God, I'm so tired.
I spent more than 8 hours staring at computer screens, trying to defeat the virus that has infected my husband's computer. I've tried every trick I know, from minutely examining the Start Menu to deleting every file constructed within the last 24 hours. The popups keep returning, from "Your computer is in danger" to "Sexy Singles -- Real Photos!"
Nothing I knew how to do worked. Such a sense of failure!
My eyes are very dry and hurt, so I'm off to sleep and rest the old eyes. Will my subconscious have a solution by morning? (The Subconscious just tapped my left shoulder and said, "No, foo'.")
If it was my computer, I'd just upload crucial files to my email, and brainwipe the whole thing.
You know, that sounds like an idea, even if my own computer isn't infected.
PS for the last football post: EVERYBODY says that Polamalu definitely intercepted that controversial pass. And was it hearsay? Hines Ward was fined for suggesting that the referee who called the interception an "incomplete pass" was cheating on behalf of the Colts. Honey child, fine me too (but not as much) because that was the only explanation for such a criminal call. It wasn't a "stupid" call, it was just totally backassward WRONG.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Monday, January 16, 2006
Ah, Forget It, More Football
We joined the Colts-Steelers football game just before half-time.
No, that's not disloyal, that's called "being at church." I did not pray for the Steelers while at Mass, nor did I think about the game more than once, during the sermon, when I wondered for the seven billionth time in my life how many times a preacher has to say the same message over and over again. "Oh," I thought, "football. I hope the game isn't over before this charming fellow is done." (He was a sweetie, a substitute priest filling in for our beloved Fr. Carota, but his message was one I've heard so many times in over forty-five years of paying attention at Mass and many years of religious education conferences, one I read about and taught so many times in my 15 or more years as a religious education teacher. Maybe that will be the subject of another blog entry.)
I was stunned to find that the Steelers were in the lead when we joined the game. Peyton Manning was actually playing for the Colts -- I thought when I saw the score that maybe someone had sawed off one of his legs or something. Pittsburgh was playing some agressive defense, keeping him contained.
One weird play is all it takes to stop a team in its tracks, though, and Pittsburgh's Weirdie was Troy Polamalu (cute as a button and energetic as the Tasmanian Devil of Warner Brothers) intercepting a pass, rolling with it, fumbling with it, recovering it -- and then having a referee rule that he never really received it. Oh, my brothers and sisters, that was one Bogus Call.
Peyton Manning took heart from the discomfiture of the Steelers and drove his team down the field like an ambulance on fire, scoring to make it a head-to-head game, if only the Colts could get one more field goal.
It seemed unlikely, as unlikely as Jerome Bettis (The Bus) carrying the ball toward a Wrap-It-Up Steeler Win and FUMBLING THE BALL! "Aaaaaaahhhh!" I screamed. "Did I tell you? Did I tell you that if I watched them that was what would happen???"
Fortunately the quarterback, Ben Rothlisberger ( I think I want to adopt him) hooked a hand around the ankle of the Colt who recovered the ball (Nick Harper, poor fella) and stopped the almost certain touchdown run, saving his team's ass.
I still think it was a near-massacre. Too close. I like to see my favorite teams MASH the oponents. I hate surprises. Next year, Peyton Manning is going to be gunning for the Steelers, and he may succeed. The young man is phenomenal.
Next weekend the Steelers play Denver. Okay, I watched Denver chew up New England like they were Papier Mache Patriots this past weekend, and New England is GOOD. Denver may crunch the Steelers up into little tiny pieces. I'm a pessimist -- it's likely that they will. But I will still watch the game, and cheer for Rothlisberger, Bettis, Ward, and Polamalu.
Especially Polamalu. Every football pundit there is has reviewed that interception and said he definitely had the ball.
I think the ref was crooked, or he needs corrective eyewear.
No, that's not disloyal, that's called "being at church." I did not pray for the Steelers while at Mass, nor did I think about the game more than once, during the sermon, when I wondered for the seven billionth time in my life how many times a preacher has to say the same message over and over again. "Oh," I thought, "football. I hope the game isn't over before this charming fellow is done." (He was a sweetie, a substitute priest filling in for our beloved Fr. Carota, but his message was one I've heard so many times in over forty-five years of paying attention at Mass and many years of religious education conferences, one I read about and taught so many times in my 15 or more years as a religious education teacher. Maybe that will be the subject of another blog entry.)
I was stunned to find that the Steelers were in the lead when we joined the game. Peyton Manning was actually playing for the Colts -- I thought when I saw the score that maybe someone had sawed off one of his legs or something. Pittsburgh was playing some agressive defense, keeping him contained.
One weird play is all it takes to stop a team in its tracks, though, and Pittsburgh's Weirdie was Troy Polamalu (cute as a button and energetic as the Tasmanian Devil of Warner Brothers) intercepting a pass, rolling with it, fumbling with it, recovering it -- and then having a referee rule that he never really received it. Oh, my brothers and sisters, that was one Bogus Call.
Peyton Manning took heart from the discomfiture of the Steelers and drove his team down the field like an ambulance on fire, scoring to make it a head-to-head game, if only the Colts could get one more field goal.
It seemed unlikely, as unlikely as Jerome Bettis (The Bus) carrying the ball toward a Wrap-It-Up Steeler Win and FUMBLING THE BALL! "Aaaaaaahhhh!" I screamed. "Did I tell you? Did I tell you that if I watched them that was what would happen???"
Fortunately the quarterback, Ben Rothlisberger ( I think I want to adopt him) hooked a hand around the ankle of the Colt who recovered the ball (Nick Harper, poor fella) and stopped the almost certain touchdown run, saving his team's ass.
I still think it was a near-massacre. Too close. I like to see my favorite teams MASH the oponents. I hate surprises. Next year, Peyton Manning is going to be gunning for the Steelers, and he may succeed. The young man is phenomenal.
Next weekend the Steelers play Denver. Okay, I watched Denver chew up New England like they were Papier Mache Patriots this past weekend, and New England is GOOD. Denver may crunch the Steelers up into little tiny pieces. I'm a pessimist -- it's likely that they will. But I will still watch the game, and cheer for Rothlisberger, Bettis, Ward, and Polamalu.
