Ramblings from the Desert

I Make ArtZ!

2011-11-18T11:45:00.004-07:00

In the Albuquerque, New Mexico area this Thanksgiving weekend? Looking for a fun place to shop, without the Black Friday lunacy and a way to support small business?

Look no farther, it's the Corrales Holiday Art Fest, featuring 40 artists, including yours truly. Admission is free. Most of the artists will be participating in a 10% off coupon program. (At our booth, Adobe Dragon, the coupon will apply to any purchase over $50.)

I will also have copies of my book, The Music of Chaos on hand. (On Saturday, November 26, I will be at a group book signing at the nearby Old Church from 1pm to 5pm.)

Come on out to Corrales, New Mexico, November 25-27, for art and fun.

The Music of Chaos, Free Book Contest

2011-07-22T14:21:00.008-06:00

Free urban fantasy book! Free art! That right, free.

Win a free copy of my quirky urban fantasy, The Music of Chaos. It's easy. Just click this link to go my contest page over on Romance Junkies. There, you'll see the following question:

"What is the name of ...'the brave soul who had dared the displeasure of my company'?"

The answer can easily be found in Chapter One of The Music of Chaos. (Seriously, you can just skim through the text. He is the only other person in the scene.)

The contest runs through August 31, 2011, so you have time to enter multiple times. While you're there, check out some of the other authors/books that are participating in this contest.

***The Music of Chaos***
***Back Cover Summary***

"My century long career as a Wolfe did bear a stronger resemblance to a blooper reel than a profession..."

Regan O’Connell has a PhD and a good job as a project manager with a consulting company. Unbeknownst to her human co-workers, she’s 130 years old, and has a magical pedigree that includes vampires and elven royalty.

Immature by the standards of immortals, she has little control over the magic that simmers in her blood. For more than a century, she has worked as a secret operative for the vampire syndicate the Grey Brethren. For just as long, she has hidden her magical disability, struggling with one paranormal misadventure after another. Tired of her shenanigans, the Grey Brethren station her in Albuquerque, far out-of-the-way by paranormal standards.

The arrival of a mysterious user of chaotic magic—a world destroying power—spells the end of Regan’s trouble-free existence. Soon after, her vampire employers issue an ultimatum: find and neutralize the chaotic magic user or find a new job. To make matters worse, she has inadvertently started a war and developed a surprising attraction to a human. Sorting the mess out will require a little help from her friends, some growing up, and acceptance that she will never be a practitioner of conventional magic.

*****

Available from Decadent Publishing and Amazon.

Also available in ebook format.

The Music of Chaos, Now in Print

2011-06-21T15:56:00.006-06:00

Looking for a fun summer read? The Music of Chaos, my light urban fantasy about a not-entirely competent paranormal secret agent, is now available in print.

The pitch:

"Blind dates are always a train wreck."
By day, Regan O'Connell is a highly respected project manager. By night, she's a Wolfe, a paranormal agent working for a vampire syndicate.

Her two worlds collide when a co-worker sets her up with tall, dark and sexy Jason Lake. Jason is a Holder, a member of an ancient, all-human organization dedicated to policing the activities of things that go bump in the night. Things like half-vampire Regan.

Falling for the wrong guy is the least of Regan's problems. There's a murderer on the loose, and his favorite weapon is chaotic magic, an erratic force with the power to rip holes in the fabric of the universe. And the best way to catch the killer is to get close to Jason, the man who is not only her enemy, but her prime suspect.

Set in New Mexico, The Music of Chaos features a vampire who'd rather drink beer than blood; a pacifist dark elf; and a half-vampire heroine who is better at math than magic. You can read a chapter--Free--here.

Buy it now (please) at Decadent Publishing or Amazon.

For those who want instant gratification, you can download the ebook version: Decadent Publishing, Amazon/Kindle, and B&N/Nook.

Buy a book or I'll kick this cute little greyhound.
(Kidding.)

Dear Ginia Bellafante, You're a Moron

2011-04-15T15:58:00.003-06:00

And a sexist one at that.

My response to Ms. Bellafante's mind-rapingly stupid review of HBO's adaptation of George R. R. Martin's epic fantasy, A Game of Thrones, can be found here, at my new blog, But It's a Dry Heat.

But the short version is as follows:
A) That's not a review, as it doesn't bother to discuss plot and characterization,
B) Women do read fantasy, including Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire series,
C) The book, yes, the book, contains sexual content. It wasn't added in to pander to an audience (or to make puritanical reviewers like Bellafante clutch their pearls),
D) Romance, chick lit and other forms of so-called women's' entertainment are not inferior art forms.

The Music of Chaos, Read Chapter One

2011-04-13T16:53:00.003-06:00

Oops. I forgot to mention that Chapter One of The Music of Chaos is now available online. Free.

In related news, yep, I am working on the sequel. I'm about more than 2/3 of the way done. It's clocking in at about 90K words, but with revision, I should get it back down into the 80K range. This storyline is very Talis-centric, although, yep, Jason is back, as is Breas Montrose, the beer-drinking, sports-obsessed vampire. And Lex the, uh, lusty fairy.

In related news, The Canvas Thief, a paranormal romance set in the same "world" as The Music of Chaos, has been accepted by Carina Press. (This isn't the official announcement as I'm still reviewing the contract.) Breas is a character in The Canvas Thief. Here, he's in the odd role of mentor. Well, not so odd, as his "protege" is a thief.

Despite the presence of Breas, The Canvas Thief isn't a vampire paranormal romance. It's more like a retelling of Pygmalion. Like The Music of Chaos, it is set in New Mexico; this time, Santa Fe.

Anyhow, go check out Chapter One of The Music of Chaos. Please?

Another Sally Field Moment

2011-03-14T16:21:00.004-06:00

In which I say, "You like me, you really like me."

The Music of Chaos, my quirky urban fantasy novel, scored another nice review.

Regan O'Connell is a Wolfe, part of a supernatural police force. She spends her evenings killing rogue lesser vampires and her days with computers at a mundane day job. She is half vampire and the daughter of one of the most powerful vampires on earth. She struggles daily not to be a disappointment to him. Her current assignment is in Albuquerque, New Mexico, hardly a hotbed of vampire activity, which is until lately. Someone is producing lesser vampires at an alarming rate and to complicate matters, two Holders, the Wolves human counterparts have been assigned to the city as well. An old flame, Breas, an ancient and incredibly powerful vampire, suddenly comes to town as well; making her wonder what exactly is going down in her previously quiet city.

Ms. Kirby has created a vivid and exciting world that I hope to visit again soon. The characters are colorful, bizarre, and real at the same time. I had no problem picturing each and every one of them. She let us in on just enough of the back story of each of the characters; enough to picture and know them, but leaving a bit more to learn about each of them. Regan is an interesting character; a dyslexic demi-vampire who uses music and math to do her magic. Her best friend Talis helped her through school, but the cheating is starting to catch up with her on this mission. The plot of this story is exciting and has many layers, the detail is extraordinary, and I was unable to put this book down until I got to the last page, and I didn't want to put it down even then. Hopefully there will be another Regan O'Connell story soon; I can never get too much of my new favorite anti-hero Breas.

Silly "Squeee!" from me.

The Music of Chaos is available as an ebook from Decadent Publishing, Amazon, Smashwords and at other online retailers.

Ebook Publishing for the Lazy and Unethical

2011-03-14T12:35:00.007-06:00

As I noted in my posting below, my blog got plagiarized. The thieving site, is the ironically named Write (Create) Your Own Ebook (write-your-own-e-book.info/blog/judging-an-ebook-publisher-by-the-covers). I'm not including a clickable linky, because they don't deserve the linkage.

The site is selling a book on how to write a book without actually doing any of your own writing. They [site owners] demonstrate this with their blog, which steals other people's blog postings, without giving clear, attribution to the author. (Burying a link at the end, is not clear attribution.) The blog allows no comments; there is no contact information included; and their Whois information is hidden.

Some say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but, me I'd prefer cold, hard cash, or at least correct attribution--My name (P. Kirby) on the article--of my work.

Blog plagiarism is theft.

Cross posted at But It's a Dry Heat.

Judging an eBook Publisher by the Covers

2011-03-14T12:00:00.008-06:00

And by their web page.

Note: If you are reading this post anywhere but on Ramblings from the Desert or at But It's a Dry Heat (both authored by P. Kirby), the content is stolen.

These days, new epublishers are popping up like daisies on the lawn. Over at Absolute Write, someone starts a thread inquiring about a press’s bona fides almost daily.

Before you sign a contract, or for that matter, submit a manuscript to a publisher, you should always do some research. But before you bother to Google, post a question in a newsgroup, etc., there’s one simple way to gauge whether a pub is worth the mouse clicks.

Look at their web page, especially their home page.

A publisher’s page should do one thing and do it well. Sell books.

It’s easier to show than tell, so here are publishers who get it right. Samhain* and Ellora’s Cave. Even newer pubs like Dreamspinner, then their genre can be easily explained in a tag line. Sell me books, not the publisher.

So what do you see? I see books for sale, front and center. With just a click or two, I can read a blurb and a sample of the writing. (I don’t buy books without reading a sample. Do you?) The covers are attractive and professionally designed. A listing of books by genre is available and easy to use. And buying is easy.

What don’t I want to see on a publisher’s web page? First and foremost, no begging for authors.

At Happy Shiny Books, it is our goal to nurture writers. We know how hard it is to get published with the big publishers and we know great books often get overlooked. Our writers are family….

Blah, blah, blahbitty, blah. Look. I’ve got a family. They’re all I can handle. I don’t need to be nurtured (that’s my mom’s job). A publisher’s job is to acquire the best books possible, and edit and sell those books to the reading public.

Publishers who sell books don’t need to sell themselves to authors. If they do their job, authors will swarm like flies. Remember that scene from the first Harry Potter movie/book? The one where hundreds of Harry’s Hogwarts acceptance letters flooded the Dursley’s house; they spewed from the mail slot, under the door, from the fireplace.

All a good publisher has to do is squirrel a little “Submission” link somewhere on their page, and voila, a deluge of biblical proportions.

There shouldn’t be any big blocks of text on the page, including those that explain the pub’s mission.

At Shiny Happy Books we strive to provide the best books to the reading public at the best prices. Literature is our passion. Shiny Happy Books was established in 2008 by Mary Smith, a multi-published author who….

Blah, blah, blahbitty, blah. Show me da books. If it’s a niche market, like Dreamspinner, then their genre can be easily explained in a tag line. Sell me books, not the publisher.

It goes without saying that the web page should load easily, and look professional and up-to-date. No pages that look like they were designed by the owner’s twelve-year-old kid using a 2000 version of MS Frontpage. No using a free web pages service. If you can’t afford to buy a your own URL and your own little chunk of the Internet, you shouldn’t be in the business of publishing books. (I can afford it and I’m the quintessential starving artist.)

In summary, what should you demand of a publisher’s web page? Sells books. Professionally-designed, easily navigated site. Attractive, professionally-designed covers.

Otherwise, move on, there’s nothing to see there.

*I linked to Samhain’s bookstore, because they recently revamped their site to feature a blog first. Not my idea of a great plan, because blogs really don’t sell [many] books. But Samhain has the clout to do whatever they want. And their bookstore sells books and sells them well.

This post, at my other blog, But It's a Dry Heat, was plagiarized by a scrapper called Write-Your-Own-e-book. (http://write-your-own-e-book.info/blog/judging-an-ebook-publisher-by-the-covers/) The site posted my writing without my permission and without properly crediting me--Patricia Kirby--as the author. Hence, my cross posting here.

The End of Innocence

2011-03-03T15:05:00.004-07:00

Otherwise known as my first review.

The Music of Chaos got its first review.

Music of Chaos is a fast moving, well written story of sorta Good vs. really evil Evil, man vs. woman, vampire vs. anyone else. You get it. The characters are just shippy enough and just funny enough to keep this one rolling all the way to the end.

So now I have proof that someone other than my mother has read my book.

The Music of Chaos

2011-02-14T15:34:00.002-07:00

Urban fantasy set in the desert southwest.

*************
Regan O’Connell seems to have it all. She has a PhD and a good paying job as a project manager with a consulting company. Unbeknownst to her co-workers, she’s a one hundred and thirty-year-old demi-human, with a magical pedigree that includes vampires and elven royalty.

Harnessing her magical ability has never been easy. Immature by the standards of immortals, she has little-to-no control over the magic that simmers in her blood. For more than a century, she has worked as a secret operative for the vampire syndicate the Grey Brethren. For just as long, she has hidden her magical disability, struggling with one paranormal misadventure after another. Tired of her shenanigans, the Grey Brethren station her in Albuquerque, far out-of-the-way by paranormal standards.

The arrival of a mysterious user of chaotic magic—a world destroying power—spells the end of Regan’s trouble-free existence. Soon after, her vampire employers issue an ultimatum: find and neutralize the chaotic magic user or find a new job. To make matters worse, she has inadvertently started a war and developed a surprising attraction to a human. Sorting the mess out will require a little help from her friends, some growing up, and acceptance that she will never be a practitioner of conventional magic.

***************
It is available from Decadent Publishing and in Kindle format over at Amazon. You can also get it at Smashwords. (Hint: It's about a buck cheaper if you buy it directly from the publisher.)

Fifi, Is That You?

2010-10-29T10:58:00.002-06:00

This is clearly a case of what happens when you give a dog access to the Internet.

To 'Your Retail Store':

Today I went into your store, and I was appalled and disgusted that you blasphemed Almighty God Jesus Christ and His Most Holy Nativity Christmas by selling from your store shelves a filthy pornographic lamp that said "Christmas" Story on it. REMOVE THAT PIECE OF FILTHY, PORNOGRAPHIC BLASPHEMY FROM YOUR STORESHELVES AT ONCE!

The blasphemous object in question being a lamp shaped like a leg. Yep. A leg lamp.

My mom once had a dog who like to hump the throw cushions on the couch. That dog never developed a lust for legs, but if it had, I imagine this lamp would've been well loved.

More Truthyness in Adverts

2010-10-20T16:53:00.003-06:00

There's this ad that's been playing on TV for the past several weeks. In it, the archetypal Soccer Mom is wheeling her shopping cart through a grocery. As she wanders the isles, she opines about the possibility of a tax on soft drinks, sports drinks, and--gasp!--even flavored waters. She doesn't need the government telling her what to eat and drink. It's hard enough to buy groceries, she says, without a tax on soda. (The obvious question being, if you can't afford actual food--veggies, cheese, bread, milk--why are you buying soda?)

I'm not exactly moved by her plight. Given the rates of obesity in this country, it's fair to assume that a sizeable (heh) portion of the populace doesn't know what to eat. Soccer Mom's inability to afford enough soda to send her family into a diabetic coma doesn't strike me as a real crisis.

The ad is paid for by Americans Against Food Taxes, which sounds very grass-roots-y and implies the taxes are on actual food. (Unless there's been a revision since I was in school, I don't think soda is in the food pyramid.) My gut reaction, on seeing the ad, was that the Americans in question owned companies like Coca Cola, et. al.

Ding! Give this blogger a cookie!

Americans Against Food Taxes (AAFT) is a front group funded by the beverage industry which consists of major restaurant chains, food and soft drink manufacturers and their associated lobbying groups. It was organized by the American Beverage Association to fight a proposed three to ten cent tax on soda, sugary drinks and energy drinks to help fund health care reform in the United States.

At issue isn't whether the tax will work. I suspect that Soccer Mom will fork over the few extra cents to keep her offspring high on corn syrup. And life will go on.

At issue is the disingenuous nature of the ad. It would have you think that it's a matter of "folks looking out for other folks." When, in reality, it's Big Corporations getting us to look out for their best interests.

Put One Foot over the Line and Lose It

2010-10-20T15:45:00.002-06:00

Thank dog for Netflix and Xbox, which provide political-ad-free entertainment. I can't entirely avoid political ads, because each morning my beloved switches on the TV to watch the news.

This morning, as I was going about my morning chores, I heard an ad from Ben Ray Lujan's camp, featuring choice quotes from his opponent, Tom Mullins. (Mullins, being that special kind of crazy hypocrite who hates the government, all the while running for political office.)

Anyway, among Mullins's litany of lunacy--rants against Social Security and public education--was the charming notion that landmines are the solution to the illegal immigrant problem.

In the May 18 interview with KNMX radio in Las Vegas, N.M., Mullins says the U.S. could mine the border,...

And I thought, "Whadda ya bet, he's also vehemently anti-abortion?" So I moseyed over to his website. Yeppers, he is.

Tom is a pro-life Catholic conservative. The Constitution protects life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. How can our government condone murder?

So Tom loves the little fetuses, all the little fetuses of the world. But those greasy, brown people who dare cross a line in the desert sand in search of a better life for themselves and their families? Not so much. Mr. Pro-life thinks the fitting punishment for besmirching our borders without the proper papeles should be dismemberment and death. Men, women, children, wildlife, and anything with enough heft to set off a mine is fair game for pro-life Mullins.

Of course, some of the brown horde are pregnant women--where else would we get Michelle Malkin's anchor babies? Perhaps Mullins thinks the mines can be trained to avoid eviscerating pregnant illegal immigrants? Or maybe he just doesn't give a shit. Or maybe Mullins, like Dexter the serial killer, has a flexible definition of "murder."

We could put land mines along the border. I know it sounds crazy.

Crazy? Nah. That's an insult to crazy people. The word you're looking for is "sociopathic."

Hot Tacos Sing Dick Cheney

2010-10-19T15:10:00.002-06:00

Need proof of evolution? Look no further than spam. (The virtual version, as the exact taxonomic classification for the edible kind remains a mystery to science.) For every innovation in spam filters, spammers evolve and adapt ways to get around said filters. Since the majority of filters rely on subject lines, the result is a bizarre array of nonsensical verbiage in the subject line.

Without further ado, I bring you today's subject lines from my spam box...

"my pic for you"

Neato. Now I have something to throw darts at.

"need to findout more about you"

I'm an evil genius with plans to take over the Universe. What else is there to know?

