When we were in San Francisco, I went to Michelle Tea's reading for Rose of No Man's Land. Now that I've read it, the catering by Hot Dog On A Stick makes a lot more sense.
Rose of No Man's Land is one of those rare books that shows the life of working class lesbians. Tired of reading about people with fabulous lives doing fabulous things while wearing stunning fashions, this was a good change of pace. Fourteen-year-old Trisha is an alcoholic and no adult around her seems to care. The mother is a couchbound hypochondriac and the mother's boyfriend is an unambitious thief. The best thign Trisha can say for him is that he hasn't molested her. Her older sister is wrapped up in a fantasy of becoming a reality TV star and wants to make Trisha over as a girly girl - goals that are misguided and doomed to failure. When Trisha fails spectacularly at being a mall girl, she runs into Rose, who works at a low end foodcourt place a lot like Hot Dog On A Stick. Rose is everything Trisha wants to be - tough, confident, and a genuine loner. Rose and Trisha take off for the seaboard, a short trip that blows Trisha's small world wide open. With quick drama that only teenagers seem to be able to stomach, Trisha crushes on Rose, has her first sexual experience, feels betrayed, and breaks up all in one day. Anyone who has been a teenager can relate. But it makes you glad you're grown up now.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Thursday, May 04, 2006
TV Worth Watching
I'm not a big fan of TV. I got out of the habit of sitting in front of it, so now it seems like such a time vacuum. But, the niecelets were over, and faced with the threat of having to make conversation with me over dinner, they instantly reached for the remote. I feared something girly and was prepared to exercise my arbitrary veto power, but they put on a show called Mythbusters on the Discovery Channel.
The Mythbusters look at an urban myth or a scene from a movie and test to see if it can happen. This is science for show, but they do take a hypothesis, set up an experiment to test it, observe, and report the results. Geek heaven. But it gets better! They blow things up, drop them from incredible heights, and set them on fire -- on purpose!!!! (Taking full safety precautions and 'Don't try this at home blah blah blah') How brilliant is that? I'm hooked.
The Mythbusters look at an urban myth or a scene from a movie and test to see if it can happen. This is science for show, but they do take a hypothesis, set up an experiment to test it, observe, and report the results. Geek heaven. But it gets better! They blow things up, drop them from incredible heights, and set them on fire -- on purpose!!!! (Taking full safety precautions and 'Don't try this at home blah blah blah') How brilliant is that? I'm hooked.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Mardi Gras Mambo
I'm in the reading phase of my writing cycle. When my writing energy wanes, or I feel that everything I'm writing is crap, I indulge in marathon reading sessions. This lull in writing hit at a good time, because I still have a huge stack of books from my San Francisco trek. However, I have my priorities, and the first of those is to be entertained. So Greg Herren's Mardi Gras Mambo, the third book in his Scotty Bradley mystery series, went right to the top of the pile.
I love a good mystery. Greg delivers another one in this book. This time, the mystery centers around the Bradley family's secrets. The murder of Scotty's drug dealer sets him on an investigation that keeps coming back to an uncomfortable truth: that even people we think we know well have hidden lives and agendas. Scotty finds out that his parents have withheld information about his grandfather's secret second family. That doesn't sit well with Scotty, because he was raised to believe that his family was open and honest. But his parents aren't the only ones holding back the truth, and as bodies start piling up around Scotty, more people who are close to him reveal their secrets. Some are devastating betrayals, but some repair strained relationships. I don't want to say any more about the twists and turns this story takes, because that's all the fun of reading a mystery.
There are several things that make this book enjoyable. Scotty loves life, and his irrepressible determination to enjoy himself makes him unique as a detective. Greg's love of New Orleans simply shines through the book, and he makes you want to love his city too. And, of course, it's a damn good mystery with well paced action and humor that keep you turning pages right to the end.
Highly recommended.
I love a good mystery. Greg delivers another one in this book. This time, the mystery centers around the Bradley family's secrets. The murder of Scotty's drug dealer sets him on an investigation that keeps coming back to an uncomfortable truth: that even people we think we know well have hidden lives and agendas. Scotty finds out that his parents have withheld information about his grandfather's secret second family. That doesn't sit well with Scotty, because he was raised to believe that his family was open and honest. But his parents aren't the only ones holding back the truth, and as bodies start piling up around Scotty, more people who are close to him reveal their secrets. Some are devastating betrayals, but some repair strained relationships. I don't want to say any more about the twists and turns this story takes, because that's all the fun of reading a mystery.
There are several things that make this book enjoyable. Scotty loves life, and his irrepressible determination to enjoy himself makes him unique as a detective. Greg's love of New Orleans simply shines through the book, and he makes you want to love his city too. And, of course, it's a damn good mystery with well paced action and humor that keep you turning pages right to the end.
Highly recommended.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Personalized Hell
'Ness posted this on one of my discussion forums, and since I'm in a lazy mood, I decided to swipe the idea from her.
Hell, personalized for my displeasure
Remember, your answers are your worst case scenario:
1. One movie which you are forced to watch over and over again 12 hrs/day.
2. One song which you get to listen to over and over again for the other 12 hrs/day.
3. One drink.
4. One food item.
5. You have to take care of an animal that creeps you out. What is it?
6. You only get one outfit, which you must wear all the time. What is it?
7. Any other item you can think of that would make the experience even worse.
My answers:
1. Disney's Cinderella. Oxygen thief. Doormat. One shove on Lady Tremaine down that sweeping staircase, and Cindy's problems would have been solved. What a wuss.
2. Something from Whitney...Celine... Whiney...Celine... hmmm. Part of my problem here is that while I imagine I'd hate songs by them, I don't actually know any and can't name one. What would be truly terrible was if it was a song I loved but the sheer repetition made me hate it. In that case, I pick Nina Simone's version of Mood Indigo.
3. Whatever it is they give to the Girls Gone Wild chicks, because if I ever show my tits to drunk white frat boys for a rope of cheesy beads, put my arms in the air, and shout "whoo-hoo," I'll know I'm in hell.
4. Banana Moon Pies. I have this love-hate relationship with artificial banana flavoring. Plus I've never been able to eat a whole moon pie without puking, and I seriously hate puking.
5. This one threw me. Have to take care of it? What happens if I don't? It dies? But then I win, because the creepy animal isn't around anymore. When we lived in Oklahoma, I once saw a praying mantis in the backyard. Bastard was tracking me. Plus, they can fly. *shivers* Upside? Splat! They're small enough that I can take it down if I need to.
6. My initial answer was a thong bikini, but in hell, that might be a good idea. My new choice is a wedding dress. No, wait - a bridesmaid dress!!!! A cousin who shall remain nameless (Annalissa) once stuck me in a lime chiffon hoop skirt with white gloves, white shoes, and a floppy white hat when I was one of her junior bridesmaids. Luckily, planning for this faux Gone With the Wind tableau lasted longer than the marriage, so all pictorial evidence of me in that dress was destroyed. I get additional eternal damnation points for wearing pantyhose.
7. Pops is sitting next to me and wants to tell me about his erectile dysfunction problems. Again.
So, what's your hell?
(And thank you 'Ness)
Hell, personalized for my displeasure
Remember, your answers are your worst case scenario:
1. One movie which you are forced to watch over and over again 12 hrs/day.
2. One song which you get to listen to over and over again for the other 12 hrs/day.
3. One drink.
4. One food item.
5. You have to take care of an animal that creeps you out. What is it?
6. You only get one outfit, which you must wear all the time. What is it?
7. Any other item you can think of that would make the experience even worse.
My answers:
1. Disney's Cinderella. Oxygen thief. Doormat. One shove on Lady Tremaine down that sweeping staircase, and Cindy's problems would have been solved. What a wuss.
2. Something from Whitney...Celine... Whiney...Celine... hmmm. Part of my problem here is that while I imagine I'd hate songs by them, I don't actually know any and can't name one. What would be truly terrible was if it was a song I loved but the sheer repetition made me hate it. In that case, I pick Nina Simone's version of Mood Indigo.
3. Whatever it is they give to the Girls Gone Wild chicks, because if I ever show my tits to drunk white frat boys for a rope of cheesy beads, put my arms in the air, and shout "whoo-hoo," I'll know I'm in hell.
4. Banana Moon Pies. I have this love-hate relationship with artificial banana flavoring. Plus I've never been able to eat a whole moon pie without puking, and I seriously hate puking.
5. This one threw me. Have to take care of it? What happens if I don't? It dies? But then I win, because the creepy animal isn't around anymore. When we lived in Oklahoma, I once saw a praying mantis in the backyard. Bastard was tracking me. Plus, they can fly. *shivers* Upside? Splat! They're small enough that I can take it down if I need to.
6. My initial answer was a thong bikini, but in hell, that might be a good idea. My new choice is a wedding dress. No, wait - a bridesmaid dress!!!! A cousin who shall remain nameless (Annalissa) once stuck me in a lime chiffon hoop skirt with white gloves, white shoes, and a floppy white hat when I was one of her junior bridesmaids. Luckily, planning for this faux Gone With the Wind tableau lasted longer than the marriage, so all pictorial evidence of me in that dress was destroyed. I get additional eternal damnation points for wearing pantyhose.
7. Pops is sitting next to me and wants to tell me about his erectile dysfunction problems. Again.
So, what's your hell?
(And thank you 'Ness)
Sunday, April 30, 2006
I dreamed I went back to R.A.C. Again
I dreamed I went back to R.A.C again.
I was sitting in the reception area. Pure dread. I swore I'd never return, but there I was, back in my waking nightmare. Around the corner, I heard office noises, but no voices. Then the steady click of black pumps moving over a parquet floor sounded down the hallway. The typing on computer keyboards picked up to a frantic pace. My heart stopped.
The Princess of Darkness turned the corner. Her elbows pressed hard against her waist as she walked so that her scrawny forearms jutted ahead of her. Her hands turned palm down to the floor. Long, glistening red fingernails were a constant reminder that she had gutted and eaten employees alive before. I had no proof, but I swore she was once a prison matron for a South American dictator. Or Jurassic Park.
Instead of fleeing, I followed her past rows of desks where sullen, silent employees wore shades of gray and couldn't lift their eyes to meet mine. I searched the blank faces for my old co-workers, Struggling Actress and Lives In A Glass Closet, but the nightmare was for me alone.
POD opened the double doors of the big corner office. I went inside. As usual, it took a moment for my eyesight to adjust to the dim lighting. I took a seat before the huge desk. Wreathed in swirling cigarette smoke, a shadowy figure waited for me. Office noir. Gin glazed eyes were the only distinct facial feature I could see in the haze. I thought he was about to speak, but the Hideous Troll launched into a prolonged phlegmy cough. He continued wheezing. He was struggling for breath. My lungs were about to burst in sympathy, but then I remembered that in his office there never was any pity, so I got over it. The POD stood behind me. Her talons gripped my shoulder too close to my jugular for comfort. POD spoke fluent phlegm and understood what the Hideous Troll said. I had no clue, but the interview was over.
For some reason, I took a seat at a desk and began to work. Color drained from my skin. Things were almost the same, but different enough that I wanted to ask questions. I knew better than to talk though. There was a reason Struggling Actress, Lives In A Glass Closet, and I passed notes like third graders when we worked together. We used to hide them under the sink in the bathroom rather than dare pass them by hand. We were watched. Some days, sheets of alternating handwriting bore witness to our struggle to maintain our sanity. They were conversations of shared misery peppered with longings to escape. I was tempted to go see if one was still stuffed in the U-bend of the pipes.
