on what feels urgent." I tried to say it before, clumsily, but I'm putting it out here again for ya in black and white.

Write on what's waking you up at night, even if you don't like it. If it's all waking you up, then you have to insert some discipline and seriously think about why something's bothering you. Is it coming from you or elsewhere? Other well-meaning folks put a lot of pressure on us to get published.

I think that if you really listen to that internal urgency, that muse, that itch -- whatever you want to call it-- then you'll find the story you need to tell.

And it will be damn good, too.

pervarie latro

various


rant


My Latin sucks, but you get the gist.

**

So, apparently I stood in line for an hour with a hyper two-year-old to vote for an only semi-decent candidate who I was reasonably sure would lose and sure enough did all for nothing because; by the way; now, don't freak out, Jerry; MY VOTE DIDN'T FUCKING COUNT!! Neither did yours if you live in Boulder County. The County has until tomorrow to certify the results, and last I heard they were holding off until then...

Bastard. And yes, I mean W. I'm sure this is his fault somehow.

**

Apparently I am the bane of the existence for the worker at Qdoba that assembled my chicken soft tacos. Or, ok, maybe he's an asshole to everyone who comes in and makes him do his fucking job.

**

The new workout that my trainer gave me is totally kicking my ass, and not in a good way. Me no like being sore. That's recent Punkinhead-speak and it's spreading like a bad rash: "Me no like ___." Right now she only likes Hello Kitty, her Gigi, and whichever parent is not available at the moment. Of course, she's got strep so I can hardly blame her.

At least she's not waking us up at night any more. She does that freaky thing of standing by the bedside staring at me silently until I think, Whaaas 'at? and then I about wet the bed when I roll over and there she is.

That's the only silent thing the child does. She even hums in her sleep all night.

**

I decided that to make up for my new bulging man-arm muscles I should wear girlie bright red polish on my toes. Of course, no one can see them through the motorcycle boots. Quite a picture I paint of myself, eh?

**

I wonder how many promotions, proposals and propositions
this guy has gotten. Something about that face is cuuuuute.

**

If you think real hard, you'll see how this particular anectdote fits with the next story of the night. Tonight at dinner The Great mentioned (casually hopeful), "You know, a good way to wake people up is to drop chocolate sprinkles on them."

**

And finally tonight, another mouse story to share. After noticing the emerging mus musculus theme, BB told it to me Green Day Night and his wife called today to confirm the details. It goes something like this: she heard the trap under the sink go off and thought, Ok, so hubbin' has a little disposal project for tonight. But then she heard squeaking (not at all what you want to hear after a trap goes off) and a tiny little shuffling, scrabbling noise...

Well, she didn't wanna look, but wouldn't you? Sure enought, the iniquitous, foul-smelling, disease-ridden little fucker had been caught by the back leg and was dragging the trap along trying to escape.

After some screaming (ok, there's some fiction for you and I'm not pointing it out again) she grabbed the salad tongs (ahem, notice the recurring duality in the theme, Mr. K? I think there could be a master's thesis in here somewhere.) and picked the little bugger up by its trap.

(Damn, I'm just realizing that I forgot to ask Mrs. BB what the mouse's reaction was when she did that. I mean, it's about time we heard the mouse's point of view here, huh? Did it look at her? Did it squeak? Did it try to chew its leg off? Now that would be cool...perhaps she can flesh out the story for us in the commentbox. Oh, God, that was bad. Apologies all round. Not enough beer tonight for good judgement.)

But then what to do with it? She couldn't leave it in her yard for the kiddos, and she couldn't just flush it as others have done (the trap would have definitely stopped up the toilet) so she carried it into the backyard and flung it (yeah, like a cow) over the back fence to the yard behind her where there's a golden retriever. It had a fighting chance though, the trap came off in the fling.

Can't you just see that in slo-mo? Man, life is good.

i·ro·ny: incongruity between what might be expected and what actually occurs

See here for full definition.


While Nextblogging tonight (see below), I noticed an irony (see above). Every so often I notice some pissed off writer protesting against a commentbox slam. They generally answer with something to the tune of...

"I write this for me, mo-fo, I don't care what you think and if you don't like it you can ride on your sorry little ass all the way to hell."

Some people even write something about it in their subtitles:

"By me. For me. Don't read it. I don't care."

Every time I see this sort of protest, I look for a certain little add-on called a hit counter. We all most of us got 'em.

Guess what I always find?

Do so care!! Do so - Do so - Do so!!!

a squirell is looking in at me - i wonder if it's horny

I wonder how many of us write and read blogs to procrastinate.