"The new resume is attached"

Ah, I see you are applying for the position of "minion." I trust you do windows and vacuum?

"Speaker John Boehner?"

Oh, another advert for erectile dysfunction.

"get a hug when you give her a gift from Tiffany's"

Just a hug? For some Tiffany's swag, I expect to get laid.

"Bigger is definitely better."

Not if we're talking cockroaches or asses.

"I like you"

Really? You like me? You really like me? [Does best impression of Sally Field.]

"Man gets kicked in teeth by horse"

I.e., the state of dentistry in America.

"It makes gentlemen's tool wooden"

Ouch! Splinters!

And finally, the old reliable...

"Hi."

Oh, come on! You're not even trying. Put some effort into it.

Read for a Cure

2010-10-13T15:52:00.000-06:00

I doubt there's anyone who hasn't been impacted by cancer in some way. Decadent Publishing, through their Read for a Cure program, is providing an easy way to indulge your love of reading and help fund cancer research through Relay for Life.

Each month, Decadent Publishing will donate our publisher proceeds from one book to Relay For Life in our effort to fight back against cancer.

All you have to do is buy a book.

The Well-Adjusted Vampire

2010-10-05T15:19:00.006-06:00

Coming at the end of October...The Music of Chaos, my urban fantasy novel, from Decadent Publishing. With all the usual urban fantasy elements--ass-kicking heroine, magic, snappy dialogue, and cheese enchiladas--and absolutely no whiny, schmopey, mopey vampires.

My vampires like being vampires. No "Woe is me, I'm a beautiful immortal with superpowers on an all-liquid diet. I haaate myself" nonsense.

My eyebrows crawled upward. "You realize you just made a movie reference. I am rubbing off on you."

"Yeah. Like ringworm."

~Regan O'Connell and Breas Montrose, vampire, having a warm fuzzy moment.

The Panty Pest

2010-10-01T11:00:00.000-06:00

I've got him in my sights, corrosive revolver loaded and ready to fire. "The only good Crimson Lance soldier is a dead one," I mutter. My finger twitches on the XBox controller.

And then my view is obstructed. By a moth. A smallish moth, who nonetheless, chose now as the perfect time to land on the television screen.

"Ugh. Stupid, stupid panty pest," I say, with impotent rage. Squishing the moth is out of the question, since the little shit will then be smeared over the screen. So I wait until the Lance soldier moves out from under the bug, before unleashing caustic hell. (Side note: Borderland's baddies, when shot with caustic and incendiary weapons, melt, dying in a theatrical display of screaming and hand waving. It doth amuse.)

"Panty pest" is code for "flour moth" in our household. You know, those nasty moths and their worms, that feed on foodstuff flour, cookies, etc.? At Casa de Kirby, their prime habitat is birdseed, which is stored in the garage. But periodically, there is a huge population explosion, and some get in the house.

The solution is a little paper trap, loaded with pheromones. The moths, thinking they are about to meet the love of their lives, fly into the trap and are stuck on the sticky sides. The end result, moths embedded in tar-like goo, twitching pitifully, is perversely satisfying.

Once, a few years ago, I scribbled "pantry pest traps" on on the dry erase board in the kitchen.

Soon after, we had company and someone, my sister-in-law maybe, noticed, rather gleefully, that what I had written was: "PANTY PEST TRAPS."

This, of course, set off a lively discussion as to the nature of a panty pest, and whether this was actually a reference to my husband.

To this day, flour moths are synonymous with "panty pests."

That Home Time Religion

2010-09-24T09:34:00.003-06:00

Wednesday night. Under a gray sky, a mass of fat rainclouds rolled over the house. So low you could almost touch them, but opaque and thick like dark gray cotton balls, not misty, like fog. They moved fast. Lifelike spooky, leviathans that hurried east across the valley where they collided with the Sandia Mountains, and broke apart as rain.

Husband critter and I watched, delighted by the first rainfall in months. Outside, rain collected in puddles on the brick pathways.

After a few minutes we looked at each other and said, "The roof!" We made for the master bathroom. ("Master bathroom" being such an incongruous term for a room the size of a closet.) Once there, we studied a section of ceiling near the ventilation fan.

See, the homebuilder didn't bother to hook the bathroom fan vents to the exterior vents (Tiffany/Collatz Builders, I'm lookin' at you). So for nearly a decade, the ventilation fan had been pumping humid air into the gap between the drywall and roof. Ruining the roof, insulation and some of the roof framing.

Husband critter and his parents repaired most of the damage. But that section of roof still leaks on the rare occasion of a real rainfall.

Fortunately, the roof held on Wednesday night. So scratch "roof-tar-goopy-stuff" off the weekly Home Depot/Lowe's list. Nevertheless, we both surveyed the bathroom, silently cataloging a litany of dreams. A new vanity. Fresh paint. And did the mold just move?

Our household doesn't just shop at Home Depot. We tithe there weekly.

Go Team Scorpion

2010-09-22T14:49:00.006-06:00

"Clash of the Titans" is delightful. Delightfully bad. Having recently suffered through the critically acclaimed, but mind-rapingly dull, "No Country for Old Men," husband-critter and I decided to dip into the shallower side of the cinematic gene pool. Clash of the Titans is the perfect vehicle for some major Mystery Science Theater 3000 snarking. Oh, boy. We haven't had this much fun since the equally vile "10,000 BC."

It's like a story recited by your eight-year-old nephew. One event leading to another with no apparent connection, told to you in a breathless rush. It doesn't make a lick of sense.

Other than the trailer, shown before this newer, more CG-y version of the tale, I've never seen the original version of Clash. But this is hardly an improvement. It fiddles with the story from original--Andromeda isn't Perseus' love interest this time around--and replaces a wooden Harry Hamlin with a buff, and apparently bored Sam Worthington (who seems to be wishing he'd found something else to do while waiting to shoot the sequel to Avatar).

The absence of a love story with Andromeda, in this case, is a good thing. Andromeda is a saccharin, old-time Disney Princess. She suffers, suffers, I tell you, for the plight of the poor, and feeds bread to starving children. (I dunno. Maybe it was enriched, Wonder Bread?) I'm surprised the filmmakers didn't throw in cute little bunnies and other woodland animals to gaze at her adoringly. Anyway, she's a dud.

Liam Neeson, as Zeus, is shiny like a lightbulb, and oozes misery (or maybe he's just plotting the murder of his agent). Ralph Fiennes as Hades seems to be suffering from a Botox overdose, as he never moves his mouth while speaking. The rest of the cast is so unmemorable, I can't even remember their names.

Mostly, the film is guilty of larceny. While watching, phrases like, "'300' called; they want their wardrobe back" and "Lookee, it's the Scorpion King!" come to mind. (Unlike "300," Clash of the Titans suffers from a profound lack of man candy. It's like casting went out of their way to find homely men. And wardrobe/makeup worked their butts off making the few good looking chaps hideous.)

And yeah, I was rooting for the giant scorpions.

Good Thing He's Cute

2010-09-20T16:24:00.000-06:00

After spending the morning staring at the computer screen at work, wondering, "What the hell is it I do I here?" I'm back home. And staring at the computer screen.

My faithful greyhound enters the office, walking carefully over the saltillo tiles. He makes it to the area rug, sighs in relief, and plops down next to my chair.

"Now this is nice," I think. "Exactly why I have a dog. Companionship."

A few seconds later he starts farting. Big dog. Big, fetid, meaty farts.

I grab a sketchpad and wave it around to clear the air every time he lets one fly. After about a dozen repetitions of this, Mr. Sensitive gets offended and leaves.

He doesn't, however, have the good grace to takes the stench with him.

Greyhounds are better seen than smelled.

I Don't Touch Myself

2010-09-17T10:42:00.006-06:00

So Christine O'Donnell thinks "Masturbation Isn't the Answer?" What, pray tell, is the question?

"What's the capital of Indonesia?"

"Masturbation."

Yeah, she's right. It just doesn't work.

(Of course, many Christians will tell you Jesus is the Answer. And, uh, that really doesn't work either.)

Naturally, the idea that Little Miss No Dildos abstains from self love has been met by disbelief. Especially since she's ogling the youth pastor in that video in a way that suggests her panties are getting a tad moist. It's unlikely that the average human, possessing the usual complement of sexy nethers, hasn't had at least a few accidental, erm, brushes with self-induced pleasure.

For an answer to this mystery, I harken back to Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Remember when Spike, tired of lusting after the real McCoy, constructs himself a Buffybot?

O'Donnoll is a Teabagger's Buffybot.

Unlike Spike, who, after a few centuries, must have known his way around a woman's body, this bot-maker is the typical Teabagger geek, living in Mom's basement, sucking down Cheetos. Having never actually spoken to a real women--sorry, Mom doesn't count--much less touched one, his grasp of anatomy is flawed.

The resulting construct, while lifelike and pretty, is as smooth down south as a Barbie doll.

O'Donnellbot is the perfect Conservative/Teabagger/Republican woman. Eager to please, with no capacity herself for any pleasure. No pesky need for self-determination to diminish a guy's already shriveled manhood.

Though, I must say, I'll give her some props for threatening polluters with eternal damnation.

Fun conversation with Bill O'Reilly on Fox "news," regarding a Catholic bishop refining the definitions of the seven deadly sins on March 28, 2008:
O'REILLY: But if you hurt somebody by pollution, if you're a big corporation, you're dumping chemicals in the water, you're going to hell.

O'DONNELL: Again, that's greed.

O'REILLY: You're going to hell.

O'DONNELL: Absolutely.

Snerk.

Like a Dog, Only Bigger

2010-09-17T10:29:00.000-06:00

It's six-thirty am and my horse is bugling at the house. I, the antithesis of a morning person, am thinking dark thoughts about glue factories and horse steaks.

Bleary-eyed, I tromp out to to the barn, where the Wonder Horse awaits, stamping, snorting, and registering his displeasure over a marginally late breakfast. I fumble around in the barn, find his fly mask and enter the paddock. Just as I finish dressing him for another fly-ridden day, I notice something black and disheveled by the fence.

He follows, clearly pleased with himself, as I investigate. The lump turns out to be the remains of a roll of landscape fabric. My neighbor had left it by the fence, and the WH yank it through and shredded it like tissue paper.

Wonder Horse, now bored, flits off, tail in the air, toward his feeder. Hint, hint, hint. I stuff the remains back under the fence and head off to get the beast his breakfast. Hey. It's not my problem. The neighbor should know better than to leave anything within WH's reach.

Non-horse people tend to think of horses as big, dull-witted, docile creatures that stand in fields, placidly munching hay. In truth, they are a lot more like destructive dogs. Twelve-hundred pound, destructive dogs.

Whot I Lurnt at Pubic Shool

2010-09-15T15:14:00.000-06:00

"Who was Stephen F Austin??? Why are shool is named after him"

That's the title of a posting at my high school's reunion page over at Facebook. It's just a cavalcade of sad. A little misspelled monument to the inadequacy of a Texas public school education. See? Ah canz spel "school."

Although I've professed a disinterest in these people, I nevertheless "liked" the reunion page, engaging in a combination of Schadenfreude and bewilderment. I really don't remember any of these people. And most of the postings and comments left there contain more typos than, uh, my spam box has ads for cheap Rolexes and male enhancement meds. "Typo" is generous, since most of the errors are probably unintentionally intentional.

Given the quality of discourse at the site, I'd say I'm sticking by my plan not to attend. As I noted before, my money is better spent on my favorite charity. Like, say, my Oreo Blizzards for Me fund.

St. Paddy's in the Fall

2010-09-14T15:21:00.000-06:00

Yeah, it's hopelessly out of season, but I stumbled on this at DeviantArt. Jelly sandwiches, nailed to the wall! The last panel is priceless. "Sit up straight or the devil will steal your backbone...and lash you with it for the rest of eternity."

As with all things on the Internet, DeviantArt is an on again, off again romance. I.e., I go through phases where I check it obsessively. And then I lose interest--Shiny Thing!--and wander off to something else.

At which point, posts pile up. Anyway, I'm just hitting some of the early 2010 art updates.

Lackadaisy is a webcomic filled with awesomeness, Prohibition Era hijinks, and cats.

What's That Smell?

2010-09-14T15:18:00.001-06:00

Ah, Fall in New Mexico. When the air is filled with the tantalizing smell of roasting chile.

*Sniffs*

Oh, wait. That's not chile.

Crap. I set myself on fire again.

Occupational hazard of working with welders and plasma torches.

Coming up, we've got two Art in the Park shows and a holiday show over the Thanksgiving weekend. If my motto wasn't "Why do today what you can procrastinate tomorrow," I'd already have a vast inventory of metal objects d'art.

But this is me. As of the last show, I was coasting along on the fumes of last year's unsold art. But it had to go and get itself sold last month. Now I've got a scant two months to make all kinds of lovely metal tchochkes for the holiday show.

What's that smell? Panic.

(Pictured: Mountain goats. Media: Steel.)

Brother, Can You Spare a Zucchini?

2010-09-08T15:37:00.001-06:00

In which the Casa de Kirby is struck by a case of "careful what you wish for."

Rewind several months, back to March, when a young, uh, youngish, erm, what-ever, gardener's heart warms after the winter that would not end. Me and husband critter are wandering around Lowe's. We stop by a display of seeds and gardening supplies.

"What should I try this year?" I say.

"Well, how about squash? And peppers. And tomatoes. We have to have tomatoes."

I peruse the display and take several seed packets. Frankly, I'm a little unenthusiastic about vegetables. Our official "garden," the part that is protected from marauding rabbits by an adobe wall, is at least 2500-sq ft of flowering plants and shrubs. If it's not edible, I can grow it.

Vegetables? Not so much. From seed? Fuggetaboutit.

But every year, I try.

This year I tried something new. Raised beds.

Fast forward to September. We're drowning in squash. This despite an army of squash bugs who treated my garden like a cheap hotel, spending the hot summer afternoons fornicating in the leafy shade. And spawning a whole new generation of squash bugs.

Husband critter, a.k.a., the family chef, scowls as I come in the house, another load of squash in my arms. "More squash?" he says. He's run out of squash recipes. We've both reached the point where if given the choice between starvation and squash, we'd ... well, we'd eat the damn squash, but we wouldn't be happy about it.

"Maybe we should give them to the homeless or something," says my beloved.

The notion immediately conjured up the following scene: I'm driving. I stop at an intersection, red light and all that. There's a homeless man standing by the road, holding the obligatory cardboard signage with "Hungry, please help."

I roll down the window and he hurries over. He reaches out and I plunk a huge zucchini in his hand.

I drive away, fast, before he can gets a chance to throw it at me.

I, Geek

2010-09-07T16:40:00.002-06:00

Alternate title, Lazarus, the Xbox.

Horror of horrors, about a month ago our beloved Xbox got a case of the Three Rings of Death.

In Casa de Kirby, this counts as a relationship crisis. What are a husband and wife to do, if they can't kill alien hordes together? Talk to each other? Perish the thought.

So my super, duper, handyman husband applies some mighty Google-fu to the problem and finds hope. With the proper application of leverage...screws and a soldering iron, it can be fixed. We can make it better, stronger and more heat resistant.

The fix worked. For a month. And then, Three Rings of Death, part deux. This, just as we had slaughtered the zombie horde in Dr. Ned's Zombie Island, the add-on to Borderlands, one of the bestest gamer's games ever. Or at least the best recent release. (For one, I actually get to play a female character, the ass kicking Lilith the Siren.)

After some agonizing, we decided that we were going to have to give Microsoft some more of our hard earned pesos. Crap. So we bought a new Xbox. Supposedly this version is immune to the three rings of death.

The couple that games together, stays together. Armed with a spiffy new console, we are marching across Pandora in search of General Knoxx's Secret Armory.

Equine Pedicure 101

2010-08-06T13:00:00.006-06:00

Accomplished today:

Both lawns mowed and the horse's feed are trimmed. The latter accomplished with no bloodshed on the part of human or equine.

Usually, the Wonder Horse squirms, the nippers or knife slips and somebody--me usually--bleeds.

Today when he started squirming, I said, "Keep it up and I'm painting your hooves with sparkly, purple nail polish and putting matching bows in your mane and tail."

He stopped squirming. (For a second.)

The real trick. I filled his feeder with hay, chopped carrots and alfalfa pellets. He ate. I hacked away at his feet.

Most horse trainers would probably grumble that I was bribing my horse for good behavior. Whot-evah! I could waste hours dealing with a training issue in the hot, sticky heat. Or I could do this.

Pick your battles.

Sympathetic Pains

2010-07-14T12:04:00.003-06:00

I’m in the midst of sympathetic pains. For horse colic.

Think sympathetic pregnancy pains, then cut out the cute infant at the end of the process, and substitute a really sick horse.

This morning, while I was out watering the garden and squashing squash bugs, I noticed my neighbors were walking their horse. Around and around their property.

And my own stomach is tied up in little knots.

Every horse owner knows the scenario. You come out to find your horse is down and won’t get up. Or he’s yo-yo-ing up and down, intersperses with frantic bouts of rolling. Either way, you know it’s time to call the vet. And wait.

In the meantime, you put a halter on your horse and march him around the grounds, because sometimes–rarely, really–all this continuous walking cures the colic. More likely, it was a bad case of gas colic and it cures itself. But let the forced marching begin.

The vet arrives. She listens to the horse’s stomach, sometimes shoves a gloved hand up his rear, or a tube down his nose and to his stomach. Gives the horse a shot of a pain killer. She then shrugs and hands you a bill for a few hundred bucks and leaves.

At which point, your beloved equine friend gets better quickly or things get really ugly, expensive or fatal, really fast.

I nearly lost the Wonder Horse to a bad colic several years ago. To this day, the poor beast can’t take a nap without me running out and asking, “Are you all right?"

Cloudy with Chance of Slush

2010-06-24T12:55:00.006-06:00

I really shouldn’t laugh at this. Especially considering the spate of butt-ugly query letters I recently sent out. (I don’t know what I was thinking; temporary insanity.)

But it is.

In particular, this gem:

My 318,000 word novel may seem like it starts a little slow, but after the first 100 pages or so it really picks up steam, so I hope you will be patient and not be distracted.

