more on books

I'm only doing this for Amber, cuz she asked nicely. I think there were questions about books in there somewhere?

Ah, yes...

1. How much do you read?
Define “a lot.” I can read all damn day if I’ve got nothing better to do, which I usually don’t. Now I read probably an hour a day, if I’m lucky – thirty minutes on the bike at the gym, twenty minutes out loud to my kid, I read when I blow dry my hair and when I’m waiting in the car to pick up my son from school. I have a book, or my laptop, with me everywhere I go. I read my son novels for pre-teens and for teenagers, like Harry Potter and Children of the Lamp and the kiddie-novel of the new Star Wars. He has an excellent vocabulary. I’ll read late into the night if I’m too weary to write. I like to read in bed. Eating and reading in bed are just below sex in utter decadence.


2. Favorite genre(s)?
English mysteries. Spy novels. Books with gratuitous, descriptive violence. Limited fantasy-- frankly, some of the genre is painful to read... the story is a good idea but the writing... eh. I pray I’m an exception. Eroticm. I know, I know, you’d never have guessed. I even like the crap that’s in Hustler. Most of my eroticm comes from blogs, which I find interesting because you get to know the people behind the sex. There are more blogs about thirty-something wives who have discovered that being a submissive can be fun. Interior Design magazines –this is something I know a lot about and am quite interested in, but that’s for another day.

3. What qualities must a book have to keep you up reading all night?
I can put down action, but it must have characters that I care about. Or sex. I like reading myself to sleep on sex scenes. It always makes for an interesting tomorrow.

4. How do you find something to read?
I go to the bookstore - I'm terrible with returning things to the library. I had shelves built in my study to accomodate my books, my nightstand is a big old pine desk and it usually has ten to twenty books on it at any given time, and that doesn’t include the kids books. There are currently ten books next to my computer. I don’t watch much tv.

5. Favorite books and why?
Well, mine. Ok, so there it is. I like them. What can I say?
Harry Potter is just fun.
Andy Rooney’s My War --here’s an amusing anectdote about that, I told my mom how great it was and she poo-pooed it (cuz she be remembering WW2 and shit) and never read it. And then someone interviewed him for something and then it was HER idea, so she read it and loved it. See? See how no one respects me?
The Boynton books are fabulous to read to kids.
PD James
Elizabeth George’s Inspector Linley books
Stephen White
Some of King’s works
John Irving
Steinbeck
I like Crichton, but I think he is, or has gotten, formulaic in his prose. Obviously, it’s a formula that works, so who am I to say?
Laurel Hamilton – short on plot, long on rockin’ sex scenes. I always come away from her books horny as all git-out.
Oh, jeez, there’s more, but I can’t remember them all
Oh, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe series. Awesome stories.
John Rosemond - New Parent Power. Anyone who says he is just a strict old coot likely hasn't read a word he's written and they likely also possess obnoxious children.

6. What are you reading right now and is it any good?
Nick Tosches In the Hand of Dante, which has perhaps the best first chapter of any book I’ve ever read. His usage of the word fuck has outdone anything I’ve ever heard or read. I think in one sentence he uses it about five times; in each of its forms.
The Children of the Lamp to my son – very fun.
Finishing (finally!) Tad William’s epic Otherworld.
Greg Cox’s Underworld books, just finished the second one in the weekend at N’awlins – yeah, I had time to read. Clearly, I didn’t party anything like enough.

7. Paperback or hard back?
I like to look at hardbacks on my shelves, I like to read paperbacks.

8. Any great quotes?

I won't presume to know what they mean; just that they speak to me.

“It began in dirt, as many things do.” Tad Williams first line of a four-book series. Quite misleading, since he later describes something as “halicinatory in its gigantism.” He’s, er, rather descriptive. In fact, I’d say his books are 60 percent description, 40 percent story. But the story is generally worth wading through the other.

"You decorate it for a year, finding the four poster bed, assembling it upstairs, draping the mosquito netting to convince yourself that you still wander in dangerous places. At night you mutter in several languages." -- Beth Parton, Microgravity

"His jeans are rumpled, his T-shirt half untucked. I back away, until I'm up against the door. Inches from my face, he cocks his head slightly. Then he moves his lips so close to mine, they just barely touch and he whispers,
"One
more
chance."
--Augusten Burroughs, Dry. All his books are great.

And I guess the following is the single best bit of prose I've ever read in my entire life:

"Shit, there I go again: writing. Fucking writing. Even I got fucking sucked into that one: bringing only a single piece of fruit, or a single flower, and herself.

Fuck that shit. The bitch gave decent head and that's that."
--Nick Tosches In the Hand of Dante

the power of information

This is an essay I wrote a couple of years ago. I stumbled upon it while looking for some quotes that I thought I had on this machine. I thought it applied to my current series, but it more likely belongs to another, unwritten book.

Anyway, book post to follow...


Currently we live in what is widely referred to as the “Information Age.” People manipulate and control information continually, even so that some groups, such as the United States Central Intelligence Agency, are equated with information. No one would dispute that the CIA is a very powerful organization. Information is their business and that business creates power.

Say you had a secret that someone was having an affair. What is the difference between telling that person’s spouse or a stranger on the street? There is a difference, of course. The stranger has the knowledge, but not the power. Say the stranger subsequently meets someone in a bar and tells that person about the affair. The listener is the spouse of the adulterer, and the conversation gets them to thinking...

Suddenly the stranger has become very powerful, without even knowing it.

The lines between knowledge and power are blurred and dynamic. Information equals power in our world today. But at what point does information become power? And at what point does said power gain a dangerous influence over the information? Imagine someone who has intelligence; knowledge, but only holds it; does not act on it.

Is it possible for that person to remain powerless?

on reading...

[Editor's note: This post was so long that Sex decided to do a two-parter. She is a novelist, after all. Answers to questions to follow in a day or so.]


One more word on music before we get to the higher form of art, books... the new NIN is pretty damn good, if you ask me. The last track is awesome.

Ok, so, we'll put the important news first: the Twins were there at the gym working out; communicating telepathically as they apparently do, since they weren’t talking; per usual. One got his haircut the other day, and I thought, Now I just have to figure out which one is which and I got them down. Then the other one got his haircut in exactly the same way. Doh! Foiled again! But the haircut(s) look(s) hot.

How often are there twins around; much less smokin, bangin hot twins? These guys have incredible swimmer bodies: broad shoulders and narrow waists where every muscle is cut, but not in that gross weight-lifter way where all their veins stand out...

I got to thinking on how freakin’ delicious would it be to have a threesome with TWINS?? It’d be just like... like doing the guy you like to love on, only times two. Two identical sets of lips kissing your skin, two identical c... er, ok, well, you get it. Only it would probably feel more like times twenty, because these things tend to feel exponential.

...Well, so I’ve heard.

**

And they’re blonde, so they make me think of Jack.

**
**

I apparently need more than a moment to compose myself.

**

Quick, sound writerly, since I left a message on a real author’s blog today.

Ok, so books. Well, for me my writing and my reading is intertwined (tee hee, Greg) (ok, so, private jokes hurt feelings-- intertwined = sex). I spend most of my time writing. And when I’m not writing, I’m reading my own writing. Call me self-absorbed and arrogant, and shit, you’d probably be right. But I actually rather like what I write. And I can still surprise myself. In Stephen King’s On Writing; let’s just call it a writer’s Bible, shall we, since the guy obviously knows of which he speaks; he recommends writing a first draft all out in one go, hard and fast and sweaty, without checking back in it much. And then, when it’s done, you stick the fucker away in a drawer somewhere and move on to another project.

I know you want to, but don't look! Let it simmer.

This is a bitch to do, because you’re all itchy to get back and fix all the stuff that you know is just plain wrong: like the mislaid tenses of lie and starting sentences with prepositions and leaving out the subject. Then there’s the bigger stuff; those characters sure as shit mentioned each other before they actually met. Or Jebus save me, it’s the PSG-1 with the ten meter casing spew, not the MSG-90. So all the bad guy had to do was pick up one of those casings (and, um, why did hero-guy have to shoot so many rounds if he’s such a great sniper anyway?) to trace the fucking gun. And get it straight for once, will you-- the MSG-90A1 is the one with the threaded barrel for a screw-on silencers! How did he screw the silencer onto the MSG-90 when there’s no threading on the barrel, hmmmm?

But you can’t go back yet, because Stephen says put it away for some weeks until you’ve forgotten all of that. Let me add that I’ve only done this with one book, because my books are a series and I’m constantly in and out of them to check that things jive and to fix what has gone before. I have to insert clues or it’s no fun; it’s tricking the reader which is just plain mean and pretty amateurish, too. But I let my fourth book simmer for four months (FOUR!) while life and a new character Sean with his own story to tell came into my world.

And then comes the day where you get to pull it back out, like I just did with that book this week, and you read it and some of it is pretty damn good.

I wrote that? you think. Damn, I’m good. I might just have a future at this. And you’ve even forgotten the next twist, because it’s been so long and you wrote it straight out without a plot, because like it or not that’s how you do this, and you think, Damn, even I can’t put it down. Yea!