Finally, you think, some sex on SSAS. No, you're thinking of masterbate, and there ain't nothin' on blogs that turns me on that much. Good luck with that, though. Did no one in Blogland get laid this weekend? Horniness abounds...

No, I'm talking about puttin' shit off that I need to do. Like finishing this book that is supposed to end sometime in the next 100 pages if I'm lucky. Of course, that's what I thought a hundred pages ago, and they're still sittin' there chatting each other up, gaining insights that only means hours and hours of editing for me... however Kaelin just weaponed-up so that looks promising. But, of course, as usual, I digress. For me this procrastination takes its purest form in "Nextblogging", in which I hit "next blog" for a half hour, take notes on all the painful poetry and teenage angst I read, and then blow another half-hour writing a scathing only semi-humorous post about it.

Another, perhaps even more pathetic form of internet procrastination comes to mind, especially with all the horniness I witnessed in Blogland last night, which would be viewing internet porn while entertaining no chance of fullfilling the sexual frustration resulting from said porn. Of course, I've only heard about this, you understand. I'm married. I got no problems with the after-porn part.

So why do we do it? Why do we blog? Some people like to use the verb form of this totally made-up word --I'll be damned, it is on dictionary.com, in all it's happy little forms of usage. From now one I am going to abstain from using verb forms of "blog." It just sounds a little too much like "crop" or "cropping" which describes what lily-white, sexually frustrated housewives do with their abundant free time. My pictures are in a box in my bedroom, all 6096 of them, and that's where they're stayin'. When the kids want to see what they looked like when they were two they can go through it themselves.

But back to the question at hand, and I promise to try to stick it this time. This is a problem I puzzle over often, even on my blog (I'd link you up to the post(s), but Goddamn if it's only my second cup of tea and I'm too listless to try). I've noticed that many bloggers are single. Are they so empty and lonely that they've resorted to relying upon the meaningless appreciation of strangers? Does anyone really think they'll meet their soulmate on a blog? Maybe they are in it just for the sex-blogs. Or maybe they just don't like to drink alone.

But more importantly, since this blog revolves around me, why do I do it?? I'm not lonely. I found my soul mate at nineteen. And I could really give a rat's ass what others think of me. (Of course that's not true...my emotional well being is completely dependant upon what appears in my commentbox.) I sure as hell don't have to do the whole internet porn thing. I mean, I got satellite tv for crissake. And I have no compunction about drinking alone.

I guess the answer is that I have an obnoxious compulsion on which my entire sense of well-being is hinged. I must write. I write and write and write and write, all day long, most days, much of it fiction, some email, some on this blog, some comments on others.

I read a good piece of advice from someone (his fiction was crap, but his note-to-fans was awesome.) He said, "There is no such thing as an 'aspiring writer.' You're a writer. Period." And guess what? If you blog, no matter how crappy it is, and no matter if you want to someday get paid for putting words down, you are too. You aren't a blogger. You're a writer.

So it all comes down to "Why do we write?" You answer that question, and you've solved one of the great mysteries of the universe. I sure as hell don't know.

And to the squirrel I say, "I know a little mouse who's lookin' to get warm."

the great mouse chase

I'll keep plugging this until I figure out the code to put a link on the sidebar. Honestly, it's a wonder there are any fucking computers left at all. They are so frustrating I don't know why folks don't just fling 'em like cows.


my website


And I'll apologize now for the truly obnoxious commercials connected with the site. What can I say? It was free.

Did you ever meet someone who was really cool, who you could just tell was cool and nice and sweet, but not in a dorky way, but more like yourself (or myself, since this is what this is about); straight up decent, but edgy enough to embrace the darker side of life with gusto? I met this guy who fits that category last summer. Problem was, we were at a... well, an "event" where a certain protocol was required. So when this rather asshole-ish other guy butted in, there was little I could do but say,

"Dude. Next time you come to Boulder, let's go out, right?"

We finally did last night. Funny thing is, I would have walked right by him on the street and never realized it was him. I'm pretty good with faces, but he'd shaved a hefty beard in the meantime (less is more when it comes to facial hair, and while I'm on the subject: that little bunch of hair on your chin and none anywhere else is just dumb. It doesn't say "I'm cool." It says, "I'm stupid because I think this is cool." Goatees can be cool on the right face, and I currently only know about three guys that can pull it off, one of whom is PHF, and that's about it. And they're yucky to kiss if they get very long at all, so the rest of you have got to shave at least every third day.)