Hey, a SQUIRREL! Cool….Oh, hang on. what were you saying?

Reminds me of why I rarely critique/beta novels anymore. Back in the day, when I was naive, I would read anything. More often than not, the first chapters were okay, being the part on which the author lavished the most love. Later chapters getting progressively worse, meandering journeys (literally, since I read fantasy), that went nowhere fast.

Highlights included a long and lugubrious vampire novel, largely devoid of ... uh, vampires, and a religious tract masquerading as a Lord of the Rings clone. The latter featuring a screechy, self-righteous heroine who was supposed to show the hero the way to salvation. If I had been the hero, after a few minutes with that bitch, I would have gotten me hence to a titty bar for some primo debauchery.

Anyway, one exchange with a writer went like this:

Me: “There really isn’t a strong sense of plot. The characters seem to wander from one cute conversation to another, but no one has much of a goal. Or if they do, they seem to forget it rather quickly.” (The undiplomatic but true assessment would have been more like, “This reads like Grandpa Simpson tells the story of The Lord of the Rings.)

Writer: “Yes, I know the first 100 pages are a little slow. That’s because I’m trying to establish the characters and the setting. But I think you agree it gets faster by page 150, correct? Knowing what I am trying to do with this story, do you still think its slow? Perhaps you might reconsider your assessment.”

Me: ...[Thinking, “By page 150, I wanted to carve my eyeballs out with a spork.]

Seriously? What difference does it make? I’m not an editor or an agent. (Not that you should be asking them to reconsider, either.) I’m the beta reader. You asked for my opinion. I gave it.

Now shoo!

Ahn-You-Eee

2010-06-08T12:38:00.004-06:00

I'm neck-deep in a reading slump right now.

Recently slogged through the very disappointing The Spy Master's Lady by Joanna Bourne. Where a wonderful, resourceful, and blind heroine gets her sight back and turns into a gibbering feeb.

Had to bail on Lost in a Good Book by Jasper Fforde. Love the Eyre Affair, but its sequel was going nowhere fast.

Currently midway through Linnea Sinclair's Gabriel's Ghost. I really expected to love this. Space opera? Romance? Sign me up. Except, as usual, I'm not lovin' the hero. Actually, I find myself shipping the heroine, Chaz, with Ren, the blue-skinned alien. If Sinclair has written a story where Ren gets the girl, I'm all over it.

At the moment, I'm finding this, a zillion times more compelling than any published tome.

Careful What You Wish Fer

2010-06-04T09:39:00.004-06:00

"If wishes were horses, we'd be drowning in horse shit."

Me, as I was shoveling the wonder horse's daily deposit.

Actually, it's really not that bad a task, especially for just one horse. (I'd rather shovel horse shit than do laundry, especially folding laundry.) But at 7 am, everything is gloom and doom for an anti-morning person.

Save Money, Eat a Politician

2010-06-01T15:35:00.008-06:00

Dear New Mexican Republican Candidate for [some office]:

You claim that you will cut wasteful spending in state government.

If your campaign is any indication, the only kind of elimination of waste that you're familiar with takes place in the little boy's/girl's room.

Case in point. My husband and I are not registered with any political party. Here in Nuevo Mexico the term is "Declined to state."

Now pay attention.
I'll speak slowly and use small words.

In the lovely state of New Mexico, one must be registered with a political party to vote in a primary.

New Mexico has a "closed primary" system. You are only allowed to vote in the primary of the party under which you are registered. Registered Democrats may not vote in the Republican primary and vice versa. If you have registered as "independent" or "Green" or "Libertarian" or "Declined to State" or anything other than "Republican" or "Democratic", you cannot vote in this Primary, because none of the minor Parties are holding primaries this year.

Comprende? Me hace que no.

Ignoring the other glaring problem--husband critter and I wouldn't vote for you even if the only other candidate was a flesh eating virus--the fact is we can't vote in this election.

The Democrats get it. We've had no robo-calls from a single Dem candidate.

But the Republican candidates persist in wasting money and space on my answering machine.

Hardly bodes well for sound fiscal management.

It Could Be Worse

2010-05-28T12:44:00.003-06:00

Methinks Exxon's new slogan should be: "We're not BP."

Collateral Damage

2010-05-20T15:39:00.002-06:00

On the Internet, libertarians are like a campfire horror monster. Speak their name and they appear. Pandagon has one infesting a comment thread about Rand Paul's (what a name) desire to dismantle the Civil Rights Act. Troll boy is arguing that forcing a racist proprietor to serve minorities infringes on the bigot's dignity. Oh. Boy.

The thing (well the main thing, as there are many) that libertarians seem to ignore in their little free-market wet dream, is the collateral damage that goes with this kind of economic free-for-all.

Going back to the racist troll, let's play along with his crazy little scenario. Let pretend that businesses were free of those icky laws forbidding discrimination. Which means that in any small town in America, the owners of the town's only supermarket could decide that they would no longer sell to black folks.

According to the libertarian, this isn't a problem because the market would provide, like uh, Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy, in this case a brand new supermarket that was friendly to people of color.

The market will provide, riiight. But okay, we're still playing along. The question is where, while the market is getting around to opening a new supermarket, are the town's minorities supposed to get their groceries? New enterprises don't just spring up overnight.

Because libertarians, when backed into a corner, will engage in fantastic mental gymnastics, I imagine a twisted response where the affected families are at fault for living in a white community and they should simply move somewhere where market forces are more conducive to um, ... living. Or something.

The crux of the libertarian myopic view is that government regulations unnecessary. For example, those that monitor the safety of consumer goods are unnecessary because, ...wait for it...the market will sort the bad products from the good.

Again, ignoring collateral damage. Hint, by collateral I mean "people."

Let's say, in the happy land of Libertarianasia, I start a car company and manufacture a car. Let's call it the "Greyhound." It's speedy, it's fuel efficient, it's got a GPS. And, thanks to a manufacturing glitch, it occasionally explodes on ignition. Kablooey!

This being a land rule by the benevolent free-market, word eventually gets around that my cars explode, people stop buying, and I go out of business. Problem solved.

Except to get to this outcome, human beings (probably many) had to die, blown to bits by my defective product.

Even if the free, unregulated market were truly an effective mechanism for culling the bad players (it's not), that would still leave us, the consumers, as unwitting guinea pigs.

The collateral damage, a sacrifice, I guess, to the free market god.

Curb Your Human

2010-05-18T16:01:00.007-06:00

You know the scenario. It's a lovely day and you're out for a walk with your family. You, your husband/wife/partner, the family dog (leashed) and your adorable offspring.

As you round a corner, you spot another person approaching. Like you, this person is out walking the dog. Well, sort of.

Fido is off the leash and his Idiot Owner makes no attempt to call him and put him on a leash. Instead, just as Fido spots you and rushes toward you in a flurry of snarls and bared teeth, Idiot Owner says ...

Guess.

Come on, it's easy.

Yeah. You got it.

"Don't worry. He's friendly." (Famous last words of every irresponsible dog owner.)

Translation, "You better pray he's friendly since I have neither the desire nor the ability to control Fido."

So now Fido has you and your terrorized family backed up to the edge of a cliff. Mr. Friendly is doing an Oscar-worthy impression of Cujo, snapping, snarling and white spittle flying from his mouth.

And Idiot Owner, who is very slowly approaching, unconcerned, says, "He's just saying, 'Hello.'"

Translation: "If you don't move, he won't bite."

At which point, Fido lunges and jumps on you, your partner, and your children and then starts a fight with your dog.

Idiot Owner finally arrives and drags Fido away just before he starts gnawing on your leg like it's a steak bone. Idiot then says, with a suspicious frown at your bloodied family that suggests the altercation is the victims' fault, "Well, gosh, he's never done that before."

Translation: "He's never drawn blood before."

Remember back in the day, when people would complain about ill behaved children? Back when rotten parents would let their kids run amuck in restaurants and movie theaters.

A fortunate side effect of "stranger danger," is that nowadays, most parents won't let their kids out of the house without an armed escort, so unruly children in public places are a thing of the past. (The unfortunate side effect is that kids nowadays don't have much of a childhood, since fun activities like riding your bike in the neighborhood aren't allowed.)

The rotten parents/children of yesterday are today's irresponsible dog owners and their pets.

(A very large stick is now a requirement for the greyhound's daily walk. Funny thing is that just the sight of the stick, especially if I give it a casual, but slightly threatening twirl, is enough to encourage Idiot Owner to leash Fido.)

Leading Economic Indicators Say...

2010-05-14T14:47:00.003-06:00

Once upon a time, in place not too far away, but with a far better economy, Old Navy ads were populated by happy, nubile, young people. The kind of super skinny, preternaturally beautiful people who exists largely to make most ordinary women in America feel obese and frumpy.

Then the economy sank like the Titanic, taking, apparently, doomed lovers and Old Navy's herd of skinny models. One day the models were gone, replaced by department store mannequins. Or, as Old Navy might say, Supermodelquins. The model's absence wasn't immediately obvious. Not if you don't pay much attention to ads anyway. There were subtle changes, like the fact that the mannequins were better actors.

But at any rate, the living, breathing spokespeople for Old Navy were gone. (This happened, coincidentally, at the same time the Geico gecko was squashed by an executive and replace with a stack of Monopoly money and plastic eyeballs.)

The economy was clearly in the toilet. I mean, how much money does it take to feed skinny supermodels? They eat what, like less than a Chihuahua dog? When the food bill for an anorexic spokesperson is too high, the company finances must be bleeding red.

So last night, husband critter and I are watching TV and lo and behold, it's an Old Navy commercial featuring spokespeople with a pulse. (Or not, since anyone that beautiful and skinny may be a vampire.)

The Geico gecko is back as well, un-flattened and still, inexplicably British.

The economy is looking up.

**(The gecko's name is Mallory? Seriously?)

Turn up Your Miracle Ear

2010-05-10T11:38:00.001-06:00

Five o’clock and my husband has just gotten home, grocery bags in hand. The greyhound is leaping and jumping in goofy paroxysms of joy. Glad my husband is home, and really glad about the groceries. Everything and anything we bring home must be for the greyhound. It just as to be.

I wander out of the office and my husband says, “I see the greyhound has found the bag of snakes.”

Eh? “He found what? Snakes?”

Husband continues on into the kitchen, giddy greyhound prancing at his heals. “I see the greyhound has found the bag of stakes.”

I’m standing in the living room, looking stupid, an expression which is effortless.

Stakes? As in garden? Or have we been beset with vampires?

And then, palm slap to forehead, “D’oh. Steaks, steaks.”

I’m either going deaf or senile.

I Dream of Dexter

2010-05-04T15:24:00.006-06:00

Dexter, how I love thee.

Edge-of-your-seat plotting, great characters, snappy dialogue. Dexter is the husband and I's new favorite show.

Dexter is a serial killer who preys on other serial killers. His choice of victim, amusingly, being what elevates him from psycho to admirable vigilante. Even though he really, really, likes killing people. He clearly relishes jabbing a knife into his helpless victim and then meticulously carving them into pieces.

Not sure what this says about most of the show's fans. Me, I'm a misanthrope. That's my excuse. As long as he's killing bad people, and not cute little animals (anymore), I'm good.

The real strength of the show, however, lies in the female characters. I have a hard time understanding my own gender. And many fictional (and real) women annoy the crap out of me. Take the women on my husband's favourite show Chuck. Especially, Chuck's sister, Ellie. Maybe it's the fault of the actress, who has about as much charisma as a bag of hammers, but the character is insipid on a good day. Her role is to be "supportive." Sorry, but support is for bras, not a human beings.

The women on Dexter are flawed and, therefore, fabulous.

Lieutenant Maria LaGuerta is, at first glance, somewhat unlikable, obviously driven by what is politically expedient. But she's also a woman and a minority navigating the treacherous waters of a male dominated field.

And Debra Morgan, Dexter's sister? She's strong-willed, crass and foul mouthed. I can sooo relate. She somehow manages to also be shatteringly vulnerable. That's a hard one to pull off, since vulnerable and female seems to equal either perpetual victim or a Pollyanna.

Speaking of Pollyannas, Dexter's girlfriend Rita, could have easily gone that route. As the single mom who was abused by her former husband, and now unwittingly in love with a serial killer, she has sweet, long-suffering, victim tattooed on her forehead. OTOH, she's often shown surprising chutzpah. She is not only willing to do what is right by her children (big deal, most moms would), but she often drops the saintly crap and does what is right by her.

Since we don't have cable, we get our Dexter through Netflix. (Love the show, but no way am I paying $100 or more a month for TV.) It's gotten to where I'm sort of disappointed when the next thing in the Netflix queue is a ... movie.

More Politician Speak

2010-05-04T15:20:00.002-06:00

Another round of political ads are hitting the boob tube. The latest featuring the phrase, "I'm gonna run the government like a business."

It sounds good.

If your skull is filled with cotton candy.

Like any talking point, it means nothing.

It's like saying, "I'm gonna drive my Ford Fiesta like it was an F-16."

That Brown Stuff, It's Not Chocolate

2010-04-30T09:15:00.001-06:00

And yet, despite my whinging that I don't "get" Facebook, it's one of the first places I log onto in the morning.

The crap, I'm so full of it, it's squirting out of my ears.

Shut Up and Leave a Message

2010-04-29T16:05:00.003-06:00

Typical message on the church's answering machine.

Hi. This Mary Jones. I'm calling about the yard sale. I, uh, is it this Saturday? Because my daughter is moving and she has some stuff. But she isn't moving until next Sunday. She and her husband are going to Montana. But if the yard sale is this Saturday, I guess she can't donate anything for the yard sale. Anyway, Bill and I have some things we'd like to donate. We have an antique dresser. It's really nice and has a mirror. And we have a bookshelf. Oak. Maybe the church can use that. Or you can sell it. And we also have a chair, kinda like a lazy boy, only it's not, but...

Clunk! That would be the sound of the phone hitting the desk as I let her ramble incoherently, and I get on with the rest of my work. Checked back after a minute, and, oh, boy, she's still a-rambling.

Why do some people feel the need to babble incessantly on an answering machine? Is it therapeutic? It's a machine; it doesn't judge; it doesn't interrupt. It's an electronic god that not only listens to your prayers, it records them for safekeeping?

The knee-jerk reaction is to blame old age, but some of the longest, dullest, most self-involved messages have been left by people who are nowhere near retirement age. Like the congregation member who left a long message for the pastor, which included way too much personal information about her finances and banking.

I don't hear much over the phone. It's not a physical problem. Instead my brain, when confronted with a babbling, disembodied voice, especially a recorded one, clicks off after a minute.

On the other end of the spectrum is the I'm-Too-Important-to-Speak-Slowly message.

ThisisRobertJohnsonI'matfivefivefivethreesixtwofouroh. Ineedtospeakwith [unintelligible due to cell phone] aboutmy [more cell phone weirdness].

My latest policy. I only rewind once. If I can't understand it the second time through...DELETE.

Funny how, with all our communication devices, many people have no idea how to communicate.

All the Beauty, None of the Crazy

2010-04-29T11:19:00.005-06:00

To all those who are talking about boycotting Arizona over their recent "papers please" fiasco.

New Mexico.

We're a lovely state. We don't have the Grand Canyon, but we've got loads of scenic vistas. Much of Northern New Mexico is breathtaking. And Albuquerque is a much nicer city than Phoenix. And Santa Fe is lots of fun.

We've also got a vibrant art scene. Case in in point, the Corrales Art Studio Tour, happening this weekend, May 1-2.

Visit New Mexico. We'd love to see you! No birth certificate required.

I, Facebook Luddite

2010-04-28T16:08:00.006-06:00

I acquired a Facebook account more than a year ago. During the height of the 2008 political season, it was a means of getting a free bumper sticker. "It's free; it's for me, gimmee three."

I never paid much attention to it for the majority of that time. The problem was and to some extent still is, I don't get Facebook.

See, I am by nature a lurker. There are a few blogs where I occasionally post comments. But, given my bellicose nature, I'm a drive-by poster. Sticking around for discussions would probably mean getting into arguments and wasting half a day because, OMG, "Someone on the Internet is wrong!"

But blogs do offer a kind of immediacy lacking in Facebook. In just a few postings, you can start to get a sense of who someone is. Even if they post using an alias, even though they don't necessarily divulge all their personal details.

Facebook? Most people, myself included, have our profiles locked down to non-friends. Which means the only way you can get to know someone, find out if they are someone you want to know, is to "friend" them.

I understand the need for privacy. But I don't find Facebook all that entertaining. A lot of people seem to spend all their time playing games involving virtual farm animals (which, despite sounding dirty, is boringly G-rated) and mobsters. ZZzzzzzzz.

My idea of a game is Borderlands, Halo, Gears of War, or Army of Two. I want to not only see the whites of my enemy's eyes, but see those eyes pop out when I fry them with my static machine gun. Facebook games are kind of like the D&D games of yore, no graphics, no animation, no fun.

The rest of the Facebook legions send each other odd little gifts of virtual hearts, bunnies, and karma.

Eh?

Although the claim is that it can be used to reconnect with old friends, it really doesn't seem useful in that capacity either. My experience with my high school reunion page being a prime example. Even when the person seemed vaguely familiar, there was no quick way to determine if a) this was someone I once knew, and b) if this was someone I'd want to know now.

Sure. The obvious solution is to friend them and find out. Not the preferred option for a lurker.

Searching by name isn't very useful, since some, like me, have changed their name. (Heck, I don't even have a photo of my face posted on Facebook. Just my little dragon avatar.) I found a few coworkers and fellow artists that way, but otherwise my searches turned up a big goose egg.

To some extent, I actually prefer Twitter. (Because the length of each posting is extremely limited, it's a good writing exercise.) Like a blog, however, it gives an insight into the poster's mind.

Truth is, if I didn't have a day job, with all its ensuing tedium, I'd never log onto Facebook.

The Romantic Critter

2010-04-28T14:35:00.003-06:00

After a long hiatus, I signed up for Critters Writers Workshop again. I've got a completed manuscript and I need to sharpen my critical skills.