About once every six months I suffer through that bitter nostalgia. The absolute absurdity of that place should make me roll my eyes and laugh, but it doesn't. Years later it's still too real.
Dream time is quirky, so I have no idea how long I sat at that desk. For some reason, even though I'm consciously aware that I'm having a nightmare, I always try to make a go of it, try to prove to them that I am, above all, professional. Not that they care. But I do. The nightmare thankfully ends the way it always does - with me grabbing my stuff, telling POD I won't work there again, and walking out the door. They never try to talk me into staying. They know I'll be back.
I was sitting in the reception area. Pure dread. I swore I'd never return, but there I was, back in my waking nightmare. Around the corner, I heard office noises, but no voices. Then the steady click of black pumps moving over a parquet floor sounded down the hallway. The typing on computer keyboards picked up to a frantic pace. My heart stopped.
The Princess of Darkness turned the corner. Her elbows pressed hard against her waist as she walked so that her scrawny forearms jutted ahead of her. Her hands turned palm down to the floor. Long, glistening red fingernails were a constant reminder that she had gutted and eaten employees alive before. I had no proof, but I swore she was once a prison matron for a South American dictator. Or Jurassic Park.
Instead of fleeing, I followed her past rows of desks where sullen, silent employees wore shades of gray and couldn't lift their eyes to meet mine. I searched the blank faces for my old co-workers, Struggling Actress and Lives In A Glass Closet, but the nightmare was for me alone.
POD opened the double doors of the big corner office. I went inside. As usual, it took a moment for my eyesight to adjust to the dim lighting. I took a seat before the huge desk. Wreathed in swirling cigarette smoke, a shadowy figure waited for me. Office noir. Gin glazed eyes were the only distinct facial feature I could see in the haze. I thought he was about to speak, but the Hideous Troll launched into a prolonged phlegmy cough. He continued wheezing. He was struggling for breath. My lungs were about to burst in sympathy, but then I remembered that in his office there never was any pity, so I got over it. The POD stood behind me. Her talons gripped my shoulder too close to my jugular for comfort. POD spoke fluent phlegm and understood what the Hideous Troll said. I had no clue, but the interview was over.
For some reason, I took a seat at a desk and began to work. Color drained from my skin. Things were almost the same, but different enough that I wanted to ask questions. I knew better than to talk though. There was a reason Struggling Actress, Lives In A Glass Closet, and I passed notes like third graders when we worked together. We used to hide them under the sink in the bathroom rather than dare pass them by hand. We were watched. Some days, sheets of alternating handwriting bore witness to our struggle to maintain our sanity. They were conversations of shared misery peppered with longings to escape. I was tempted to go see if one was still stuffed in the U-bend of the pipes.
About once every six months I suffer through that bitter nostalgia. The absolute absurdity of that place should make me roll my eyes and laugh, but it doesn't. Years later it's still too real.
Dream time is quirky, so I have no idea how long I sat at that desk. For some reason, even though I'm consciously aware that I'm having a nightmare, I always try to make a go of it, try to prove to them that I am, above all, professional. Not that they care. But I do. The nightmare thankfully ends the way it always does - with me grabbing my stuff, telling POD I won't work there again, and walking out the door. They never try to talk me into staying. They know I'll be back.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
All Hail the Serious Writer
I was sailing the mighty Los Angeles River on my golden barge ala Cleopatra, being fed grapes by a scantily clad dancing girl while watching the broad backs of my oarsmen glisten with sweat, and thinking life was pretty damn sweet, when I received a message from The Serious Writer.
Occasionally, The Serious Writer goes on a mission to save me from myself.
TSW: "I saw your latest story." *long email sigh* "So, you're still writing erotica."
ME: "Yup."
TSW: "You could be writing, you know, serious stuff."
ME: "Are you talking Thomas Hardy makes-you-want-to-slit-your-wrists serious? No interest."
TSW: "At least his stuff is literature."
This is the heart of any conversation with The Serious Writer.
ME: "You mean like the collected works of Anais Nin and the Story of O? Not to mention deSade. The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Story of the Eye, Lolita..." (Few of which I like, but that's beside the point here. We're discussing merit in the eyes of a certain group of people.)
TSW: "Those are classics, not literature."
ME: "I concede that there is a difference." (Gone With the Wind might be a classic, but literature?)
TSW: "The point is, you should be using your talent to create works that have some literary merit, not, as you keep calling it, wank fiction."
This is the always the conversation. It never varies. I suppose it's a back handed compliment in a way. The Serious Writer feels I have talent, but that it's somehow wasted. I, on the other hand, feel that The Serious Writer is a pretentious genre snob with deep seated sexual issues.
ME: "I see that you also had an erotica piece published recently."
TSW: *if it's possible to sputter indignantly via email, TSW writer is doing it* "That's an old, old piece. I submitted it a very long time ago, before I got serious about my writing. I would have pulled it, but I'd already promised it to them."
ME: "That makes it perfectly all right then." *Thinking maybe TSW isn't selling the literary works.* "So, bottom line here. What are the perks of being a serious writer?"
TSW: "Perks?"
ME: "Yeah. Perks."
TSW: "Well, for one, you're taken seriously."
ME: "And?"
TSW: "What do you mean, 'And?' That's it. People take your writing seriously."
Ah, but I already take my writing seriously. And I seriously don't care what other people think of me, especially some mysterious and fabled group of intellectuals who are self-appointed arbiters of 'what is worthy' and 'what we sneer at.' Besides, I'm not ready to give up my glamorous erotica writer's life just yet. I doubt Thomas Hardy ever got fanned on a hot day by a Chippendales dancer wearing a sparkly thong.
Occasionally, The Serious Writer goes on a mission to save me from myself.
TSW: "I saw your latest story." *long email sigh* "So, you're still writing erotica."
ME: "Yup."
TSW: "You could be writing, you know, serious stuff."
ME: "Are you talking Thomas Hardy makes-you-want-to-slit-your-wrists serious? No interest."
TSW: "At least his stuff is literature."
This is the heart of any conversation with The Serious Writer.
ME: "You mean like the collected works of Anais Nin and the Story of O? Not to mention deSade. The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Story of the Eye, Lolita..." (Few of which I like, but that's beside the point here. We're discussing merit in the eyes of a certain group of people.)
TSW: "Those are classics, not literature."
ME: "I concede that there is a difference." (Gone With the Wind might be a classic, but literature?)
TSW: "The point is, you should be using your talent to create works that have some literary merit, not, as you keep calling it, wank fiction."
This is the always the conversation. It never varies. I suppose it's a back handed compliment in a way. The Serious Writer feels I have talent, but that it's somehow wasted. I, on the other hand, feel that The Serious Writer is a pretentious genre snob with deep seated sexual issues.
ME: "I see that you also had an erotica piece published recently."
TSW: *if it's possible to sputter indignantly via email, TSW writer is doing it* "That's an old, old piece. I submitted it a very long time ago, before I got serious about my writing. I would have pulled it, but I'd already promised it to them."
ME: "That makes it perfectly all right then." *Thinking maybe TSW isn't selling the literary works.* "So, bottom line here. What are the perks of being a serious writer?"
TSW: "Perks?"
ME: "Yeah. Perks."
TSW: "Well, for one, you're taken seriously."
ME: "And?"
TSW: "What do you mean, 'And?' That's it. People take your writing seriously."
Ah, but I already take my writing seriously. And I seriously don't care what other people think of me, especially some mysterious and fabled group of intellectuals who are self-appointed arbiters of 'what is worthy' and 'what we sneer at.' Besides, I'm not ready to give up my glamorous erotica writer's life just yet. I doubt Thomas Hardy ever got fanned on a hot day by a Chippendales dancer wearing a sparkly thong.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Honest, It Was Him (This Time)
When the SO and I get in trouble in public for our snarky remarks and/or behavior, it's usually because I set us off. I admit it. I whisper sotto voce comments to the SO, and soon he's either bought in to my cunning (and yet socially unacceptable) plan, or he's stealing my Dorothy Parkeresque comments and trying to pass them as his own. (But he lacks my timing and delivery. I've made him shoot sodas out his nose. He only earns snorts and guffaws.)
Yes, I was the one who tried to buy a Bishop's miter in Rome, and wanted my name embroidered on the back like they do at Disneyland.
Yes, I am the one who takes my nieces to art galleries and sends them off on penis scavenger hunts.
Yes, I'm always the one making my nephews giggle during religious services and funerals.
But this time I was completely innocent - of instigating anything. I will cop to a lesser plea of upping the ante.
MLS soccer season started April 1 (appropriately enough). We didn't make it to a live game until last weekend. It was a cold, drizzly night. (As an aside, my special thanks to #9 of the away team. Thank you so very much for all those warm-up exercises you did right in front of me. Thank you for wearing your shorts so damn tight and not wearing underwear. Thank you for bending down to touch your toes so that those shorts had to s-t-r-e-t-c-h over your very nice muscular ass, over and over, and over again. *Sigh* I LOVE soccer.)
Where was I? Oh yeah.
At halftime, as the teams left the pitch, the announcer told us that a season ticket holder had a special announcement to make. Immediately, my mental warning flags were waving. I should have gone to the ladies room. But no. I stayed in my seat.
Sure, I like love. I love love. But there's a time and place for everything, and a soccer stadium where 20,000 people are trapped as unwilling witnesses to your schmaltzy personal business is not the time or the place. As he read his little speech about how much he loved his wife and their two allegedly adorable children, I made sounds like a puking dog. Only the SO could hear me though.
When we got to the part where the man asked his wife to renew their vows, it was the SO who shouted, "Say No!"
People in our section cracked up.
I couldn't let that go, so I added, "You Can Do Better!"
Oh sure, they tried to look horrified, but I could see people stifling their giggles.
Then the SO yelled, "Run!" which kind of served a double purpose, because by then the ushers were converging on our seats. Our section was openly laughing as we sprinted up the stairs.
So you can see, he started it this time. Me? Completely innocent.
On the way home, I got to thinking about that whole smarmy display of affection. If I had a season ticket, maybe they'd hand me an open mike. Oh sure, I'd tell them it was for something completely inncocent. No time delay button. An audience in the thousands. Excellent. The possibilities boggle even my wicked imagination. Time to start saving my pennies.
Yes, I was the one who tried to buy a Bishop's miter in Rome, and wanted my name embroidered on the back like they do at Disneyland.
Yes, I am the one who takes my nieces to art galleries and sends them off on penis scavenger hunts.
Yes, I'm always the one making my nephews giggle during religious services and funerals.
But this time I was completely innocent - of instigating anything. I will cop to a lesser plea of upping the ante.
MLS soccer season started April 1 (appropriately enough). We didn't make it to a live game until last weekend. It was a cold, drizzly night. (As an aside, my special thanks to #9 of the away team. Thank you so very much for all those warm-up exercises you did right in front of me. Thank you for wearing your shorts so damn tight and not wearing underwear. Thank you for bending down to touch your toes so that those shorts had to s-t-r-e-t-c-h over your very nice muscular ass, over and over, and over again. *Sigh* I LOVE soccer.)
Where was I? Oh yeah.
At halftime, as the teams left the pitch, the announcer told us that a season ticket holder had a special announcement to make. Immediately, my mental warning flags were waving. I should have gone to the ladies room. But no. I stayed in my seat.