And then you get to what should be the end and you think, HOLD IT!?!? What’s with the extra hundred or so pages??

Obviously you didn’t know how or when to finish the damn thing.

And what once was golden becomes a fucking train wreck.

But it’s all good, because you’ve faced down this demon before and overcome and turned a right mess into a pretty damn good story. You just have to pay attention and have faith and listen to your words they’ll tell you what to do, listen over the rhythm that’s confusing you... you know, just like Bono says.

And you reread and fix and reread and fix and reread and fix and you stew and you read blogs and websites and then it starts to come together in weird ways. You find that there was a reason after all for that odd statement that bit character said–- it left the scene in such perfect tension that you couldn’t bear to axe it, even though it had no bearing whatsoever on the story. But there, just there, it ties in. Now you see the connection...

Then your neighbor, who has proven herself to be a worthwhile reader since she actually says helpful things rather than just ass-kissing things, is reading your book. And she stops you as you get your mail and tells you that she finished your book and, hesitantly, not wanting to offend, adds,

“Didn’t you say you have the second book finished?”

And you reply, your casual tone belying that your heart just started flooding your body with a thrilling roar of fresh, excited blood, “Yeah, sure, I think the manuscript is around here somewhere. You want it now?”

“Yes! I really want to find out what happened to these guys.”

And you try to quell your shaking hand as you give her the manuscript.

And the next day you try not to faint dead away on your driveway when she yells across the street that your second book, YOUR BOOK, kept her up half the night. (!)

And she even says that now she wants to reread your first book because she knows she overlooked clues and stuff, and she really wants to catch on to what's going on so she doesn't miss anything.


And that’s what reading is all about, Charlie Brown.

the proverbial stick up the arse

I first (and last) broached this topic in this post. You don't have to read the whole thing. It basically says that though I don't know a lot about music, I've probably got a minimum of fifteen years on you so I know more than you do. (I've been working on my synopsis skills, so how was that?)

I would have ignored this, but Amber's such a nice chic I can't blow her off. So here goes...

1. Total number of music files on my (extremely fucked up at the moment) computer:
Well, let me bring up iTunes and find out...
376 songs, 1.22 GB

God, it's so fucking fascinating already, can you stand it?

Now for the scintilating explanation--I only download cds that I want on my ipod. I only use the ipod to work out so most of it is rockin' or pop tunes. For instance, I do my abs to the first Matrix CD.

I know, you just can't wait to read what I write next.

2. Last cd I bought:
Jack Johnson and Beck, and I'm enjoying both. PHF dislikes Jack Johnson. Too slow. He brings out my girlie side, and shit, you know that can't be good. I know I'm a bit late on both, but I don't have to have music the second it comes out (cuz, I'm all mature, don't you know). My next purchase will be the new NIN.

3. Song playing right now: oddly enough, nothing.

4. Five songs that mean a lot to me:

Huh.

The prerequisite U2 song: mine is Wake Up Dead Man

tlisten to your words they’ll tell you what to do
listen over the rhythm that’s confusing you
listen to the reed in the saxophone
listen over the hum of the radio
listen over sounds of blades in rotation
listen through the traffic and circulation
listen as hope and peace try to rhyme
listen over marching bands playing out their time

I love the music in that song, I love the under-track, I love the poetry, I love the meaning... one of my favs.


Seasons in the Sun. I've always loved that song, even before I knew what it meant.

Holiday by Green Day. It's got a rockin' beat and I was so disappointed when he didn't hold the long note at the end in concert. However, he did one later, so that's cool. Incidently, American Idiot is my favorite album of all time. Can't see anybody writing anything that will usurp that distinction, though of course Tommy is a close second. I like it when tunes tell a story, but more on that later.

Linkin Park's (I know, Tomibuns, I know) Somewhere I Belong. It doesn't apply to myself at all, but the lyrics belong to one of my characters. I use this verse in my third book:

When this began
I had nothing to say
And I’d get lost in the nothingness inside of me
I was confused
And I let it all out to find that I’m
Not the only person with these things in mind
But all the vacancy the words revealed
Is the only real thing that I’ve got left to feel
Nothing to lose
Just stuck, hollow and alone
And the fault is my own
And the fault is my own

I like lots and lots of the ubiquitous, enigmatic REM:

it’s not like if angels
could truly look down
stir up the trappings
and light on the ground
remind us of what, when, why or who
that how’s up to us, me and you
and now is greater than the whole of the past

And of course the Indulgers, this local band here. I admire them because they are first and foremost prolific, which I can identify with. Also they're Irish, so they appreciate a decent ale. But mostly it's about the poetry and the story of it all. Like American Idiot, most of their songs are story first, meaning second; which is the way all great art does. I could write an entire book based on these lyrics alone. I expect I will someday.

Chase the Ghost:
Throughout the night I'll stay awake
Not a wink will I take
A lonely candle lights they way, along the road
To find the answers, to change the most
They chase the ghost

There's Jason Mraz, whose lyrics start my entire series. My boy loves Jason Mraz. Some of his stuff is slow and sappy, but when he get's going... well, the man has an incredible voice. These would be the only lyrics I'd fight to keep in publication, if it comes to it (which it surely will).

The remedy is the experience
Cause it’s a dangerous liaison
I say the comedy is that it’s serious
Cause it’s a strange enough new play on words
I say the tragedy is how you’re going to spend
The rest of your nights with the light on
So shine the light on all of your friends
When it all amounts to nothing in the end

And I've always loved INXS:

In a rooom above a busy street
The echoes of a life
The fragments and the accidents
Separated by incidents
Listened to by the walls
We share the same spaces
Repeated in the corridors
Performing the same movements
Storey to storey
Building to building
Street to street
We pass each other on the stairs

The nature of your tragedy
Is chained around your neck
Do you lead or are you led
Are you sure that you don't care
There are reasons here to give your life
And follow in your way
The passion lives to keep your faith
Through all are different all are great
Climbing as we fall
We dare to hold on to our fate
And steal away our destiny
To catch ourselves with quiet grace

I mean, that's just some goddamn great poetry, and I don't even like poetry; which leads me neatly into why I hate these these kinds of posts. And yes, I'm a hypocrite and hate lyrics in books, except for mine, cuz it's totally a different thing, you know.

The lyrics mean nothing to me without the music. I hope you've heard these songs so you can hear the music as you read the lyrics (if you read the lyrics).

You know, all that is just bullshit, anyway. My favorite song is whatever song my baby-girl is singing at the moment.

5. I'm not passing this. The buck stops here.

However, I'm going to set up some questions about books, and I'll pass it to Greg, Amber, Sandy, and... oh, Harley. Tomorrow, or sometime, I'll answer my own questions about this.


1. How much do you read?

2. Favorite genre(s)?

3. What qualities must a book have to keep you up reading all night?

4. How do you find something to read?

5. Favorite books and why?

6. What are you reading right now and is it any good?

7. Paperback or hard back?

8. Any great quotes?

if you know me, you're probably just better off skipping this one...

"Hey, where did your curly hair go?" --PHF (a true double entendre if I ever heard one.)

"One of them looks like an old gym shirt—good for doing exercising between posts." -- Blogger (A strand of golden plastic beads to the person who finds the sexual irony in that statement.)

"What a delicious piece of ass. If you could only see the motherfucking titties on her. I'd fucking fuck the fucking shit out of her..." -- Greg

"...one memorable scene, there was a black guy with a legs-crossingly huge, equine cock, hammering this pair of white girls turn-about in every orifice they had which was able to accommodate him..." -- Wegg

Oh dear, we're all horny again in Pajamaland. Well, Wegg always is. Her Wetnesday entry is about a bachelor party (charmingly called a "buck's party" by the Aussies). Greg's going on about porn, and... well... and then there's me.

I don't kiss and tell all that much, and don't start unzipping just yet, cuz I ain't about to start with the gory details on today of all days: the day after my wedding anniversary. Fourteen years, thank you very much. Jeez it seems like it was only yesterday we got married.

Ok, it doesn't. It seems like it was roughly fourteen years ago.

I'm not sure which was more turn-on-- the strip clubs or the boob-baring-- but some raucous sex was had by all. Ok, well, all two of us. Didn't get into it with our party mates. I will say this about New Orleans: showing your tits seems like it's gonna be this big-ass deal, but when you do it it's more like... *shrug.* At least to me. The guys seem pretty excited.

The beads are a nice touch though.

Ok, well, it's the thought that counts.

Ok, so it's not.

Ok, well, like you know how you make money with porn, and it happens to be fun, too? Beads are tit-money, and it happens to be fun. Everywhere I went I was asked, "You earn those beads?"

And I said, "Yes. Yes, I did."

And then they nearly always immediately sidled nearer and gazed at me with unabashed sexual attraction, which was amusing to me because the only chics I saw showing off their tits had a guy standing next to them, and believe me, I saw a lot of them. Girls in packs never did it. Too chicken, I guess, or not drunk enough.