As I've noted before, learning how to write a helpful, honest and *diplomatic critique can do wonders for your ability to assess your own work. And it's just a good writing exercise.

(*Yeah. I know that for some, it just isn't a critique unless it draws blood. But as someone who excels at "nasty," writing a diplomatic critique is much harder than shredding someone's ego.)

I'd recommend Critters even to non-Fantasy, SF or horror writers. Sign up; read the material on the site regarding critiques, and spend a few months practicing your critique skills. The great thing about Critters is that it's well organized and each week there are loads of manuscripts to pick from. Most are short stories, so reading doesn't require a huge time investment. You aren't required to submit anything.

I've found that my approach to critiquing has changed. Once upon a time, I'd critique anything. Stuff with no discernible voice, grammatically challenged, POV head hopping, bizarre characterization and "has this person ever had a real conversation with anyone?" dialogue, etc. Nowadays, I approach the Critters queue like an editor. If it's clearly a train wreck or just bland, I bail and look for another manuscript.

But I'm debating whether I should bother submitting my current completed novel to the queue. Critters has a means of getting entire novels critiqued (I'm reading someone's novel right now). The problem is my latest is a paranormal romance. Romance. With sex and relationshippy stuff.

Critters is a diverse group and chances are I can at least get some feedback on the first two chapters. Chances are I'll also get a few lectures from the genre police, or worse yet, the romance haters. "Romance is silly and not real writing." Ugh.

There are some romance critique groups out there, but as far as I can tell, nothing as well organized as Critters. Guess I'm spoiled.

On that note, I'm off to Critters. It's Wednesday, and the latest batch of manuscripts should be up.

Women Who Stare at Goats

2010-04-26T15:37:00.006-06:00

Eight o'clock in the morning, and the greyhound and I are back from our morning walk. As usual, he flops down onto his bed, a cloud of white hair poofing into the air. How exactly can an animal with so little hair on his body, generate so much hair?

I park my ass on the couch and flip on the television. Ann Curry of the Today Show is introducing a "story" (because you couldn't call it news) about a woman who left her husband and one-year-old baby.

My immediate reaction is to reach for the remote. This isn't news; this is Jerry Springer, without the hair pulling and colorful language.

I stop and reconsider. Maybe, rather than merrily isolating myself from the daily pageant of lurid stuff that fuels water cooler conversations, I should watch, forge a connection with the rest of easily distracted America. I'm a writer, no? And writers write about people.

Hand twitching, I manage to restrain my desire to change the station, and emerge from my cultural vacuum.

Anyway, the recurrent theme, as in phrase repeated over and over, is "she left her daughter for ANOTHER MAN."

As opposed to what? I wonder. A goat? "Woman leaves family for goat. 'It's the beard,' she says." Now that would be a headline!

The story, btw, is titled, "How can a mother leave her daughter?" I dunno? With her feet, one in front of the other?

Or maybe, her daughter was the Anti-Christ, a la The Omen. And mom got sick of the wildlife going ape shit everywhere she and demon spawn went.

The short version of the story, which is also the long version, is that a dim-witted, and too stupid to reproduce woman, wandered off with her new boyfriend, leaving her husband and infant daughter.

The only vaguely newsy part of the story is the fact that a small fortune in public dollars were spent trying to find Mrs. Thang, because she neglected to tell anyone that she'd be taking a walk on the wild side with a man who's actually gone through puberty.

The other man is a pudgy forty-something, who is also married. Her husband, who looks about twelve and who would probably blow away in a stiff wind, says he forgives his wife.

When asked why he forgave her, Tehan said, "I don't know. It's supernatural."

Supernatural. As in their daughter is Satan in a cute, cuddly, baby suit?

From the same ABC link, husband says, "There may be issues to work out, but that's okay. Issues we can work out." Issues. Ya think? The stupid is strong with this one.

The video ends and the show moves onto two experts who will now tell me why a mother would leave her daughter for ANOTHER MAN.

"Because she was fresh out of goats," I tell the television, before changing the channel.

Who Are These People?

2010-04-22T15:05:00.002-06:00

Recently, during an extended (er, perpetual?) bout of work-induced ennui, I stumbled across the Facebook page for my high school reunion.

It was more like stumbled into, made the kind of "Ew" noise that you make when you realize you've stepped in dog poo, and then stare in warped fascination at the bottom of your shoe. I hated high school, so it wasn't like I was actually looking to step back into that pile of steaming crap for the sake of nostalgia.

But as I eyed the link warily, I was reminded of something a friend said long ago regarding high school reunions. This was just a year or so out of high school. I was ranting (ranting, moi?) about how I'd never, ever go to a high school reunion. My friend, accustomed to my ranting, shrugged and said, "I'd go. Just to see who got fat."

Oh, yeah, the promise of Schadenfreude made me click that linky.

So there I was cringing, expecting some kind of horrible, twitching, frothing, PTSD fit, induced by the sight of teenage nemeses of long ago.

Instead, my reaction was, "Holy, Alzheimer's, Batman. Who are these people?"

I guess it's no surprise that the faces there are strangers, after a few--cough--decades. To be honest, while I remember hating high school and everything and everyone who walked its hallowed halls, the actual emotion, loathing, has evaporated in the passage of time.

But with the exception of one particular mean girl, who has had the decency to put on the requisite tonnage to satisfy my Schadenfreude, my high school class is a vast herd of strangers. Strangers whose only connection to me was an accident of geography.

And that's why, I won't be attending the reunion. Why spend money on what amounts to an expensive party with a bunch of strangers?

My money would be better spent on my favourite charity.

Show Me The Money

2010-04-21T15:02:00.004-06:00

The folks over at DailyKos are having a terribly good time with Sue Lowden's (GOP Senate candidate) "Chickens for Checkups" comment.

“I’m telling you that this works. You know, before we all started having health care, in the olden days our grandparents, they would bring a chicken to the doctor, they would say I’ll paint your house. I mean, that’s the old days of what people would do to get health care with your doctors. Doctors are very sympathetic people. I’m not backing down from that system.”

My question. Under Lowden's system, if my chicken is sick, how do I pay the veterinarian?

The trouble with barter is that in our modern society cash is king. While it's fun to wax poetic about the days of yore when a chicken would cure your toothache, nowadays poultry doesn't pay the cable bill. My mortgage company doesn't accept swine in exchange for a roof over my head.

And there's the question of storage space. Money fits nicely in my pocket. The bank is happy to store my money and pay me a bit in interest as well. Chickens? Not so much.

I run into the barter issue as an artist, especially at arts and crafts fairs. Another artist comes up to my booth. "Oh," says the artist, "I love this. I have to have it. Do you want to trade?" The artist points hopefully at his or her booth.

At which point, I squirm, embarrassed. See the other artist just complemented my work. If I say "No," the implication is that I don't like her work.

Except, chances are, I don't. Or at least, I don't like it enough to haul it home and add it to my already enormous collection of crap that begs for a yard sale.

There are two responses to this conundrum. First, distraction. "Wow! Is that guy nekkid?"

Second, the lie. "My computer/fridge/water heater died and I really need the money." This option has been used so much the other artists must think my husband and I have been cursed.

At any rate, nineteenth century solutions don't apply to twenty-first century problems.

Politician to English Primer

2010-04-20T16:28:00.007-06:00

With the June primaries just around the corner, the first round of political ads are starting to hit the airwaves. At this point, everyone's ad is filled with feel-good, nonsensical blather. There is real meaning buried under the bullshit, though it takes a backhoe to dig it out.

Politician: This campaign, it's all jobs:
Translation: It's all about me getting this job.

Politician: I will clean up corruption
Translation: I'll fire the last guy's cronies and bring in my own cronies.

Politician: Put an end to job-killing regulations:
Translation: No more clean water or breathable air. And workplace safety? Fuggetaboutit. Who wants to live forever?

Politician: We don't need more politicians.
Translation: I'm not a politician. I'm...a cute little kitten. Mwrawr.

Politician: I've got a single focus. Clean up New Mexico and get people back to work.
Translation: There will be jobs. Maids and janitors are jobs, no?

Politician: I'm running for Lieutenant Governor.
Translation: After my unsuccessful run for Governor, I've decided to set my sights lower.

Politician: New Mexico is huge. (Seriously. This is a real politician's statement)
Translation: I once looked at a map.

Politician: I'm a family man.
Translation: I've got viable sperm.

Politician: I'm a successful business owner.
Translation: I haven't been indicted for running a Ponzi scheme. Yet.

Politician: My roots in New Mexico go back several generations.
Translation: When not running clever Ponzi schemes, I spend my time at Ancestry.com

Jesus Loves You, Now Go Away

2010-04-16T14:16:00.004-06:00

Copier salespeople are always preceded by their cologne or perfume. It announces their arrival and lingers long after they have left the building.

Yeah. I get why copier companies send their minions out to annoy the business community. They need to sell or lease copiers. And every so often, one of those cold calls equals a sale.

But the other 99-percent of the community is not looking for a new copier provider. Unless smoke is billowing out of the copier or it jams every two copies, it's too much trouble to get a new machine. New machinery is more hassle than it's worth.

I work at a small church. Our current copier is functioning well. But more important, I know all its quirks. It's the enemy I know, as it were. As a part-time employee, and the church's primary administrative person, I don't have the time to break in a new copier. Even if--big if--it saves the church money.

And I'd rather be staked nekkid to an ant hill than listen to a sales pitch.

Since I'm by nature rude, the usual copy salesperson(CS) encounter goes like this:

CS: Craning neck, trying to see into copy room. "Who provides your copier service?"
Me: Looking as dull eyed as a dairy cow. "Uh, Brandname."
CS: "When's your lease up?"
Me: Lying. "I don't know."
CS: "Oh. Can I talk to the person that manages your copy contract?"
Me: "They're not here." My brain left the building the minute you and your toxic cologne entered. My unfortunate sinuses are still here.
CS: "When will they be in?"
Me: "They come and go." As soon as you go, my brain'll be back.
CS: "Can I get a card or a phone number so I can contact them?"
Me: Hell no! "No. I can't give that out."

From now on, I think I'll alter my tactics, just to make their day a little more surreal.

CS: "Who provides your copying service?"
Me: "God."
CS: "Uh, who?"
Me: "You know, God." Pointing skyward. "The Lord Almighty. Creator of Everything?" Pointing at copier, fanatical light in my eyes. "That's His copier."

Inkheart, the movie

2010-04-15T16:21:00.003-06:00

Mortimer (Brendan Fraser) is a Slivertongue, which means he can bring storybook characters to life by reading the tale aloud. Nine years ago, before he knew he had the ability, he read a novel called Inkheart to his young daughter and wife, unwittingly unleashing several of the book's characters on our world. Of note are Capricorn the villain, played deliciously by Andy Serkis, and the basically decent but conflicted Dustfinger the fire juggler (Paul Bettany).

The cost of this magical mayhem is Mortimer's wife, who is sucked into the book. Mortimer proceeds to spend the next nine years searching for a copy of the book, so he can read his wife back to his world. I'm not sure where the original book got to. Also, it's rather amazing that he managed to keep his reasons for their constant travels from his obviously bright daughter, Meggie (Eliza Bennett) for so many years.

I imagine, most of this is explain in the book. Despite this and other flaws, the movie is charming fun. Fraser is believable as the devoted dad and husband. As opposed to the perpetually distracted and negligent dad in The Mummy Returns. (Actually, I really like The Mummy Returns, but Rick and Evelyn are terrible parents.)

Helen Mirren is lovely and grand as Mortimer's book worshipping Aunt Elinor. There really isn't a slow moment in the movie, as the characters are moved from one crisis to another. There are also no idiotic, screaming, helpless, females to be found in a film where even the somewhat elderly Aunt Elinor gets in the action.

And while I don't mind cursing, sex and other adult stuff in movies, it's worth noting that Inkheart is a family friendly movie. Some of the action sequences and the arrival of the big baddie at the end might be a bit much for younger children, but otherwise Inkheart is appropriate for all ages.

Fizzling Sparks

2010-04-14T15:08:00.003-06:00

Cracked.com has a rather charming riff on Nicholas Sparks, the romance writer "who doesn't write romance novels." Dude. If it quacks like a duck.

My first and only exposure to Sparks is via the loathsome novel, The Choice.

I can't remember the moronic heroine's name. Let's just call her Idiota.

Idiota has a pet--an unspayed female Sheltie. And Idiota is shocked, shocked I tell you, when her doggie ends up pregnant. So appalled that she uses words like "sullied" and "violated" to describe her dog's condition.

She promptly blames the neighbor's dog for the pregnancy. Herein, lies the stupid.

First, the neighbor's dog is neutered. The dog is a short haired breed, so it's screamingly obvious that Fido lacks the necessary accoutrements for procreation. Second, Little Miss Packing Peanuts for Brains could have avoided the mess by spaying her dog.

Neither prevents Idiota from marching over and accusing neighbor and his dog of affecting immaculate conception on her little canine virgin Mary.

The neighbor, who has long harbored a fear of siring children smarter than a toaster, immediately falls in love with Idiota. They marry and she provides him the litter of special ed. children he's always longed for.

The overall I.Q. of the story goes up several points, when Mrs. I Flunked High School Biology falls into a long coma.

With The Choice, the stupid doesn't just burn, it obliterates like a nuclear blast.

The Sharing Knife by Lois McMaster Bujold

2010-04-13T15:40:00.005-06:00

As much as I like romance, I rarely can stomach romance novels. Saying that, I'm aware that I'm in danger of jumping on the "romance novels suck" bandwagon, which is not my intention. Especially since that ride is filled with the usual pack of misogynistic crap, i.e., romance being about emotions and feelings and only silly, frivolous women read or write anything that pointless.

But with a few exceptions, I've found most romance unreadable. The "why's" could take up a master's thesis. To be brief I'll say it's the lame characters and forced interactions which leave me wondering what kind of fucked up lives their authors lead.

Recently, I came across a recommendation for Lois McMaster Bujold's The Sharing Knife. Because I'm either a glutton for punishment or eternal optimist (likely the former), I gave it a try. It really being a two book series-Beguilement and Legacy . (There are more books in the series, but the meat of the romance is probably in the first two books.)

A fantasy romance, the story follows Dag Redwing, a kind of sorcerer/ranger and Fawn Bluefield, a farmer. Dag's people are the semi-nomadic Lakewalkers, whose primary culture mission is to hunt down and eliminate magical baddies called malices. And Fawn's people, the farmers, well they farm. Although both groups depend on each other, over the centuries, misunderstandings have evolved into prejudice.

Dag and Fawn's relationship is a May-December affair, but the main obstacle to their love the enduring mistrust between their peoples.

So does it work, romance-wise? Hell, yeah. First, the author actually lets the characters get to know each other. As opposed to the typical, lust at first sight, "OMG, he's so hot, I can't stop thinking about his ass," approach of some romance. There's nothing wrong with lust. But romance is supposed to be Happily Ever After. If the heroine and hero have nothing in common except perfectly fitting genitalia, the odds of a long, happy life spend navigating the challenges of kids, mortgages and in-laws are low.

Bujold builds Dag and Fawn's relationship so well, that even though it's soon screamingly obvious that the social realities of their situation--different cultures--are going to be prohibitive, I was rooting for their relationship.

Fawn, despite being by our modern standards, practically a child, is mature and levelheaded, much more so than the adult ninnies featured in many romance novels. No hysterics. No picking fights with the hero. (If I read another "un-witty repartee=sexual tension" plotline, I'll poke my eyes out with a spork.)

Dag is effective as the middle-age, but young at heart hero. Though more than capable as a warrior, he isn't a testosterone-poisoned alpha male.

Fans of Bujold's more action-y fantasy probably won't like The Sharing Knife. But as a romance novel, it works.

Adopt a Dog with Mileage

2010-04-13T10:51:00.002-06:00

There’s no denying the appeal of a warm, wriggling, puppy. But in my experience, pets with a little more mileage on them are less likely to eat the couch or re-landscape the yard. Muttville is a lovely charity dedicated to seeing that older dogs, homeless for no fault of their own, get good homes.

Waiting for Sugar Addicts

2010-04-12T11:04:00.002-06:00

Waiting for the hummingbirds.

They're probably still a couple weeks away, especially since temperatures here can still dip into freezing at night.

But in anticipation, I've moved the feeder from the top cabinet to the easier-to-access lower cabinets.

Waiting...

Hardly Working

2010-04-12T10:58:00.004-06:00

It never fails to amuse me to hear a fellow working class schmuck opine, in defense of the rich (and against attempts to tax them) that, “The rich work haaard for their money.”

My first reaction is to say, “Really? And you don’t?” Or alternately, “Really? Paris Hilton works hard for her money?” (I’m also inclined to break into a rousing version of Donna Summer's “She Works Hard for the Money.”)

There is something pathological about trying to protect someone (rich CEO) who doesn’t give a shit about you and who would sell your children into slavery if it got him or her another yacht, at the expense of yourself. Which is pretty much what your average Joe is doing when protecting the rich from any "undue" tax burden. One can assume that this is driven by the fantasy that Joe will someday be uber rich, but it’s bat shit crazy all the same.

Anyway, Matt Taibbi says it so well.

Most of the work in this world completely sucks balls and the only reward most people get for their work is just barely enough money to survive, if that. The 95% of people out there who spend all day long shoveling the dogshit of life for subsistence wages are basically keeping things running just well enough so that David Brooks, me and the rest of that lucky 5% of mostly college-educated yuppies can live embarrassingly rewarding and interesting lives in which society throws gobs of money at us for pushing ideas around on paper (frequently, not even good ideas) and taking mutual-admiration-society business lunches in London and Paris and Las Vegas with our overpaid peers.

The Greyhound's New Vocation

2010-04-11T19:31:00.003-06:00

So I'm standing in front of my rose bushes, intent on pruning, and, as usual, having no fracking idea how to proceed.

I've been gardening pretty much all my life. Although, granted, my earliest efforts probably consisted more of consuming dirt than actually planting stuff in it. But when it comes to gardening in the desert southwest, my wee brain holds an encyclopedia of know-how.