Especially Polamalu. Every football pundit there is has reviewed that interception and said he definitely had the ball.
I think the ref was crooked, or he needs corrective eyewear.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Shit and Ashes
Rain is coming, allegedly.
Central California rains mean "preparation" for horse owners and fools who heat their houses with woodfires. This morning I mucked out my horse's paddock so that if it does rain, the water will run off instead of making slimy, mooshy lakes. Horse poop soaks up water like a sponge, and holds it for days. As the horse tromps through it, the hoofprints make mini-reservoirs to trap and hold the dirtied water. After the last heavy rain, I managed to clear about 2/3 of Dink's paddock, so that much was dry and easy to prepare. The low part of the pen, where he feels compelled to paw and dig, was still soaked and heavy and nasty.
But I got it done, and thus, I will sleep the sleep of the weary ones tonight. (Terri would have told me, "Otsukaresamadeshita" -- "O You Weary One!") Dink himself won't be too concerned about it. His main pleasure in my cleaning his pen was that he got turned out into the open arena where he could visit with the other horses and exchange loud screaming insults. He talked dirty to the mares and made them scream; he sidled up to the other gelding's paddocks and stomped at them and made them cry havoc. He was pleased with his results.
The remainder of the day has been largely involved with keeping a fire going. Foggy days, the fire is sluggish, and hardly wants to burn. If the damper on the stove is opened, it burns like mad, but try to slow it down a little, and the fire sulks and smolders. We'll need the fire tonight. We're supposed to get rain, and the temps are supposed to get cold.
Babe continues to seem recovered; he even let me groom one side of him today. Only a bushel basket of hair came loose. Howie was totally insulted that I spent so much time on Babe.
Central California rains mean "preparation" for horse owners and fools who heat their houses with woodfires. This morning I mucked out my horse's paddock so that if it does rain, the water will run off instead of making slimy, mooshy lakes. Horse poop soaks up water like a sponge, and holds it for days. As the horse tromps through it, the hoofprints make mini-reservoirs to trap and hold the dirtied water. After the last heavy rain, I managed to clear about 2/3 of Dink's paddock, so that much was dry and easy to prepare. The low part of the pen, where he feels compelled to paw and dig, was still soaked and heavy and nasty.
But I got it done, and thus, I will sleep the sleep of the weary ones tonight. (Terri would have told me, "Otsukaresamadeshita" -- "O You Weary One!") Dink himself won't be too concerned about it. His main pleasure in my cleaning his pen was that he got turned out into the open arena where he could visit with the other horses and exchange loud screaming insults. He talked dirty to the mares and made them scream; he sidled up to the other gelding's paddocks and stomped at them and made them cry havoc. He was pleased with his results.
The remainder of the day has been largely involved with keeping a fire going. Foggy days, the fire is sluggish, and hardly wants to burn. If the damper on the stove is opened, it burns like mad, but try to slow it down a little, and the fire sulks and smolders. We'll need the fire tonight. We're supposed to get rain, and the temps are supposed to get cold.
Babe continues to seem recovered; he even let me groom one side of him today. Only a bushel basket of hair came loose. Howie was totally insulted that I spent so much time on Babe.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Evil Wizards
Fellmount of Verdansward is done.Why is this of any significance? Simply because it is the first of my completely CGI images that has any sophistication. I've done broad abstracts in my Paint program, but this is the first time I tried to add any detail or depth. The preliminary sketch for this was done in Paint, then the colors added and the lines tidied up in Photoshop.
Holey Schmoley did I learn a lot doing this.
The illustration was done for my soon-to-be-released second volume of Aser stories, Oz Can Keep Them All, in which the evil wizard Fellmount of Verdansward involves himself in a murder coverup. Ase Ur-Jennan and Dan Ur-Jennan, (both fairly crazy shamans from the lands of Ur) discover his scam, flee from his death threats, and do their best to put an end to his megalomaniacal schemes. Aser and Danner drag their makeshift company with them, including Margot the Troll, Cloudraft the Great (a nice but rather clueless wizard who is no match for Fellmount) and some talking baboons. And a talking dog who is fond of detective stories.
The Aser stories are the best things I've written, and one of the nice things about them is that they don't require hours of reading commitment. You can read one, or read them all in a sitting, doesn't matter.
Anyway, Fellmount is a regular rat-bastard, ready to kill anyone who gets in the way of his current power grab. And he thinks he's the greatest. I hope the illustration conveys just a bit of how much he irritates me.
Monday, January 09, 2006
Cover Your Ears, It's Time for Football!
"Aaaahhhh! Aaaahhhh! Aaaahhhh!" I screamed!
I jumped up, waving my arms in the air. Randal El had just taken the ball, run to the side a little, and passed the ball -- sideways -- to Rothlisberger! Then Rothlisberger calmly whaled the ball down the field for an uncontested touchdown pass.
That's not how football is played in the big leagues. That's neighborhood football that you play to piss off Johnny Think's-He's-A-Blocker from Fifth Street. But oh, my goodness, how it worked, so easy, so slick. And that move seemed to demoralize the Cincinnati Bengals. If the Pittsburgh Steelers would pull that kind of kiddie shit, who knew what else they might try?
I haven't watched many Steeler games in years. Every time I watched them, they'd lose. In fact, any time I watched football and hoped a team would win, the team I rooted for would lose. The family would instruct me who I should root for, in fact, letting me know days in advance. Last year, in spite of their great season, I watched a Steeler playoff game, and they looked like -- well, I'd say a bunch of Capuchin monkeys drafted from the trees to play, except that would really be an insult to the monkeys. So I didn't watch any games this year, banned from the TV room by my husband and son-in-law when the Steelers were playing. In fact, I was cordially invited to go lock myself in the studio while games were on.
Ah, but I love professional football, and the Steelers, since Bernie introduced me to them after we were married. Those were the days of the Steel Curtain, and Jack Lambert and the Terrible Towel, Mean Joe Greene, Mel Blount. Terry Bradshaw was the quarterback of my dreams, and Rocky Blier and Lynn Swan receivers to make any girl football junkie swoon.