Anyway, it's weird to meet someone once, actually kinda briefly, and then sit across from him at a dinner table and have instant raport. I also liked the girlfriend a lot (I know he'll read this at some point, so I'll say this: she SO has your number, dude.) And he's got a kid, too, so he knows about that part of life.

Hmm, how to describe him? Some say he looks like an LL Bean model, though his daughter took him shopping to update his look, so I'd go more with JCrew. (Yeah, guys, out with the plaid, in with the stripes. I'll keep saying it until you hear me.) We hashed this all out last night. He suggested Banana Republic, kinda hopefully, and I was like, "No way... Unless you're gay? You aren't gay are you? Not that there's anything wrong with that."

He's not.

Then we noticed the girlfriend - GF, wouldn't take off her coat. Too low-cut of a dress, too much cleavage. Man, I keep getting slapped in the face with big boobs (well, not literally, but nice imagery for the boys who read me) and I'm so jealous. But not enough to get faksies. So all night she was harrassed mercilessly about taking her coat off. She finally did, and I believe I was drunk enough then to be unable to control my staring, and back on the coat went. Man, I wish I had cleavage...

Anyway, nearly everything that was said was in the category of flinging shit or deflecting said shit, and some enlightening secrets were revealed by accident, though they say there's no such thing, so relax, GF. Very, very fun time.

This guy, while genuinely a nice person, also has a great sense of humor, especially about himself. One of the first things I do when I meet someone is to instinctively tease them. Nothiing mean, just a little, to find out where they stand on themselves. Ninety percent of people will say something defensive. When they take it (or, more rarely, dish your shit right back at you in an antique silver bowl- like this guy) I know I've found a real gem. And sometimes you get the opportunity to put used-car-salesmen-types in their place. Sorry, inside joke on that one, though many of you know what I mean.

GF is a high school music teacher (spell it, "chior"), which always makes me wary because there are so few cool teachers out there. Often they are cool only with the kids, but not with adults. She's cool rather in the manner of
Krypto (I'm going to make an acronym for this html situation like GDFHTML!!!!) She had great teaching stories, and she's got to start a blog on them. I won't ruin it for you here. The one funny reference I'll share is when she said something about a student who will be dancing on a pole before long. That was good humor.

When we got home, still regaling in our night of fun, I was talking to the babysitter and saw a bit of movement behind her. I chalked it up to my kitty's ghost. But then I saw it AGAIN. And screamed!

"MMMMOOOOOUUUUUSSSSEEEE!"

So we engaged in a little late night mouse-herding. It must have looked pretty hilarous, two half drunk adults chasing a mouse. Can you guess who had the faster reflexes? We got it into my study and it hid in the tangle of computer wires. Then it paused at the back door and looked back at us like, "Really. Do you realize how freakin' cold it is out there??" We finally chased it out the door and slammed it shut. Then it looked back at us through the glass, but we couldn't hear it squeek anymore.

Did I feel guilty? NO. I mean, I guess it was cute.

In a nasty, disease riddled, biting, vile sort of way.

Anyway, this goes to prove my point from before: where there's one mouse there's more. Goddamn, what do we do now?

twelve hours and counting

Tre Billie Joe and Mike take the stage in a little over twelve hours. Big big grins round here. Tickets are still available...

I'll post a little something about last night (out with friends) and The Great Mouse Chase later. Got to do rl stuff this morning.

my dumb-ass website

My dumb-ass website


Ok, y'all, I've done it. I've gone and made a wee website for my books.
The only featured one is Taming the Tiger, the second in the series. But you can get the gist of what I'm doing from the coupla chapters I put on there.

You also get to learn (part of) my real name, though there ain't and never will be pictures because I just hate that. (Ok, maybe once I sell a book and if the publisher wants me to I might put on a sassy short skirt and pose.)

And since you pretty much know where I live and what I drive from this blog, NO STALKERS!! Email me or leave me a comment here, and if it's real nice, I might just post it on the site.

about actual sex scenes

I started to write in the comment box but it got long enough to be a post so here goes. So to answer Faerie (god, why is that so hard to type??):

PHF a damn slow reader, but it's not his fault. He's slow at lots of things, which sometimes is gooooooooood.

The sex in Taming the Tiger is much better than in Sovereign Legacy, well, more explicit beyond a kiss on the beach and then getting dressed in the next scene.

Though someone once made the comment about the Taming the Tiger
scene, "When did "it" actually occur?"

"You want me to point out the words or what?"

"No, I just don't get it."

I said, "It's a book. Use your fuckin' imagination." God, the MTV generation...