But when it comes to pruning roses, I'm utterly flummoxed.

The greyhound, a retired racer, doesn't share my lack of confidence regarding the proper shape of roses. When I turned my back, he "helped" by grabbing an entire branch and tearing it off the bush.

When I pull weeds, he also assists by grabbing any nearby plant and yanking it out of the ground, even if it isn't a weed.

Racing didn't work out (one race; dead last), so it looks like the hound now has his sights set on gardening.

John McCain Hates Women

2008-08-26T16:33:00.001-06:00

For those misguided souls who believe John McCain is a moderate.

Besides opposing a women’s right to legal and safe abortion, he is also anti-birth control.

John McCain’s Record on Opposing Women’s Health Care:

John McCain’s health care plan will leave 47 million Americans uninsured. His plan would largely force families to buy their own insurance through a private insurer, and decrease insurance offerings through employment. Source: CBS News
John McCain voted to shut down the Title X family-planning program, which provide millions of women with breast cancer screenings and birth control. Source: Huffington Post
John McCain supported George W. Bush’s veto of children’s health insurance. McCain opposes expanding the plan that will provide health care for millions of uninsured children. Source: CNN
John McCain voted against a bill that funded sex education, provided access to emergency contraception to prevent pregnancy, increased funding to family planning services, and expanded teen-pregnancy-prevention programs. Source: OnTheIssues.org
John McCain voted against requiring health insurance companies to cover the cost of prescription birth control. When asked if health insurance plans that covered Viagra should also cover prescription birth control, McCain had no answer. Source: Katha Pollitt, Alternet, available at Alternet.com, also from CNN
John McCain strongly supports abstinence-only education in schools, despite extensive research demonstrating that it increases teen pregnancy and sexually-transmitted disease rates. Source: San Francisco Gate, February 16, 2007, available at sfgate.com
John McCain doesn’t know if condoms work to prevent the spread of HIV, the virus that causes AIDS. When asked at a rally in 2007 if condoms helped stop the spread of sexually transmitted diseases, McCain said he didn’t know. Source: The New York Times, March 16, 2007. Available at NYTimes.com. Importantly, research by amFAR, The Foundation for AIDS Research, released a report demonstrating that when used correctly, condoms are 80-95% effective in reducing the risk of HIV infection. Source: amFAR Issue Brief, January 2005, available at amFAR.org

He also doesn’t think women are entitled to equal pay.

John McCain’s Record on Opposing Fair Pay for Women:

John McCain opposes fair pay for women. He thinks it is fine for employers to pay women less than men for equal work. In 2008 he refused to vote for the Lily Ledbetter Fair Pay Act, which allows women to receive equal pay for equal qualifications to a man. John McCain said that instead of fair pay for equal work, women need more “education and training.” Source: Huffington Post.
In 1990, John McCain also voted against a bill that would have strengthened civil rights in the workplace and banned discrimination on the base of sex. Source: Senate.gov

He hates women so much he can’t even be civil to his own wife, calling her a cunt in public when she teased him about his thinning hair.

To borrow and rephrase a Right Wing axium, a woman who votes for McCain is like a chicken who votes for Colonel Sanders.

Dumber Than a Box of Rocks

2007-02-09T09:06:00.000-07:00

*On the front page of Yahoo is a blurb about Anna Nicol Smith, titled, "Why We Cared About Her: She Persevered When Others Would Have Given Up." Oh, puh-lease. We've got soldiers risking life and limb in Iraq and this idiot Barbie doll is a hero? My left shoe is smarter than her. If you call a moth beating itself to death on a lightbulb "perseverance," then she had it in spades. Ugh.

Doodles, Now in Colour

2007-02-02T11:08:00.000-07:00

'Been busy with this, by the way. An ongoing, learning, project. People are hard to draw.

Cheers, P.K.

Cockfighting is for Thugs

2007-02-02T10:52:00.000-07:00

Made the mistake of peeking at the Albuquerque Journal (the local right wing rag, masquerading as journalism). Anyhoo, both Bill Richardson and the Catholic Church are supporting this year's attempt to ban cock fighting. And sadly no, despite the name, it isn't two well-oiled, naked men wrestling. It is the ritual evisceration of one rooster by another, in a ring, surrounded by society's worst excuses for humanity.

Anyhow, the article pulled out the usual malcontents, I mean supporters of cockfighting, who put forth the usual stunningly stupid arguments for the practice. E.g., it's a Hispanic tradition and attempts to ban it are racist. Ugh. Koudos to author Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez, who points out that it is no part of her tradition or her son's.

Another argument, from yet another mental midget, was that banning it would only drive it underground. I.e., "we're going to do it anyway." Ah, way to go, dipshit. Proclaim that you plan on breaking the law. Rather in keeping with the demographic, I'd say. After all, supporters of cockfighting invariably look like familiar faces on Most Wanted Posters or from a Perp Walk on the evening news.

The Jiff award--It's the Nuttiest!--award goes to some representative from some armpit corner of New Mexico. Banning cockfighting, he argues, would lead to banning rodeos, hunting and fishing. If this asshat would stop sipping the wacky Cool Aid, he might notice that in every state where cockfighting is illegal, hunting, rodeos and fishing are still flourishing.

This of course, is the same twisty, wingnut logic that states that "If we let Teh Gays marry, what next? People will be marrying animals." Er, no sorry Bubba, although, there's not telling what you twits in those lonely corners of New Mexico are shagging. Slap a Toby Keith CD in the player and get bizy with the livestock, eh?

Anyway, methinks I need to get on the ball and write an email to the Governor (i.e., he who wants to be the next Preznit, but, hey why not, at least he's not teh sHrillary.)(/rant off)

Cheers, P.K.

Look Ma, No Bluegrass

2006-08-08T11:21:00.000-06:00

Because, if you are going to smack down the idiots, you should provide proof.
Lush landscaping using water-thrifty, flowering plants. Click the "Read More" for flower pictures.

P.K.

Wingnuts With Businesses, Part Deux

2006-08-08T10:00:00.000-06:00

Despite less than eight inches of rain a year, Albuquerque, New Mexico can grow some big wingnuts. Case in point, the owner of StoneGate Turfgrass Ranch, who claims that Albuquerque is as wet as the tropics. Who knew? StoneGate makes their case with a full page ad in a local shoppers' guide.

Note: The following was typed exactly as seen in the ad, including all grammatical and punctuation errors.

Several weeks ago the city of Albuquerque (read that as, "people whom we voted into office to protect our rights?") imposed water restriction on the use of water..."Watering lawns?"

While I read the frequent use of exclamation points (!) as "long-winded, unhinged, anti-environmentalist rant herein."

The program works something like this...water only on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday...any other day caught watering and your neighbor is encouraged to report your actions to the authorities. Sounds a lot like that book "1984!"

"Sounds a lot like that book 1984." Meaning this nut actually read a book? What do you bet this twit thinks the Patriot Act, which infringes on numerous civil liberties, is just nifty. Hypocrisy, much?

"The program works something like this..." Well, that's exactly how it works. People are supposed to water on alternate days depending on their address.

Was the program devised to save water? (For what and for whom?)

For whom? Well, your children and grandchildren, for starters.

Well, little did the politicians know, but watering 3-4 days per week is adequate to maintain a lush and healthy landscape!

Whee! Another exclamation point. Uh, I think the politicians do know that watering 3-4 days per week is adequate. Hence the schedule.

All one needs to do is water twice as long on the appropriate days.

In other words, there are ways around the law. I thought wingnuts were all about "The Rule of Law." At any rate, by planting the right kinds of plants (not bluegrass lawn), you can water less and have a healthy, lush landscape. (See any of my garden photos on this blog.)

Actually, after the water restrictions are lifted one would do well to continue the 3-4 day watering schedule...forget about saving water...save $ on your water bill.

"...forget about saving water..." In other words, fuck the environment, because we're all gonna be Raptured soon anyway.

And I love the wingnut logic. "...save $ on your water bill." If you are watering every other day, but twice as long, you are using the same amount of water, hence your water bill will not decrease. It seems, the writer paid as little attention in math class as he did in English.

The water restriction progam was really aimed at hurting the property owner with an investment in their landscape...those who truly care about property values...those who pay the most taxes...

Because City Council is made up of meany-beanies who hate rich people. Oh, the plight of the rich.

...those who want to improve our quality of life

Because my neighbor's enormous expanse of water-slurping lawn will save the world. I mean, really, all that water dumped on a lawn in the desert will somehow offset all the bad karma in the world, the Middle East will find peace, hungry children will be fed, the poor shall overcome.

Oh, wait, that might hurt the rich. Scratch that. Fuck the environment!

...those who help make Albuquerque a nice place to live.

Once again, the Lawn Ranger rides to Albuquerque's rescue.

(And for the love of God, use commas instead of ellipses when making a list.)

A water restriction program is designed to scare people into believeing that we have a water shortage; which is miles from the actual truth.

Albuquerque is a tropic rain forest. See all the trees and the verdant native vegetation? No, of course not. Dipshit, because Albuquerque is located in a desert.

Rejoice...as of this date we have no deficit in our average annual rainfall...we will survive!

"We will survive." Thank you Donna Summer. Little issues (scary science stuff) like inadequate winter precipitation for the last two years escape this moron. Ever heard of snowpack? Guess not.

A mind is a terrible thing to waste on a wingnut.

P.K.

Wingnuts With Businesses, Part One

2006-08-08T09:01:00.000-06:00

Well, at least they are contributing to the economy. Unfortunately, they're also contributing to bigotry and stupidity.

Found in my email this morning:
From one Troy Hake, President of Outside Pride, Inc. (garden product company)
It begins...

"I know the vast majority of you will agree with me as all polls indicate. We are the majority, not the minority as the liberal media would lead you to believe."

Beep! Beep! Beep! Conservative happy-phrase "liberal media" spotted. Verbal wanking on the horizon.

"My wife and I sat down to watch television the other night with our children."

The chillllldren!

"Cold Case was on which is normally a fairly enjoyable show to watch; however, the last half hour of the show dealt with a young man who wished he had asked his male friend to come with him (long story short). The show ended with the two men hugging and obvious intimation they had discovered their gay feelings towards each other."

"Obvious intimation." Meaning what, pray tell? Rubbing of trouser weasels or...a Joe Lieberman/George W. Bush style kissy-poo?

"The very next show was Without A Trace The whole last half hour of this show was about two lesbians who were struggling with their feelings of lesbianism. It ended with full acceptance from one father and the two lesbians making out. Yes, they were kissing right at the end of the show on public prime time television. So much for wholesome family television."

OMG! [Faints dead away from shock induced by hot, lesbian imagery.] Define "family," dipshit. For a lesbian family--yes, they do exist--there ain't nothing wrong with a lesbian kiss. And by the way, lots of homo-bigot, good ole boys like yourself, have a closet full of lesbian porn.

Oh. That's the problem, eh? Seeing that girl on girl action made you all tight in the crotch, right there on the couch, surrounded by The Chillldren.

"Now, I am NOT trying to bash homosexuals and I am not a bigot; however, I feel homosexuality is morally wrong and should not be "promoted" as what is the norm for society."

Ever notice how Simon Cowell of "American Idol" begins his nastiest screes by saying, "I don't mean to be rude, but..."?

For funsies, let's run Mr. Hake's comment through a time machine, back a few decades. "Now, I am NOT trying to bash Blacks and I am not a bigot; however, I feel racial intermarriage is morally wrong and should not be 'promoted' as what is the norm for society." Hmmm.

"Text books are being rewritten as I am writing this to "highlight" every homosexual who has made a contribution to society."

OMG! Gays in history. Next thing you know they'll be teaching children that Blacks, Hispanics and other minorities made a contribution to society. The outrage. What's a White, Christian, bigot to do? [/snark]

"History is being rewritten to promote homosexuality and prime time television is doing its best to make homosexuality a "normal" behavior."

We should only rewrite history to conform to a White, Christian bigot point of view. [/snark]

"If homosexuality was the norm, civilization would have ceased to exist thousands of years ago. Procreation takes a man and a woman. There was Adam and then there was Eve, not Adam and Steve."

Really? Then who created Steve? Who created homosexuals? The devil? (Beep, wrong. Sorry, but according to your Bible, God is the only one who can create.)

Homosexuality has been around as long as there have been humans. (And many species of animals, for that matter.) To date, even with all them pesky gays and lesbians sharing oxygen with us heteros, the human race is populating the planet at a rapid rate.

"There are literally tens of thousand of you reading this email right now."

In other words, you're a spammer.

Mr. Hake asked that I go to CBS.com, click on the feedback button at the bottom of the page and make my opinion known. So I did just that and told CBS to keep up the good work.

P.K.

What About the Shilldren?

2006-08-04T11:35:00.000-06:00

Especially the ones who are attached to breasts.

Seems a bunch of soccer mommies got their panties in a twist over the recent cover of Baby Talk because it depicts a, gasp, naked booby with a baby attached. Says one over-excited nitwit:

Another reader said she was "horrified" when she received the magazine and hoped that her husband hadn't laid eyes on it.

Why, pray tell? Because, after years of marriage to your saggy-tittied self, it's the first time he's seen a firm, plump breast? Does the idea of your man looking at another woman's titties embarrass you, honey? How old are you, twelve? Do boobies scare your husband? Wow. He must be a real winner in bed.

Some Americans are nuts.
P.K.

Greasy, Gooey, Celebrity Guts

2006-08-04T10:39:00.000-06:00

Oh, now this is priceless. I love the way his arms and legs go flying through Outer Space. Go Darth Vader!

Matthew McConaghy is one of those celeb guys who women are supposed to love. Hollywood slaps his smirking, pointy-chinned mug in every other movie. I loath the guy.

Another must-love guy I hate is Ty Pennington, the jittery host of the Extreme Home Makeover show. "But, women love him," sneers my husband. "Not this woman," says I.

What is up with his greasy, huge pored skin? My God, you could store Weapons of Mass Destruction in his pores. And the soul-patch, goatee thing? Ugh. Plus the guy is a bigger spazz than a two-year old on sugar. Crazy waves of hyperactive excitement radiate from his eyes like...well, just like Tom Cruise. And the budget for his hair gel must exceed the GNP of most third world countries.

Speaking of crazies: Mel Gibson is a anti-Semite and not a terribly subtle one. In Vino Veritas and all that.

The hubby and I were watching Access Hollywood (because the remote was across the room and neither could muster the energy to go get it). As expected, the coverage was all Mel, all the time.

The featured interviewee was a funny looking blond woman with eyes set too close together and thin, arching, painted on eyebrows. She insisted that Mel, at the booze-fest that preceeded the arrest, was "really nice" and she couldn't believe the same person acted so badly. Blink, blink, she stared into the camera, probably hoping some casting director would immediately decided she was the one person who could play the plucky heroine in an upcoming blockbuster.

Well, of course he was "nice," you ninny. You were kissing his ass (and anything else he left unattended), and were not trying to arrest him.

In local news...regarding recent rainfall, one of our weathermen was heard to say:

"It's hard to believe so much water could come from clouds."

Alas, science education in this country has hit an all-time low.

But, hey, IT'S FRIDAY.
P.K.

Pondering

2006-07-28T11:26:00.000-06:00

Flotsom and jetsom floating around my mind today.

How do wingnut fundies work the whole in vitro fertilization thing?

I mean, in the sex-obsessed culture of fundies, masturbation is a bad, bad thing. But in order to get all those little sperms into a cup, Big Daddy wingnut has to take a Playboy and retreat to the bathroom to spank the weasel.

Is there a "no wanking except in the case of in vitro fertilization" clause in the Bible?

"Oh, Kirby, once again you don't get it. The Bible is a living document that is interpreted to reflect the times."

Huh. Really? So why the obsession with the whole Leviticus, gay thing then? Still adhering to a strict interpretation of that bit of their living document, eh?

Hypocrites...

**
Busy weekend ahead, my mother is coming for a visit and the inlaws are also dropping in. Parental units everywhere.

P.K.

Snowflake Moron

2006-07-24T10:08:00.000-06:00

Mahvelous
This was great, especially...

Or when Snow's boss [Bush], that tough-talkin', crumb-spittin', neck-rubbin'
international buckaroo, uses the first veto of his presidential career and then
hides behind children while maundering incoherently about a "moral line" as
though he'd recognize one if he fell over it. Is there any doubt that, if this
guy got Parkinson's Disease, he'd eat those little buggers out of the petri dish
with a spoon, probably dribbling some of them on Tony Blair in the process?

And WTF is a snowflake baby? Judging from the ethic composition of said chillens, that means "white."

Ugh. Stupidest President Ever.

Like a Kirby

2006-07-21T15:04:00.000-06:00

Vacuum, that is.

Was recently thinking about bad movies again. I mean bad as defined by me, not some critic, which means some of the movies I hate are loved by critics.

"Bad" also means "took itself way too seriously" for such a crapfest. I.e., I love a bad movie that "knows" it's bad (B-movies). Anyway, this lead me to "bad" scenes. Usually, there's a defining scene in a bad movie, that pinnacle of crapitude, where I realize this travesty will be seared into my eyeballs for years to come.

Most often, it's recently viewed movies and scenes that come to mind. But after reading a posting about bad A-lister movies, I was reminded of Tom Cruise's (1992) schmaltz-fest, Far and Away.

In that case, the bad scene was the last scene. Mercifully, I don't remember the rest of the movie, except that it consisted of Tom Cruise acting like...Tom Cruise affecting a crappy, Lucky Charms, leprechaun Irish accent.

In the finale, Cruise and then main squeeze Nicole Kidman (really Nicole, you could do better), are participating in a homesteading land rush. Essentially, someone fires a pistol and a bunch of desperate settlers rush out across the landscape to claim their slice of heaven. It made no sense, whatsoever.

Cruise climbs aboard his horse (poor animal) and starts to gallop over hill and dale. Uh-huh. Except, the animal isn't moving at more than a slow lope. My grandma and her walker could move faster. (Well, my grandma's dead, but she can still move faster.) I 'spose Cruise was too valuable to be allowed to really gallop. To make it look like he's galloping, Cruise flaps his arms like a chicken. The horse looks really irritated.