After Bradshaw, the Steelers went through a veritable bestiary of quarterbacks (the worst of which was that POS gutless wonder Stout) and I would not watch while Stout was anti-playing and was advised not to watch (so that the Steelers did not end up looking like this season's Raiders*) while all the rest were playing.
But this year, based upon the strength and aplomb of Rothlisberger, when I timidly appeared in the doorway from the kitchen and asked if I should retire to the studio, Bernie said, "Get in here. It's about time these guys grew up!" I wiggled all over with anticipation and shuddered a bit with trepidation. What would happen to the Steelers with me watching?
Their first quarter sucked. I was sure I should leave and put my head in a bag, but I stuck it out. Then, when I was resigned to the Bengals beating the crap out of them (as they have all too many times in the past) Randal El and Rothlisberger pulled that stunt -- and that was It. The curse was broken, and I watched the rest of the game cheering until my throat hurt.
It still does. I wish I had that game on tape, though. I'd watch it over and over and over.
Unfortunately, the Colts are going to massacre them next weekend. But it was a hell of a run this year.
* Yes, I watched all the Raider games and cheered for them all the way. See what that got them?
I jumped up, waving my arms in the air. Randal El had just taken the ball, run to the side a little, and passed the ball -- sideways -- to Rothlisberger! Then Rothlisberger calmly whaled the ball down the field for an uncontested touchdown pass.
That's not how football is played in the big leagues. That's neighborhood football that you play to piss off Johnny Think's-He's-A-Blocker from Fifth Street. But oh, my goodness, how it worked, so easy, so slick. And that move seemed to demoralize the Cincinnati Bengals. If the Pittsburgh Steelers would pull that kind of kiddie shit, who knew what else they might try?
I haven't watched many Steeler games in years. Every time I watched them, they'd lose. In fact, any time I watched football and hoped a team would win, the team I rooted for would lose. The family would instruct me who I should root for, in fact, letting me know days in advance. Last year, in spite of their great season, I watched a Steeler playoff game, and they looked like -- well, I'd say a bunch of Capuchin monkeys drafted from the trees to play, except that would really be an insult to the monkeys. So I didn't watch any games this year, banned from the TV room by my husband and son-in-law when the Steelers were playing. In fact, I was cordially invited to go lock myself in the studio while games were on.
Ah, but I love professional football, and the Steelers, since Bernie introduced me to them after we were married. Those were the days of the Steel Curtain, and Jack Lambert and the Terrible Towel, Mean Joe Greene, Mel Blount. Terry Bradshaw was the quarterback of my dreams, and Rocky Blier and Lynn Swan receivers to make any girl football junkie swoon.
After Bradshaw, the Steelers went through a veritable bestiary of quarterbacks (the worst of which was that POS gutless wonder Stout) and I would not watch while Stout was anti-playing and was advised not to watch (so that the Steelers did not end up looking like this season's Raiders*) while all the rest were playing.
But this year, based upon the strength and aplomb of Rothlisberger, when I timidly appeared in the doorway from the kitchen and asked if I should retire to the studio, Bernie said, "Get in here. It's about time these guys grew up!" I wiggled all over with anticipation and shuddered a bit with trepidation. What would happen to the Steelers with me watching?
Their first quarter sucked. I was sure I should leave and put my head in a bag, but I stuck it out. Then, when I was resigned to the Bengals beating the crap out of them (as they have all too many times in the past) Randal El and Rothlisberger pulled that stunt -- and that was It. The curse was broken, and I watched the rest of the game cheering until my throat hurt.
It still does. I wish I had that game on tape, though. I'd watch it over and over and over.
Unfortunately, the Colts are going to massacre them next weekend. But it was a hell of a run this year.
* Yes, I watched all the Raider games and cheered for them all the way. See what that got them?
Sunday, January 08, 2006
The Old Dog Rallies
We took Babe to the vet.
He's had a recurrence of some systemic infection that nearly killed him over a year ago. A course of antibiotics and a diet of rice and chicken broth has seen him through again, though. Today he was eager for a walk in the sun, had a high appetite, and demanded to be allowed on the couch while we watched football games. (When a big, big dog says he wants to watch football from the couch, everyone else moves over.)
He needs a day or two more of gently restricted diet, and then we're going to stuff him full until he gains back about ten pounds.
Babe is such a good boy that after the vet had examined and treated him, she leaned back against the wall and talked at length about how cooperative and trusting and trust-worthy he is. I guess a couple years ago a shepherd mix unexpectedly bit her on the head while she was examining it. Big bite. Bad dog.
Babe would never do that.
He's had a recurrence of some systemic infection that nearly killed him over a year ago. A course of antibiotics and a diet of rice and chicken broth has seen him through again, though. Today he was eager for a walk in the sun, had a high appetite, and demanded to be allowed on the couch while we watched football games. (When a big, big dog says he wants to watch football from the couch, everyone else moves over.)
He needs a day or two more of gently restricted diet, and then we're going to stuff him full until he gains back about ten pounds.
Babe is such a good boy that after the vet had examined and treated him, she leaned back against the wall and talked at length about how cooperative and trusting and trust-worthy he is. I guess a couple years ago a shepherd mix unexpectedly bit her on the head while she was examining it. Big bite. Bad dog.
Babe would never do that.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
#!!**#!
Now, see, this is why computers twink me off.
I have never changed the settings on my Blogger. Not ever, I hate being surprised by new task bars or changes. But somehow, the tab was set to "Edit HTML" instead of "Compose" and my options for using color in my text disappeared. I only checked on it tonight because I'd spent so much of the day clicking on stuff in Photoshop to see what it would do. ("Click and Duck method of learning")
I got my blasted colors back.
Good.
Tomorrow I'm going to make braised lamb shanks and stuff myself until I can't move.
I have never changed the settings on my Blogger. Not ever, I hate being surprised by new task bars or changes. But somehow, the tab was set to "Edit HTML" instead of "Compose" and my options for using color in my text disappeared. I only checked on it tonight because I'd spent so much of the day clicking on stuff in Photoshop to see what it would do. ("Click and Duck method of learning")
I got my blasted colors back.