What's really funny is I truly believe I'm as turned on by seeing a nice rack as much as the next guy. However, I don't really possess the urge to fondle said rack. (There's that Fence again.) I was too drunk to see most of the boobs in New Orleans - at least on the street. Seems I was nearly always getting a beer, or contemplating the bottom of my empty cup, or guzzling something or other at the particular moment that breasts of the female variety made their appearance. I even missed the guy flashing his cock per my own request. To my credit I had turned away to speak to the nice man who calls himself my husband. Unfortunately to the flasher's lack of credit, everyone reported that I didn't miss much.

And I don't think I'd be opposed to a threesome (yeah, sure, the "cool kind," guys, whatever). I think I would be a taker, though, at first - the one who had the most done to her. I could see myself warming to the situation later, but it might take awhile. In my somewhat limited homosexual experience (though real experience, ahem) I wasn't so turned on by touching the chic. But I liked being touched by them... ahh, her. Ok, ok, them. Whatever.

Anyway, back to the boobs. Once we entered the strip clubs, I could hardly look away. Well, of course there is the requisite, lengthy debate over whose boobs were real and whose weren't. We also debated the whole nipple thing - cold vs hot, and who knew that pointy were the way to go? One chick could hang her glasses from them. And other... stuff. Then I got the bright idea that seeing PHF go up and give the stripper chics money would turn me on or some nonsense like that.

And it did, for awhile.

There's this dopey look guys get on their faces when they watch strippers - especially when they are close to the stage. It's purely a physics thing - the guy rolls his eyes up to look at the stage (not wanting to tip his head back like a total dork, which of course would make no difference because it's much too late to fix that) and then his mouth sort of comes open a little. You all do it so there's no point in worrying about it.

Only PHF didn't get the dopey look.

First of all, he's tall, and he was standing up. So when the chic got on her knees his lips were just about perfectly-round-and-firm-34D-breast height. He also was arguably the best-looking guy in the place, so the girls looked fairly glad to see him as opposed to sweaty pharmaceutical salesguy. And my husband, at least to me, is just pure sex on two feet; Sex Man Walking if you will; so he looked much more come-hither than I ever thought he would or could to another chic. At first it didn't bug me. I was rather amused, really. We were having fun and I was shit-faced drunk, so it was all good.

Except this one chic. I mentioned her before. She'd be the body I most covet... she had these two cute goddamned dimples just above her ass; not fat dimples but just sort of there... pretty thin, and that's my own aesthetic and it's not exactly my body type at all... but maybe she's too thin for some people and PHF doesn't like them too thin... but except according to him she was the best looking girl dancing, so he gave her money twice.

And then, yeah, through no fault of his own, he unwittingly crossed the line between turn-on and jealousy.

I can't hold it against him because after all, he'd have never gone up there in the first place unless I'd egged him on. And it's totally NOT fair of me to even think of it, because we didn't exactly lay down ground rules, and it's a fuckin' strip club, so there really aren't any rules except the ones put in place by managment.

I dealt ok with it. But then this married guy accepted a lap dance offer from this chick and my mind sort of clicked from jealous into pissed off. Where was the line, really? What's acceptable? Now I don't really give a shit about the other guy - maybe he's an asshole or maybe he and his wife have got an "arrangement". But we'd crossed the line and I didn't even see it coming (or he heh, cumming as it so happened later).

On the one hand, there's me. I love it when guys look at me. I'm THE consumate married Flirt. I mean, I can't say I wasn't flattered, just a little bit, by all the humping and biting going on with all those strangers the first night. (I guess they were cute - how could I tell through the beer goggles? I was drunk before I ever landed in LA.) I scope out people all the time - often chics as well as guys. I mean, shit, I play veritable Lookie-Loo with the twins who teach my kids swimming. PHF doesn't say word one about it. Ok, he didn't like when the guy bit me, but he got over it quick and moved on.

I'd dance; hell, I did dance, with strange guys and liked it until they got too close. It's a total turn-on -- which, incidently, PHF reaps the multiple benefits of-- getting scammed on. (Here's to ending two clauses with prepositions in a fucking row!! Yea for me!) However, I don't really tolerate strangers touching me all that well; which is probably my saving grace because if I did I might be real Trouble.

Even when the incredibly beautiful black stripper man offered Virtigo and me a lap dance I said no right away (to Virtigo's everlasting disappointment - she's a better woman than me and he was WAY hot). I don't know for sure, but I think PHF might've been ok with it. I'll have to ask him. But I can't imagine doing that. Some stranger invading my personal space... and paying for it? That's not a turn-on, that's a friggin' nightmare. That's elevators in Europe and close-talkers. Eh. Back off, bitch! Besides, Greg's pee-trough experience notwithstanding, there is no way that guy didn't have a golf-ball hanging down in the pocket of his g-string. Didn't really want to get smacked in the face with it. Might lose a tooth.

And I loved it when the chics hit on PHF - which many did all weekend long. It's good for the soul to be craved and wanted, and I liked it for him. I also liked being the one who got to take him home and screw the living crap out of him.

That night ended with tremendous irony, though. I didn't say anything about it at the time because I didn't want to fight or be all weird on our last night (ok, weird beyond practically running out of the strip club). But PHF knew I was on edge about something. I mentioned before that he bought me a trinket. Well, it's the sort of... thing that would take a very confident man to purchase, much less use. It's not alive, like a stripper, for instance, but it very much behaves as if it is.

So, alternatively, when viewing a live stripper as a mere... thing as it were, which I suppose we're likely to do, and when you compare one thing to another; especially the use of such things in the manner in which they were intended... well, it's not really fair of me to be jealous of his behavior.

So why am I? Hmmmm?

the blogercial

If Greg can post a fucking picture, I can post lyrics again:

I'm on the outside
I'm looking in
And I can see through you
See your true colors
Because inside you're ugly
Ugly like me
I can see through you
Seeing the real you

-- I'd give credit but I don't know who sings it.

And isn't Greg the cutest thing, btw?? Beautiful eyes, that one.



I've read some pretty good blogs out there. One in particular caught my attention some months ago. Good writer; he's got a solid theme with buku amounts of material; and best of all, he posts real regular-like. He's always been well read, but after getting a recent mention on another high traffic blog his hits have skyrocketed. He's reported that he's even gotten contacted by some journalists and publishing folks.

Though our subject matter and voice are quite different, his blog has always been polished in the way that I like to think mine is. I try hard to eliminate grammatical and spelling errors, to the point of repeated revising after publishing. If I happen to read something two posts ago with an issue, I go in and fix it. If something isn't totally proper it's quite likely I'm playing with my voice and seeing how I can push the limits of what's standard and acceptable. Pushing those limits tends to be valuable in getting comments, I've found, which is most of the fun of this thing.

Incidently, this is the same way I do with my fiction; even in rough drafts. I push limits while trying to keep up the good grammar and spelling as I go. It's a valuable compulsion. Anyone who thinks that spelling and grammar doesn't matter either:
a. doesn't want to be a paid writer, and/or
b. wants to maintain the image of disdain for society as a guise for plain laziness.
I'm not lazy (well, not when it comes to writing) and I sure as hell want to be paid someday soon for doing what I love.

More to the point, I've always enjoyed his posts and his subject matter, so I've kept reading. However, I've noticed a few disturbing trends since his recent brush with fame. Jealous as I am of this guy for having apparently made potentially lucrative contacts, I'm trying to think about what's really bugging me in a rational, critical-thinking manner.

He's always come off as a little defensive and pretentious (he uses big words); as well as maintaining a definite regional attitude. He works a job where most people would consider him to be, frankly, a big dumb oaf of an asshole, so I guess he feels the need to show that he can string two sentences together. As, I might add, anyone who graduated from high school in this nation, no matter how poor the school district, should be able to do; provided they were paying the least attention in class. Despite these annoying quirks, or maybe because of them, he's good at drawing the readers in and keep them firmly on his side with a touch of conversationality.

But now most of that conversationality is gone.

Actually, the blog has taken on the decided flavor of a job interview. It's gone more "writerly" -- lots of properly punctuated dialogue (my biased, unscientific impression is that the percentage of dialogue has gone up slightly-- many good books hover around 40-60% dialogue) and every post has a definite theme; which, in case you didn't get what it was in the beginning, is wrapped up neatly with a bow and a kiss at the end. He's pumped up his voice and style until it's become Voice and Style. What was once subtle and unique has gotten in the way. He's gone all Oprah Book Club on us.

He's also written a couple of posts about the "interest" in his blog and writing. He's done a few things to propagate this image of interest --either fictional or real, I've no way of knowing-- and fairly cleverly. Most subtley, he's written at length about how he has found creative ways to make extra money at his job. No real problem with that. Publishers want to make money, too. Should this ever happen to me, I'd express my interest in doing what I can with the actual marketing of my books and my willingness to take part any creative endeavors to do so. But I think I'd be a bit more straightforward about it. He's also refused to release his identity to any non-paying enterprises because his job would be axed and he could be sued if his bosses found out. This does two things, besides protect his anonymnity-- which, granted, is his right. It reassures potential pay-offs that he is what he says he is; as well as adds to the mystique of the anonymous blogger with all the potential "offers". He's reinforced this by mentioning more than a few times that he can only respond to paying offers because his financial situation is such that he must keep this second job which provides the fodder for his blog. Ok, so let's go with "it's True", but it hardly makes for scintilating reading for his typical fan.