All the extras run...really slow. Cuz they gotta let him win, doncha know?

At this point, blood started to splurt from my eyes like a horned toad.

Movie highlight: Somebody, I can't remember who, but bless his heart, somebody shoots and kills Cruise's character*.

I cheered.

Happy Friday. (Previous two posts contain garden photos for Mom or any curious onlookers.)
P.K.

(*If I'm remembering incorrectly, if he doesn't die, I don't want to know. As far as I'm concerned that guy is feeding the worms. It makes me happy.)

Desert Rain

2006-07-21T14:28:00.000-06:00

Makes me think of the Sting song...
I dream of rain,
I dream of gardens in the desert sand.

A rare overcast day in hell, I mean the desert southwest. I hate taking pictures on a sunny day. Blasted sun bleaches away all the color and shadows.

Our little casa, rock garden in the foreground. "Click to zoom" and all that stuff.

Looking over the rock garden at the still not stuccoed adobe wall. Someday.

Summer Blooms in the Desert

2006-07-21T14:20:00.000-06:00

Flowers for mom. First some liatris.

Then some Mexican Hats (prairie coneflower) with lavender.

Getting back in the habit of posting here.
P.K.

Betsy F-ing Ross

2006-06-30T11:41:00.000-06:00

How we will celebrate the Fourth of July.

I will stitch American flags into bedsheets.

The husband and I will proceed to have hot, sticky sex all over Old Glory.

Recent attempts at an idiotic flag burning amendment have given me a desire for arson. But fucking on the flag seems like so much more fun than burning it.

P.K.

Proof Of Life

2006-06-16T11:09:00.000-06:00

For anyone--read, Mom--needing proof that I am alive, regular posting has been shifted over to the Life Journal. Linky in the sidebar. (You can find it, Mom, it's not that hard to scroll down.)

I'll be posting regular sketches, scribbles and tracking my writing progress. Not necessarily interesting stuff, but necessary for my creative progress. I need a place to [semi-] publicly follow my progress without trying to, ahem, entertain.

My writing over here just got too, I dunno, "audience driven," and slurked up too much creative energy that should have gone to writing and drawing (the webcomic, fingers crossed). This doesn't mean I'll stop posting here, just that the focus, if you can call it that, will be the occasional rant and dribs and drabs about books I read, and what's growing in the garden. Intended audience, Mom and other unfortunates who know me. I may be funny, chances are I may downright nasty. [shrugs].

Have a marvelous weekend.

P.K.

The Masque of the Black Tulip

2006-06-12T14:41:00.000-06:00

The Masque of the Black Tulip by Lauren Willig, the second in a series, is one of those books that leaves me feeling like the spouse at a high school reunion, smiling stupidly at references that mean nothing to me.

In fairness, it was a fun book. But it strikes me as too dependent on continuity with the previous book. I'd understand this more if this were the fifth book in the series. A second book in a series shouldn't be that dependent on the first.

The novel is structured around two concurrent storylines, one following modern day history student Eloise Kelly, the other part regency romance, part spy story, centered around Miles Dorrington and Henrietta Selwick (sister to Richard Selwick, the Purple Gentian from the first book). In the present day, Eloise is digging through the archives of Selwick estate (castle, thingy, whatever) looking for clues to the identity to a French spy known as The Black Tulip. The obligatory (and actually kinda cool) love interest is Colin Selwick, descendent of Henrietta and Richard Selwick. In the archives, Eloise finds the story of how Henrietta and her childhood friend Miles Dorrington, unmask the Black Tulip and along the way, find the lurve.

As romances go, it's entertaining, mainly because I'm a fan of the idea of best friends who fall in love. Miles and Henrietta are fun, the dialogue (with one exception at the end) is snappy and clever. (There is a scene at the end that threatens to undo itself by being too clever. It felt like both editor and author were just too tired and impatient at this point to give the dialogue the trimming it needed.)

But the antagonist, the supposedly deadly Black Tulip, is so poorly defined that if you step too far past him/her, all you see is cardboard cutout. For all the suggestions that the Black Tulip is so deadly, there isn't much of a sense of danger. Miles and Henrietta do very little unmasking, except of each other, and in the end, The Black Tulip is more caricature than flesh and blood. The modern day romance between Eloise and Colin is disappointingly [Elrond voice on] "thin" and ends on a sort of cliffhanger. There are several scenes written in the POV of Jane, an English spy working in Paris that seem to serve as "show don't tell" exposition. (Again, if I'd read the first book, Jane's scenes might have been more accessible. But since I didn't know her from Adam, it was just distracting. The entire book feels a bit rushed, as though the author was impatient to get on to book three.

I think, had I read the previous book, The Secret History of the Pink Carnation, I might have enjoyed this book more. As it was, it was worth a few chuckles. Overall, an innovative mixture of spy story, chick lit and romance that would have worked better if written to stand on its own.

Monday. Not again. Ugh.
P.K.

Politically Incorrect Friday Humor

2006-06-09T14:18:00.000-06:00

A three-win situation.

1. Dig a moat the length of the Mexican border,

2. Take the dirt and raise the levies in New Orleans

3. Put the problem Florida alligators in the moat.

Do you have any other problems for me to solve?

(Source: An email from my husband. Inspired some sketch practice, above, so I figured it was worth a posting.)

Happy Friday,
P.K.

The Bunny Suicides

2006-06-09T13:55:00.000-06:00

Or "Pat Does a Girly Scream."

First mistake I made was having a bit of lunch before I went out to see the horse. When I got home from lunch, Nik the Wonder Horse was standing by the gate, waiting. Now, I've been trained correctly, right from childhood. When I was coming up, kids were taught to take care of the four-legs before themselves.

This, of course, is unimaginable with today's overindulged child. Can you imagine the furor? "Parent tells child that animal is more important." God forbid that the little bastards actually value another life over their own.

But I digress. Usually, my lunch comes after Nik's. Today I tried to grab a quick lunch before going out to visit the equine. Two bites in, he starts screaming at the house. He made such a commotion, people in Iraq wondered what the fuss was about. Putting down my lunch, I gave up and went out.

Seeing me, he threw a bucking fit. Then he laid down and rolled, got up and bucked some more. I trudged into the barn, got a brush and fly repellent and commenced grooming my equi-brat. Next I gave him lunch, and got out the pitchfork and wheelbarrow. Just as I was rolling the barrow into the paddock, I glanced at his water trough. The water was a little low and mildly algae-green.

Then I caught sight of something tan. Leaning over, I came face to face with the milky white, dead eye of a rabbit. Dead rabbit, floating in the tank. Sort of like the dead elves in the Dead Marshes (Lord of the Rings, Two Towers), only fuzzier.

Insert the girly scream--not so much a scream, more like a squeak.

Why does this always happen when my husband's not home? Because I like spiders and creepy crawlies, he gets out of the usual manly critter duty. But he's supposed to deal with corpses, especially soggy ones.

I had to fish the vile thing out of the tank with the pitchfork. Next, there was dumping out all the dead rabbit water--Ew.

Perhaps, this was the reason behind Nik's tantrum. He's a vegetarian after all and can't possibly appreciate rabbit stew.

Poor horse. Stupid rabbit.

P.K.

Getting Off A Bush

2006-06-07T10:28:00.000-06:00

Somewhere Pat Robertson and Ricky Santorum are wanking off to gay porn.

I mean, that's all right wing fundies do, right? They think obsessively about gay sex. In fact it dominates their political agenda. War in Iraq, health care crisis and rising gas prices here at home, but what drives and solidifies the right wing base is...drumroll, please...Keeping gays from The Marriage. One supposes, this is because, as of yet, the wingnuts haven't devised a way to keep them from The Sex.

Santorum is working hard (hard, snerk) to keep us all from the evils of sodomy. (And blow jobs and 69 for that matter.) If it ain't missionary position, done through a hole in the sheet, eyes closed, mind on God, praying for a baby, it's a sin.

Of course, that doesn't stop wingnuts from getting off on lesbian action. I imagine Robertson, Santorum et al. spends many a bathroom hour, lubed up with hand lotion and waxing the snake with visions of their two favorite lesbians: Condelessa Rice and Laura Bush. "Oh, Condi," says Laura, "You lithe, Nubian goddess, pour yourself over me like Aunt Jemima."

(Rumor has it Laura isn't sleeping with the Preznit, one can only speculate on her actual sleeping arrangements.)

Could the fundies get any more fixated on homosexual sex? Short of high gas prices, which make it hard to drive across town to their warehouse church, their SUV heavily ladened with "Jesus is Love" stickers, "Support the Troops" magnets, and little Jesus fishies, the fundies are quick to drop out of the political process. Particularly, if their politicians aren't prepared to string gays up in a manner quite reminiscent of an Islamic country (Saudi Arabia, anyone?).

A constitutional amendment to ban gay marriage is headed toward certain Senate defeat, but supporters say new votes for the measure represent progress that gives the GOP's base reason to vote on Election Day.

Basically, promise to legalize bigotry and get out the fundie vote. Shee-it, not even abortion gets 'em this stirred up. See, if an "Islamist" country criminalizes homosexuals, that's bad. But if it happens in the land of the free, land of the Bible, it's okie-dokie. Fundie logic.

"Oh," opines the fundie, "But you just don't get it, you wicked agnostic, you. God doesn't hate homosexuals, he hates the act of homosexuality."

Uh-huh. Right. But God made us all, no? Which means God made homosexuals. Ergo, He made an entire group of people, who, according to His Big Book of Rules, are not allowed to have a loving relationship with the person of their choice.

Bullshit. Bullshit on a stick, cooked over an open fire.

Ah, but I'm missing the point. Gays threaten The American Way of Life. [Said in deep announcer voice.] I mean, if the Pope says it, it must be true. (Of course the Pope says birth control is naughty, but that doesn't stop most observant Catholics from ignoring that little "truism." How convee-nient.)

The Vatican also weighed in Tuesday, naming gay marriage as one of the factors
threatening the traditional family as never before.

Yep. Well-dressed married homos will be moving into your neighborhood, decorating their house way better than yours and giving you Gay Thoughts that will unraveled the fragile fabric of your marriage.

More excrement, cooked over a bonfire of religious vanities.

The only way a couple of married gays would threaten my marriage would be as follows: One of them looks and sounds exactly like Hugh Jackman, renounces his gayness, and we engage in a torrid affair. (Husband dude, you get Catherine Zeta Jones, I get Jackman.) Of course, the astute person--a club fundies do not belong to--would note that the real problem with our marriage was me, the movie-star loving slut, but hey, lets not dabble in reality.

Let's blame the Gays! Global warming, sunspots, my missing socks. It's all the fault of the sodomy-lovin' gays.

Meanwhile, the real tragedy is ignored: flags are being burned, Lawd have mercy. The crispy-fi-cation of helpless, hapless sheets of cloth! Oh, the humanity. Jesus weeps. In his next move, the Preznit will propose adding flags to the Endangered Species List. Meanwhile, he will sweep back EPA regulations that prohibit DDT, thus ensuring the extinction of the other American symbol, the Bald Eagle.*

Fuck. This country needs a kick in the ass.

*I'm being sarcastic, duh. But given this administration, it isn't all that unlikely.

Because I'm Old

2006-06-05T14:52:00.000-06:00

The mantra around our house:

"She's old."

Here the Rat Dog has forced the J-Man to abandon the table and she is putting footprints on my latest sketches.

"Bad dog, get off the table!"

And she stares back, enjoying one benefit of going deaf--"If I can't hear you, you can't scold me."

Technically I'm in a foul mood. Made the mistake of poking around in politics this morning and got good and disgusted. Revolted by an idiot Preznit who, in the face of real shit that needs fixing, instead decides to placate the religious sheep (baaa!) by writing bigotry into the Constitution. Debated a good old rant on the issue. Moved on, because I have writing to do. Maybe tomorrow.

Found this picture in the camera and perked up. And, uh, no, I don't know what's up with my man's hair. He's developed a scissor phobia and has been getting fluffier every day. Maybe he's trying to grow a flowing mane like a romance novel hero. Hee.

Monday. No, not again.
P.K.

The Incredible Lightness of Beans

2006-06-02T14:30:00.000-06:00

Uh, I dunno. It just struck me for a great title for a cookbook or...a cartoon about farts.

On hot air... I was wrestling with the idea of libraries today, specifically my use of them versus buying books. Thing is, it occurs to me that as a writer, I like the idea that someone would actually buy my book (not that libraries steal them). But I can't bring myself to buy a book unless I've read it already and fallen in love.

First, there's my microscopic budget. Well, sure, we've dropped a lot of moollah on the yard and in the kitchen remodel. But it's a much different thing to spend money on home equity than to purchase a book I may hate.

Yeah. H.A.T.E. I'm supposed to be listing all this year's books that I attempt to read. But I'm always bailing on books. In my current stack, I see at least two that need to go back. They really need to go back because I'm not going to read them. Out of curiosity or perhaps because I like the cover, I pick up a couple of books on each library visit. (And ditch a couple.)

This week it's Christine Feehan's Dark Prince. The author comes highly recommended by her fan girls, but having been burned by so many fannish recs, my ass is scarred. I read the first five pages and then got bored. (Had to re-read a random page in Outlander to clear out the purple prose, prose so livid you could see it from Pluto.) Maybe this stuff was new when the book was published in the 90s, but now, the tired, lonely, seeking a lifemate vampire is too trite for me. Without much preamble, he scents his lifemate and goes into vampy heat: "He must have her; he would have her; he would possess her; he burned for her." Dude. There's medicine for that burning sensation. Egads, I don't know why I'm still hanging on to it, except maybe I think the gods of romancey goodness will liquify my brain and all that overwrought passion will become pallatable.

I got Anne Bishop's Sebastian because it has a really snazzy cover. Hot boy in hot pants. Okay writing, okay characterization, but nothing sparky. I need to just take it back so someone else can admire the pretty boy cover.

Lessons learned: can't always judge a book by its cover and Feehan isn't for you.

That's how I usually progress, with a pile of six or so books, picking one up randomly until something clicks. Even getting past the first fifty pages isn't a guarantee I'll finish the book. I'm just too picky. I want a book that sets all the creative bits of my brain a-humming.

My relationship with a really good book is odd because in some ways, a "keeper" holds my attention less than a mediocre or bad one. A good book is brain food and after a few pages my mind wanders off to my own projects. The difference between a great book and the rest, however, is that I want to get back to the great one.

That kind of book comes along rarely, but honestly, books I can read, beginning to end, without picking up the next and moving on, are rare too. Currently, I'm reading The Masque of the Black Tulip by Lauren Willig, which is entertaining and will get finished. But...it's not a keeper.

(I'm more conflicted over books of that sort. I enjoyed, but didn't love it. Do I owe the author some sort of karmic payback? Hmmm.)

Right before that, however, I limped through Kelly Link's story collection Magic for Beginners. Link's voice is phenomenal and lively. It's a pity most of the stories don't have much of a plot and are frankly, fucking weird. The title story, "Magic for Beginners" and "The Faery Handbag" are fun and memorable, but the rest...heck some, like the "thing" about a canon, aren't even stories. Great stuff if you equate "incomprehensible" with "original," but not for me.

And I can't imagine paying good money for it in hardback. This makes me a raging hypocrite, I know. For instance, I'm tickled pink with friends say they've ordered the anthology my story is published in. (And panicked: "Egads, they might read it!") So it seems reasonable that I should buy a book as well.

I do. When I fall in love, as I did with Outlander, I march down to the store and get a copy. But I can't afford to buy books I don't love. Lacking all the usual trappings of techno-life, I have no cable TV, no Tivo, no iPod, no cell phone, and I'm on a cheap Internet dial up. Money, she don't grown on trees and if it did, I'd still be screwed since I live in the middle of the desert.

Sniffing around the pile, I see Tobias S. Buckell's Crystal Rain, which looks so much more promising than the pile of romances (honestly, why do I bother?) that surround it.

It's got a great cover. It must be awesome, no?

Have a great weekend.
P.K.

Friday Garden Blogging

2006-06-02T13:59:00.000-06:00

It seems that catnip likes the desert southwest. A couple of years ago, a local plant nursery gave me a free catnip plant which I planted in a little pot. It then started to seed itself all over the yard. Currently it's forging an evil alliance with the mint, also invasive in my garden.

And I don't even have a cat.

Anyway, behind Ye Ole "Read More" are pics of plants that I don't contemplate tearing up. Click image to zoom in.

Happy Weekend!
P.K.

Friday Horse Blogging, Baby Nik

2006-05-26T14:34:00.000-06:00

Because there is entirely too much cat blogging...

Nikster the Wonder Horse as a child. Scanned from an old photo. Somewhere I have a wobbly newborn picture of him, but I can't find it.

Here he is with his equine family, from left-- Daddy, Momma and Nik. His silly parrot lip, donkey ears and ridiculous long neck are already apparent.

Eight years later, the adult version, waiting by the fence, pawing because pictures are stoopid. "Where's my lunch?"

Nik is overreactive, prone to bouts of hyperactivity followed by crushing laziness, moody and hates being told what to do.

In short, he's me, if I were a horse.

For those frittering away time in a boring job, the latest cartoon reads:
*Reveiller--charming drawings and a cute story line. A changeling tries to get home to the land of Fairy.
*The Curious Adventures of Aldus Maycombe--A very new webcomic, so great for those who don't want to do a lot of catchup. Lovely black and white drawings and graceful linework. So new, I'm not sure what it's about, but it has a vague steampunk look.
*Sentimental Horde--A kobold chef/magician who cooks fairy cake (Now with more fairies!), a womanizing hobgoblin, and a disgruntled goblin. Spare, effective linework, lots of LOL humor.

Happy long weekend!
P.K.

Get Out Your Ice Skates

2006-05-26T10:40:00.000-06:00

Hell hath frozen over:

Can you contribute to run an Internet freedom ad with the improbable pairing of MoveOn and the Christian Coalition? Click here to see the ad and make a donation

Demonstrating just how serious the idea of Internet freedom is, a liberal and a right wing fundie organization are playing nice.