Good.
Tomorrow I'm going to make braised lamb shanks and stuff myself until I can't move.
Baby Steps
I spent my late afternoon and evening studying Photoshop.
My father used to say that if you can read a book, you can learn anything. I'm hoping it's true, because Photoshop drives me nuts. My Christmas present was a trio of books about Photoshop -- thick books. I'd watched Alex whip around in Photoshop, manipulating scraps of color and effects so fast I couldn't follow what the hell she was doing. I'm sure she could teach me what she knows, but she doesn't have the time, and I'm not sure that she would have the patience to put up with my swearing and frothing at the mouth.
The text I'm using is Adobe's Photoshop Classroom in a Book. Much as I hate to do so, I'm sticking to the order of their lessons, instead of just jumping around looking at stuff piecemeal from the index. Where they say take baby steps and do three simple exercises, I'm doing them. Grr.
It was good to immerse myself. I don't want to think about tomorrow; we have to take Babe to the vet. My poor boy.
My father used to say that if you can read a book, you can learn anything. I'm hoping it's true, because Photoshop drives me nuts. My Christmas present was a trio of books about Photoshop -- thick books. I'd watched Alex whip around in Photoshop, manipulating scraps of color and effects so fast I couldn't follow what the hell she was doing. I'm sure she could teach me what she knows, but she doesn't have the time, and I'm not sure that she would have the patience to put up with my swearing and frothing at the mouth.
The text I'm using is Adobe's Photoshop Classroom in a Book. Much as I hate to do so, I'm sticking to the order of their lessons, instead of just jumping around looking at stuff piecemeal from the index. Where they say take baby steps and do three simple exercises, I'm doing them. Grr.
It was good to immerse myself. I don't want to think about tomorrow; we have to take Babe to the vet. My poor boy.
Monday, January 02, 2006
Hereby Resolved
This is the second day of the New Year, and in my studio are four new drawings.
Once again drawing from my husband's great wisdom, I made use of the "Paint" program on my computer, and sketched some ideas for cartoons and cover art for the next book to appear on Lulu.com. For some reason, Paint appeals to me for sketching. Maybe it's because it doesn't make eraser fuzz for my studio carpet; maybe it's because Control+Z makes a shitty line disappear. It might even be because if I don't like what I've done, I just close the file without saving and no one can rummage around in the trash and say, "Why are you throwing this out? I thought it was cute!" (*cute* -- gaaagggggg)
So far, so good.
I have about 900 words on a new story; I have a novel to edit and expand (that will be the one that might get shopped around, so don't expect to see it on Lulu); there's a cookbook that needs to be written; and today while showering I had a sudden inspiration to scan all the dumb childish cartoons I did while in grade school and high school (and a couple done after college) and put them in a book on Lulu. The originals are in a lockbox in my studio closet, far from the sunlit air, and I worry about them. What if there was a fire? Should I have them in a safety deposit box? What if they fade, or mildew? Uploading them into a book through Lulu, I can have a copy on the shelf (no, dears, these are really stinko stupid kid comics, so they won't be available to the public) to remind me of those uninhibited flights of fancy, and the files will be there when Lillian's grandchildren need to download another copy of their ancestress' silliness.
Put the bag over your head, I'm about to talk about merchandising again.
There is no market whatsoever for the cartoons about Cat and Deb. Not one. But those cartoons are priceless, in spite of the fact that they would NEVER be picked up by a publisher. However, one of them was lost. It was a strip about Cat using an electronic helmet hair-dryer, like those used in beauty salons long ago. It short-circuited when Cat used it (as anything electronic did when Cat used it) and sent her into outer space.
Back in the mid-sixties, electronics were still exciting and outer space was, too. In sixth grade, we thought the strip was hysterically funny. I still get tears in my eyes thinking about it. Unfortunately, someone misplaced it. Whether it was me or the real life "Cat," or her mother, I don't know. But that stupid silly comic strip is gone. I don't want the rest of the comics to be "gone." Hence the book that I intend to pull together this year.
All our writings are like that. All our stories. They may be lame, they may be of interest only to ourselves, but I guarantee you there will come a day when your relatives or friends or decendants wonder about what you thought about, and if you don't write them down somewhere, the relatives and friends will be shit out of luck and wish they weren't.
Write, you hounds. Write about it all.
Happy New Year.
Once again drawing from my husband's great wisdom, I made use of the "Paint" program on my computer, and sketched some ideas for cartoons and cover art for the next book to appear on Lulu.com. For some reason, Paint appeals to me for sketching. Maybe it's because it doesn't make eraser fuzz for my studio carpet; maybe it's because Control+Z makes a shitty line disappear. It might even be because if I don't like what I've done, I just close the file without saving and no one can rummage around in the trash and say, "Why are you throwing this out? I thought it was cute!" (*cute* -- gaaagggggg)
So far, so good.
I have about 900 words on a new story; I have a novel to edit and expand (that will be the one that might get shopped around, so don't expect to see it on Lulu); there's a cookbook that needs to be written; and today while showering I had a sudden inspiration to scan all the dumb childish cartoons I did while in grade school and high school (and a couple done after college) and put them in a book on Lulu. The originals are in a lockbox in my studio closet, far from the sunlit air, and I worry about them. What if there was a fire? Should I have them in a safety deposit box? What if they fade, or mildew? Uploading them into a book through Lulu, I can have a copy on the shelf (no, dears, these are really stinko stupid kid comics, so they won't be available to the public) to remind me of those uninhibited flights of fancy, and the files will be there when Lillian's grandchildren need to download another copy of their ancestress' silliness.
Put the bag over your head, I'm about to talk about merchandising again.
There is no market whatsoever for the cartoons about Cat and Deb. Not one. But those cartoons are priceless, in spite of the fact that they would NEVER be picked up by a publisher. However, one of them was lost. It was a strip about Cat using an electronic helmet hair-dryer, like those used in beauty salons long ago. It short-circuited when Cat used it (as anything electronic did when Cat used it) and sent her into outer space.