Sure, I like love. I love love. But there's a time and place for everything, and a soccer stadium where 20,000 people are trapped as unwilling witnesses to your schmaltzy personal business is not the time or the place. As he read his little speech about how much he loved his wife and their two allegedly adorable children, I made sounds like a puking dog. Only the SO could hear me though.
When we got to the part where the man asked his wife to renew their vows, it was the SO who shouted, "Say No!"
People in our section cracked up.
I couldn't let that go, so I added, "You Can Do Better!"
Oh sure, they tried to look horrified, but I could see people stifling their giggles.
Then the SO yelled, "Run!" which kind of served a double purpose, because by then the ushers were converging on our seats. Our section was openly laughing as we sprinted up the stairs.
So you can see, he started it this time. Me? Completely innocent.
On the way home, I got to thinking about that whole smarmy display of affection. If I had a season ticket, maybe they'd hand me an open mike. Oh sure, I'd tell them it was for something completely inncocent. No time delay button. An audience in the thousands. Excellent. The possibilities boggle even my wicked imagination. Time to start saving my pennies.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Crashing America
I finished reading Crashing America by Katia Noyes this weekend.
It was one of the books I picked up on my San Francisco trip.
Crashing America is about a street kid named Girl from San Francisco in search of her identity and family. Her mother committed suicide years before and her father seems to think of her as an embarrassing inconvenience.
During my fuck-up years, I ran with a couple searchers like Girl. They were great dreamers, but had no focus, ability, or emotional tools to build their futures. Katia has done a great job of capturing the character. Through Girl's roadtrip, I kept thinking, "Yes, seen it, been there." And then the inevitable groan as Girl pinged between bad decisions and the fate she couldn't stop from driving herself towards.
This is an excellent first novel. I hope to see more of Katia's work in the future.
It was one of the books I picked up on my San Francisco trip.
Crashing America is about a street kid named Girl from San Francisco in search of her identity and family. Her mother committed suicide years before and her father seems to think of her as an embarrassing inconvenience.
During my fuck-up years, I ran with a couple searchers like Girl. They were great dreamers, but had no focus, ability, or emotional tools to build their futures. Katia has done a great job of capturing the character. Through Girl's roadtrip, I kept thinking, "Yes, seen it, been there." And then the inevitable groan as Girl pinged between bad decisions and the fate she couldn't stop from driving herself towards.
This is an excellent first novel. I hope to see more of Katia's work in the future.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Congratulations Anna and Brianne!
Ah, love....
A big congratulations from the SO and I on your commitment ceremony! We were honored to host your reception. You know our door is always open for you. We wish you happiness. Hugs and kisses to you both.
A big congratulations from the SO and I on your commitment ceremony! We were honored to host your reception. You know our door is always open for you. We wish you happiness. Hugs and kisses to you both.
Friday, April 21, 2006
Greg Herren's reading
Getting LA writers together is usually difficult, but when they heard the Greg Herren would be reading from his new book Mardi Gras Mambo, we had a lot of positive responses. Angelinos reserve the right to flake on an invite without cause or apology, and a few did, but A Different Light in West Hollywood was packed for the event.
Kate Dominic, D. Travers Scott, Greg, and I went to dinner before the reading. Greg knew Kate, but not me and I don't think he knew Trav before. It was sweet of him to give us his time. I kept having those fan moments of, "My god, I'm talking to Greg Herren. Too cool!" I'm more than a fan of his writing though. The past two years of his life have been rough. Read his blog for some insight on how bad events come slamming out of nowhere and land right on him. But he keeps getting up and fighting and living and writing. I'm awed by his internal strength.
After dinner, we walked over to A Different Light for the reading and met up with Trebor Healy. The excerpt Greg chose was pretty funny if you've ever rolled your eyes over stupid tourists staggering down Bourbon Street at three in the afternoon. I guess if you've ever been drunk and mugged in the French Quarter you might not find it so hilarious, but I enjoyed it. I learned there's more to throws than I imagined. I promise I will never think of them as just beads again.
I'm dying to get into this book and get reacquainted with Scotty, Frank, and Colin, as well as the whole Bradley family. (I'll review once I've read it.) Writing mysteries is beyond me, but I sure love to read them. Greg wrote this novel pre-Katrina. In the post-K world, this book may leave a lingering bittersweet longing for what once was, but maybe that's another good reason to pick it up.
Keeping Ahead of the Curve
I’ve been living off high doses of caffeine, Tylenol, and nicotine for the last two days as I've been trying to outrun a headache. I’ve reached pill saturation level. I absolutely cannot swallow another one. Even now, remembering the smell of the tomato sauce on my dinner last night is almost unbearable. Smoking helps, but afterwards I feel worse. I have so much caffeine in my blood that even though I was exhausted last night it took me hours to fall asleep. Breakfast was three shots of espresso and a migraine pill to jolt me back to a functioning level. Inside my head feels like tornado weather – like the barometer is dropping, the air is getting thick and still, and dark clouds are on the horizon. All I’m asking is to keep ahead of the curve until 7PM tonight. That's only four more hours. I think I can make it. By then, everything I have to get done will be finished, and the storm can hit.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Fashionistas
If you're a fan of porn, specifically kink or fetish, you've probably seen Fashionistas by John Stagliano. Ah... but have you seen the stage production?
While on vacation in Las Vegas, I meet with kink writer D.L. King over wood fire pizzas at the Venetian. Roll your eyes if you will, but we talked about the business end of writing for a couple hours, so it was a business lunch. We even had the requisite martinis. Can't get much more authentic than that!
D.L mentioned there was a show based on the movie Fashionistas (Had I heard of it? Of course, sweetheart. I own a copy.) and was I interested in seeing it? Being the dedicated erotica writer that I am, I'm always willing to do my research, even if I'm on vacation. A live show based on that movie? I was there! We hiked down to the Aladdin (soon to be remade over into Planet Hollywood - ugh) to their Krave theater and bought our tickets.
Being a dependable reporter, after I drooled over a couple scenes, I whipped out a piece of paper and took brief notes. Very brief. The male and female dancers kept distracting me with flesh. And boots. There was a lot of high-heeled shiny vinyl to enjoy, a scene with some foot worship, and a very hot pair of ballet shoes towards the end.
The dominance/seduction scene was the most incredible stylized sex/dance sequence I've ever seen. Added bonus: right in front of me, two guys in leather fetish gear working their own scene, and on the far end of the stage, two women together. Absolutely amazingly hot.
The "we must increase our bust" dance sequence was so damn funny. The ass sequence that followed didn't do much for me until the female dancers pressed their very nice butts against sheets like body-length dental dams and a male dancer at first bit at the moving targets and then buried his face into the cleft. Whew!!!
We sat in the cheap seats which were close to the stage. It was great, but we missed the acrobats on hoops and other stuff that went on above and behind us, so you might want to spring for the better seats further back.
Every scene had strengths, so it's hard to pick out a favorite. The kitty/pony girls pulling the silver chariot? Nice. The woman in the jester outfit dragging around her gagged boy on a leash? Lovely. The cage coming down from the ceiling with a chained woman in full face mask and killer ballet shoes? It was sensory overload.
The music was incredible too. They had a fantastic drummer augmenting cuts from Evanescence, Madonna, Tool, Lords of Acid, and Crystal Method. The best though was the big dance sequence/bondage scene involving a huge rope spider's web that was performed to Whole Lotta Love by Led Zeppelin. Oh. My. God.
Even if you don't know the story - yes, Fashionistas has a story line - if you like fetish wear, great bodies (no fake breasts that I could tell. Yay!), hot hot hot stylized sex scenes, and incredible dancing, I suggest you check out this show.
While on vacation in Las Vegas, I meet with kink writer D.L. King over wood fire pizzas at the Venetian. Roll your eyes if you will, but we talked about the business end of writing for a couple hours, so it was a business lunch. We even had the requisite martinis. Can't get much more authentic than that!
D.L mentioned there was a show based on the movie Fashionistas (Had I heard of it? Of course, sweetheart. I own a copy.) and was I interested in seeing it? Being the dedicated erotica writer that I am, I'm always willing to do my research, even if I'm on vacation. A live show based on that movie? I was there! We hiked down to the Aladdin (soon to be remade over into Planet Hollywood - ugh) to their Krave theater and bought our tickets.
Being a dependable reporter, after I drooled over a couple scenes, I whipped out a piece of paper and took brief notes. Very brief. The male and female dancers kept distracting me with flesh. And boots. There was a lot of high-heeled shiny vinyl to enjoy, a scene with some foot worship, and a very hot pair of ballet shoes towards the end.
The dominance/seduction scene was the most incredible stylized sex/dance sequence I've ever seen. Added bonus: right in front of me, two guys in leather fetish gear working their own scene, and on the far end of the stage, two women together. Absolutely amazingly hot.
The "we must increase our bust" dance sequence was so damn funny. The ass sequence that followed didn't do much for me until the female dancers pressed their very nice butts against sheets like body-length dental dams and a male dancer at first bit at the moving targets and then buried his face into the cleft. Whew!!!
We sat in the cheap seats which were close to the stage. It was great, but we missed the acrobats on hoops and other stuff that went on above and behind us, so you might want to spring for the better seats further back.
Every scene had strengths, so it's hard to pick out a favorite. The kitty/pony girls pulling the silver chariot? Nice. The woman in the jester outfit dragging around her gagged boy on a leash? Lovely. The cage coming down from the ceiling with a chained woman in full face mask and killer ballet shoes? It was sensory overload.
The music was incredible too. They had a fantastic drummer augmenting cuts from Evanescence, Madonna, Tool, Lords of Acid, and Crystal Method. The best though was the big dance sequence/bondage scene involving a huge rope spider's web that was performed to Whole Lotta Love by Led Zeppelin. Oh. My. God.
Even if you don't know the story - yes, Fashionistas has a story line - if you like fetish wear, great bodies (no fake breasts that I could tell. Yay!), hot hot hot stylized sex scenes, and incredible dancing, I suggest you check out this show.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Story up on Clean Sheets
Slipped my mind that it was this week, but my story Rekindle is up on Clean Sheets.
This is the only hetero vanilla story I have ever written. I tossed the gauntlet down and picked it back up - just to see if I could make it interesting to me. My good lord is it romantic. I'd forgotten about that too. Enjoy.
This is the only hetero vanilla story I have ever written. I tossed the gauntlet down and picked it back up - just to see if I could make it interesting to me. My good lord is it romantic. I'd forgotten about that too. Enjoy.
Monday, April 10, 2006
The Wild Creatures
I just finished reading The Wild Creatures by Sam D'Allesandro.
This won't sound right, but I had to force myself to read it. I kept slowing down to study it, reading it like a writer, not as a reader. I wanted to enjoy it on the reader level first, but some passages were so incredible that I caught myself re-reading them over several times instead of moving on.
Several stories and passages I recognized from the reading at Skylight Books. I thought, at the time, that it might be Kevin Killian's reading of Teddy Kennedy alone that convinced me to buy it, but I picked it up anyway.
This will be one of those rare books I'll pour over more than once. This book will be on the top shelf of my writer's bookcase near my computer, in easy reach, although I hope at some point I'll have read it so often that it will have sunk into me at a cellular level and I'll only open it when I need the cues to bring it back to fresh memory, like hearing the first words of the mourner's kaddish prompts the rest to come to my mouth.
But what about the stories? Speedboys brings me back to my summer days as a feral child when we lived in Oklahoma and Colorado. It is brief and perfect. Giovanni's Apartment is outstanding, but I can't begin to explain why. It simply is. Nothing Ever Just Disappears is heartbreaking in subtle shades that don't impact until you pull back from the story and realize the bigger picture you've been looking at.