I think it's a nice scrambly, sweaty, urgent, against-the-wall scene that I hate to eclipse with an explicit finale. I tried it and it fell flat (tee hee). Maybe because I can imagine starting out against the wall, but not finishing against the wall. Write what you know, right? They definitely go s-f for this scene, and Aidan is hot hot hot. He's a cutie-patootie anyway.

But I feel I need to tread lightly with erotica in my fiction.

For one, there's nothing like someone else's version of sex to ruin the mood. Like this one guy I occassionally read (I won't say who because I don't want to offend, though if he reads me he probably will know who he is and is free to slam me anon in my commentbox) writes some good stuff, though there's a prevailing theme that bothers me. I've hesitated to leave a comment on his blog because I wasn't sure what to say: criticize or to make a request, and I hate to be pissy about it.

But it generally goes like this: the guy (first person) is pretty much doing the "poor-protesting-woman-who-didn't-even-realize-how-bad-she-wants-it-but-suddenly-does-by-the-mere-touch-of-his-tongue-to-her-nipple" a favor by fucking her. (I think she usually begs for it, but he's also a gentleman and lets her finish first. Of course, there's different theories of thought on that, and I hate to get into it here.)

A little "Man as a Sexual Savior" goes a long way for me, especially in FP, (kinda makes the guy sound like an arrogant asshole) though I'm sure some folks are into it. He also uses cup sizes as descriptors, and since my cup size is pretty much AAAAAAA that's another buzz-kill. (Ok, it's not that bad. Hate to ruin anybody's little fantasy about what I look like.) Funny thing is though, he seems to know the whole bra system pretty well, so perhaps he must speak from some sort of experience. Again with the write what you know.

Not to say that's all he writes. Sometimes it's that the guy doesn't get any, and these I regretfully suspect may be more in line with fact than fiction. But hey, at least he's doing it. Well, writing it. Who am I to say? Maybe he fucks every chick in sight and really knows what he's talking about.

Secondly, and more to the point, my erotica is just not up to par with the rest of my writing. I'm not really into the whole "he slid his throbbing shaft of love into her hot, damp, quivering chasm of desire" thing, you know, and that wouldn't fit with what I do. I like to leave something to the imagination. Someday I might do a bodice-ripper, just for fun; but it would have to be a sort of Shawn of the Dead vs Dawn of the Dead thing-- in other words, it would be a farce. Perhaps in the spirit of The Princess Bride.

So, yes, sex is in the books but it's not the main thing. I don't really even like to write sex scenes, or even imagine them. The real thing is good enough for me.

Unless, that is, I'm at Starbucks.

the man's blog

Oh yeah, guess I should mention that The Man aka PHF,I guess I'll call him that now... anyway, he's got himself a baby blog.
Pony Haired Fool
(Once again my link sucks the big one. Fucking thing.)

Not really my brand of whiskey, and once you see it you'll wonder how us crazy kids ever got together, but he deserves a plug since he shares my bed. Hopefully it will pay off (for me, I mean) at some point.

Speaking of nicknames: Big Scary Guy (BSG) (see some previous post way back there, I don't feel like looking for it and fixing a link - I think it's in October) is back and BIGGER and SCARIER than ever.

PHF asked me if I ever talk to him.

I said, "Shit no. I don't even look at him lest he rip the hair from my scalp and eat it for dinner."

But BSG is experiencing a name change as well, since my trainer said "BSG? Bovine Growth Hormone?" Which was really fucking funny since he's asked my trainer for drugs before. Anyway, BSG is henseforth and herewith changed to Big Scary He-man (BSH) so that it works both ways. Cheers, J, for coming up with a good one.

Green Day is playing the entire rock opera American Idiot s-f right off on Friday. Yeah, I'll be thinkin' of ya... I know some of you music snobs are laughing at me, (or going "Green Days? Huh? Wha's she talkin' bout?") but once you hear the album and you've missed the show I'll be the one with the t-shirt, now won't I?

a break from websiting, or whatever the hell you call it

Saw the film The Punnisher two nights ago. I wanted to see it on the big screen but we watched it on our puny tv at the lake and I notice The Man sent it back to netflix now so it will just have to live on in my memory.