Back in the mid-sixties, electronics were still exciting and outer space was, too. In sixth grade, we thought the strip was hysterically funny. I still get tears in my eyes thinking about it. Unfortunately, someone misplaced it. Whether it was me or the real life "Cat," or her mother, I don't know. But that stupid silly comic strip is gone. I don't want the rest of the comics to be "gone." Hence the book that I intend to pull together this year.
All our writings are like that. All our stories. They may be lame, they may be of interest only to ourselves, but I guarantee you there will come a day when your relatives or friends or decendants wonder about what you thought about, and if you don't write them down somewhere, the relatives and friends will be shit out of luck and wish they weren't.
Write, you hounds. Write about it all.
Happy New Year.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
New Year's Day without Sauerkraut
Pork and Sauerkraut
have been a New Year's Day staple forever. This year, because of the miasma of age, I was unprepared for January 1, and so had the pork, but not enough sauerkraut, and no potatoes for mashed potatoes, so I said, "Screw it" and whopped my pork roast into the oven for three hours to roast. Last year I did the sauerkraut and pork and dumplings and mashed potatoes for "LUCK" and 2005 was one of the suckiest years I've ever experienced.
The roast was exquisite. Apparently sauerkraut isn't necessary for good fortune. At least so far. More on New Year's tomorrow.
have been a New Year's Day staple forever. This year, because of the miasma of age, I was unprepared for January 1, and so had the pork, but not enough sauerkraut, and no potatoes for mashed potatoes, so I said, "Screw it" and whopped my pork roast into the oven for three hours to roast. Last year I did the sauerkraut and pork and dumplings and mashed potatoes for "LUCK" and 2005 was one of the suckiest years I've ever experienced.
The roast was exquisite. Apparently sauerkraut isn't necessary for good fortune. At least so far. More on New Year's tomorrow.
Tuesday, December 27, 2005
A New Year to Master
I wonder if 2006 will be workable.
One of the things I hope to master is the art of making time count. Too much of 2005 frittered away, sitting in front of computer screens waiting for writers block to disappear, sitting with a blank drawing pad in front of me, sitting playing Spider Solitaire trying to wake up in the morning. I'd like to produce something every day. Even if it was crappy doodles.
Hmm, sounds like a plan. 2006, the Year of Crappy Doodles.
One of the things I hope to master is the art of making time count. Too much of 2005 frittered away, sitting in front of computer screens waiting for writers block to disappear, sitting with a blank drawing pad in front of me, sitting playing Spider Solitaire trying to wake up in the morning. I'd like to produce something every day. Even if it was crappy doodles.
Hmm, sounds like a plan. 2006, the Year of Crappy Doodles.
Friday, December 23, 2005
2005 - A Year I Just Want to See GONE
I didn't send out Christmas cards this year.
Back in October I told myself I'd have cards ready to send to all and sundry the first week of December. But by the time the first week of Advent rolled around, I was already so damn sick of Christmas Shopping Season hype everywhere that my holiday spirit just shut down.
I think part of it is how incredibly rude people have become in their frenzy to shop and buy. I've seen more crazy antics on the roads this winter already than I care to remember. When I've driven past the mall in Modesto, it looks like every parking space is taken -- come on, people, THERE'S NOTHING IN THERE WORTH BUYING!!!!
Okay, maybe a couple things in Macy's or JC Penney's, if you're looking for pillows or a sweater. But the rest of those stupid stores? NOTHING IN THERE IS ANYTHING ANYBODY ELSE REALLY WANTS!
Anyway, back to rude people. A perfect example was waddling around the local supermarket today, in black capris above her spider-veined ankles, which rode atop some black funky-heeled semi-clogs. Her hair was done in a permed, scrunched-with-gel-but-not-combed style, and she looked down her nose and was plainly starring in The Movie About Herself. She knew she was beautiful and clever, even though she was really just an skaggy-looking woman too old for the clothes she was wearing and an asshole, to boot. I watched her jerk around the fellow at the meat counter, asking him to bring out various rib roasts. "Oh, that one is just a little too small. I like the look of that one, but I just don't know..." I was keeping an eye on the price display for the cuts of meat as the fellow placed each roast on the scales in front of her for her approval. $30 - $35 bucks for her Christmas triumph, and by golly, she was willing to waste a quarter of an hour letting the butcher know that she was SERIOUS about her meat. She finally was "willing" to buy a prime rib roast if the meat cutter would just slice off three-quarters of an inch! Cut me a damn break, if you can cook something like that so that it tastes good, you're going to want to have some left over to snack on after the guests have gone, anyway.
Ostentatious cow. I hope Santa brings her a big, juicy bag of fresh cow flops.
The other thing I think has been depressing is the unrelenting weight of overtime that Bernie has had to work. During the week, he leaves for work, comes home late and exhausted, wakes to eat a mid-day meal, and then has to scramble off for work again. What time we get on the weekends is like cramming for college exams on How To Manage To Live as a Couple Again.
And then there's the Christmas cards we got in the mail. Most of them are from businesses that see the traditional holiday greetings as a merchandising opportunity. The few that we got from family and friends were mostly too obviously hurried and impersonal. Some were the same cards that they sent last year.
Maybe I should start sending New Year's cards instead of Christmas cards. I could put images of snowflakes and bathing suits on them to match the season with the shopping opportunities.
But even though I'm not sending cards this year, I am wishing anyone who reads this blog a happy holiday, good digestion, and the greatest gift of all, Love. Merry Christmas, folks.
Back in October I told myself I'd have cards ready to send to all and sundry the first week of December. But by the time the first week of Advent rolled around, I was already so damn sick of Christmas Shopping Season hype everywhere that my holiday spirit just shut down.
I think part of it is how incredibly rude people have become in their frenzy to shop and buy. I've seen more crazy antics on the roads this winter already than I care to remember. When I've driven past the mall in Modesto, it looks like every parking space is taken -- come on, people, THERE'S NOTHING IN THERE WORTH BUYING!!!!
Okay, maybe a couple things in Macy's or JC Penney's, if you're looking for pillows or a sweater. But the rest of those stupid stores? NOTHING IN THERE IS ANYTHING ANYBODY ELSE REALLY WANTS!