Internet companies like AT&T have been trying to win this fight by telling Republicans in Congress this is just a left-wing issue. But MoveOn and the Christian Coalition have designed a full-page New York Times ad to expose the truth: people across the spectrum are united behind Internet freedom! If we get that message out, we win.

P.K.

Aw, It's A Horsy!

2006-05-24T09:48:00.000-06:00

I am utterly unmoved by [most] human babies. My own species doesn't trigger any maternal instincts. Kittens don't do much for me either. Puppies are cute, but for a serious SQUEE!, the winner is...

Baby Horses.

Kari over at uh, whatever she's calling her blog this week, has some serious cute going on. Color baby, neato. I just want to squeeze it. (And it would no doubt kick me with its sharp little hooves.)

My mother-in-law just dropped her mare off with a breeder for some serious stud loving. If the pregnancy takes (horses are hard to knock up and keep pregnant), all are hoping for a paint foal.
Baby Horses! Sigh. (I have some old Nikster the Wonder Horse baby pics. If they scan okay, I'll post one.)

P.K.

Branal Leakage

2006-05-24T08:44:00.000-06:00

Six-thirty in the morning, and the woman in front of me, in her enormous SUV, is yapping on the cell phone. She's been at it for at least fifteen minutes. What, in the name of God's little green horse apples can anyone be talking about at six-thirty in the morning?

Last week we get a call from some grad school friends who are having a party at their home in Santa Fe. The J-Man asks what we should bring and is told some sort of "ethnic" food.

Ethnic? I heard J-Man say "Ethiopian?" and I imagined an empty plate. Heh.

The notion of ethnic food, naturally, was met with a slurry of racist humor at Chez Kirby. See, unlike some hypocrits, I will admit to dipping into the low, inappropriate end of the humor pool (Sometimes I pee in it.) when at home and away from prying eyes. That's why I find this LOL funny. "Funny, is this too," says Yoda. I totally dig the whole comic.

This Saturday the J-Man whipped up a plate of Carribean chicken and we headed off to our party. The next day was spent (sick and in the bathroom...kidding), at our booth at Art in the Park.

We sold a clock, a Mr. Moon, and two butterflies. The recently completed gate on Rio Grande is getting so much attention that J-Man's worried he might not be able to deal with the resulting workload. Sigh. It's either feast or famine for us artists types.

I spent Friday afternoon fixing my missing links (because link overpopulation is a serious problem...spay or neuter your links) and adding all my new comic "reads." Thus, blogged out, I disappeared for several days. Oh, vell.

Monday, yuck.
P.K.

I'm A Team Of One

2006-05-19T07:53:00.000-06:00

I hate it when people say, "There's no 'I' in 'team.'"

Bullshit. Sure there is.

Equipo. Spanish for team.

So take your monolingual catch phrases and stick 'em up your...
#
Crap I Drew on My Lunch Break is funny, especially when making fun of religious wackos.
#
Conversations with a Fat Girl. In which I find I'm hated.

Hated by fat women. Hey, the book says so; it must be true. I'm not sure why I read chick-lit, or for that matter, why I tolerate it over most romance. Chick-lit heroines are insane. On the other hand, every other romance heroine is too-stupid-to-live. Since I operated under the assumption that I have a brain, and am full aware of my disconnect with reality, it's far easier to relate to insane.

Conversations is about an overweight twenty-seven year old who is--surprise, surprise--unlucky at love and has self-esteem issues. One of those times where "voice" makes a difference because I can't relate to the weight thing.

Yeah, I'm an evil skinny chick. I also can't run more than a block without going into cardiac arrest. Heart disease has drawn a big ole target on my ass.

Anyway, the protagonist's best friend is a former fat girl who, thanks to gastric bypass surgery is now a size 2. Size 2.

Other than the models in Old Navy commercials, who can really wear a size 2? I can't wear a size 2, at least not without removing several ribs and a few internal organs. The book goes on and on about size 2 being some sort of benchmark for women everywhere. Really? Most women I know think a size 6 is skinny.

As a sidenote, this whole sub genre--chunky girls make good--is rather hypocritical. The gals whinge about how the world (read "men") only look at their packaging, rather than their pretty, pretty personalities. Meanwhile, they set their sights on the hunkiest guy in a hundred-mile radius. No nerds or fat guys for them. Yeah, I know. That's not the point. It's about how overweight women are perceived in this culture and giving the chubby girl the hunk sets the world in karmic balance. Blah-blah-blah.

It still strikes me as hypocracy.

But it's an amusing read.

Ghosts of Albion: Accursed, on the other hand, is a "television star (sort of) gets published because she's a television star" kind of book. Just to remind folks who she is, the publisher added Amber Benson's photo to the "My First Photoshop Project" cover.

(Benson's character played Willow's girlfriend on Buffy the Vampire Slayer in what I characterize as the most unbelievable, unsexy lesbian relationship, evah! I was a million times more drawn into the lesbian love story, told in flashback, in the movie "V for Vendetta." Brought a tear to my eye, it did.)

Okay, to be honest, the original online animation of Ghosts of Albion kept me entertained. At the time, however, I was working at a soul destroying job and just about anything on the Internet kept me entertained. But the writing in this novel was flat and forced, the characters uninteresting and sometimes too stupid to live, and the romance...icky.

I bailed at about page 150. Out of curiosity, I skimmed the remainder of the book and came across the love scene. In it the male character refers to his member as a "prick." I dunno. Maybe this is supposed to reflect some Victorian era convention, but I find it unbelievable that a man would equate his thing with a needle. "Prick" is derogatory. My guess is the writers thought "penis" was too clinical, "dick" too contemporary, and "cock" too crude.

The kicker came when I read a passage that went sort of like this: "...she grabbed his pego." On the first read, I thought she had reached for the hero's favorite bottle of spaghetti sauce. It turns out "pego" is a Victorian era term for a penis. The term isn't used before that, it's just plunked in there as if to say, "Lookie, I did my research into Victorian slang."

Bleh.

Friday!
P.K.

Well, Nuts

2006-05-18T10:41:00.000-06:00

Picture a can of mixed nuts.

Do you grab a handful or pick your favorites? Do you reach for the mighty Brazil nut or the humble peanut?

If you're expecting me to draw some parallel between nuts and...anything...fugettaboutit. I'm just askin'. I guess you could argue that people who take a handful are more apt to be adventurous, trying a bit of everything. Or perhaps, that pickers (Me!) are people of discriminating taste.

Or not. I love almonds and the nut that is glorified filler material, the peanut. Hate pecans. Pecans are brown chalk. When I was in college, the little house I rented had two pecan trees. In the late fall they'd produce hundreds of pecans. I collect them in piles and stomp them open in the driveway for the Mourning doves. Sometimes, the driveway was covered in squabbling birds. Apparently, times 'o plenty brings out the worst in the bird of peace.

The Rat Dog gets some screen time because my mother requested more photos. She is doing what canines do best--napping in the sun. On a hot day, she likes to cook herself into a state of stinky on the brick pathways. Ah, it's a dog's life. (I think she wishes she was the dog--Vincent--on "Lost." That dog gets more obese every episode.)

Thursday...whew.
P.K.

Like Mars

2006-05-17T13:52:00.000-06:00

This blog is like Mars...barren and devoid of intelligent life.

(Actually, that's how I describe the next door neighbors' property.)

I have nothing to write...

Nothing of interest to a general audience, which describes the lack of updates. In truth, my brain overflows like a toilet, but I'm just to lazy to turn any of it into a coherent blog posting. Mostly, I want to yap about writing, but writing is boring. B.O.R.I.N.G.

Seriously. Is there anything more tedious than a writer babbling about their characters.? "Today, I'm struggling with Mary Sue's fear of cake. I know she is afraid because at her sixth birthday party, a midget clown jumped out of her cake. She can't stand the sight of cake and has spent thousands of dollars on therapy."

Zzzz. That's all that's in my brain, however. Okay, not Mary Sue and her pastry phobia, but characters, character and plot stuff, etc.

I spent yesterday writing the rest of a sex scene. I started it about two months ago and then left it, or perhaps the protagonists hanging. I suspect the hero is the most annoyed by the delay. Coitus interruptus is probably hardest (heh) on the guy.

Anyway, as of yesterday, they've done the deed. Now I can go back to making them miserable.

The Internet being a huge time blackhole, I'm still not doing much surfing. I'm actually contemplating switching over to an LJ format (where I can blather on about writing and be as dull and angsty as I want to be) and putting all my time into getting the webcomic going.

Uh, have a great Wednesday.
P.K.

Mother's Day Flowers

2006-05-14T13:20:00.000-06:00

Ah, the good old days.

When Mother's Day rolled around, you could get yourself a box of macaroni, some Elmer's Glue and gold paint. Slap the ingredients together for a lovely ashtray for dear Mum, even if she didn't smoke. Mother would look at your objec d'art and stammer, "It's a beautiful...er...shade of gold."

(Years later, when she's cleaning out the garage, you'll catch her tossing the masterpiece in the trash. "But that was your Mother's Day gift. You don't need a gold, macaroni ashtray anymore?" Mom will cringe and say, "Oh, an ashtray. I thought it was a paperweight.")

Or there was the breakfast in bed option. Mix enough batter for three dozen pancakes. Make about four pancakes. Leave the mess for Mom to clean up.

(Okay, so I never progressed beyond the artwork phase. To this day, I still don't cook.)

The point is, after a few...ahem...decades, I'm fresh out of Mother's Day ideas. My mother lives in another state, so ye ole wine and dine'r option is out. I did get a gift--last week--but it just went in the mail Friday. So, er, your gift is on the way, Mom. But it'll be a tad late.

Think of it as extra early for Mother's Day 2007!

In lieu of a timely gift here are some photos. First, the flower bed where the wind-beaten irises live. Yesterday, I jammed a metal stake in the ground--and the ground screamed--and roped them all together. Now they're leaning against each other like drunken lacrosse players in search of a hooker to assault. Other plantlife (flowering) includes: May Night Salvia (dark purple), Jupiter Beard (red), Moonshine Yarrow (yellow), and Blue Catmint (blue, duh).

Up next is a view of the rock garden looking south. The pink flowers are Persian Stonecress. The little yellow mounds are Dwarf Sundrops. The color red is contributed by a volunteer Jupiter's Beard that sprang up between the rocks. Not flowering--I don't think it does--is a Dragon's Blood sedum. Natalie, the world's ugliest plant is also in the shot, but looking more like dead sticks than a plant, is hard to find in the shot. One of the J-Man's iron butterflies gets some screen time.

Finally, the rock garden from the opposite side, looking north. The tiles are part of the banco (bench) that makes up part of the structure. Again, Persian Stonecress and Dwarf Sundrops are present. In the background, is another flower bed, with Chocolate Flower (yellow), Mat Daisy (yellow), Salvia Plumarosa (purple) and Spanish Broom(yellow, bush) flowering.

Happy Day all you Mums!
P.K.

Save Network Neutrality

2006-05-12T08:15:00.000-06:00

Once again, demonstrating that the American government is a government for Big Business, by Big Business and of Big Business, Congress is about to vote on legislation which will cripple Internet commerce and innovation. The move is spearheaded by AT&T and BellSouth

In addition to using their financial capital to muscle their way into an Internet monopoly, AT&T and BellSouth are also breaking federal law by providing the NSA phone records of customers, without any form of due process.

Here are several ways you can act to preserve Network Neutrality, including signing a petition. SaveTheInternet.com is a nonpartison coalition, as evidenced by the member list.

Check here, to see if your representative is a sell-out. (To my surprise, NM-rep Heather Wilson, who I call The Devil's Handmaiden, isn't a sell-out. Whaddoya know?)

Thanks for speaking out.
P.K.

Cough, Cough

2006-05-10T07:56:00.000-06:00

Last night we had a sandstorm that was probably only bettered by the kind seen in Iraq.
The sky turned a murky shade of brown and the mountains disappeared. Starting at around four in the afternoon, onto seven-thirty, the wind scoured every bit of sand off the land and flung it in the air.

The weatherman, naturally, predicted that the day would be "slightly breezy," illustrating the problem with adverbs. The winds were "slight" only when measured against those on the planet Jupiter.

At one point, even the lawn grass was whirling around in wind-tossed agony. Nikster the Wonder Horse, Arabian Horse of the Desert, etc., etc., spent the time on the phone with the humane society.

"In the wind and sand. Yes. What? Of course I'm breaking up. They left me out here in the middle of a sand hurricane. Help!"

Trees were downed all over Albuquerque. In our community, known for its large cottonwoods, things didn't seem as bad. Aside from an elm that fell making and impromptu bridge across an irrigation ditch, most trees looked mostly intact. The big cottonwood on our property lost a small limb and a few branches, but our new cottonwoods made it through unscathed. We were afraid the wind would snap the skinny "babies." Wind it seems, is the way cottonwoods get pruned.

The winds did do a number on my irises. In fact, they are a better predictor of wind than the weatherman. Every stinking year, every time they get to blooming, we get a storm that knocks them all down. I took a picture before nature laid them low, but I'm at work with no access to it. (If I don't post now, I probably won't post at all today.)

Anyway, after work, I guess I'll be sweeping up the mess left by the wind. Should be a real hoot, since my allergies are also kicking up. Sniffle, cough, sweep, sweep.

***Writing***
Rather obsessed with current WIP, having hit the 80K mark. Characters are chattering away in my head, leaving no room for blog (Internet) time. The first 50 words are the hardest as I wonder how I'll ever write a novel length work. Then, it picks up steam and I wonder how I'll keep it at or under 90K.

Have a nifty Wednesday.
P.K.

Pray For

2006-05-04T16:11:00.000-06:00

On the national day of prayer, I'm burning incense and praying to my heathen gods for:

-A fully operational Death Star.

-A ten foot wall between mine and my neighbor's property with broken glass on top--Mexican security. Si, se puede.

-A real pool boy. (As opposed to imaginary pool boy.)

-To never have to see David Blaine again. Ever. I mean it. Evah.

-To see Kate Holmes, in a fit of post partum depression, beat Tom Cruise to death, cheered on by Brooke Shields. Dear God, I'd pay to see that.

-Properly functioning belts for all plumbers and other men with a "crack" problem.

-A team of illegal immigrant midget acrobats to clean my house.

-Legalized gay marriage, because with all the fundies' heads exploding, it would be like the Fourth of July.

-Real fireworks, the kind that can blow off fingers and take out an eye, not the wimpy crap like sparklers.

-A devine ass kicking for anyone who excuses the greed of corporate CEOs by saying, "But they deserve huge paychecks. They work hard for their money." What? And I don't? Fuck you.

-A phone that shoots an electric charge through the line, zapping any telemarketer that calls.

-"As Seen on TV" merchandise that actually does what it's supposed to.

-To not be so gullible and quit buying "As Seen on TV" informercial crap.

-That anyone who extolls the "good old days," i.e., the 50s, be transported back to the 50s, in the form of a Black man.

-My own island.

***LOST***
OMG! Anna Lucia is dead ("Lost")! D.E.A.D. Did the producers of the series get tired of bailing Michele Rodriguez out of jail?

And I love Hurley. I love any man that can make a "Say Anything" movie reference.

***
If you're feeling "toony," this week I'm reading the following most excellent web comics:
Errant Story (flying talking cats, elves and assassins.)
No Need for Bushido(I had a hard time getting into this from the beginning. So I read it backwards. I think the artist/writer just needed some time to get into the groove. Funny stuff.)
Sokora Refugees (Lots of gratuitous titties, if you like that sort of thing...ahem.)

And there is a new episode of Platinum Grit up (Jeremy does science), and the new Copper is wonderfully profound as always.

Cheers,
P.K.

Starving Artist Labor

2006-05-02T15:07:00.000-06:00

This morning I woke up in a cold sweat. More like a hot sweat, actually, because it's starting to get bloody hot and we haven't cranked up the old swamp cooler.

While laying in the dark, trying to squirm away from the scorching hot Rat Dog, who always has to be touching a human, I found a solution to that pesky illegal immigrant problem.

If "they" are taking our jobs, we should return the favor. Head on down to Mexico and get us some illegal employment. Top on my list of future careers: sombrero maker; velvet Elvis painting painter; and violinist in a mariachi band.

Still busy with stuff...this morning: vacuumed; washed dishes; (finally) painted the trim around the new wall oven and cabinets; beat the horse (no, not a euphemism for something nasty); did some gardening; and downloaded (phone line) some photos of the J-Man's latest gate commission.

Our buddy Kevin, who helped with the installation took this picture (I think you can "click and zoom," as usual). The gate is about nineteen feet across, all steel construction. After some trial and error, J-Man figured out a way to create a faux verdigris on the tree (motif) canopy. The property is full of huge trees, so this was designed to echo that.

It's installed on a property that is in the middle of major renovations, hence the garbage bin in the background. When he's done, the owner hopes to sell the house for more money than I will ever make in a lifetime.

Back to work.
P.K.

More Booky-ness

2006-04-30T20:16:00.000-06:00

In case the universe hasn't had enough of my faux-literary opinions, I got tagged by JuneBugg.

Per the instructions I'm to look at the list of books below, bold the ones I've read, italicize the ones I might read, cross out the ones I won't read, underline the ones on my book shelf, and place parentheses around the ones I've never even heard of.

(I don't like using Underlines in html, so I'm substituting asterix* to indicate books I own.)