I liked the movie, though it had trouble deciding whether to go reality based or comic based at first. When our hero's whole family was gunned down by what had to be several hundred rounds and there were no scattered brains, I worried that this would be one of those "blood is understood" movies (like Captain and Commander or whatever that was). The hero certainly got beat and shot up enough to make you doubt the reality aspect. I mean, not that many guys can take a bullet to the chest in Cabo San Lucas or wherever the hell they were, float away, and recover only with the minstrations of a mystical undeveloped local guy character who happened by in a boat. I was wondering if it would turn into a superhero thing (is it right that it's based on a comic book or did I just make that up?) and unlike Krypto that crap does nothing for me. (Sorry for the lack of link - I'm DONE with html for the day. He's commented somewhere around here if you want to find him.)

Slim hopes rose when blood spurted out of the throat of the Memphis assasin. Then when the Russian showed up in that dorky striped shirt, I was about to turn off the tv and pursue other, more active bedtime endeavours. But The Man will leave no movie unwatched to its fullest, no matter how bad.

I'm glad we left it on because the fight scene was a hoot. Both of them got the shee-it kicked out of them thoroughly, and I loooove unmatched fights. I mean, stick a knife in some giant guy's boob and watch him grin at you. Great stuff.

The hero even used a bow (though it was compound - I'll say it again- PUSSY!) but you know I've got a soft spot for that weapon.

The piercing/torture scene made me cringe appropriately and appreciatively (kinda hit close to home, though I wish-wish-wish he'd had some in his nipples!!).

But my favorite scene was of course the big finale; and the best moment of that was when he stuck the knife in that guy's chin. The vic opened his mouth and it's all filled up with knife blade! Now that's some fucking great cinema.

The creepiest scene with a knife I ever saw was in Saving Private Ryan, when the German seduced the American into letting him sink a knife into his heart. That made me imagine a written scene where some chick and guy (or two chicks or whatever you like) are having sex and one of them gets a slow stab in the back as they are cumming and they don't even realize. I can think of just the character in my book who deserves nothing better.

Sounds like a fifth book to me. What do you think, Faerie?

poetry as promised

Anyone who reads me knows that I don't hold with poetry or song lyrics on blogs. Now here I need to tread lightly, because there are some folks who I truly appreciate, such as
Vadergrrrl
(goddamn that fucked up html!) who posts song lyrics often and does it much less obnoxiously than most. But she's mature, a master at what she's doing, and she's also knows her history so that the lyrics mean something beyond personal.

I freely admit to hypocritia (uh, yeah, I made that up.) An everchanging, brief bit of lyrics reside as a subtitle/explaination for my blog (instead of the ever-tempting Random Musings Of A Tortured Soul), and I employ song lyrics in my books in a rather formalized method. (No doubt they'll be immediately eliminated by the editor that buys my work. They'll live to regret it though. Cross marketing is a great ploy and one that the publishing industry doesn't engage often enough - and fuck, that really is whole other post.)

Ironically enough, when I run across lyrics or poetry in books I compulsively skip right past them. No doubt I'll get what's coming to me someday.

I'll be clear: my problem with poetry written by the authors of blogs is that it always sucks. My problem with song lyrics on blogs is that the poetry is meant to be heard within the confines of the music for which it was written. It means nearly nothing without that music. (And if you put the fucking accompanying music on your blog you deserve to rot in Hell reading Shakespeare in bad light forevermore!)

My poorly organized opinions notwithstanding, I don't profess to be a poetry expert in any shape. I've written two free-form poems that I think pretty well rock, but they really mean something only to me. I wouldn't dream of inflicting them on someone else. However, I had Browning years ago while earning my degree (in some awful 300 level English course probably called something like Pre- through Post-Victorian Poetry.) and it struck a chord with me. I could go into how Browning effectively utilized the unusual conversational style within iambic pentameter couplets, but that bores the hell out of me and everyone else I know. If it's not obvious by now, poetry is not my favorite form of written expression, and analyzing it drives me to drink.

Browning, though, happens to rock.

My Last Duchess (1842)

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Frà Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps
Over my Lady's wrist too much," or "Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat": such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart -- how shall I say? -- too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace -- all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men, -- good! but thanked
Somehow -- I know not how -- as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech -- (which I have not) -- to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark" -- and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
--E'en then would be some stooping, and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

** If you hate being told what it means then don't read anymore. **

What's it mean? Think of who's talking here: some entitled asshole Duke whose wife didn't treat him special enough. So he had her painted (I guess she was cute enough or something) and killed for it. Who is he talking to? Another asshole who's there to negotiate the dowry for a new wife. The punchline is the last three lines when the speaker points out another of his works of art. The art, and so the last wife, is now relegated to just a means to display wealth.

** end disclaimer**

Now read it again and see how cool it is.

friday is greenday

I'm goin' baby, and you're not, so nananana!