Anyway, back to rude people. A perfect example was waddling around the local supermarket today, in black capris above her spider-veined ankles, which rode atop some black funky-heeled semi-clogs. Her hair was done in a permed, scrunched-with-gel-but-not-combed style, and she looked down her nose and was plainly starring in The Movie About Herself. She knew she was beautiful and clever, even though she was really just an skaggy-looking woman too old for the clothes she was wearing and an asshole, to boot. I watched her jerk around the fellow at the meat counter, asking him to bring out various rib roasts. "Oh, that one is just a little too small. I like the look of that one, but I just don't know..." I was keeping an eye on the price display for the cuts of meat as the fellow placed each roast on the scales in front of her for her approval. $30 - $35 bucks for her Christmas triumph, and by golly, she was willing to waste a quarter of an hour letting the butcher know that she was SERIOUS about her meat. She finally was "willing" to buy a prime rib roast if the meat cutter would just slice off three-quarters of an inch! Cut me a damn break, if you can cook something like that so that it tastes good, you're going to want to have some left over to snack on after the guests have gone, anyway.
Ostentatious cow. I hope Santa brings her a big, juicy bag of fresh cow flops.
The other thing I think has been depressing is the unrelenting weight of overtime that Bernie has had to work. During the week, he leaves for work, comes home late and exhausted, wakes to eat a mid-day meal, and then has to scramble off for work again. What time we get on the weekends is like cramming for college exams on How To Manage To Live as a Couple Again.
And then there's the Christmas cards we got in the mail. Most of them are from businesses that see the traditional holiday greetings as a merchandising opportunity. The few that we got from family and friends were mostly too obviously hurried and impersonal. Some were the same cards that they sent last year.
Maybe I should start sending New Year's cards instead of Christmas cards. I could put images of snowflakes and bathing suits on them to match the season with the shopping opportunities.
But even though I'm not sending cards this year, I am wishing anyone who reads this blog a happy holiday, good digestion, and the greatest gift of all, Love. Merry Christmas, folks.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
The Kingliest of Kongs
We went to see King Kong today.
I'm not a giant gorilla fan. Never have been. I thought the original 1933 production of King Kong was appropriate to the time, when burlesque and prohibition of alcohol said it all about the culture. That is to say, "Ridiculous."
Bernie convinced me to go see Peter Jackson's King Kong. I did it because I love Bernie so much.
Our review of the movie is in the Piker Press this week.
Oh, dingles. It's a movie well worth seeing.
Good job, Mr. Jackson.
I'm not a giant gorilla fan. Never have been. I thought the original 1933 production of King Kong was appropriate to the time, when burlesque and prohibition of alcohol said it all about the culture. That is to say, "Ridiculous."
Bernie convinced me to go see Peter Jackson's King Kong. I did it because I love Bernie so much.
Our review of the movie is in the Piker Press this week.
Oh, dingles. It's a movie well worth seeing.
Good job, Mr. Jackson.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Let's Have Another One
Tonight I finished editing the second book of Aser stories.
Mostly it was listing the stories and their page numbers for the Contents Page; there was some adjusting of chapter titles and a few word changes. Alex and I thought that "Oz Can Keep Them All" would make a catchy title, seeing as how the better part of the book was about wizards who are annoying, but Bernie has reservations.
The point is moot until I come up with some kind of cover. Most of the stories in the second book don't have illustrations. "Hot Stuff" did -- maybe that will make the cover. (Ock, another cover with a black background. Why do I do that to myself?") The back cover has got to have a pic of Kaladang the Axe, on his bay horse, attacked by horseflies and a June beetle.
Coming up with a front cover is going to be a major operation. Still, I expect to have the thing ready in a week.
Mostly it was listing the stories and their page numbers for the Contents Page; there was some adjusting of chapter titles and a few word changes. Alex and I thought that "Oz Can Keep Them All" would make a catchy title, seeing as how the better part of the book was about wizards who are annoying, but Bernie has reservations.
The point is moot until I come up with some kind of cover. Most of the stories in the second book don't have illustrations. "Hot Stuff" did -- maybe that will make the cover. (Ock, another cover with a black background. Why do I do that to myself?") The back cover has got to have a pic of Kaladang the Axe, on his bay horse, attacked by horseflies and a June beetle.
Coming up with a front cover is going to be a major operation. Still, I expect to have the thing ready in a week.
Friday, December 16, 2005
Judge, Jury, Shaman
It's THERE.
The first Aser book is finally available in paperback.
You want constipated gnomes? You got constipated gnomes. You want lizardmen in love with ditsy elf-chicks? Yes, yes, they're there. Want to see a wizard get groped by a horny ghost? Oh, shit, that's in there, too. But the book will also give you an earful about greedy merchants, kids who spit, and how to tell if you have a big ass.
Uploading this book to Lulu was a raving pain in the ass, as after it was uploaded, I found an errant blank page, and had to re-do all the chapter headings to reflect that, uploaded it again and found I had to re-do the entire Contents page. Bugger.
I blame elves.
The first Aser book is finally available in paperback.
You want constipated gnomes? You got constipated gnomes. You want lizardmen in love with ditsy elf-chicks? Yes, yes, they're there. Want to see a wizard get groped by a horny ghost? Oh, shit, that's in there, too. But the book will also give you an earful about greedy merchants, kids who spit, and how to tell if you have a big ass.
Uploading this book to Lulu was a raving pain in the ass, as after it was uploaded, I found an errant blank page, and had to re-do all the chapter headings to reflect that, uploaded it again and found I had to re-do the entire Contents page. Bugger.
I blame elves.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
Volume One is Done!
The latest book is done.
Judge, Jury, Shaman, Volume One of the Aser stories from the Piker Press is complete, put in order, and ready for uploading to Lulu.com to be made into a paper and ink book. High time, I say. I've dithered around with this project for months, trying to come up with catchy illustrations to insert here and there.