This is the way stories should be told. Writers constantly search for books on style and character. This will be my textbook for that, and more.
This won't sound right, but I had to force myself to read it. I kept slowing down to study it, reading it like a writer, not as a reader. I wanted to enjoy it on the reader level first, but some passages were so incredible that I caught myself re-reading them over several times instead of moving on.
Several stories and passages I recognized from the reading at Skylight Books. I thought, at the time, that it might be Kevin Killian's reading of Teddy Kennedy alone that convinced me to buy it, but I picked it up anyway.
This will be one of those rare books I'll pour over more than once. This book will be on the top shelf of my writer's bookcase near my computer, in easy reach, although I hope at some point I'll have read it so often that it will have sunk into me at a cellular level and I'll only open it when I need the cues to bring it back to fresh memory, like hearing the first words of the mourner's kaddish prompts the rest to come to my mouth.
But what about the stories? Speedboys brings me back to my summer days as a feral child when we lived in Oklahoma and Colorado. It is brief and perfect. Giovanni's Apartment is outstanding, but I can't begin to explain why. It simply is. Nothing Ever Just Disappears is heartbreaking in subtle shades that don't impact until you pull back from the story and realize the bigger picture you've been looking at.
This is the way stories should be told. Writers constantly search for books on style and character. This will be my textbook for that, and more.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
The Beautifully Worthless
I may never speak ill of poetry again.
I took The Beautifully Worthless by Ail Liebegott with me to San Francisco because it fit inside my purse and I always have a book squirreled away somewhere. The trunk of my car is a library. But I sat in the hotel atrium reading Blue of Noon by Georges Bataille instead. It turned out to be a good decision and a bad one - good because I didn't mind setting aside Blue of Noon when our plans changed - bad because I hate an unfinished book so I forced myself to endure Blue of Noon through to the end before I picked up The Beautifully Worthless. (Why do I do that? I was bored by Story of the Eye. I should have know better than to read another of Bataille's works.)
Then I couldn't find my copy. Losing a book drives me insane. Blue of Noon mocked me while I searched the house, the car, my suitcase. It seemed to be everywhere I looked; The Beautifully Worthless was nowhere to be found.
Yesterday, it reappeared. The SO was out of town. It was raining. The cats were curled together on my pillow. Perfect reading conditions. I got comfortable and opened the cover. I was glad I didn't try to read this book in a hotel atrium. It deserved my full attention and a quiet room.
Because this collection flows so well as a whole work, it seems wrong to mention individual pieces. It is, sort of, a story about a run away waitress and her dog. It may sum up to that, but each piece is an entirely different country.
One entry in particular has a strong grip on my memory because it touches on a story that resurfaces through my life.
When I was in high school, I was an avid hiker and planned to travel the southern span of the Appalachian Trail before I submitted to college. We were training for it, taking weekend hikes with fully loaded packs, breaking in boots, camping in snow, getting in shape for the long trek when our leader told us that two women had been murdered along the trail, so the trip was off. He was looking at me when he told the group. Years later, I read Bill Bryson's book about hiking the trail (and was appalled by his lack of preparation!) when he mentioned the murders. It was the first time I heard that the women were lesbians. That they were a couple. And I thought back to the leader looking at me. It never occurred to me to ask him why they were murdered or who they were. (Sadly enough, when you're female, the idea that someone will murder you simply because you're female isn't a big stretch for the imagination. Fact of life.) Several years after reading Bryson's book, I heard that someone was charged for those murders. I was amazed that anyone in law enforcement cared enough to keep the case open. I tried putting together those bits of information into a full story, but it was never clear what happened, or even when, and if those facts were muddled with another murder of two women on the trail that happened a different year. I never found out if the same person was charged with both sets of murders. Sometimes I wondered if there was one murder or two.
Then I read Ali's words:
"The women hikers were murdered for being lesbians.
The sound of that drones in and out,
soon I don't know what happened exactly-"
And for once poetry meant something to me. Something personal. It was a BAM! between the eyes moment of connection for me. I didn't have to diagram her words to know what they meant.
As I read through this incredible work, I was turning down page corners so that I knew where to go back and read again (Death. Love. About her dog.) but had to stop because almost every corner was bent. There's so much to be found in her words. I'm crushing on this book. I'm starting over from page one. Share the infatuation. Get a copy.
I took The Beautifully Worthless by Ail Liebegott with me to San Francisco because it fit inside my purse and I always have a book squirreled away somewhere. The trunk of my car is a library. But I sat in the hotel atrium reading Blue of Noon by Georges Bataille instead. It turned out to be a good decision and a bad one - good because I didn't mind setting aside Blue of Noon when our plans changed - bad because I hate an unfinished book so I forced myself to endure Blue of Noon through to the end before I picked up The Beautifully Worthless. (Why do I do that? I was bored by Story of the Eye. I should have know better than to read another of Bataille's works.)
Then I couldn't find my copy. Losing a book drives me insane. Blue of Noon mocked me while I searched the house, the car, my suitcase. It seemed to be everywhere I looked; The Beautifully Worthless was nowhere to be found.
Yesterday, it reappeared. The SO was out of town. It was raining. The cats were curled together on my pillow. Perfect reading conditions. I got comfortable and opened the cover. I was glad I didn't try to read this book in a hotel atrium. It deserved my full attention and a quiet room.
Because this collection flows so well as a whole work, it seems wrong to mention individual pieces. It is, sort of, a story about a run away waitress and her dog. It may sum up to that, but each piece is an entirely different country.
One entry in particular has a strong grip on my memory because it touches on a story that resurfaces through my life.
When I was in high school, I was an avid hiker and planned to travel the southern span of the Appalachian Trail before I submitted to college. We were training for it, taking weekend hikes with fully loaded packs, breaking in boots, camping in snow, getting in shape for the long trek when our leader told us that two women had been murdered along the trail, so the trip was off. He was looking at me when he told the group. Years later, I read Bill Bryson's book about hiking the trail (and was appalled by his lack of preparation!) when he mentioned the murders. It was the first time I heard that the women were lesbians. That they were a couple. And I thought back to the leader looking at me. It never occurred to me to ask him why they were murdered or who they were. (Sadly enough, when you're female, the idea that someone will murder you simply because you're female isn't a big stretch for the imagination. Fact of life.) Several years after reading Bryson's book, I heard that someone was charged for those murders. I was amazed that anyone in law enforcement cared enough to keep the case open. I tried putting together those bits of information into a full story, but it was never clear what happened, or even when, and if those facts were muddled with another murder of two women on the trail that happened a different year. I never found out if the same person was charged with both sets of murders. Sometimes I wondered if there was one murder or two.
Then I read Ali's words:
"The women hikers were murdered for being lesbians.
The sound of that drones in and out,
soon I don't know what happened exactly-"
And for once poetry meant something to me. Something personal. It was a BAM! between the eyes moment of connection for me. I didn't have to diagram her words to know what they meant.
As I read through this incredible work, I was turning down page corners so that I knew where to go back and read again (Death. Love. About her dog.) but had to stop because almost every corner was bent. There's so much to be found in her words. I'm crushing on this book. I'm starting over from page one. Share the infatuation. Get a copy.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Fetish
My fetish story Chill is up on ERWA.
Fetish presents a unique problem for an erotica writer. Perhaps it is too fine of a point, but most fetish stories are kink, meaning that the character is, like the reader, aroused by the visual aspect of leather, latex, shoes, etc. but stories rarely show those elements as being necessary for sexual satisfaction. Since true fetish is probably rare, most readers have a hard time connecting an object, scent, or texture to sexual desire. Once the story examines that, you risk losing your reader.
It's hard to make the non-sexual sexually interesting to anyone without that fetish. From the beginning, you're telling a story about sex that probably won't arouse the reader. Knowing that going in, I try to make the story as sensual as possible, but I realize that it's a losing battle.
So why write about fetish? For me, the physical act of sex is nowhere near as interesting as what's going on in the brain. And nothing examines the role of the mind over the body as clearly as extreme fetish.
Fetish presents a unique problem for an erotica writer. Perhaps it is too fine of a point, but most fetish stories are kink, meaning that the character is, like the reader, aroused by the visual aspect of leather, latex, shoes, etc. but stories rarely show those elements as being necessary for sexual satisfaction. Since true fetish is probably rare, most readers have a hard time connecting an object, scent, or texture to sexual desire. Once the story examines that, you risk losing your reader.
It's hard to make the non-sexual sexually interesting to anyone without that fetish. From the beginning, you're telling a story about sex that probably won't arouse the reader. Knowing that going in, I try to make the story as sensual as possible, but I realize that it's a losing battle.
So why write about fetish? For me, the physical act of sex is nowhere near as interesting as what's going on in the brain. And nothing examines the role of the mind over the body as clearly as extreme fetish.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Color
I met an artist friend for lunch today. We talked a bit about how hard it is to give ourselves permission to spend time on creative pursuits. It feels selfish. I've gotten over that, to an extent, but she's still struggling with the pressure she puts on herself, despite a supportive partner.
I could only repeat what I tell everyone: Power isn't taken, it's given. If you don't give people power over your time, or your conscience, you'll find that they don't truly demand it. Most of the drive to give, give, give is internal.
Then our conversation took an interesting turn. We talked about color.
S works in watercolors. She had an unfinished piece with her. It was, like most of her work, amazing to me. When she talked about the palette she chose to work with, she got a little embarrassed, and then confessed that she thought of colors as numbers. (I've since looked this up and seen that, while uncommon, there are other artists who do the same thing. Fascinating.) The numbers she chooses often have significance to the theme of the painting. The work she showed me was a gift for a friend's birthday. She used the friend's birthdate as her number base. Sometimes, she told me, the numbers were from equations. I asked her if she'd solved the square root of red. She laughed and said no, but told me that equilateral triangles create the best color harmony.
Since we were in a confessional mood, I told her that I often visualize my characters in terms of colors or seasons. I don't see faces or hair color in my mind. What I see is a blur of (forgive me for sounding artsy-fartsy) aura. I've noticed that I tend towards two palettes. "White, black, red" characters or autumn. I can't even begin to explain how that translates to paper, into people, into dialog, but it's there in shades that shift with their emotions like the northern lights, and somehow it works for me.
I've tried talking about that with other writers, but I always get that long silence followed by a change of subject, so I'm convinced they think I'm insane. S asked me if I ever heard music. I confessed a few, rare, blue and purple characters who seemed to have jazz saxophone solos stuck to the soles of their shoes like trailing toilet paper. That cracked her up, but she said she knew someone just like that, so she understood what I meant.
I don't see S often enough. Aside from missing the connection to her, I also miss being able to spout weird writer crap and have her take it in stride, which means that she ignores it or she's being polite. Or maybe, just maybe, I make sense to her.
I could only repeat what I tell everyone: Power isn't taken, it's given. If you don't give people power over your time, or your conscience, you'll find that they don't truly demand it. Most of the drive to give, give, give is internal.
Then our conversation took an interesting turn. We talked about color.
S works in watercolors. She had an unfinished piece with her. It was, like most of her work, amazing to me. When she talked about the palette she chose to work with, she got a little embarrassed, and then confessed that she thought of colors as numbers. (I've since looked this up and seen that, while uncommon, there are other artists who do the same thing. Fascinating.) The numbers she chooses often have significance to the theme of the painting. The work she showed me was a gift for a friend's birthday. She used the friend's birthdate as her number base. Sometimes, she told me, the numbers were from equations. I asked her if she'd solved the square root of red. She laughed and said no, but told me that equilateral triangles create the best color harmony.