Regular readers know how wary I am of salesmen and salesmanship and how one vague whiff will make me go all rude on your ass where usually I'm just the sweetest of pies. In typical marketing/negotiating bullshit manner, he's made it clear that he can't do anything without cash in hand. He's tried to manipulate his financial "opportunities" (or hell, maybe tried to create them) with his blog. It might be a good ploy - there's nothing that one good salesman loves more than another salesman. But if I figured it out, albeit as sensitive as I am to it, a real salesman or experienced editor will see right through it. While he tries to come off as "honored by the offers," to me it comes off more as, "Heh, suckers. Let's see who I can play to get the most money."

But worst of all, he's eliminated comments. I read one blog without comments, but I only read it because the guy is so fucking funny that I giggle my way down the computer screen. I've found my interest in his blog dwindling though. I love reading the good writing on these blogs, but I've found the real fun is the comment box. Cuz let's face it - while I might care what others say on their blogs to a degree, I mostly really care what I think about what you wrote. I hardly believe I'm the only one in this boat, and I certainly don't hold it against anyone.

So, not that he gives a shit, I'm respectfully withdrawing my regular readership. I may check in from time to time, but not every day because it ain't a blog no more, it's a friggin' commercial.

I guess my main point in this is to analyze myself were I to find myself in this situation. It's hard as a writer who wants to be a selling writer to balance what you need to write with what you hope will sell. For instance, I don't have the compunction to write poetry, which, for all intents and purposes, does not sell. More power to the poets out there, but it ain't gonna happen. I also do not have much compunction to write short fiction, which could do wonders for selling my longer works. I'm trying to remedy that, but frankly I'd rather do the boring work of preparing a manuscript for submission (and anyone who has prepared a manuscript for submission knows how strong that statement is). Short fiction just isn't my forte. I think what bothers me most is that he appears to be selling out, even before a check has come in, and I don't think he's doing it all that well. I think it's hurting him as a writer. I guess I consider this a warning to preserve some semblance of the how of what I do, no matter the opportunity. I've got a voice, and for better or worse I rather like it. I guess I just don't want to lose the joy, ya know?

[editor's note: Sex plans on emailing this post to him, just so that he knows about it and can read and comment here if he likes. Sex sincerely believes that he won't care one whit about what she said, and that, in all likelyhood, neither do you. And no, Sex won't tell you who it is.]

since the party doesn't really get going until midnight...

So I usually feel guilty for blogging to the exclusion of all else, but since I'm operating on about an hour of sleep I could give a fuck (which, incidently, closely ties into my sleepless state). And clearly by my difficulty with typing (three tries on with -- what you're reading is edited) I might still be a little drunk. Stands to reason. It's been not quite eight hours since my last drink.

I had the notion that I would write my travelogue day by day, and then post one day per day, if you get my meaning, so as to better describe and remember it. It would have been a good idea, but I was too busy, you know, what with the drinking. So this will be one long rambly half-drunken jag, rather like the weekend itself.

My current condition:

If this is a hangover then they aren't too bad, but at some point I'm gonna crash and it ain't gonna be pretty. Despite being washed a few hours ago, my feet still smell like Bourbon Street. My hair smells like Bourbon Street Blues Company, the guy who bit me there, and like barbeque and smoke. I still hear loud music. Will that go away, you suppose?

Anyway, this is what I wrote at naptime on Friday:

It took a little convincing but I did it. We started drinking at noon (buzz-on goal accomplished ten-fold) (Why is beer on airplanes always warm?) and I never really hit staggering drunk until Virtigo dragged me down to the street below the balcony we'd been hanging out on. And at the time, I didn't realize just how drunk I truly was...

ahem. Got some beads. Lots o' beads. Then got lots of compliments when I went back upstairs. Yeeeeahhh, right. As if they could even see 'em from way up there.

Actually Virtigo made the big haul, and all without nipple. I hope I only imagined the sigh of disappointment when I finally did my girlie duty. PHF swears there was no disappointment and a "clear view". Just as well. I don't have any cleavage at any rate. Nothing to tease with. For me, it's rather an all or nothing proposition...

Boys outnumber girls on Bourbon four to one, so if you dance you are quickly swarmed. I only had to be rescued once, by BB. (Where was PHF, you ask? Up on the balcony looking at the bewbies, of course.) Though I'm not one to scoff admiring attention, I wasn't really after a gang bang on the dance floor.

And then, later, when the guy started biting my neck while he was dancing... and not very well, I might add; well, I decided to retire to the loving embrace of my husband. Guys, a word on this: a hard-on while dancing is not sexy. It's kinda icky, actually.

Some shit you don't care about: the accent is damn sexy (I think I know Luna's secret weapon now), the river is huge, the city is crowded and friendly, and the rain is peaceful and does nothing but lend atmosphere to what must be one of the most atmospheric places on earth.

That was Thursday.

Which brings us to Friday the Thirteenth.

In a word, the entire day sucked. Well, sucked is a strong term, but not too strong, and the really sucky thing is that we didn't really realize that it sucked at the time. One of the party --I'd say who, but I took the Standard Oath Of Secrecy... on pain of torturous death, yada yada, you know the drill-- anyway, in the wee hours someone (ahem, not me, I'll say that much) woke up and puked all over their bathroom, leaving their spouse with quite the clean up endeavor. The only spot of luck is that (s)he doesn't remember. The spouse does though, and one of the funnier remarks of the entire weekend was the pukee saying, "Well, when it happens again just call housekeeping."

Friday we all were moving slow, but we walked around and saw the French Quarter and then started drinking again... oh hell, I don't know, it was eleven at least. Well, being as it was Friday the Thirteenth we thought it providencial to join the Ghost and Vampire Walking Tour of the Quarter.

It seemed like a good idea at the time and it was too boring to say any more about it.

Other Friday the Thirteenth Mayhaps:
-BB got a Big Ass Beer spilled on his nice pants as he was walking back to change them at the hotel just so something like that wouldn't happen to them.
-Virtigo jammed her foot under a post in the road. OUCH! Those posts are not the height of southern engineering.
-I got pelted in the face with beads and I'm surprised I still have both my front teeth.
-It was too crowded to be real fun.
-Dinner sucked. I mean, a singularly awful meal. I won't go into details, but Pat O'Brian's sucks. Worst restaurant in America, no lie.
-I couldn't catch a buzz to save my life.
-Some ugly tool tried to feel me up.
-The girls in the strip joint were all nasty. "This is where the fat and ugly strippers go to die," Virtigo said. One of them even said to us while we were in the bathroom, "For God's sake, don't sit on the toilet seats!" And per usual, the other guys in the club thought I was a stripper. Not exactly a compliment in that place.

Saturday was much improved, with sleeping, naptime, and an absolutely FABULOUS meal that dispelled the memory of the previous night. We did quiet drinks in a courtyard in the afternoon. We danced at night (I told PHF if he didn't want me to get mauled and bit by strange men while I was on the dance floor then he'd have to come stand guard), we went up on the balcony (Bourbon Street Blues Company again - cheap beers upstairs) and ruled the street for our quarter hour or so. We had a huge crowd stopped below, all the way across the intersection and half-way down the street; seriously, PHF and BB and Virtigo and me and this other group of girls (who hit shamelessy on my husband). I was helping these cute boys to pick out chicks who would actually flash, and I got pretty good at it, too. You know, you're like little godlings up there on the balcony. Don't want to analyze the good time out of it, and I don't want to do it every weekend, but it's some serious fucking fun.

When I finally went down to take a turn (I can't flash from the balcony very well cuz I'm too short for the railing) I got like twenty strands of beads. It was a hailstorm. Makes a girl feel special.

Ahem, let me break here for a moment to say that Lunatic must think I'm some old lady who goes home at eleven. While the places he recommended were awesome (the Blacksmith in particular, and the Absynthe was our first stop on Bourbon Street though we never got back there) they were pretty tame. And dueling pianos? Come on, we've got that here. He's dead on about the shoes though. I threw mine away at the hotel this morning.

Anyway, back to Saturday. I should add here that I'm on many a boy's camera and home movie, and I'd even venture to guess that my image has been emailed via cell phone. PHF said all this as if it would shock me but I think it's funny.

When it started to wind down a bit, people mostly walking home, we followed BB over to the Dungeon. Very cool goth bar with fabulous music. Kind of a small, intimate place. Of course, in my green linen short skirt and halter I don't know that I quite fit in, but I was too drunk to care. PHF got hit on all night - the man is just damn hotness in a visor. I think when I actually went upstairs to dance, leaving him talking with this chick at the bar and smoking a clove (oh god, the smoking... sooooo hot. He looks like an actor in a European film) he was truly amazed.

Well, he is damn lucky to have me.

By the time we went back to the hotel, amused ourseves there for a bit, and finally closed the curtains to sleep, the sun was coming up. We slept until one the next day.