Ok, maybe you are going. How the hell would I know since I don't actually know that many of you? But anyway, I'm damn excited. Pathetically so. (Especially since I've told two people so far and they've gone, "Green whaaat? Whassat?") Nothing sucks away excitement like ignorance.

I'll follow this with a little poetry (yeah, you read that right) from Browning when I calm back down.

Weeeeeeeeeeee!

fill yer tag yet?

God, the lake bar is great fun. I don't know why, but that stupid lake townie bar is always a hoot. This time of year it's filled with hunters (you can tell by the hathead and that they leave drunk and early) and stinky late season fishermen guys with T-shirts that say: "This is a drinking town with a fishing problem."

Had a conversation with a hunter (couldn't throw a rock without hittin' one, after all.) I didn't ask him what he shoots. If it had been bow season I might have been interested (though all the guys go in for compound instead of recurve - pussies!) but I haven't studied up on hunting rifles all that much. I'm more into the military stuff (you know, HK MSG 90 and Barrett M99 - now that's a beautiful rifle) I did know enough (after long-ago careful coaching by The Man whose dad and stepdad are both avid deer-murderers) to ask the only pertinent question one can ask during deer season:

"Fill your tag yet?"

I'm not even sure what that means, but it seems to be the friendly thing to say.

He had, and now he was after elk.

"How do you stand it? Sitting in a blind from five am, freezing your ass off, and just waiting around for a fucking deer to stroll by. I mean, do you at least bring a Gameboy to pass the time?"

"No," he answered. "I stalk all my kills."

He seemed way cooler after that. Especially since my friend and I had just been admiring (ok, sort of laughing, too) at his sweatshirt, on which he had sewn a bunch of band patches. Some old stuff, like The Who and Doors, of course, but Godsmack too and, well, shit, I can't remember what all. There were like thirty of them.

I told my friend I'd buy her a kami - you know, to loosen up first - if she'd ask him if what we thought was probably true: "Did your mommy (who you still live with, by the way) sew those on for you?"

No shots required, she just leaned over and asked him. She's so cool, she can talk to anybody and not come off looking like a loser or an asshole, which seems to be my problem (loser when not drunk, asshole when drunk). He was a nice enough guy and told us of all the bands he'd seen and stuff. Of course I'd been drinking since noon and he was sitting right there so I didn't have to get up. He also was not a heavy hitter, which is always a relief. Unlike Pete, who rubbed his groin on my friend's knee. Yuuuk.

**Note to my dude-type readership: That won't make a good impression in any circumstance. Nobody's that cute.

"Kinda quiet in here tonight," he said, and then he looked at me. "You're not from around here, huh?"

"Boulder."

I love to say that and gauge the reaction. Boulder is... well, it's Boulder. The town that liked the early 70s and decided to stay. People either love to live here or love to only visit. This guy seemed neither, he was from the other college town which is a close second to cool: Fort Collins. He said he came up to the lake every weekend to hunt and he sat in this bar every Saturday night for four months. He's got a trailer up there on one of the other lakes. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to be impressed or not. Truth be told, I was a little jealous, actually.

He said, "I could tell. Chicks come in here all the time and laugh at the locals."

At first I was a little offended, but I figured I had it coming; and besides one astute observation deserves another, right? So I said, "Well, it is easy pickins. That is, if we were in the market, which we aren't."

He didn't get offended, he just grinned like he caught on and asked me what I did. I told him I write violent fantasy novels. He didn't seem to know what to make of that (He lives in a college town - guess he doesn't go there.)

Then he said, "I'm trying to decide if I want to go out again tomorrow or not."

He disappeared pretty soon after that, so I guess that's Hunter for "Later."

more evidence of how truly fucked-up bush and the country are; as if we needed it

On NPR this morning (now I was listening while half-asleep, but I'm fairly certain I got this right) they are attributing Bush's win to his efforts to "get out the vote."

Ok, I'll give him that. Giant kudos on getting fifty-fucking-one percent, Ratbastard.

But the actions they took to get there are astounding. Apparently last summer all the hoopla over the stem cell debate and the exclusive marriage acts were only to get the reps' opinions and how they voted on record. The results were emailed to evangelical churches across the country in order to motivate these congregations (who apparently think they have a lock on how to live) to vote for/against their reps (and what the hell, vote for Bush while they were standing there.) The whip cream on the titties was all the state initiatives to define marriage as between a man and a woman, ya ya ya.

These two tactics were contrived and orchestrated between the States and Congress and the Bush Admin. And guess what, it worked. The "Moral Majority" came out in droves to vote. Many folks standing in line for hours are on record as reporting they were there to vote for the state marriage initiatives.