~~The Da Vinci Code-Dan Brown~~
The Catcher in the Rye - J.D. Salinger
*The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy - Douglas Adams*
The Great Gatsby - Scott F. Fitzgerald
To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
The Time Traveler's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
*His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman*
*Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince - J. K. Rowling*
~~The Life of Pi - Yann Martel~~
Animal Farm - George Orwell
Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
*The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien*
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon
Lord of the Flies - William Golding
~~Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen~~
1984 - George Orwell
*Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J. K. Rowling*
One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
(The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini)
The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
Slaughterhouse 5 - Kurt Vonnegut
(The Secret History - Donna Tartt)
~~Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte~~
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe - C.S. Lewis
(Middlesex - Jeffrey Eugenides)
(Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell)
~~Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte~~
(Atonement - Ian McEwan)
(The Shadow of The Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon)
The Old Man and the Sea - Ernest Hemingway
The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
~~The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath~~
Dune - Frank Herbert
(Sula - Toni Morrison)
Cold Mountain - Charles Frazier
(The Alchemist - Paulo Coehlo)
(White Teeth - Zadie Smith)
(The House of Mirth - Edith Wharton)
(Purple Hibiscus - Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie)
~~Songs of Innocence and Experience - William Blake~~
(Adultery and Other Choices - Andre Dubus)
~~The Iliad and The Odyssey - Homer~~
(The Stone Angel - Margaret Laurence)
(Hard-boiled Wonderland and the End of the World - Haruki Murakami)
(Swann's Way - Marcel Proust, translated by Lydia Davis)
(The Angel of Forgetfulness - Steve Stern)

I haven't heard of most of the last half of the list. I don't own many on the list, although I should add To Kill a Mockingbird to my bookshelf. I actually liked it when forced to read it in high school.

Monday, yuck. (Technically Sunday, but my weekend is about over.)
P.K.

2006-04-30T19:23:00.000-06:00

The first thing to bloom in the yard, besides the daffodils and tulips, is the lilac. But lilacs are a dime a dozen, so here are the two flowering things in the yard right now. The top image is a salvia, May Night variety, which can handle the heat and dry as a dehydrator climate. At bottom, is Persian Rockcress, a resident in the rock garden. The cool thing about this plant is that the blooms smell like candy. When the doggie odor in the house gets too much, I can always escape to the yard for fresh, sweet smelling air.

Everything else is green and covered in buds. It sort of feels like the yard is holding its breath, just before it lays on some serious color. Between trying to actually do real writing and working in the garden, I haven't had much time to mess around on the Internet.

Our garden is surrounded by an adobe wall. My clever J-Man put in brick, flagstone and crushed stone pathways, and flower beds. I'm in charge of the plants. This year, after letting it go a little too natural and messy over the past couple of years, I've decided to put some real effort into it.

Now, I know why people hire full time gardeners.

Hope all had a great weekend.

P.K.

Scary Saddle Monster

2006-04-27T16:15:00.000-06:00

Last week, Nikster the Wonder Horse, feeling that I was getting too complacent, decided he didn't want to wear a saddle anymore.

When I first got him, he was "broken" (hate that word), but really nervous about saddling. I'd lift the saddle up toward his back and like the Loch Ness Monster, his long neck would shoot up and every muscle in his body stiffen. In Nik language, that means "I'm about two seconds away from a nuclear meltdown." Anyway, after some work, he got over that.

Because I do all my tacking and grooming in his paddock, I never tie him up. Honestly, I like giving him the option to leave when he doesn't like something. Nik, like his owner, resists being forced to do anything, so he's much safer to be around if he has an "opt out" clause. Besides, the macho, abusive cowboy shit wouldn't work with a horse like Nik. He'd explode and take out everything and everyone within a ten mile radius.

Something must have upset him and his microscopic brain connected the event to saddles. (I have not idea, really.) When I reached for the saddle, he turned around and walked away.

Back to square one, first with the saddle pad, then the saddle. Anyway, today he was back to normal and bored with the process.

And folks say women are complicated....

***

We finally have some color in the yard as the first spring flowers are starting to bloom. I'll get some pix up tomorrow. I think I'm getting a handle on growing things in a climate that resembles a food dehydrator.

And yes, I know. I fried my blog template--SIZZLE. So if your link has gone missing, it's because I had to use a backup template from last November. Oops. Butter fingers.

P.K.

Thirteen Books I'll Never Finish

2006-04-27T10:07:00.000-06:00

Inspired by Doug Hoffman's posting of the same name. I don't have an inner philistine. She's an "outt-y," loud and proud. Books or series that I'll never read.

1. Neuromancer by William Gibson. You lost me in the first paragraph.

2. Anything by Herman Melville. Fuck Ahab, fuck every character Melville's ever written except the whale. Go Moby.

3. The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant series by Stephen R. Donaldson.

Random character: Thomas, you are our prophesized one. Save us.
Thomas C.: This isn't real. I'm miserable. Leave me alone, I've got teenage girls to rape.

The next fantasy fan boy-girl who tells me this series is a must read, gets their still beating heart ripped out of their chest.

4. Wheel of Time series by Robert Jordan. Bitchy women and the pussy-whipped men who should beat them bloody.

5. The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula Le Guin. This is great, why? I so agree with the famous rejection letter.

6. The Life of Pi by Yann Martel. See, if you tell me I simply must read a book, I can't do it. Lions and tigers and a boat, Oh, Zzzzzz.

7. The Chronicles of Narnia series by C.S. Lewis. Got through the Wardrobe book when I was a kid. Never got any farther. It seems my inner heathen recognized the biblical indoctrination, even if my conscious mind didn't. Hmmm. On that note, avoid anything with "Chronicles" in the title.

8. The Silmarillion by J.R.R. Tolkein. I'm not that much of a geek.

9. The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown. I'll wait for the movie, thanks.

10. The Horse Whisperer by Nicholas Evans. Just because a book is about horses, doesn't mean I'll read it. Given horse trainer John Lyons's take on the movie adaption, I'm not interested.

11. Anything by H.P. Lovecraft. If I wanted to read prose this dense, I'd wade through Neuromancer or Left Hand of Darkness.

12. Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen. Petticoats and shit. Why bother, really? If absolutely necessary, there's the movie with Alan Rickman. Yum.

13. The Dark Tower series by Stephen King. In which King discovers big words: "The desert was the apotheosis of deserts..." King is my hero, but, sheesh, talk about prose trying to hard.

Thursday and the weekend approaches...
P.K.

Outlander

2006-04-25T16:43:00.000-06:00

Redheaded men, as a rule, don't do much for me.

I can't even think of a redheaded actor that I find attractive. Outlander's very redheaded Jamie Fraser, on the other hand...is, um, yummy.

Diana Gabaldon's Outlander is frequently recommended by commenters and bloggers over at Romancing the Blog: The same place I got a recommendation to read Sherrilyn Kenyon's Dark Hunter books. Right. I'm still awaiting surgery to remove the fork, the fork I drove into my eye midway through one of the Dark Hunter books.

So, I picked up a library copy of Outlander with a good deal of suspicion, expecting another tiresome romp into the land of boy meets girl; they pant over each other like pheromone-crazed weasels; copious sex happens and because their parts fit, "It must be love." I mean, sheesh, the premise of Outlander has all the makings of a cheesy bodice ripper: A 1940s era Englishwoman is transported to 18th Century Scotland, where she is forced to marry a hot young Scotsman.

And yet, it works. First, Gabaldon introduces an unusual complication--Claire's husband Frank, still back (forward?) in 1944 England. Second, she gives Claire a suitable backstory to explain her ability to adapt to 18th Century Scotland. Claire served as a battlefield nurse during WW II, and growing up, had a rather nomadic existence, raised by her uncle, an anthropologist and living all over the world. The result is that Claire isn't the typical virginal, twittering romance heroine and she doesn't spend hundreds of pages whining about how much she hates the past. Or worst yet, denying that it is real. God, I hate women with the Scully Syndrome.

And Jamie is hot. Claire, however, doesn't immediately take all that much notice of him, except as a patient. On arriving in the past, she is first captured by Jack Randall--an ancestor of her "modern" husband--and then "rescued" by Scottish clansman Donal McKenzie. The Scots and English are doing what they do best, trying to kill each other and Claire ends up using her nursing skills to put Donal's nephew, Jamie, back together.

How cool is that? A love story where the reader is not burdened by pages and pages of this--"He was so hot. So sexy. She wanted him. She needed him."-- five stinking minutes after the hero and heroine meet. Suspected of being an English spy, Claire isn't instantly blessed with many friends and spends time with Jamie because he is one of the few friendly faces in the McKenzie estate. And Jamie doesn't seem to object much.

But neither is swooning at the sight of the other. Claire, of course, is a tad preoccupied with the idea of getting back to her 20th Century husband. Jamie is technically an outlaw, wanted for a murder he didn't commit and not in position to be looking for a wife.

By the time the forced marriage rolls around, they have a friendship of a sort and there are enough undertones of sexual tension to make the idea not totally unpleasant for either. And did I mention Jamie was hot? And funny? If you find yourself trapped in a sudden marriage, it may as well be to a tall, sexy guy in a kilt with a great sense of humor.

And there's the whole "archetype on its head thing." Prior to their marriage, when Claire asks Jamie if he objects to her not being a virgin (hoping he won't marry her), he quips, "Reckon one of us should know what they're doing." Heh. The virgin bridegroom.

The per capita sex in Outlander is high. They're newlyweds after all. Fortunately, the text doesn't rely on detailed anatomical descriptions and I didn't have to read about Jamie's Schlong of Unusual Proportions every time sex happened.

The violence, a complaint among the folks over at Amazon, is why I liked the novel. I'm so tired of the sanitized, happy-happy crap that characterizes romance novels. Scotland at the time wasn't a peaceful place (Jacobite Rebellion and all that) and death, ugly violent death not all that unusual. If the English weren't killing the Scots, the Scots were probably killing each other.

A lot of people got their panties in a knot over the ending, particularly because of perceived homosexuality. Most, stupidly, confuse rape with sex and feel the hero's sexuality is somehow impugned. A few think the antagonist's homosexuality casts gays in a bad light. Get over it. Rape is rape, is rape. Women get raped all the time in novels. This time around, it's the heroine who rescues the hero, which I think is mighty cool.

The books been around since 1991, so as usual, I'm the last person to join the party. I don't think, however, I'm rushing out to read the sequels. As much as I liked both characters--I will buy a copy for the keeper shelf--I'm rather content to leave Jamie and Claire where they are now. Maybe because I've been burned by too many great series gone bad. Jamie and Claire have a happy ending of a sort in Outlander and that's good enough for me.

P.K.

Chronicles of Blarnia, I Mean Narnia

2006-04-24T10:23:00.000-06:00

Chronicles of Narnia, the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe is nothing more than a kid's movie.

Don't get me wrong. I love some kids' movies. The Incredibles, Toy Story, Finding Nemo, Spirited Away, Hercules, Mulan, The Nightmare Before Christmas, etc, etc. And I'm a Harry Potter fan. But all of those movies having crossover appeal for adults.

With its crisply delineated good versus evil, Narnia is simplistic and caters too much to the child wishing to behave like an adult mentality. I love it when kids are smarter than adults, e.g., Spy Kids or the The Mummy Returns. Face it. Adults spend a lot of time with out heads up our butts and don't notice much around us. Children, with their natural curiousity and greater powers of observation, have a lot of potential to outsmart us.

What I found irritating about Narnia was the totally incredulous roles the children took on, in particular, Peter, the older boy. Basically, four siblings cross over into the magical world of Narnia, where they are treated as prophecized saviors, who have to kill the White Witch and bring sunshine and happiness to the land. There are Biblical allusions, but all except Aslan's sacrifice are lost on this heathen. In fact, I went in thinking the religious aspect would irritate me. Ultimately, it was the bland storytelling that was most irksome.

Anyway, after about a day's training with a sword, Peter, the oldest of the siblings, is able to stand toe to toe in battle with the White Witch, even though she spends the first part of the battle easily killing griffons and other much tougher beasties. I don't know how this was handled in the book, but movie version goes way beyond clever kid saving the day and straight to stoopid.

Great movies need great villains and the White Witch falls far short. Though she functions as a naughty temptation, drawing in younger brother Edmund with promises of Turkish Delights (apparently a pastry, but it sounds X-rated) and the kingship of Narnia, it's hard to see her allure. She's totally charmless and mostly creepy. Rather than toying with Edmund in the manner of a clever villain, she turns on him five minutes into the movie. No suspense, no drama and also, no motivation. Besides keeping the world on ice, what's in it for her?

The bad guys are bad, the good guys are good and nary a shade in between. Again, while this kind of simplistic view of the world, black and white, might work for the under ten crowd, I find it insipid.

I was told this was a pretty movie. Well, it is, in a sort of cartoony, bland manner. It's like The Lord of the Rings gets a thorough douching with Clorox. White, shiny, even the bad guys look fresh scrubbed.

Sanitized fantasy...Ick.

Howl's Moving Castle, while somewhat muddled plotwise, was at least entertaining. After a seemingly random encounter with a mysterious wizard, Sophie, a young woman who is rather old before her time--all work and no play--finds her life turned upside down. The story is set in what could be called steampunk or gaslamp style world, Victorian era type sensibilities with fantastical machines and magic. Sophie's association with the wizard results in a visit from the Witch of the Waste, who subsequently turns her into an old woman. Unable to explain her transformation--the spell keeps her from talking about it--she heads out into the Waste to find Howl, a wizard who supposedly eats people's hearts, and who, no big surprise is the wizard that she encountered earlier.

After we finished watching the movie, my husband said, "Okay. I don't understand. What was it about?" which pretty much sums up the problem with the film. For those of us used to the standard Disney/Pixar fare, it's a tad too obtuse. Apparently, there is an anti-war theme, which totally zoomed over my head. I did get the insinuation that much of the Witch's spell on Sophie was actually derived from Sophie's inability to take pleasure from life. She falls in love, learns to live a little and (sort of) breaks the spell. As with most of Miyazaki's films, there are shades of gray aplenty, and bad guys can be good and vice versa.

Fortunately, unlike Narnia, the movie is populated by charming characters--TurnipHead the scarecrow, a dog (can't remember his name) and Calcipher the fire demon, for example.

We rented both Narnia and Howl. In retrospect, it might have made more sense just to rent Howl's Moving Castle and watch it twice to sort out the oddness, rather than waste time on Narnia.

As an aside, Domino, the movie about a female bounty hunter Domino Harvey, was surprisingly entertaining and funny, funny in a very dark sort of way. If you're in the mood for a blood, splattered ass-kicking sort of movie, that is.

P.K.

Barbequed Poodles

2006-04-20T16:39:00.000-06:00

Take a decapitated pit bull head, clamp it onto the arm of a gun-wielding redneck, and mix in ~~crocked~~ crooked politicians, money grubbing televangelists, and bass fishing and you have a Carl Hiaasen novel. Double Whammy, to be specific. R.J Decker is a former photography and ex-con turned private investigator, hired by a pro bass fisherman (yep, there is such a thing, who knew?) to prove that the competition is cheating. This being a mystery, it isn't just fish that Decker finds floating in the waters of Florida. Rednecks and the South being good fodder for funny, the snark and funny is plentiful, along with a motley crew of over-the-top characters.

Probably not a good book if you're like my mom who "loves all dogs." Me, I find dogs are like children. Some are terrific, some could use a bullet to the head (or be cooked over an open fire.) Fun stuff if you're not possessed of delicate, girly sensibilities.

Even the books I bailed on this time around weren't all that bad.

First to get the bucket of bailing was Flo Fitzpatrick's Hot Stuff.
Okay, so as usual, I picked it up because the cartoony cover attracted me. I like the little devil on the cover. In my ongoing search for a readable romance novel, it didn't rank as horrible. I was just terribly distracted and it didn't have enough oomph to keep my attention. In its defense, the heroine had a brain and didn't bicker needlessly with the hero. The setting, India, was rather unusual, and the whole Bollywood thing was a hoot.

But the hero was two-dimensional and it just wasn't as funny as the cover and blurbs claimed. Not bad, just not for me.

Mick Farren's The Time of Feasting also got the boot. Like Hot Stuff, it wasn't horrible, just not spiffy enough to grab my flyaway attention span. The story felt rather typical: a group of urban vampires survives among humans by keeping a low profile, until internal politics--caused by them upstart "young" vampires--threatens to expose them, blah, blah, blah.

On a recommendation from NursePam, I gave J.D. Robb's Naked in Death a try. Whatdoya know, I liked it!

The story is set sometime in the future, so there are flying cars and other techno-gee-gaws, but none of that overpowers the story. The protagonist, Eve Dallas, is a hard-as-nails cop who doesn't irritated the shit out of me (unlike "Lost's" Anna-Lucia, who I'd like to see boiled in oil.) As this is a mystery, the requisite dead bodies are provided by murdered prostitutes, or in the lingo of the time, "companions." (Which gives me kind of "Serenity" vibe, but that's okay.) Partway through the story, Eve gets involved with a suspect, the sexy and suave Roarke. Not burdened by romance novel conventions, the story takes time to build a solid story and sexual tension. Eve has some serious i-shoes, but she doesn't expect the reader or other characters to hold a pity party for her. The mystery is nice and twisty, and continues to cast doubt on Roarke. Good stuff.

Perhaps I should be gravitating toward so-called Romantic Suspense rather than romance?

In the "it would be great if" category is Adam Stemple's Singer of Souls. In the tradition of Charles De Lint or Emma Bull, Stemple's story follows Doug Stewart, an American heroin addict who tries to kick the habit by moving to Scotland. A busker (street musician), Doug unwittingly makes a deal with the queen of the Fey and end up with "the sight," and finds himself able to see fairies and other beasties. The story is sort of rambling, with a meandering plot (again, calling to mind some De Lint novels, but that's okay because I like De Lint), but still enjoyable. I love that Stemple didn't bore me to tears--a la L. Hamilton et al.--with complicated Fey politics, history and taxonomy.

But the ending is dreadful. I don't expect a happy ending, but I'd like the characters to remain true to their...character. Downright frustrating because until the ending, I was thinking this book might make it onto the keeper shelf.

Currently reading Diana Gabaldon's Outlander and...glurp...totally loving it. First, I hate time traveler stories, especially romantic ones, because the heroine is usually a ninny who bitches about the absence of Starbucks. Second, historicals bore me. But the unconventional approach to the lurve--Gabaldon actually builds sexual tension and doesn't have the characters fucking on page five and there are technically two heroes--is rocking my boat. Assuming it doesn't go the way of Singer of Souls and muck up the ending, it might be the first romance to make it to the keeper shelf. Hmmm.

P.K.