Sunday night was tamer. The cabaret was pretty good until they ran through the girls and started re-running them. Then it got boring. It was funny; we had been there for a couple of hours, watching all the people and the dancers. And then, suddenly, I'd had enough. I had to get out and away. I was abruptly all pissed off. I don't know if it was PHF giving more money to the young chick whose body I most coveted, or the married guy getting a lapdance-- neither should have been enough to really set me off, but I actually said, "I'm going out now. I've had enough." and I walked out and stood around out on the street by myself (enduring a few catcalls but by then I was used to it) until they paid and came out.

We did the balcony thing again, though no one had any beads; BB and Virtigo wisely headed home by one. PHF and I screwed around and walked the street again and he bought me a nice trinket to make up for whatever slight he thought I'd imagined him causing me when I walked out of the cabaret all pissed off. Finally we went to sleep for one and a half hours before we had to head to the airport at four-thirty.

Which brings me to today. I feel a bit like when you land in London. You're really fucked from the jetlag, but it's morning there and you don't want to waste the day, so you go on as best you can. Besides, I got to stay up to get my kid from school and finally see him after five days.

I still feel drunk and I haven't had a shower since yesterday. I think it's time to go wash off Bourbon Street. But I'll miss it though.

Now, Greg, what the hell have you been up to in my absence?? Posting pictures and flirting with thirteen year olds? Sounds like we need to have a chat.

goodbye lovelies

We're off.

Packed? no.
Kid whiney beyond belief? yes.
Ready to party? YES!

keep it cool.

ss@ssy tonight

Greg tells me I’m bein’ sassy. There, anybody catching on to the big CLUE there about one of the meanings to the name of this blog? Danial (aka Cryptic) figured it out months ago. And yeah, there's more meaning than that, too. Some of you are in a position to get it, too. Heh.

Yeah, kinda sassy tonight. How much psychological damage do ya think I did when my son had talked for a half hour straight and I told him, “Your mouth has been going for a half-hour and I can no longer THINK! Stop. Talking. Now.”

Yeah, I’ll buy him something nice in New Orleans.

We have illness in the house. Impetigo. Yeah, (I keep saying yeah. Stop that! Yeah.) lovely little infection my son picked up. Hence the antibiotics. He’s got this scary red line from a sore place to his chin. But, moms, you’ll be relieved to know that while in extremities these lines are quite dangerous and require IMMEDIATE medical attention, on the face and body: not so dangerous. Straight from my own Dr. N and he knows his shit.

I shopped the mall for a halter top – the kind with no straps. I think they used to be called boob-tubes, which on me is a laughable name. More like a boob... I dunno. A boob... pocket. (More than a mouthful's a waste and I'll keep repeating that mantra until the day I die.) Anyway, there aren’t any. Apparently they are done bought out. By all the fat teenage girls, I’d imagine.

BUT, I did go to Victoria’s Secret (yeah, watch all the men perk up here – they start nodding off whenever I say “mom”) and I bought three bras and two lacy... panties. Hate that word. We always called them “grungies” for the lads and “knickers” for the girls. Oh, and “Arb” for bra, because no one in their right mind (well, when you’re, like, twelve) wants to say the world bra. Someone might hear you for God’s sake. Then you'd just have to die.

So I ran into this friend at school (to clarify for any teenaged bloghoppers out there - my SON'S school) and she said, “I just bought that new bra with the gel-pack in it.”

“Arghuh?” That piqued my interest.

“Yeah, it’s got a pushup gel-pack. It’s great. Very natural.”

Yeah, under all that stiff foam that Victoria's Secret is so famous for. God forbid I ever get felt up on the outside of my bra, the guy would freak. I didn't wear 'em when I dated PHF. Actually, I didn't really wear 'em much until I had babies. He is so lucky to have me.

This is a woman with boobs, mind you. If she needed the Gel-pack, then I sure as tootin’ needed the Gel-pack!

(Crap, I went downstairs to get another beer and the Beer Fridge-- the stuff of legends-- is making a funny "noise." Fuck. Yeah, I'd like to have a cute new white fridge that's not all dented and scratched. But you can get two cases of BOTTLED beer in this thing and it goes under the counter. It's a freakin' marvel of American engineering, I tell you. Should it die we'll have to have a ceremony. On the other hand, it is just in time for Spring Clean-up where they have free dumpsters in the neighborhood. The timing is perfect for the thing to die.)

Jokes on me though cause I went home to try on the new danties (you know, to see if they made me look like I got boobs. For the beads. It's all about the beads, apparently. )(Greg, if I get any beads I'm sending you some as a souvenir. Another word I can't spell. Fucken French. If it's not French, don't tell me.) Anyway, I'll be damned if I didn’t come home with the Gel-pack bra too! Way to go Sex, for being all hip and shit with the new foundation garments.

I like it, but I just got this feeling that sometime PHF will put the little buggers in the freezer while I’m in the shower and then slip ‘em back in without me seeing and then “WooHoo! the girls are awake.”

Actually, that might be nice on a hot day. Like say, at the zoo.

At the gym my workout was lackluster. Well, most of it. There’s the biggest fucking guy there. New guy. When he walks by all the other guys (or should I say: boys) sort of puff up their chests and hold their arms out like their lats are huge – you know the stance. (I actually sort of look like that and I try to hold my arms in so I don't look that way too much, cuz, you know, I'm a girl.) (Now I just made myself sound all attractive and shit. I'm not that big. But I have to watch my lats.)

I just want to stand up on a bench and say, “Ahem. Guys. Yeah. Well, we know you aren’t huge in shape or anything cause ya got the Buddha Belly. Know wha’m talkin bout? Know wha’m sayin’, homes?” I swear to Jebus that some mexican guys in the weight room sounded just like that this very NIGHT.

Ok, I’m lying. I wear an Ipod. I don’t hear anything anybody says, ever.

Ok, sorry. That was just stupid and embarrassing. I don’t do gangsta. Y’all have fun with it.

Anyway, he watched me. All the new guys at the gym do, cause I actually lift something over ten pounds. Also cuz I look all slutty in my black eyeliner (Yeah, yeah, G. I’ll try to actually be IN a picture for once, without sunglasses. Virtigo takes them of me when I’m drunk in bars. Pretty frequently, actually.) and I guess someone on this green earth finds me sexually attractive.

Two milestones tonite: twenty pushups in a row. Coulda gone for more, but I don’t want to hurt my shoulder so close to a trip. Twenty five pound chest presses – oh, that came out wrong. 25 dumbell+25 dumbell= 50. Not so much, but I am a girl, remember. Again, I could do a lot more but I actually need to do some reps. I won’t do that much all the time, but the twenties are just... easy, and I wanted to see I if I could do reps with it. Fifteen Twelve and Twelve, thanks.

God, I’m sounding like one of those workout blogs-- the kind by personal trainers. Heh. I bet mine’s got one, since he’s a writer.

I’ve been thinking about trash, too. You know, we have frickin’ trash all over the place in this house. Like today I went up in my room and found a candy wrapper in my comforter. Ok, yeah, the comforter was on the floor – didn’t make my bed, so sue me. But anyway, then I go downstairs and there’s just paper and crackers and shit all over the kitchen floor. So I vacuum it up and then not four fucking minutes later there’s brownie crumbs all over the place. Yeah, we got brownies and you don’t. Sorry. I’ve been playin’ all Mommy and shit.

Now, we’ve got a nice home. But, trashy, apparently.

A goldfish cracker had landed on a piece of paper and I noticed there was a two inch diameter of grease around it. Now that just be gross. That’s some white trash there, a goldfish cracker on a piece of printer paper. It could be freakin’ art statement about... I dunno, a lily white child growing up in a privileged home, since that’s exactly where it came from. Toldja I use to be an artist.

Heh, you know I’m just teasing you with the meaning, though. Like my writing, my art never had a real theme; except for pleasure and whatever deep premise somebody wanted to put on it.

There’s always been plenty of that.

Speaking of trash... ok, shitty lead in.

But I'm curious about who reads this blog because I get all these hits and a fair-to-midlin amount of comments. That's cool, I don't care all that much about the comments--

[Editor's note: Sex is fucking whore for comments. Ignore her, please.]

-- but I'm more curious about these comments I'm getting from people I don't know. Ok, I don't know any of ya. But you know, people I've never heard of. I have this feeling that some people read me and never leave comments. Scary stuff. Those quiet ones make me nervous. They're the ones who are axe murderers and shit. You know, the neighbor is always saying, "He seemed so nice, but he kept to himself a lot. Mowed his yard real regular-like." Anyway, just sayin' is all.

Goddamn is this long.

Anybody up for a chat tonight??

how many beads are too many?

2 string bikinis? check
Cigarettes? check
Extremely high tolerance for alcohol? check
Tan? check

Yup, I think I’m all packed for New Orleans on Thursday. The weather is supposed to be 80s and sunny. Ahhhh, sunshine at last. My amulet worked! Even took the kids to the prerequisite doctor visit and received the prerequisite antibiotics. This happens, I’m not exaggerating, EVERY SINGLE TIME we go on vacation, whether it’s for a day or ten, whether kids are invited or not. I’ve literally NEVER traveled with them without antibiotic in tow; usually it needs to be refrigerated too. I also have never left my children with my mother without at least one child on something.