Since we were in a confessional mood, I told her that I often visualize my characters in terms of colors or seasons. I don't see faces or hair color in my mind. What I see is a blur of (forgive me for sounding artsy-fartsy) aura. I've noticed that I tend towards two palettes. "White, black, red" characters or autumn. I can't even begin to explain how that translates to paper, into people, into dialog, but it's there in shades that shift with their emotions like the northern lights, and somehow it works for me.
I've tried talking about that with other writers, but I always get that long silence followed by a change of subject, so I'm convinced they think I'm insane. S asked me if I ever heard music. I confessed a few, rare, blue and purple characters who seemed to have jazz saxophone solos stuck to the soles of their shoes like trailing toilet paper. That cracked her up, but she said she knew someone just like that, so she understood what I meant.
I don't see S often enough. Aside from missing the connection to her, I also miss being able to spout weird writer crap and have her take it in stride, which means that she ignores it or she's being polite. Or maybe, just maybe, I make sense to her.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Amazons
I just read Sage Vivant's blog entry about the anthology Amazons and found out the information on contributors that I have listed below is WRONG! (Skylight books and Amazon both have the same incorrect list.) Sage has the real list here.
My contribution, Blue Girl, is one of my favorite stories. When I first wrote it, I was afraid that it would quickly become dated (hope for political sanity springs eternal), but last month, Alabama outlawed the sale of dildos and vibrators. And here I thought I was writing absurdist fiction. Or maybe my story is absurd, and the State of Alabama is too. (Can you believe I was born there? Me either.)
I can't wait to see what others have done with the theme. Hopefully, my contributor's copy will arrive soon.
Dontcha love the heel on that shoe? Woof!
Bringing it on Home
Final day in SF.
Sunday morning, Cady and I met Greg Wharton and Ian Philips for brunch. They are Suspect Thoughts Press, publisher of many of my favorite books, including Ian's collections See Dick Deconstruct and Satyraisis, and Greg's collection of short stories Johnny Was. As a publisher, it seems that Greg doesn't get much of a chance to write, which is a shame, because I am consistently awed by his stories. Ian blushed a bit when I told him that his story Harder is the hottest thing I've ever read.
Greg gifted us with copies of Rode Hard and Put Away Wet and Out of Control. I'll add those to my Suspect Thoughts reading list which already includes:
The Beautifully Worthless
The Wild Creatures
Killing Me Softly
and Toilet.
Recently read and recommended from their offerings:
Everything I have Is Blue
Pulling Taffy
Ian and Greg are charming company. I can't remember everything we talked about - roller coasters, horror movies, dogs, of course cats, herbs, writing, Saints and Sinners... A lovely conversation with intelligent people that had me laughing the entire time. I appreciated them taking time on such short notice to share a meal with us. It was the perfect end to our trip.
Sunday morning, Cady and I met Greg Wharton and Ian Philips for brunch. They are Suspect Thoughts Press, publisher of many of my favorite books, including Ian's collections See Dick Deconstruct and Satyraisis, and Greg's collection of short stories Johnny Was. As a publisher, it seems that Greg doesn't get much of a chance to write, which is a shame, because I am consistently awed by his stories. Ian blushed a bit when I told him that his story Harder is the hottest thing I've ever read.
Greg gifted us with copies of Rode Hard and Put Away Wet and Out of Control. I'll add those to my Suspect Thoughts reading list which already includes:
The Beautifully Worthless
The Wild Creatures
Killing Me Softly
and Toilet.
Recently read and recommended from their offerings:
Everything I have Is Blue
Pulling Taffy
Ian and Greg are charming company. I can't remember everything we talked about - roller coasters, horror movies, dogs, of course cats, herbs, writing, Saints and Sinners... A lovely conversation with intelligent people that had me laughing the entire time. I appreciated them taking time on such short notice to share a meal with us. It was the perfect end to our trip.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
SF Day 2, part 2
The reason I went to SF was to meet up with other ERWA writers. Everything else was a bonus.
Cady and I headed to A Different Light bookstore in the Castro at 4. I saw her collection of short stories Any 2 People Kissing on the shelf and pointed it out to her. (Lots of great stories in there, but I love the puppy play one most.)
A Different Light has a great selection of, well, everything, but the transgendered section was amazing. I was tempted to pick up a few more titles, but I knew I was already over my book buying budget for the month. Greg Herren's newest mystery, Mardi Gras Mambo was featured on one of the front tables, but he'll be in LA for a reading April 20th, so I decided to wait to buy it. Besides, the canvas bag was already overflowing.
Nan Andrews, who has a story featured in CREAM- the upcoming ERWA anthology edited by Lisabet Sarai - met us at A Different Light. (Cady's story Drillers is also in CREAM.) We stopped for some coffee and chat before hiking to Nan's car. I was so glad I didn't try to drive. Not that driving is the problem, but parking... Oh honey, leave that to the natives.
ERWA writer Jane was in town too, so we went to the financial district and met up with her, then we all headed for North Beach. I'd never been there before, but plan to go back. Way, way back, I remember my parent's Kingston Trio record recorded live at the Hungry I. I was floored to see that it was still around. I should have crossed the street to see who was performing, but figured I'd walked enough that day.
Nan was an excellent tour guide. It's great to be with someone who knows the city and can throw off little nuggets of information as you pass by landmarks. We trusted her with the choice of bar and later on a restaurant, and she picked great places. So thank you again, Nan. You're an excellent host.
My first drink about put me under the table, so I was only able to make sleepy conversation through our fantastic dinner. I had a good time just listening though. Honest Nan, Jane, John, and Cady - I wasn't bored. I was exhausted. Thus the sleepy grin every time someone said something to me. But by the time we left the restaurant though, ideas were pinging around in my brain. I hoped I'd remember some of them later. Being around other writers is such a creative jump-start for me. I love the energy and excitement over ideas and words.
We raised our glasses in a toast to the other ERWA get-together in New York. For everyone who was in NY - we hope you had as wonderful of an evening as we did.
After dinner, we headed for legendary City Lights Books, home of the beat generation writers. I couldn't help it, I bought Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass. Yes, me, buying poetry. After all the terrible things I've said about being forced to write essays in high school about Ode Upon A Grecian Urn (which always makes me think of the Ladies' Auxiliary Dance Committee from the Music Man - trickle, trickle, trickle.) Like Shakespeare's plays, I probably need to hear poetry from the mouth of a talented actor to appreciate it. I remember the funeral scene from the movie Four Weddings and A Funeral where the poem Funeral Blues was read and it took my breath away. Still, I'm willing to try reading Leaves of Grass on my own.
Nan bought a copy of Garden of The Perverse and got Cady and I to sign our stories. I almost felt famous. I love signing books, but (oh, the irony) I can never think of anything to write. Cady has seen me get terribly flustered when handed a book and a pen, so no doubt she was waiting to see how I'd handle it this time. I think I did okay. (Although I did slink off to have a comfort smoke immediately afterwards. )
I was glad when everyone admitted around eleven that they were wiped as well, so we caught a bus back to the financial district and called it a night.
Score for the day? 7 books, 2 magazines, 1 newspaper, 1 cemetery, 1 purple draped Jesus, 3 sex shops, 4 bookstores, 3 ERWA writers, and only two cigarettes. Pretty damn good.
Cady and I headed to A Different Light bookstore in the Castro at 4. I saw her collection of short stories Any 2 People Kissing on the shelf and pointed it out to her. (Lots of great stories in there, but I love the puppy play one most.)
A Different Light has a great selection of, well, everything, but the transgendered section was amazing. I was tempted to pick up a few more titles, but I knew I was already over my book buying budget for the month. Greg Herren's newest mystery, Mardi Gras Mambo was featured on one of the front tables, but he'll be in LA for a reading April 20th, so I decided to wait to buy it. Besides, the canvas bag was already overflowing.
Nan Andrews, who has a story featured in CREAM- the upcoming ERWA anthology edited by Lisabet Sarai - met us at A Different Light. (Cady's story Drillers is also in CREAM.) We stopped for some coffee and chat before hiking to Nan's car. I was so glad I didn't try to drive. Not that driving is the problem, but parking... Oh honey, leave that to the natives.
ERWA writer Jane was in town too, so we went to the financial district and met up with her, then we all headed for North Beach. I'd never been there before, but plan to go back. Way, way back, I remember my parent's Kingston Trio record recorded live at the Hungry I. I was floored to see that it was still around. I should have crossed the street to see who was performing, but figured I'd walked enough that day.
Nan was an excellent tour guide. It's great to be with someone who knows the city and can throw off little nuggets of information as you pass by landmarks. We trusted her with the choice of bar and later on a restaurant, and she picked great places. So thank you again, Nan. You're an excellent host.
My first drink about put me under the table, so I was only able to make sleepy conversation through our fantastic dinner. I had a good time just listening though. Honest Nan, Jane, John, and Cady - I wasn't bored. I was exhausted. Thus the sleepy grin every time someone said something to me. But by the time we left the restaurant though, ideas were pinging around in my brain. I hoped I'd remember some of them later. Being around other writers is such a creative jump-start for me. I love the energy and excitement over ideas and words.
We raised our glasses in a toast to the other ERWA get-together in New York. For everyone who was in NY - we hope you had as wonderful of an evening as we did.
After dinner, we headed for legendary City Lights Books, home of the beat generation writers. I couldn't help it, I bought Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass. Yes, me, buying poetry. After all the terrible things I've said about being forced to write essays in high school about Ode Upon A Grecian Urn (which always makes me think of the Ladies' Auxiliary Dance Committee from the Music Man - trickle, trickle, trickle.) Like Shakespeare's plays, I probably need to hear poetry from the mouth of a talented actor to appreciate it. I remember the funeral scene from the movie Four Weddings and A Funeral where the poem Funeral Blues was read and it took my breath away. Still, I'm willing to try reading Leaves of Grass on my own.
Nan bought a copy of Garden of The Perverse and got Cady and I to sign our stories. I almost felt famous. I love signing books, but (oh, the irony) I can never think of anything to write. Cady has seen me get terribly flustered when handed a book and a pen, so no doubt she was waiting to see how I'd handle it this time. I think I did okay. (Although I did slink off to have a comfort smoke immediately afterwards. )
I was glad when everyone admitted around eleven that they were wiped as well, so we caught a bus back to the financial district and called it a night.
Score for the day? 7 books, 2 magazines, 1 newspaper, 1 cemetery, 1 purple draped Jesus, 3 sex shops, 4 bookstores, 3 ERWA writers, and only two cigarettes. Pretty damn good.
Venting
This has nothing to do with San Francisco.
For three hours yesterday evening, I was stuck in the meeting from hell. I spent most of the time staring down at my shoes, biting my tongue, and repeating this mantra: "I will not seize control of this meeting." I didn't, but it was a huge struggle.
By the time it devolved into side conversations and aimless speculation that looped back to items discussed (and I thought settled) in the first hour, I was grinding my teeth. But I was good. Didn't say a word.
I want those three hours of my life back.
For three hours yesterday evening, I was stuck in the meeting from hell. I spent most of the time staring down at my shoes, biting my tongue, and repeating this mantra: "I will not seize control of this meeting." I didn't, but it was a huge struggle.
By the time it devolved into side conversations and aimless speculation that looped back to items discussed (and I thought settled) in the first hour, I was grinding my teeth. But I was good. Didn't say a word.