Now I could use the original illustrations that accompanied the stories in the Press but although they were cute little sketches, some stories had a lot of illustrations (well, three) and most had none at all. Maybe a couple years from now, I'll get into a manic drawing fit and illustrate the stories like they ought to, but for now I'll follow Josh Brown's advice and just get the damn thing into print.
So this evening I spent almost 3 hours trying to learn enough about Photoshop 7 to make my cover images. I bought several reference books on Photoshop to help me learn how to use it effectively; I have learned just enough to make myself dangerous to my files. Not enough to do what I wanted to do with the cover images. Okay, so maybe a couple of years from now, when I do the illustrated editions, I'll have learned enough to do the cover I had in mind as well.
In the meantime, I went back to my stupid dumb baby "Photoshop Elements" and cobbled together a tentative front cover, and the background for a back cover. Maybe. I just realized the back cover and the image I want to put on it don't have enough contrast. Crap.
I don't know why I worry so much about this stuff. A stroll through any book store will provide a viewer some of the worst cover art imaginable. Not only is a lot of it UGLY, but a lot of it is so DUMB I'd be ashamed to have it cover my book. So I shouldn't worry that the cover to Judge, Jury, Shaman is just a stony background with the big fat nasty curse-stone and some of the Ur-Jennan family totems on it.
And I suppose I shouldn't talk about other covers being ugly, because the ogre Hoke the Horrible is going to adorn the back, and Hoke has a reputation for being ugly enough to make a wizard puke.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Writing, and blocks, and stupid crap
Like my friend Terri in England, I've been having a bad case of writer's block for ... uuuuhhhh ... six months or so. Ow.
Back in 2001, when I discovered writing (in my own life, that is; I had nothing to do with inventing the alphabet) I could not wait to sit down and write reams and tons and heaps of words about anything from going to the mailbox to toenail fungus. The past year (much of which was spent endlessly editing) however, saw me straining to write anything, be it review or short fiction. Occasionally a small literary turd would plop into the Piker Press, but plops have been few and far between.
As a half-crazed hedge shaman, you'd think there would be plenty to rant about or write about or (preferably) lie about. But how many times can you shout outrage about the proliferation of enormous SUV's and the dumb dollies who use them to race madly to the supermarket to buy a loaf of bread and some fat-free fake ham? By and large, they're stupid, they don't know what being "alive" means, and they drive like they took their driver's test on their backs. But that's ... EVERY DAY. Once or twice, it's amusing. Every day is tedious.
I could tear at my matted uncombed hair and screech about politicians being corrupt, but everyone knows that they are, we don't have a democratic mechanism for getting the dirty bastards out of office (unless they misused a government credit card and then saved all the receipts, which means they're so damn dumb I don't know how they signed up for a government position in the first place) and the Life that Guides the World knows that people want bread on the shelf of the supermarket and gas in the pumps at the truck stop, and an honest and concerned government official who said, "YOU'VE GOT TO STOP STUFFING YOUR FACE AND STOP USING PETROCHEMICALS!" would be lynched before three months of office had past.
And as to lies, how could I possibly come up with a bigger whopper than the woman who pretended to find a dismembered finger in a bowl of Wendy's chili -- only to confess later that she'd used the amputated digit from her ex-husband's co-worker who had handed over the flesh sundered from his hand in an industrial accident in lieu of paying back money that he owed???????????? People like that are just killing fiction writers.
Maybe we should sue.
(Wendy's should definitely sue. In spite of the fact that I know the finger thing was a scam, I can't even look at a Wendy's restaurant sign without feeling queasy. And no, I don't ever intend to eat at a Wendy's restaurant again.)
Also I don't like the loss of color availability in this blog. It cramps my style. It offends my fashion sense. It makes me -- crazed.
Back in 2001, when I discovered writing (in my own life, that is; I had nothing to do with inventing the alphabet) I could not wait to sit down and write reams and tons and heaps of words about anything from going to the mailbox to toenail fungus. The past year (much of which was spent endlessly editing) however, saw me straining to write anything, be it review or short fiction. Occasionally a small literary turd would plop into the Piker Press, but plops have been few and far between.
As a half-crazed hedge shaman, you'd think there would be plenty to rant about or write about or (preferably) lie about. But how many times can you shout outrage about the proliferation of enormous SUV's and the dumb dollies who use them to race madly to the supermarket to buy a loaf of bread and some fat-free fake ham? By and large, they're stupid, they don't know what being "alive" means, and they drive like they took their driver's test on their backs. But that's ... EVERY DAY. Once or twice, it's amusing. Every day is tedious.
I could tear at my matted uncombed hair and screech about politicians being corrupt, but everyone knows that they are, we don't have a democratic mechanism for getting the dirty bastards out of office (unless they misused a government credit card and then saved all the receipts, which means they're so damn dumb I don't know how they signed up for a government position in the first place) and the Life that Guides the World knows that people want bread on the shelf of the supermarket and gas in the pumps at the truck stop, and an honest and concerned government official who said, "YOU'VE GOT TO STOP STUFFING YOUR FACE AND STOP USING PETROCHEMICALS!" would be lynched before three months of office had past.
And as to lies, how could I possibly come up with a bigger whopper than the woman who pretended to find a dismembered finger in a bowl of Wendy's chili -- only to confess later that she'd used the amputated digit from her ex-husband's co-worker who had handed over the flesh sundered from his hand in an industrial accident in lieu of paying back money that he owed???????????? People like that are just killing fiction writers.
Maybe we should sue.
(Wendy's should definitely sue. In spite of the fact that I know the finger thing was a scam, I can't even look at a Wendy's restaurant sign without feeling queasy. And no, I don't ever intend to eat at a Wendy's restaurant again.)
Also I don't like the loss of color availability in this blog. It cramps my style. It offends my fashion sense. It makes me -- crazed.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Annoying Tests
| You Passed 8th Grade Math |
 Congratulations, you got 10/10 correct! |
Considering that I'm one of those people who absolutely hate to try anything new for fear they'll look like assholes, my taking this test is astonishing. Here I am, astonished. Thank goodness I had a pen and paper handy. Gosh, I love having to exercise my brain cells after a cold afternoon in the wind. (That was sarcasm, BTW.)