I'll make my views perfectly clear (as if you aren't getting the jist by now) and then let you all have free reign in the commentbox. Try to refrain from name-calling, please.

Ah, what the hell, name-calling is fun. Go for it.

I do believe in the Sacred State of Marriage (SSoM). The Man and I were together for a long time before we were married and it was different after. How, exactly? Dunno. But it was, and I'm not the only one to notice this. I know lots of people who lived together ('bout as close as you can come to it without sign the papers, smash the wine glasses, as God as my witness, yada yada) and after they got married they reported that it was "different." In a really good way.

I also have met a very few people who said that they didn't notice a difference and I feel sorta sad for them.

That said, my marriage is really nobody's business but my own (well, and ok, The Man gets an occassional say.) Granted, we start out lucky because ours is legal/approved in several states. But it's up to us to keep it right and golden. In that same spirit, others' marriages aren't my business either. What the hell is to me if Gays want to marry? Will it lessen the sanctity or quality of my SSoM? I can't see how it would.

I'll suggest that the insecurity about the SSoM resides closer to home than these fuckers think. Likely, they are just envious of someone who has a good one; be they gay or straight (or somewhere in-between.) They're probably really jealous of all the coloring-outside-the-lines sex these folks are having. I mean, really, have you ever met one of these right-wing-flapping activist types (be they against the Gays and/or Abortion and/or Stem Cell Research and/or Muslims) who truly seem happy? Do they behave as if they have satisfying sex lives?

It's time for the moral majority to pull themselves out of the missionary position (as well as their heads out of their asses) and concentrate on their own lives and souls and marriages. I think if they did, they might realize that the nature of living a good life comes from within. It sure as hell is not something you can buy or legislate, though apparently Bush is going to do his damndest at it.

Oh, well, I guess it's nothing new. This crap has been going on since the disease-ridden and stinky white folks staggered off the first boat way-back-when in search of freedom.

Freedom, my ass. This country ain't free no more.

on a lighter note:

Went blog surfing last night again. Always good for a laugh (and I needed one with all that blue...)

The most popular subtitles seem to include the words "random musings" in some form or another. One guy even calls himself Random. I wonder if he thinks his musings are more random than anyone else's? They didn't seem that way to me since there was just post after post about the election.

Found one entitled "My Blog." A new low in title mundanity. The content was just as scintillating.

One person explained himself/herself (??) as "a person in existance." My comment:
"And that sets you apart from the rest of us how?" Yes, anonymous. I'm such a wimp.

Music on blogs is a new pet peeve, perhaps even more so than ~TyPiNg LiKe ThIs~ I think my hands-down favorite was the pink and blue teddy bears hugging to Barry Manilow.

The appeal of CNN had blogging beat at that point so I retired to bed to watch Wolf Blitzer make it abundantly clear that he was only speculating, and he was NOT committing to any definitive assesments.

dashed to the rocks

Well, looks as if all hope for the immediate future is gone gone gone...

I, for one, plan on losing myself within my little fictional worlds for the next four years. Hopefully when I look up from my laptop there will some sort of viable economy left so I can sell my books.

Next the Bushwankers will probably try to convert the Muslims to Christianity. Fuck.

Huh. I actually care. Who knew?

voting day blues

Unfortunately, nothing exciting happened at my polling place, except for Punkinhead running out and me having to lose my place in line to go get her. Oh, and she had to go to the bathroom. Twice. Yeah, I waited about an hour. I knew about ten people there (after all, they're all in my neighborhood) so we chatted. It was all good.

Didn't have to wait as long as many folks. Some places in this great nation of ours folks spent the night outside their polling places waiting for doors to open. That's some serious fuckin' patriotism, but it seems there might be a better way. I know that work by law has to give you time off to go vote; apparently in my neighborhood several folks took advantage of this by going to vote well after 10. Makes sense. They could get to work and say,

"Good GOD, the lines were horrific! I waited for two hours!"
"Good for you for waiting, though."
"Yeah," sigh, "Rock the vote, man."

I do so love the congratulatory tone everyone uses about voting.
"Did you vote? Good for you!"
And then there's the sympathetic, yet guilt-trip laying patriot:
"Ohmygod you had to spend an HOUR in line??! I know, I had soooo much to do today too! But, you know, it's our duty."

As if we aren't ridiculously fortunate to have the priveledge. I mean, no one I know likes Bush or Kerry all that much, as far as I can determine, but it's not like either one is some third world dictator with fifty wives, ten mansions, and drug lords on the payroll presidiing over a nation full of starving children and limited satelite tv service.