I want those three hours of my life back.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
San Francisco day 2
This is only going to cover the first half of the day. I'll write about the evening in another entry.
After our exhausting ride through the central valley and great night at the signing party, Cady and I were wiped, but the hotel room was scorching and I couldn't figure out how to turn on the AC, so I barely slept at all. (A call down to the front desk in the morning clued me in - there was no AC, I had to open the sliding glass door. Wish I'd thought of that at 3AM.)
We ditched the car and rode BART into the Mission district around 10. Our first stop was Good Vibrations. I had a blast playing around with the toys. I mean researching. Yes. Serious writer's research. That's what I was doing.
I've already given up on submitting a story for a Drag Kings anthology. I did come up with a story that I like, but it doesn't fit the call. Even though it won't be submitted, I felt I had a legitimate excuse to spend a lot of time experimenting with the packers. Work, work, work. Pay no attention to the rumor that I tried swinging a floppy nine incher like a lariat.
The only thing that sort of gives me pause at places like Good Vibrations is that so much of the inventory is designed to make sex palatable. Flavored lubes. Massage oils. Scented candles. Are women that turned off by the smell and flavor of sex that they have to coat it in pretty, sweet goo before they'll endure it? The answer is probably yes. That's so sad.
Our second stop was at Borderlands Books, an independent store specializing in science fiction. The store mascot is a hairless cat named Ripley who was a little too interested in the contents of our Good Vibrations bags. Cady had a list of Liaden Universe chapbooks she wanted to get, so I was free to wander around the store and shop.
Big mistake. I should not be trusted in a bookstore with a credit card.
I bought Wild Seed as a personal memorial of Octavia Butler's passing a few weeks back. The old sword and sorcery series Thieves World is being reissued, so I picked up the first two books. I have no idea where my original paperbacks went and have wanted to reread them. I also picked up Laurie Mark's Earth Logic, the sequel to Fire Logic which I enjoyed a lot. I don't know why I didn't realize she'd published the next in the series, but I was glad to see it.
If you read my blog often, you know that I take picture of cemeteries everywhere I go. San Francisco doesn't have cemeteries, or so I was told, but when I found out Mission Dolores had one, I dragged Cady along on the tour. She did suggest that I stuff my Good Vibrations bag into the book bag before we went in. Something about decorum. We spent some time wandering inside the original church and the basilica, which was draped in dramatic purple cloth for Lent. Cady knows Catholicism, so I learned a lot on our tour. The graveyard was tiny, and kind of cool, but it didn't have any great funeary art. (Now Salzberg - there's a cemetery! Memento Mori everywhere.)
Between my purchases and Cady's we had about seven pounds of books stuffed into a little canvas bag that we took turns toting as we headed for the Castro. By the time we reached Twin Peaks bar, we'd been hiking around for about five hours, had eaten, hadn't even had something to drink. On the plus side, by that point in the day I still hadn't had a cigarette!
One of the many great things about spending a day with Cady is that she has no qualms about walking into a boy sex shop and looking at heavy duty S&M gear. I don't either. I love it. There are things I'll blush over, but sounds and enema gear aren't on the list. It's nice to be able to check out the beginner's hogtie kit and discuss it with someone who can keep the conversation on a technical level. Finally - sane people who celebrate sex instead of enduring it! I found a few things I liked, but given time constraints and the fact that I blew my budget on books, I was reduced to window shopping. At least wicked thoughts are free.
By the way - really hot nasty sex can be an expensive hobby. Just sayin'.
After our exhausting ride through the central valley and great night at the signing party, Cady and I were wiped, but the hotel room was scorching and I couldn't figure out how to turn on the AC, so I barely slept at all. (A call down to the front desk in the morning clued me in - there was no AC, I had to open the sliding glass door. Wish I'd thought of that at 3AM.)
We ditched the car and rode BART into the Mission district around 10. Our first stop was Good Vibrations. I had a blast playing around with the toys. I mean researching. Yes. Serious writer's research. That's what I was doing.
I've already given up on submitting a story for a Drag Kings anthology. I did come up with a story that I like, but it doesn't fit the call. Even though it won't be submitted, I felt I had a legitimate excuse to spend a lot of time experimenting with the packers. Work, work, work. Pay no attention to the rumor that I tried swinging a floppy nine incher like a lariat.
The only thing that sort of gives me pause at places like Good Vibrations is that so much of the inventory is designed to make sex palatable. Flavored lubes. Massage oils. Scented candles. Are women that turned off by the smell and flavor of sex that they have to coat it in pretty, sweet goo before they'll endure it? The answer is probably yes. That's so sad.
Our second stop was at Borderlands Books, an independent store specializing in science fiction. The store mascot is a hairless cat named Ripley who was a little too interested in the contents of our Good Vibrations bags. Cady had a list of Liaden Universe chapbooks she wanted to get, so I was free to wander around the store and shop.
Big mistake. I should not be trusted in a bookstore with a credit card.
I bought Wild Seed as a personal memorial of Octavia Butler's passing a few weeks back. The old sword and sorcery series Thieves World is being reissued, so I picked up the first two books. I have no idea where my original paperbacks went and have wanted to reread them. I also picked up Laurie Mark's Earth Logic, the sequel to Fire Logic which I enjoyed a lot. I don't know why I didn't realize she'd published the next in the series, but I was glad to see it.
If you read my blog often, you know that I take picture of cemeteries everywhere I go. San Francisco doesn't have cemeteries, or so I was told, but when I found out Mission Dolores had one, I dragged Cady along on the tour. She did suggest that I stuff my Good Vibrations bag into the book bag before we went in. Something about decorum. We spent some time wandering inside the original church and the basilica, which was draped in dramatic purple cloth for Lent. Cady knows Catholicism, so I learned a lot on our tour. The graveyard was tiny, and kind of cool, but it didn't have any great funeary art. (Now Salzberg - there's a cemetery! Memento Mori everywhere.)
Between my purchases and Cady's we had about seven pounds of books stuffed into a little canvas bag that we took turns toting as we headed for the Castro. By the time we reached Twin Peaks bar, we'd been hiking around for about five hours, had eaten, hadn't even had something to drink. On the plus side, by that point in the day I still hadn't had a cigarette!
One of the many great things about spending a day with Cady is that she has no qualms about walking into a boy sex shop and looking at heavy duty S&M gear. I don't either. I love it. There are things I'll blush over, but sounds and enema gear aren't on the list. It's nice to be able to check out the beginner's hogtie kit and discuss it with someone who can keep the conversation on a technical level. Finally - sane people who celebrate sex instead of enduring it! I found a few things I liked, but given time constraints and the fact that I blew my budget on books, I was reduced to window shopping. At least wicked thoughts are free.
By the way - really hot nasty sex can be an expensive hobby. Just sayin'.
Road Trip
I'm a zombie - a happy zombie - but I'm still running on reserves from a three day jaunt up to San Francisco. Instead of trying to cover it all in one entry, I'll spread it out over a couple days. That should keep a certain someone (he knows who he is) from griping that I don't update often enough.
Writer Kate Dominic (Cady) came along with me. We started at the butt crack of dawn Friday morning and hit heavy rain as soon as we got through the grapevine. The central valley, in case you've never been there, looks like someone ironed Kansas, sucked all the color out of it, and dropped it in the middle of California. After the third hour, I started appreciating furrows plowed in wavy patterns versus diagonals simply for the variation on the theme.
Two hours after we hit town, we were on our way to a reading at Varnish, an art gallery in the financial district. Michelle Tea has published memoirs, but she was reading from her first novel Rose of No Man's Land. She had the crowd's devoted attention. A taste of her novel wasn't enough, so I picked up a copy, as well as Rent Girl.
We also heard Katia Noyes read from her novel Crashing America. I'll confess I never heard of Katia before, but the excerpt she read was enough to get me to buy the book and I look forward to reading the rest.
The gallery was packed, and I had to go outside for some air. Okay, for a cigarette, but there was air around me too. I swear it.
It was St. Patrick's Day, so I watched people in various states of green stumbling by. A 20ish punker eyed me from across the street and came over. She asked if I had a spare cigarette and offered impromptu haiku in exchange. Even if it had been my last one and the shops were closed, it was too good of a deal to pass up. She took a deep breath, ready to recite her poem, but I pulled back the offered cigarette and told her, "Make it about a smoke." She frowned a little, stared up at the moon, counted syllables, and gave me a haiku about parking lots. Still smiling, but not in a completely friendly way, I reminded her that wasn't the deal, just to see what she'd do. I got a full ten seconds of eye contact from her. Long enough to make her think. Then I handed it over and brought out my lighter. She cupped her hand over mine and watched me while she inhaled. After that lingered a bit, I told her, "I think it's lit by now." She took a few steps down the block, stopped, and looked back at me over her shoulder. I grinned, flicked mine down to the sidewalk, ground it out, and went back inside to see what Cady was up to.
End of day one.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
A Great Week
On Tuesday, I sold a short story to a HOT COPS anthology.
On Thursday, I placed CHILL on ERWA. The difference between placed and sold in my mind is the $$. Writers argue about giving work away for free. I'm against it for many reasons, but ERWA is my community, and I support it every way I can. Besides, placing another story on ERWA led directly to....
Sunday, I sold CHALLENGER DEEP to the anthology CREAM.
So I'm feeling very successful right now. That's a good place to be. (I also got an extremely sweet rejection letter for a science fiction story, but I won't let that kill my mood.)
On Thursday, I placed CHILL on ERWA. The difference between placed and sold in my mind is the $$. Writers argue about giving work away for free. I'm against it for many reasons, but ERWA is my community, and I support it every way I can. Besides, placing another story on ERWA led directly to....
Sunday, I sold CHALLENGER DEEP to the anthology CREAM.
So I'm feeling very successful right now. That's a good place to be. (I also got an extremely sweet rejection letter for a science fiction story, but I won't let that kill my mood.)
Saturday, March 11, 2006
I'm Such A Sucker For A Compliment
About five times a year my vanity gets the better of me. I'm going along, minding my own business, when someone in the SO's family sidles up to me and says, "Are you going to bake______ (unique cultural food or family recipe) this year? Because it just wouldn't be _________ (holiday or special occasion) without your wonderful _________s. No one makes them like you do. It's the best part of the _______ (holiday or special occasion) for me."
And I fall for it every damn time.
I used to hang out in the kitchen with the SO's grandmother while she cooked. I'm a family story junkie, so I'd sit there and listen to her tales while she whipped up some of her specialties. Of course, she'd hand me things while she talked. "Mix this for me, dear. Can you measure that out? Help me fill the pasta. Taste this and tell me if it needs more pepper." She taught me how to cook - something I wouldn't have volunteered for if she hadn't been so sly about the lessons. By the time she passed away, I realized I was the only person around who knew how to make some of the prized family recipes. They weren't written down anywhere, but I had them memorized. Talk about an insurance policy! The SO had to keep me at that point.
These weren't just any old recipes. The SO's grandmother was trained at a culinary academy, and she melded Russian and German traditions with French cooking methods. Some are absolutely unique to SO's family. Others bear the same name as dishes other people know, but there's no comparison.
I got a call from one of the SO's nieces last week. She casually mentioned that Purim was coming up. I already guessed she had other motives for calling me, but I played along.
Cunning Niecelet: Say, did you know that Purim starts next week?
Me: Gee, it must have slipped my mind.