Goals for my vacation:
1. Get hit on repeatedly; enough to perhaps get “rescued” by my knight? Ooo, a fight would be cool... (I’m in a very troublesome, sassy mood.)
2. Maintain intoxication at least 90% of my waking hours; drink away my hangovers. I practiced for it this weekend, and I plan on working on my tolerance all week until I go. No shit, that drunk post was authentic. Truly. Fucked. Up.
3. Sex in a public place. The act, not the person. I mean, I'll be in a public place when I'm having sex, so I guess... fuck. Oh, I know, PHF should have Sex in a public place. How does that work?
4. Coming home with at least one regret over lewd and drunken behavior- perhaps a tattoo?
5. Persuade PHF to come home with at least one regret over lewd and drunken behavior – perhaps a piercing? Or, ooo, I know, he could pick up some chick and I could have the fight. That would be fun.
6. Pick up some cool voodoo shit.
7. Pick up some trinkets for the kiddies
(6 and 7 are not mutually exclusive)

PHF, the darling, found me the Saints and Sinners Literary Festival, which is going on right on Bourbon the weekend we’re there. These things can be great – you can make connections in the writing industry. Sure, I thought, I’ll pack a skirt that’s longer than my ass cheeks and go play “professional” for an afternoon. It’s not that expensive for a workshop...

Only as I got into it deeper into the website I realized a prevailing premise. Can you guess what it is? Here's a clue: it’s put on by an AIDS foundation. Yup, it's got sort of a concentration; a leaning, if you will, toward the Gay and Lesbian theme in Literature.

Not that I’m against it ("Not that there's anything wrong with that.") My books push the limits of what is acceptable behavior; between men especially. They’re always touching each other and hugging and shit, and not the slappy-backy sort of touch that guys do. And I’m pretty sure the sorcerer in my latest book is gay. As a side note, nothing is more obnoxious than guys who slap each other. It's painfully juvenile. The other day The Twins were teaching the kids their swimming lessons... they'd just done this thing where they sit on the side of the pool and hike back and practice their kicking, and every ripple of their matching six-packs come into sharp relief... Is it hot in here? Here, let me take off my sweatshirt. Ok, that's better.

But anyway, they almost bumped into each other and one of them reached up and rubbed the back of the other's head and they grinned at each other.

It was completely, utterly sweet.

I mean, don't get me wrong, it was just regular sweet. Mommy sweet. Now, by comparison, if they'd wanted to put me in between them and rub on me a little - now that would be totally suh-weeet.

Ok, I'm going to put on shorts and a tank top. It's freakin' ninety in here.

But back to the festival. There is an interesting workshop on the treatment of sex in fiction, and it’s in the middle of the day, well after Hangover O’clock and before Happy Hour. And truly, is there no more sophisticated creature than an old Southern queer?

Beyond that, are there any experiences you'd like me to have and then come home and write about? Now, much of what I post afterward will be recalled within the haze of drunkenness, so these should be sorts of activities that will stand out from the continual fugue of inebriation. I'm sure you can come up with something.

summer's coming, and don't forget to call your mother!

I entered the summer two years ago having lost 30 pounds, and having gained a new, sexy, size-four wardrobe. I had an early tan from a Memorial Day sales retreat to Hawaii where my husband’s coworkers brazenly flirted with me and I shamelessly flirted back. To PHF’s great delight, the extra attention worked in his favor. My libido, previously MIA, had abruptly returned; in spades.

It was the summer people started watching me, and I liked it. My red Jeep had just been lifted and tuned so that the engine roared loud with my new voice of confidence. It was that year that I started writing again. By June I’d finished the rough of Sovereign Legacy, and the hopeful, daunting thought had occurred that I was going to go for publication with this thing.

It was a summer of record high temperatures for Colorado; excruciating, relentless, rainless days that left us with little to do other than spend every waking moment at the pool. It was a summer where my set went out early and often; and free drinks from cute bartenders abounded.

In short, I was in for the hottest summer of my life; literally and figuratively.

This was the Summer... Most people have them when they’re young, on the cusp of maturity, and the whole of their lives are stil ahead. For them it’s a summer of first kisses, first loves, best friends and perhaps newfound freedom. I think they barely recognise it for what it is when it’s happening; that pinnacle where youth touches adulthood. It certainly never occurs that it won’t last forever.

But I knew at the time it was fleeting. No previous summer had been like this for me, and I knew it couldn’t happen again. Every moment was savored as something special. While I might’ve looked twenty-five I was actually thirty-five; and that extra ten years had given me at least as much wisdom. In late June I realized that, yes, indeed, I did know things now. I realized that I had slept through my twenties; squandered nearly a decade with too much fat protecting my fragile self-confidence. There was so much to do, and I had wasted so much time. Then I realized something else about myself; something more intimate and infinitely more immediate: I was smack-dab in the middle of my goddamned midlife crisis.

The book became a manifestation of mourning my lost youth. It’s no small, personal significance that the characters are immortal. At twenty, the main characters consider themselves to be adults; but the story is one of encroaching, true adulthood. It’s about reaching potential; unrealized and great. It’s about family: long-lost cousins and siblings; and fidelity and legacy and constancy. The parents in the story seem cruel and unforgiving, but they are only trying to meet a myriad of responsibilities while protecting and preparing their children for coming adversity. Relationships are never quite what they seem or should be; old bonds are challenged, and unlikely new bonds and reliance are forged from hardship. The lead characters fight and strain against the unexpected turn their lives have taken; and that first book is largely about learning to do what you must do, no matter if it isn’t what you’d choose.

And, not the least, they travel the world.

Most people have their crisis when they are older, I think. But it hit me that summer I turned thirty-six. My friend, who likes to age herself by saying she’s going to be forty in a year-and-a-half rather than thirty-nine in six months, said the other night, “No, no, you haven’t had your crisis yet. Wait until you turn forty.”

I disagreed. I’ve been there. I’ve been amazed at how many years I’ve got behind me. The amazement wasn’t a positive feeling because those years aren’t memorable or special; just vaguely content. Two summers ago I realized I was no longer content.

My friend wasn’t convinced, but that was ok. I was glad she said something, because it got me to thinking about it. I’ve still much to accept about myself, but my years aren't one of them. I know what I’ve not done in nearly thirty-eight years, and I’m at peace with it because I also know what I can do in the years ahead.

let the peeing begin

warning: drunk post to follow... uneditid and unalterecd.
at our friday night club tongith we had black bean soup. it was really good, homade and crap. oh shit, that's homeade. but you guet it.

so all the guy sare coming to our basement to paly games (apparently I'm dyslexic when I'm drunk) and I offered to, you know, light some candles, in an effort to ward off the impending gaseousness that is sure to follow.

"Yeah, cuz candles will set the mood," PHF said, "for when we're blowing shit up."

(ok, it took me four tries to write eh. eye. ehe. eee. eye. again! and then eh.)

Later, but not much: I just realized that there is no "eh" in that sentence. WTF??

I think I'm not invited.

What eles happened?

Shit nothin much more cep[t I drank seven beers on black bean soup. it's not so good for soakin up the alcehol, if you get my drift.

today I was drivin'
Beastie (I will attempt a link,w hich will be extremely comoical for you, I suppose) (ok, it took me like, forever.) (I'm determined to fix this fucking thing.) (it still doesn't work and I'm goin gto bed.) )Jebus in a raft - stollen from I don't know where, the goddamn thing works!) an d Speed Racer pulled up next to me in his cute red Audi.
"Turn up your Music!" he yelled
I turned it down so i could hear.
"Turn up you r music." I think it was REM - some old stuff. NO I'm not going out to the car to check the specific cd.
"I can't." I said, "cause account of I blwe the speaker."
"What does hubbin think of that?"
"He doesn;'t" I called back. "He doesn't knwo yet."
There was this guy sitting next to Speed Racer who I didn't nkwo, but who did n't really have much sense of humor over the whole thing. He never smiled once.
Granted, I was ponytailed and gross from tanning and the gym, but hell, I'm not a freakin' troll.
I was just about to say, "Are you going tonight?" when Serious Boy turned to Speed Racer and asked, "Do you know her?"
Speed Racer shook his head. "HI! I'm ____ and you're hot!!" Then he took off cause the light changed.

I had a big ole grin on my face. Someone calls me hot, even when it's a joke, it makes me smile.

Serious-face believed him all the way til four o'clock when Speed Racer finally told him.

You'll be proud of me. I stuck with the girls. Swim lessons, shoes, how big the kids are getting, the choir at church, how much six year olds cry, and chores-expected-of-K-2nd-Graders.