The only thing I would change about the Presidential election and subsequent term is that the guy who wins gets to be President, and they have to take on the runner-up as their VP. Can you see Bush and Kerry together, or Kerry president and Bush stepping down into #2 spot. Now that would give them what they deserve if they trash each other during the campaigns, and it would make for lots of good fights. CNN would be happy. And everyone knows that if CNN is happy, we all are happy.

As for the poll volunteers: talk about your basic thankless job. I forgot to say thanks as I left. Of course Punkinhead had been rolling around on the floor kicking the booth behind me, so maybe just leaving was thanks enough.

She sure was disappointed though. She thought for sure we were going boating today.

spooky ruminations

I decided that if your voice has changed, you own a cell phone (and are talking on it while holding out your pillowcase), AND you are taller than the person giving you candy you're too old to be trickortreating. Now, each of these singularly does not automatically disqualify, but all three in conjunction certainly do. If you're wondering if I gave them candy, the answer is yes. It was the fucking future CU football team on my front porch, for crissake.

We got snow for Halloween. It's tradition here in Colorado for the weather to be shitty on Halloween. Actually, the entire tradition consists of balmy Indian Summer up until the very day at about four-thirty. This provides time for the necessary arguement/bargaining to take place to determine who will go out cloaked in Goretex and come back with hyper frostbitten children and who gets to stay home and drink beer while handing out candy. Beer goes good with Smarties. Who knew?

There was a bit of a break with tradition this year though, since the weather was shitty last week too. Speaking of, the weather's shitty here all the time. You hardly get to see the mountains because of all the cloud cover. It's waaaaay colder than California, and the roads ice up and you can't drive without getting in an accident. People are rude here too. Don't EVER move here. (The locals are laughing their asses off right now.)

Of course the kids got the obligatory two healthy treats. Brother. Why waste your time, people? It's just going to get thrown out anyway.

I got a treat too. The Great Pumpkin brought me an Ipod for Halloween. Now, don't get all upset if you didn't get anything. Cupid was supposed to bring it to me, and then the Easter Bunny, and then the Anniversary fairy... but it never happened until Halloween. (It also helps if you are veeeery nice to the Great Pumpkin and make him a nice dinner before T.O.T.ing and have hot chocolate waiting after.) I was all set to work on loading it covertly all week long and impress The Man with my softwaric prowess.(I got the *heavy sigh*; "I'll help you with it next weekend when I have time.") But it's actually embarrassingly easy and I figured it out in about two minutes. The hardest part was the damn wheelie controller thingymabob.

Hee hee. Now at the gym if someone wants to interrupt me with useless advice, they'll have to actually make big gestures and/or touch me to get my attention. (and I can still pretend to ignore them) I listen to my tunes LOUD. No point in it if you can hear others yammering in the background.

We went to a party Saturday night. Pretty fun for not knowing anyone there. I found someone who does something else besides programming (he sails for fun so we chatted.) The Man got several double-takes, and even a couple of girls stopped him for a good look. He does a damn good Captain Jack Sparrow. Everyone knew I was Madonna so it was all good.

One guy said, "So, what... You guys dress up as each others' fantasies?" Good, good humor.

Went to a local bar after just to check out more costumes. Memorable were:

Five swing states (they were going for six but someone got sick). A complete marching band: feathered hats, finger cymbals, and kazoos. Osama and a wife or two, complete with dynamite. Very good renditions of Vampires, right down to the red contacts. That freaked my shit. More winged creatures (they kept knocking stuff off trays and saying "excuse me, tee hee, excuse me." Note to self: Resist urge to go as a fairy to a party.) Jerry Garcia. Some guy from The Big Lebowski (or however the hell you spell that).

I was on the same drinking schedule as an alien with a boa. I was just talking away, "So were are the mixed drinks again? My husband wants a rum and coke..." and looked up to see a very surprised-looking alien. (Later I thought it made sense. You'd be surprised too if you found yourself on another planet at a Halloween party.) I said, "Oh, well, you wouldn't know, would you?"

A guy dressed as a Chinese Olympic girl gymnast: the punch line was the teensy boobies. A very nice cow spoke with us for awhile at the bar. We wanted to know if he had beer in his udder, but he said that costume had already been rented. All the barkeeps, male and female, were dressed as hula dancers. Pretty soon the guys just let their coconuts hang around their waists.

But hands-down cutest was Tigger. No, really. I mean the guy was hot.