Cunning Niecelet: Well, we were talking about it at Hebrew class, and we started talking about Hamentaschen....
Me: *groan*
Cunning Niecelet: ...And I'm sure we're going to end up having to eat those horrible cookies they always serve.
Me: Yeah, well, I'm sure you'll survive. I hear you can get a buzz if you eat enough of the poppyseed ones.
Cunning Niecelet: Really? *silence while she ponders that tidbit, and then recovery when she realizes she's being distracted* Um, well, anyway, I told them that those weren't real hamentaschen, and that you made the best ones ever.
Me: *I can so see where this is going* Thanks.
Cunning Niecelet: *speaking at full speed so I can't get a word in* So, I need 30 for my class Monday. Make the apple ones. I don't like the cheese filling. Love you. Bye-bye. *click*
Do I call her up and say no? Do I envision a hamentaschen free Purim? Do I tell her parents (who will probably keep five of the 30 for themselves)? No. I get up early Saturday morning to peel, core, and dice eight cups of apples. Once I cooked that filling, I made the cheese one too. Then I got out the yeast and made the sweet bread dough. 12 hours total.
Some day, the cunning niecelets and nephews (who are equally guilty) are going to find out that their hamentaschen/kreplach soup/blintz souffle/toffee square/latke/matzoh brittle/spiced pecan/potato, lobster & corn chowder supplier can cut them off. That's the day I start passing on those recipes to them the same way I learned. Oh, they'll pretend they aren't interested in cooking, but what choice will they have? The poor little babies know nothing about going cold turkey.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Jury Duty Rocks!
Imagine sitting in a room full of people who don't want to be where they are. Everyone is waiting for something to happen, for time to pass. Do they turn on the TV? No. Do they chat with the person sitting next to them? No. They all read. Hundreds of them- heads bowed, books open. Silence. Except the turn of the page and an occasional cough.
Nirvana.
I plowed through Everything I Have Is Blue before the lunch break. During lunch break I found out a short story I submitted was accepted (score!). Now I'm grabbing my copy of All The Beautifully Worthless and heading back to the courthouse. As long as they don't place me on a jury, my day is made.
Nirvana.
I plowed through Everything I Have Is Blue before the lunch break. During lunch break I found out a short story I submitted was accepted (score!). Now I'm grabbing my copy of All The Beautifully Worthless and heading back to the courthouse. As long as they don't place me on a jury, my day is made.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Selfish Pursuits
Most stories I've written lately have been prompted by calls for submissions. That's fine. Sometimes it helps to have something jump start my imagination. Also, I need to build my name recognition if I ever hope to sell my novel. But...
I don't usually like those stories as much as the ones I write just for me.
Critique partners seem to notice the difference too. When the story is prompted by a call for submissions, the comments I get are usually about the sex. I'm not complaining. Getting a, "Hot scene," or "Woof!" from people who read and write erotica is high praise. Yet those comments don't compare to, "I feel like I tried to kiss a moving bus. Bam!" and "This is so amazingly, twistedly, fine." Or the one that made me laugh the most: "You sick fuck." (Another reader described that story as autoerotic necrophilia - even though everyone in the story had a pulse - so "sick fuck" was fitting for that extreme fetish tale. Besides, it was meant affectionately.)
Currently, there are two more calls for submission I'd like to write for. One, I have the story written and it simply needs polishing. The other... well... I'm on my third story and nothing seems to be working, so I may have to give up. After that, I think I'm going to ease up on submissions. I'm going to simply write for me for a while. Please my inner sick fuck. And maybe I'll plant a big wet one on a moving bus.
I don't usually like those stories as much as the ones I write just for me.
Critique partners seem to notice the difference too. When the story is prompted by a call for submissions, the comments I get are usually about the sex. I'm not complaining. Getting a, "Hot scene," or "Woof!" from people who read and write erotica is high praise. Yet those comments don't compare to, "I feel like I tried to kiss a moving bus. Bam!" and "This is so amazingly, twistedly, fine." Or the one that made me laugh the most: "You sick fuck." (Another reader described that story as autoerotic necrophilia - even though everyone in the story had a pulse - so "sick fuck" was fitting for that extreme fetish tale. Besides, it was meant affectionately.)
Currently, there are two more calls for submission I'd like to write for. One, I have the story written and it simply needs polishing. The other... well... I'm on my third story and nothing seems to be working, so I may have to give up. After that, I think I'm going to ease up on submissions. I'm going to simply write for me for a while. Please my inner sick fuck. And maybe I'll plant a big wet one on a moving bus.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Best Gay Erotica 2006 and Wild Creatures
Last Friday I went to a reading at Skylight Books that featured two books: The Wild Creatures Collected Stories of Sam D'Allesandro and Best Gay Erotica 2006 from Cleis Press.
If you're in LA, Skylight, is your local independent bookstore. Stop by and pet the bookshop cat, or shop online and help support them. They have the most amazing people doing readings. If you've never been to a reading, my god, what are you waiting for? Best date night ever.
Mattilda a.k.a. Matt Bernstein Sycamore was an experience. That's the only way I can describe watching him. I was leaning forward, waiting for the next word to come out of his mouth. I only wish I'd gotten the full length picture of him so that you could have the full visual effect. I'm currently reading his collection of stories, Pulling Taffy, one of my great selections from a recent spending spree at Suspect Thoughts.
By stroke of luck, I sat behind D. Travers Scott and got to chat with him a bit. We've been swapping sporadic emails (more like leaving comments on blog entries once every six months) but since we're both in LA, I figured that we were fated to never meet. I found out about the reading from his blog but had no idea if he'd be there, so it was a nice bonus to the evening.
And I was sitting next to Blake Nemec, but had no idea until he got up to read his story Half-Eaten Lollipop. He was lovely sweet.
Trebor Healey only read part of his story, The Pancake Circus, but I have the book so I can finish the rest on my own. Trebor was very gracious while signing my copy. I got to tell him how much I enjoyed his novel Through it Came Bright Colors. Although I'm sure I muffed the title, he didn't even grimace. *sigh* What a nice guy. He has a poetry collection coming out soon.
Kevin Killian and others read several stories from The Wild Creatures. Although my reading pile teeters precariously with my best literary intentions, I will add this to it.
If you're in LA, Skylight, is your local independent bookstore. Stop by and pet the bookshop cat, or shop online and help support them. They have the most amazing people doing readings. If you've never been to a reading, my god, what are you waiting for? Best date night ever.
Mattilda a.k.a. Matt Bernstein Sycamore was an experience. That's the only way I can describe watching him. I was leaning forward, waiting for the next word to come out of his mouth. I only wish I'd gotten the full length picture of him so that you could have the full visual effect. I'm currently reading his collection of stories, Pulling Taffy, one of my great selections from a recent spending spree at Suspect Thoughts.
By stroke of luck, I sat behind D. Travers Scott and got to chat with him a bit. We've been swapping sporadic emails (more like leaving comments on blog entries once every six months) but since we're both in LA, I figured that we were fated to never meet. I found out about the reading from his blog but had no idea if he'd be there, so it was a nice bonus to the evening.
And I was sitting next to Blake Nemec, but had no idea until he got up to read his story Half-Eaten Lollipop. He was lovely sweet.
Trebor Healey only read part of his story, The Pancake Circus, but I have the book so I can finish the rest on my own. Trebor was very gracious while signing my copy. I got to tell him how much I enjoyed his novel Through it Came Bright Colors. Although I'm sure I muffed the title, he didn't even grimace. *sigh* What a nice guy. He has a poetry collection coming out soon.
Kevin Killian and others read several stories from The Wild Creatures. Although my reading pile teeters precariously with my best literary intentions, I will add this to it.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Writing Naked by Mike Kimera
The first time I read one of Mike Kimera's stories, my mouth dropped open and I uttered a completely appropriate, "Fuck."
But his stories aren't just about fucking. They are the dark side of the emotional moon. We know it's there, but don't see it. Mike makes you look at it, then makes you look again. And you'll want to see. Long after the hot sex has melted down into my subconscious, the characters and their raw, exposed, horrible or wonderful souls remain. I said fuck out of jealousy. I would love to write like that.
These are unnerving stories. You may use them as one-handed reads, but even after you've set down the book you're not going to be able to walk away from them. You're going to be in a meeting at work, and your mind is going to wander, and you're going to find one of these tales sitting quietly in the back of your mind waiting for you to notice it. Then you're going to understand what Mike's stories have been telling you.
Need-Leash is probably my favorite of this collection. It's the one that stays with me most. A discarded lover leaves a voicemail where everything is between the lines, but she knows he'll get the message.
The American Holidays stories are told by different characters, but they all intertwine. A dominating wife; her husband, who is a little in love with her best friend; the best friend, trapped in a loveless marriage; her alcoholic cheater husband who isn't fooling anyone, even himself; and an Amazon boss who finds peace with a pianist. Each story stands separately, but together, you have more context for the secondary characters. Of these, Thanksgiving was my favorite, but I'm hopelessly American in that I like a happy ending (in both senses).
Happy Anniversary and Fucking Money are not what I'd call sex positive stories, but those glimpses of the worst self are fascinating. In Fucking Money, a man who is as ugly on the inside as out pays women a large sum to degrade themselves. It only makes him angrier, but the power gets him off. Happy Anniversary is about a man coming to terms with the fact that he is a total shit.
Mike does male guilt probably better than anyone I've ever read. Deserving Ruth shows a man paying and paying and paying for an affair, and maybe finding that what his wife truly wants is for him to forgive himself.
So buy your copy, and enjoy. Erotica can be more, and this is the proof.
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Books
It turns out that I have two print anthologies coming out in March, not just one. They can be pre-ordered on Amazon.
In Amazons, writers such as Maxim Jakubowski, Patrick Califia, Alison Tyler, Marcy Sheiner, and Mitzi Szereto "play" with the erotic theme of the Amazon, expounding upon and deconstructing the image of strong women in a variety of wide-ranging stories. These and many more acclaimed authors of erotica explore the cliche of the powerful woman using it, so to speak, till it breaks down. These are not simply stories of the classical myth (though some may play tribute to it). These stories dismantle the legend and break the myth apart, exploding it as it relates to gender, power, femininity vs. masculinity, and women's roles in history.
I'm in some amazing company here. When I first read this call for submissions, my thoughts went to Xena fantasies and lingered there for an indulgent amount of time, but I couldn't find a story in it. The women who impress me with strength have great personal integrity, not physical power. My story, Blue Girl, is about that kind of strength.
We all grew up with weird tales from the Brothers Grimm, the charming Disney stories, and the other childhood rhymes and verses. But even when we first heard them, we questioned the obscure motivations of the principal characters. Our curious minds wondered why a smart girl with a red hood would wander into the forest alone or what circumstances would force a woman to live in a shoe.
Now that we're all grown, we know that sex often explains the seemingly inexplicable and that's what writers show us in this delightfully twisted volume of alternative fables and fairy tales.
Rather than play with existing tales, Garden of the Perverse is a showcase for the delightfully wicked imaginations of erotica's top authors as they create new and wholly original myths and fables. Though reminiscent in flavor and style to traditional fairy tales, these stories wander into new and unique lands of surreal eroticism, exploring sensual and fetish dynamics in a diverse scope of fantastic places, bizarre creatures and adventures.
Lisabet Sarai has a story in this anthology. I look forward, as always, to reading what she offers. I don't know the other contributors yet, but I'm sure we'll be in outstanding company. She Comes Stars is one of my favorite stories. I hope you enjoy it too.