Thanks Cheryl and Holly for poking me with a stick.
Friday, December 02, 2005
Cold, cold, cold, cold toes!
Each year by April I forget how cold my feet get after 30 minutes of riding in the winter.
The chill from the stainless steel stirrups rushed through the leather soles of my boots and sank right into my toe-joints this afternoon, which was the first really cold afternoon of the season. It's time for the insulated riding boots again, I guess.
My friend has decided to keep her horses at the ranch where I board for another month! That means we can ride out together as many days as we can escape our normal duties, and that either Bernie or Alex can ride with us! I'm really glad we can do that. Riding alone is better than not riding at all, but riding with a pal or a posse is a lot more fun.
My face feels windburned and my back is indulging in painful muscle spasms, but it was a good ride. Tonight is for curling up in bed with a bowl of hot stew and an interesting book. Maybe I should start writing one.
The chill from the stainless steel stirrups rushed through the leather soles of my boots and sank right into my toe-joints this afternoon, which was the first really cold afternoon of the season. It's time for the insulated riding boots again, I guess.
My friend has decided to keep her horses at the ranch where I board for another month! That means we can ride out together as many days as we can escape our normal duties, and that either Bernie or Alex can ride with us! I'm really glad we can do that. Riding alone is better than not riding at all, but riding with a pal or a posse is a lot more fun.
My face feels windburned and my back is indulging in painful muscle spasms, but it was a good ride. Tonight is for curling up in bed with a bowl of hot stew and an interesting book. Maybe I should start writing one.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
The Yap About Getting Published
Every year I get so damn irritated by the NaNoWriMo.org forums.
Every year a large number of extroverted loudmouths blather at length about "By God, You Better Not Let Anyone See Your Writing On The Web Or Publishers Will Shit On Your Submissions!" Oh, bullshit. If your writing is really good, the publishers don't give a hang if your work has been published on the web. Unless you've been published on a website with a bigger following than Dilbert.com or say, BBC.com. Get real. Two years ago, there was a fellow on the NaNoForums who'd had his science fiction novel posted on a website for a year (if not more) and then an editor from Tor books saw it while browsing the web, contacted him and signed him up. Seeing it on the web only allowed the editor to see that it wasn't crap. Who listened to him? Not many. Much easier to run around with your hair on fire, screaming, "First Publication Rights! All is lost!"
I CAN, however, imagine an agent or publisher looking at a sheaf of poorly written, typo-laden garbage and smiling kindly and saying, "Sorry, it's already been published, can't help you here." Easy out.
There are writers I know who are sitting on their works, afraid to show them to anyone for fear they might be plagiarized, or are waiting for their words to magically become Perfect before they're confident enough to show them to others. In the mean time, years pass, the story moulders in manuscripts or degenerates on computer disk. The Story has taken a back seat to The Marketing. And if the Writer is not also a Marketer ... why, the writer is screwed. (But then that's why agents are so important.)
Oh, well. Our society teaches us from toddler on up that to be successful, important, or valid, you have to earn $$$ from your efforts, be they creative or daily. You must earn your allowance by doing chores, you must make your art pay for itself and then some or it's not worthwhile, you must be able to earn a living through a career. If you draw well, you must become a syndicated, madly popular cartoonist, if you paint, you must be able to show in the finest galleries (or market your own galleries like T. Kincade, yick), if you like to cook you must become a chef in an upscale restaurant. Money money money money money.
"I wrote a book," says the author proudly.
"Can I get it at Barnes and Noble?" says the potential reader.
"No, but you can see it on the web/at Lulu.com/ etc."
"Oh," the potential reader says. "Let me know when you've REALLY written a book."
Let's all run around in circles screaming that we didn't become the next Maeve Binchy or Jennifer Crusie or Nora Roberts and burn our manuscripts in despair. And By God, Don't Let Anyone See Those Ashes or We'll Lose First Publication Rights.
Every year a large number of extroverted loudmouths blather at length about "By God, You Better Not Let Anyone See Your Writing On The Web Or Publishers Will Shit On Your Submissions!" Oh, bullshit. If your writing is really good, the publishers don't give a hang if your work has been published on the web. Unless you've been published on a website with a bigger following than Dilbert.com or say, BBC.com. Get real. Two years ago, there was a fellow on the NaNoForums who'd had his science fiction novel posted on a website for a year (if not more) and then an editor from Tor books saw it while browsing the web, contacted him and signed him up. Seeing it on the web only allowed the editor to see that it wasn't crap. Who listened to him? Not many. Much easier to run around with your hair on fire, screaming, "First Publication Rights! All is lost!"
I CAN, however, imagine an agent or publisher looking at a sheaf of poorly written, typo-laden garbage and smiling kindly and saying, "Sorry, it's already been published, can't help you here." Easy out.
There are writers I know who are sitting on their works, afraid to show them to anyone for fear they might be plagiarized, or are waiting for their words to magically become Perfect before they're confident enough to show them to others. In the mean time, years pass, the story moulders in manuscripts or degenerates on computer disk. The Story has taken a back seat to The Marketing. And if the Writer is not also a Marketer ... why, the writer is screwed. (But then that's why agents are so important.)
Oh, well. Our society teaches us from toddler on up that to be successful, important, or valid, you have to earn $$$ from your efforts, be they creative or daily. You must earn your allowance by doing chores, you must make your art pay for itself and then some or it's not worthwhile, you must be able to earn a living through a career. If you draw well, you must become a syndicated, madly popular cartoonist, if you paint, you must be able to show in the finest galleries (or market your own galleries like T. Kincade, yick), if you like to cook you must become a chef in an upscale restaurant. Money money money money money.
"I wrote a book," says the author proudly.
"Can I get it at Barnes and Noble?" says the potential reader.
"No, but you can see it on the web/at Lulu.com/ etc."
"Oh," the potential reader says. "Let me know when you've REALLY written a book."
Let's all run around in circles screaming that we didn't become the next Maeve Binchy or Jennifer Crusie or Nora Roberts and burn our manuscripts in despair. And By God, Don't Let Anyone See Those Ashes or We'll Lose First Publication Rights.
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