I only left the conversation to pee.

and finally, I took a quiz. Something for Lunatic, who bothered to ask, and no I can't recall where the fuck it came from:

You are an
assassin.
That means you are a proffessional and do your
job without mixing any emotions in it. In your
life you have probably been hurt many times and
have gotten some mental scars. This results in
you being distant from people. Though many
think that you are evil, you are not. What you
really are is a person, trying to forget your
pain and past. You are the person who never
seems to care and that is why being an assassin
fits you good. Atleast, that's what people
think. Even if you don't care that much for
your victims, you still have the ability to
care and to generally feel. It is not lost,
just a little forgotten. In crowds you tend to
not get to noticed, and dress in black or other
discrete colours. You don't being in the
spotlight and wish people would just leave you
alone. But once you do get close to someone you
have a hard time letting go and get real down
if you loose him/her.

Main weapon: Sniper
Quote: "The walls we build around
us to keep out the sadness also keep out the
joy" -Jim Rohn
Facial expression: Narrowed eyes

What Type of Killer Are You? [cool pictures]
brought to you by Quizilla

I think he meant "lose" him or her, but whatever.

And narrowed eyes will give you wrinkles. just ask my mom.

I'm thinking I'm not takin the laptop to N'awlins.

the irony of IDGAF has been lost in repetion

I wasn't going to write this but I guess I gotta.

I have never been so embarassed to be a woman in all my life. The Blaga brought it all crashing down on my head. This is why I hang with the guys. This is why I write from a man's perspective all the time and I write fiction about man things like assassins and violence and feelings with some measure of sense to them. This is why I struggle with making my female characters strong and real.

Because women are fucking FREAKS! No wonder men don't understand us - HA! I don't understand us.

I've always been on the fence between men and women; physically, emotionally, conversationally. Not in a gay way, but I have an appreciation for physical beauty that often transcends the sexes. I saw a guy today who looked sexy like a woman does-- androgenously sexy-- and I thought, Dude, male or female, you are simply the most beautiful human being for blocks around. When he looked back at me, I got tingles, and I'm pretty sure he was gay. But I've seen women like that too, and thought the same thing.

Emotionally, I just don't feel like a girl either, not usually. I don't need to check in with my girlfriends every day (believe it or not, I do have some), or even every week. Oh, I get my feelers hurt sometimes, and I can commiserate with broken hearts. I don't mean like that. But I don't "just die" or "cry so hard" when shit doesn't go my way, like so many women I know. I'm bad about remembering gifts (holy fuck - mother's day is SUNDAY!) and I think Oprah's a jack-ass. I don't want to have another baby when I see one. I realize that I must not be the only woman who feels this way, but I'm the only one who doesn't spout off, "Oh, I miss when my kids were babies," every time I see one. I think many women feel like that because when they had their babies they were at their most "woman-like". I'm at my most woman-like when I'm screaming my head off during fucking, but to each her own.

I don't really do Cosmos and wine. I party like a guy, and I prefer to take my drinks with guys. I love to be scammed on by guys, but I can park my butt on a barstool and throw back Bass with the worst of them. I like guy drinks: neat whiskey or a cold beer is fine with me. A margarita on 5/5/5 (thanks, Wegg). Wine is for with food. Leave the sugary drinks for the girlie-girls.

While most chics don't lift weights for fear of bulking up, I'm worried about whether I can add ten more pounds on row this set and when the hell will I make it to twenty pushups straight. (And while I'm on this subject, girls, lifting weights is the closest thing to a fountain of youth that exists today. Get your ass in there. There's cute boys in there too; boys who appreciate a strong woman.)

As for conversationally, I can do the girl-talk thing... but for only like half an hour before my head starts spinning with boredom. Not that guys are all that fascinating (cars, cars and more cars), but how long can we discuss nails and tans and kids and clothes and shit? Some women; apparently for hours. I've had deeper conversations with guys who I barely know than I can have with most women I know well.

And then there's the matter of GAF about other women think. Women care about this far too much. I truly believe that most women care more what other women think than almost anything (exhibit A - the Blaga) and in that I'm different from most women. However, I should include myself in my stereotype. I care... a little. But it doesn't make me feel good about myself. I try to ignore it all I can.

Now, let me preface the following by saying that I'm not bragging - I truly do not know why people look at me so much. Between the "athletic" thighs and the lack of boobage, I don't think I've got all that much to offer. Apparently my body type meets some people's asthetics while so blithely not meeting my own. Well, I like my hair. I'll give me that. Anyway, look they do and I won't pretend to hate it or any of that nonsense.

I'm sexually attracted to the male of the species; and when a guy gives me a double take it sends a tingle right down to my... er, Valley. It makes me feel better about myself; I hold myself a little higher and swing my hips a little more. I think I look skinnier the next time I look in the mirror. Some women say they feel dirty when a man looks at them, but I don't. And I'm starting to realize why: most guys just aren't so goddamn picky as women are (and as I am). They can appreciate a beautiful face without letting one's thighs detract from the attraction. They don't have some skewed sense of what they want themselves to look like affecting their perception. Their standards aren't really lower, just more inclusive.

When a women gives me a double-take; and again, for some reason they often do; I get annoyed because they have envy in their eyes. Malicious, petty, hateful envy. It's a begrudging, comparative sort of admiration. I know it well because I've been on the looksie side of it and I know how it feels. "So what if she's a size two; she's still got three milimeters of back-fat hanging over her lowrise jeans, bitch."

But the worst part, the part I loathe, is that when women admire me I still feel good. But I hate it because it comes at a price to that woman. Women aren't capable of admiring another woman without feeling a little bit bad about ourselves in the process. It's embarrassing, too. I just want to say, "Goddamn it, you look great, you've obviously got your creature comforts taken care of, so what's the problem? Just because I work my ass of to make my body look like this, and because I got up and did my hair and makeup this morning, I shouldn't have to feel bad or embarrassed for you. My beauty, such as it is, should take nothing from you."

I'm not sure what the connection of all this is to the Blaga except for my feelings. I felt the same way as when other women look at me - and it wasn't nice. Those catty feelings were out in spades; in me, too. I didn't want to be associated with women yesterday. I was embarrassed for everyone who commented on TG's site - myself included. And I wondered why I wasn't more into the whole thing. Obviously other women were all emotional about it. And it all goes back to the fence: I could see another of those "woman" features that I just don't have.

I'm not comfortable on the fence between the sexes. I wish I could go one direction or the other: cold beer and violent movies and cars, or tight skirts and shopping and angry, female righteousness.

But I can't. I'm some of each. I'm both sides of the fence and neither side, all at the same time.

I just wish there wasn't a fence.

good friends are hard to keep

[Editor's note: Sex wrote this a couple of days ago, but she got so wrapped up in the unfolding blog-saga, heh, it's a "Blaga" - she's going to steal that, just you watch! - that she put off posting it.]

It's 4:15 and I should be fixing dinner and folding laundry. I should be changing for my work out later. I should be writing - though I had a good session today. Scatterbrain is gone for the time being. I could be organizing some things for my trip next week, and I could especially be organizing some of PHF's things, since he won't be back until next Wednesday.

(Side note: PHF was due to fly in at 5:30 pm next Wednesday. The secretary, trying to save money, switched his flight to arrive at 10 pm. Wednesday-- about twelve hours before we are to get on the plane to go to New Orleans. Before I could even open my mouth in protest, PHF said in a hurry, "But I went to my boss and said 'my wife will kill me dead if I get in that late.'" The boss said to fix it back.

Gives me a warm feeling, that. There's something about having your man "invoke" your name. I mean, it's not as if we girls have got knights jousting over our honor anymore.)

But anyway, I could be paying some bills or working on letters to agents.

But I'm not doing any of it. Instead, I'm thinking about loss, and how at the time we can't possibly see the potential good in such desolation.

As a child PHF had a best friend. I'll call him Matt. The boys were thick as thieves, as bestest friends as best friends could be. They spent every weekend together, at one house or the other, and mostly hung out together, alone, without other friends. They did have some other friends, Matt especially. Because while PHF was somewhat an anomoly at his exclusive prep school in that he wasn't showered with a perpetual stream of money, Matt was no such sort. His family was wealthy - among the wealthiest families in town. They liked to play at Matt's house because, as the child of wealthy man, he had all the cool stuff. His father had a private plane. Matt had the Millenium Falcon, even. You get the idea.

But Matt had one underlying, intermittent problem, and that was asthma. He did sports, played them well - he was the sort of boy who did everything well - but the asthma troubled him sometimes. One day, when he was fourteen, he couldn't catch his breath at track practice, sat down, had an major asthma attack, and died there on the spot.

And PHF was alone.

I don't think he was so close to any one again, until he met me, and especially until he met our son; with whom he shares an abiding affinity for each other and loud trucks that crawl over stuff. There's always been a sort of relief of need in that relationship between them. They just fit. It's a remarkable thing to not only love someone in your family, but like them as well.

One day when our son was sitting at dinner with us he mentioned casually that his best friend was doing something or other up in his room and couldn't come down to dinner. The Lad has lots of friends, but at that time he didn't have one special friend.

"Who's that?" PHF asked. The Lad had some pretty close little friends, but at three and a half, he didn't have much freedom to see them on his own. No freedom. Maybe he was talking about someone at school.

"Oh, my friend. He's in my room. He's the coolest guy. He has the best toys. And he shows me how to do stuff."

"Your friend up in your room," I repeated faintly.

PHF and I smiled at each other with sudden understanding. Our little boy had an imaginary friend.

Now, I have no earthly idea where he inherited this trait from (that was sarcasm if you missed it), but our little lad is the type of person who can't not know how to do something. It becomes like a little game of "best at" when we try to teach him something or tell him something new. For awhile, I was annoyed with this seemingly pervasive male trait. So many men are like this and I was thinking Oh my god, they are like this from birth! But finally I realized he was just trying to protect his little psyche all along. It's scary to not know (or so I've heard. No personal experience with this, you understand.)

Well, as time went on, more details about the Lad's friend emerged. He was an older boy, about the age of one of the lad's cousins, about thirteen or so. He could do everything well; and he showed the Lad how to do all sorts of things. He played when no one else could. He was a good little imaginary friend. We didn't laugh at him, nor ever bring him up; we let the Lad do that. And we didn't do something stupid like set a place for him at dinner or any of it. But the friend was there, hanging out at bedtime and at alone-times - mostly in his room - telling the Lad all about Soccer and about School when he started. He was never in the car or anything - he was always around when the Lad was alone. Which was fine - it's how good imaginary friends should be. Parents who condescend to these sorts of things should be shot, if you ask me. But that's beside the point.

Mentions of him spiked and ebbed, and the most recent wasn't too long ago - about a week ago, in fact. The Lad had a sort of secret smile on his face; sort of an embarrassed smile, and he talked about his friend in the past tense. "Remember, my old friend? From my room."

I had to ask. "Does he hang out with you any more?"

"No." But the Lad had sort of wistful look on his face.

And I knew I did to. My little boy is growing up.

He just doesn't need his "imaginary" friend Matt any more.

valley of the kings

It’s nearly finished; this little masterpiece I’ve been working on. It will take some upkeep, but then, all beautiful things do. It’s a draped painting; a veiled sculpture. It’s untouched as of yet; cloaked in the cold of springtime snow and missing husbands.

Unlike Weggly, who has a mere sparse row of spindly willows with which to contend, I’m dark-haired and tanned. Well, where I’m natural, I’m dark-haired. While she’s palm trees standing vigil on a beach, I’m hedge rows in England guarding a private lane. Both beautiful, in their own secret way. But for reasons that shall remain my own (good God, aren’t they obvious?) I’ve embarked on this springtime project of mine. It’s taken more time than I anticipated.

Laying the tool of the trade to such a delicate... garden is a nearly blind leap of faith. It can’t be too sharp, lest the dirt beneath the lawn is damaged. Everyone knows it’s the soil that’s the most important part of any garden. This top soil is fragile. It’s not seen the unfiltered light of day for many years. But if the blade isn’t sharp enough, it does another sort of damage all its own. More to the psyche than to the skin; because this enterprise requires three things: time (the most precious of commodities, of course), courage, and complete, utter silence. If any are spent needlessly, then the endeavor has been for naught.

So it’s not like I took out gas powered shears and just started hacking away at it. Besides the fragile ecosystem, there was the landscape itself to consider; the natural hills and the valley... oh yes, the Valley. The Valley must be protected at all costs. The Valley is a sacred place; a place to tread lightly. When entering the Valley, you must keep a keen sense of the importance of your journey and your wits about you.

Like the Valley of the Kings in Egypt, you can loot it all you want. But one fact remains: more souls are accessed there than at any place on earth.

i just can't settle down, i guess

I'm trying to concentrate - I really am. But it's not working. I'm 150 pages into this book (writing, not reading) and there have been so many clarifications to make along the way that I lost track. So I made myself a list and now I'm rereading the damn thing to make the repairs now, lest I forget.

As if.

I used to have a rule that I never signed my artwork until it was so damn done it was toasted on the outside. Well, a book is never done - ask anyone who writes one. Especially when you've only got a third of a rough draft written - that's about 30,000 words if you wondered. So the rules have to be modified.

Like, revising before you type "the end" is never a good idea.

I know this. I know I should be just writing my little heart out, typos and clumsy phrasing be damned. I've even anticipated the plot pretty well, without writing it down. I know what's going to happen next, I know who's preggers and which servant is going to fuck things up, and I even know the likely damsel with whom our hero will end up; and let me tell you EVERYBODY wants to get this guy between the sheets. Except they don't really have sheets there, and they often sleep all together in one big bed anyway, a cozy tangle of skin and fingers and knees... No, it's not quite what you're thinking. But if it makes you happy, dream away about Sex writing orgy scenes, wearing nothing but a tan and crease in my brow. Far be it from me to ruin anyone's fantasy.

It's the only chance you (the quintessential author) (or I guess I could go with the royal We) ever get to do this - go through the thing for the first time and discover the new world: footpaths and highways, kings and commoners, roses and thorns; for the first time. So I thought I'd like to just get through the first draft and see how many diversions I have to weed through. Because like in real life, the real story is in the diversions. The name changes and the details of a numerical religion and how many frickin' moons the planet has and how this guy is going to learn the language in like two weeks... all that will work itself out during a proper revision.

Like the book, my day has been full of diversions: cool emails from friends, sent and recieved; buying the kids candy so they will keep still for five fucking minutes so I can try on some new jeans; getting some disappointing news from my husband; and some really sore hamstrings, and there's this muscle in the middle of my back that won't stop twitching... well, it's all good anyway, right? Look at me, I've got my own life-plot; full of believable details and well-rounded characters.

I know all this.

So why am I writing about writing it? So why don't I skip on down to page 154 and start writing; now that it's just about to get really good?

Fuck if I know. I just can't settle down, I guess.

not quite what i expected but i like it...

From Blue.

Your Inner European is Russian!

Mysterious and exotic. You've got a great balance of danger and allure.

Who's Your Inner European?

i got served

My career choices are missionary, rich girl, and assassin. My victims are Jack, Inland, and JL. Pick three and play.

Missionary - I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. Well, I wasn’t, I was drinking. (Hey, that makes a little poem!)

I don’t
know what the
fuck
I was thinking
Well I
wasn’t I was
drinking

Yeah, Greg, I just looked back at your archives. Pretty funny. You wrote about poems on blogs just about the time we were all shamefacedly discovering we actually liked Pajamaland, but weren’t ready to admit it yet. Well, Jack has never admitted it, but that’s another issue.

Really, though, can you imagine? Does it have to be for Christianity? I mean, Satan could use a good PR person about now.

No, ok, seriously; let me think. I could be potentially good at this because from teaching I’ve learned that you’ve never truly learned something until you’ve taught it to someone else. So perhaps by teaching others some variation of the Truth I could discover that Truth for myself.

How profound is that?

It’s mostly bullshit, actually. Despite my personable nature, the church would hate me. Bosses usually do, since I know more than them and it makes them look bad. I have an apparent “problem” with authority figures (according to my last supervisor and what the fuck did she know, I ask you. A whole lot of nothin, that's what). I’d get fired for drinking with the Indians (ok, native americans). Other people would talk to me about their religion and I’m such a holistic person, I’d say, “Well, jeez, switch Allah to God and we got ourselves a convert. Good enough for government work – you’re saved. Now, ya got any good bars around here?”


Rich girl - Now this one is right up my alley. I would be better at being Paris than Paris and that’s no bullshit. I’m even willing to do the breast enhancement thing and internet sex video if it meant keeping my shallow and rich and beautiful reputation. And I might be deep and shit, but I could discard all that in a heartbeat for a new pair of Manola Blahniks, the latest Blackberry, and one of those cute Burberry plaid bikinis. Not cool? I can snub you. I can do the yearly depression/detox routine and the two thousand dollar bar tabs. I could even drink Cosmos, if there was money in it. I’d need Greg to hang around with me while PHF was working; be my front man an’ all, but it’d go over just fine.


Assassin - I am the night. I am an echo of silence. I am the ghost of a ghost. Was that the wind rustling leaves behind you? It must be, because you can not hear me. Only the edge of my blade will catch the faintest glimmer of moonlight and and you’ll only see it with a flat stare cut short of fear. You’ll see it with eyes like black ice. Eyes like death.


If I could be a scientist...
If I could be a farmer...
If I could be a musician...
If I could be a doctor...
If I could be a painter...
If I could be a gardener...
If I could be a missionary...
If I could be a chef...
If I could be an architect...
If I could be a linguist...
If I could be a psychologist...
If I could be a librarian...
If I could be an athlete...
If I could be a lawyer...
If I could be an innkeeper...
If I could be a professor...
If I could be a writer...
If I could be a circus clown....(by Greg)
If I could be a llama-rider...(by Ogre)
If I could be a bonnie pirate...(By Teach)
If I could be a servicemember...(By Jeremy)
If I could be a business owner...(By Blue944)
If I could be an actor... (By Blue944)
If I could be a rich girl... (By V)
If I could be a witch...
If I could be a racer...
If I could be an assassin... (by Sex)