In Amazons, writers such as Maxim Jakubowski, Patrick Califia, Alison Tyler, Marcy Sheiner, and Mitzi Szereto "play" with the erotic theme of the Amazon, expounding upon and deconstructing the image of strong women in a variety of wide-ranging stories. These and many more acclaimed authors of erotica explore the cliche of the powerful woman using it, so to speak, till it breaks down. These are not simply stories of the classical myth (though some may play tribute to it). These stories dismantle the legend and break the myth apart, exploding it as it relates to gender, power, femininity vs. masculinity, and women's roles in history.
I'm in some amazing company here. When I first read this call for submissions, my thoughts went to Xena fantasies and lingered there for an indulgent amount of time, but I couldn't find a story in it. The women who impress me with strength have great personal integrity, not physical power. My story, Blue Girl, is about that kind of strength.
We all grew up with weird tales from the Brothers Grimm, the charming Disney stories, and the other childhood rhymes and verses. But even when we first heard them, we questioned the obscure motivations of the principal characters. Our curious minds wondered why a smart girl with a red hood would wander into the forest alone or what circumstances would force a woman to live in a shoe.
Now that we're all grown, we know that sex often explains the seemingly inexplicable and that's what writers show us in this delightfully twisted volume of alternative fables and fairy tales.
Rather than play with existing tales, Garden of the Perverse is a showcase for the delightfully wicked imaginations of erotica's top authors as they create new and wholly original myths and fables. Though reminiscent in flavor and style to traditional fairy tales, these stories wander into new and unique lands of surreal eroticism, exploring sensual and fetish dynamics in a diverse scope of fantastic places, bizarre creatures and adventures.
Lisabet Sarai has a story in this anthology. I look forward, as always, to reading what she offers. I don't know the other contributors yet, but I'm sure we'll be in outstanding company. She Comes Stars is one of my favorite stories. I hope you enjoy it too.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Jury Duty
Once again, the Superior Court tracked me down and drafted me for service. My initial reaction was the usual - "How can I get out of this?" But my secondary reaction was - "If I'm upset about the state of justice in this country, I should do it."
Back when I worked for a boss I refer to as The Hideous Troll, I was glad that I made the final cut for a jury. It gave me a week away from the office. It also gave me a glimpse into the thought processes of my fellow citizens. That trial ended in a hung jury - 3 to 9 - 3 of us dedicated to upholding a minimal standard for civilization, the rest willing to let it go. Scary. On the other hand - if I'm ever stupid enough to get caught at a crime, I want those people sitting in judgment of me. I know exactly what they'd let me get away with.
The last time I received a summons I had to serve in downtown LA. Now we're only supposed to do one day of service instead of a week. However, following the letter of that law, but not the spirit, at the end of that day, the court impaneled all two hundred people in the room and forced us to come back for two more days of jury selection. If the court itself bends the laws to its own whims, why should it expect me to value the law? It wasn't just me. Every person dragged back the second and third days was pissed off. If I was the defendant, I would have been worried that the jury would take that out on me.
I got lucky that time. I was one of the first twelve pulled into the jury box, so the lawyers had plenty of "without cause" dismissals at hand. I admit that I used every trick I knew to get dismissed, and when I was, I almost did a grand jete on my way out of the court room. Gang related murder trial? No thanks.
This time I vow to be a responsible citizen. If I'm dismissed, it won't be due to my negative body language. My job as an analyst pretty much disqualifies me anyway. No lawyer wants a juror who makes a living looking at evidence, digging under the hyperbole for the truth, and coming to an independent conclusion. If I really wanted to serve, I could tell them that I'm a business manager. I do run the operational side of the company I work for in addition to my analyst duties. But that would be a partial omission and deliberate shading on my part, and sometimes I'm starry-eyed enough to believe that in court truth counts for something.
Back when I worked for a boss I refer to as The Hideous Troll, I was glad that I made the final cut for a jury. It gave me a week away from the office. It also gave me a glimpse into the thought processes of my fellow citizens. That trial ended in a hung jury - 3 to 9 - 3 of us dedicated to upholding a minimal standard for civilization, the rest willing to let it go. Scary. On the other hand - if I'm ever stupid enough to get caught at a crime, I want those people sitting in judgment of me. I know exactly what they'd let me get away with.
The last time I received a summons I had to serve in downtown LA. Now we're only supposed to do one day of service instead of a week. However, following the letter of that law, but not the spirit, at the end of that day, the court impaneled all two hundred people in the room and forced us to come back for two more days of jury selection. If the court itself bends the laws to its own whims, why should it expect me to value the law? It wasn't just me. Every person dragged back the second and third days was pissed off. If I was the defendant, I would have been worried that the jury would take that out on me.
I got lucky that time. I was one of the first twelve pulled into the jury box, so the lawyers had plenty of "without cause" dismissals at hand. I admit that I used every trick I knew to get dismissed, and when I was, I almost did a grand jete on my way out of the court room. Gang related murder trial? No thanks.
This time I vow to be a responsible citizen. If I'm dismissed, it won't be due to my negative body language. My job as an analyst pretty much disqualifies me anyway. No lawyer wants a juror who makes a living looking at evidence, digging under the hyperbole for the truth, and coming to an independent conclusion. If I really wanted to serve, I could tell them that I'm a business manager. I do run the operational side of the company I work for in addition to my analyst duties. But that would be a partial omission and deliberate shading on my part, and sometimes I'm starry-eyed enough to believe that in court truth counts for something.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Ugh, Valentines Day
Maybe it's the way we've been brainwashed into celebrating it, but Valentines Day seems designed to make people miserable.
Like crabby children at Disneyland, we get so into the hype and promise that we're let down by the reality. And the reality is that no bottle of champagne, candle-lit dinner, sparkly gift or flowers can make a moment romantic. Most truly romantic moments between lovers have their roots in the mundane, not the spectacular. They are spontaneous, quiet, and personal. They can last for a few moments, or a whole day. Under the pressure to deliver on a certain day, who can be relaxed enough to enjoy it?
I quit buying into that years ago, and I'm much happier for it.
I don't need any more things, jewelry is wasted on me, a bottle of perfume lasts me years, I'm not into stuffed animals, I don't care for flower arrangements, and I don't drink much. That either makes shopping for Valentines hell or simple for the SO. He's far too diplomatic to say which one it is.
This year, I had my act together enough to buy him a card. Usually I don't even manage that. And I give him the same gift every year, but he has yet to complain. He gets a contented smile on his face, skips the cuddling, rolls on his side, and falls asleep in seconds. Now that's my idea of perfect romance.
Like crabby children at Disneyland, we get so into the hype and promise that we're let down by the reality. And the reality is that no bottle of champagne, candle-lit dinner, sparkly gift or flowers can make a moment romantic. Most truly romantic moments between lovers have their roots in the mundane, not the spectacular. They are spontaneous, quiet, and personal. They can last for a few moments, or a whole day. Under the pressure to deliver on a certain day, who can be relaxed enough to enjoy it?
I quit buying into that years ago, and I'm much happier for it.
I don't need any more things, jewelry is wasted on me, a bottle of perfume lasts me years, I'm not into stuffed animals, I don't care for flower arrangements, and I don't drink much. That either makes shopping for Valentines hell or simple for the SO. He's far too diplomatic to say which one it is.
This year, I had my act together enough to buy him a card. Usually I don't even manage that. And I give him the same gift every year, but he has yet to complain. He gets a contented smile on his face, skips the cuddling, rolls on his side, and falls asleep in seconds. Now that's my idea of perfect romance.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Whatever you do, don't move here
LA isn't as bad as you've heard, it's worse.
You'd hate it. Traffic, sprawl, pretentious people, it's all true.
That being said - while my eastern friends are covered by the latest blizzard, this was outside my front door this morning.
I sat outside in shorts and a t-shirt while I edited a story. Across the street, a men's soccer league is playing a game. Must be 80 degrees out. Oh well. Someone has to live here, I suppose. Giver that I am, I'm willing to take one for the team.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Saints and Sinners
May 12-14, 2006 is the fourth Saints and Sinners Literary Festival in New Orleans. If you write, or are a fan of queer lit, I urge you to go.
Writer Kate Dominic's enthusiastic reports from the 2nd SNS convinced me to go last year. I can't thank her enough for turning me on to it, and this is my chance to pass the favor on to you.
SNS was the best writer's conference I'd been to in ages.
The notes I took at every panel are still relevant. My list of "must read" books grew by pages, especially after the speculative fiction panel. Even though it meant buying a second backpack to carry it all home in, if a writer was at SNS, I bought a book and had him/her sign it. Those copies are never, ever going to a library.
One of the highlights for me was being able to tell writers how much I enjoyed their work. I was a bit shy about approaching some people, but everyone was gracious, and I met almost everyone I wanted to.
While at the conference last year, I hooked up with writers that I only knew through email. Putting faces together with names was a daunting game, but I met a lot of new people when I asked to see their name badges. (Note to self - this can be a very flirty thing to do, so don't get the SO involved next year. He was a little too flattered by the invitation to the foam party. Oh sure, he denied it, but he wore a damn smug smile the rest of the evening.)
The best thing I brought back with me was renewed energy and enthusiasm about my writing. Well, that, and the enduring image of a go-go boy under black lights at Oz wearing a white cowboy hat, white boots, tighty whities, and nothing else, dancing slow, his hands sliding down his bare chest. Sheer poetry.
So, are you in? Write me and let me know if you are. I'd love to meet you there.
Saturday, February 04, 2006
A Good Writing Week
My story Rekindle was accepted by Clean Sheets yesterday. I don't know yet when it will be on their site, but I'll add a link when it's up.
I also received the edited version of a story I placed in a print anthology. The editor included a nice note that pushed all the right ego buttons.
Writing, like any art, is subject to criticism. There are people who make scathing remarks, usually for an audience, without investing any time or thought into the piece or their critique. Yet, those are the comments that seem to get under my skin. I'm trying to learn to weigh the impact of critique by the amount of thought that went into it, not by my reaction to it. I have my good days with that philosophy, and my horrible days where I still let every barb strike my heart.
I've never taken praise well, but I'm working on that too. Instead of dismissing the editor's kind words, I'm going to believe that he truly meant it. So this weekend I'll be a contented writer and bask in my victories.
Queuing up my happy dance music. Something blue. I like my happiness served bittersweet.
I also received the edited version of a story I placed in a print anthology. The editor included a nice note that pushed all the right ego buttons.
Writing, like any art, is subject to criticism. There are people who make scathing remarks, usually for an audience, without investing any time or thought into the piece or their critique. Yet, those are the comments that seem to get under my skin. I'm trying to learn to weigh the impact of critique by the amount of thought that went into it, not by my reaction to it. I have my good days with that philosophy, and my horrible days where I still let every barb strike my heart.
I've never taken praise well, but I'm working on that too. Instead of dismissing the editor's kind words, I'm going to believe that he truly meant it. So this weekend I'll be a contented writer and bask in my victories.
Queuing up my happy dance music. Something blue. I like my happiness served bittersweet.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Challenger Deep
My story Challenger Deep is in the features section of ERWA this month.
Read here and enjoy.
I've had private e-mails suggesting I could get more traffic if I posted my stories in my blog. That's probably true. However, Blogger.Com's refusal to protect writers from theft makes that impossible. There is a blog here on Blogger.Com that outright stole stories off blogs and websites of friends of mine. Blogger.Com has been notified by many people that the blog violates their copyright. Blogger's answer? Come here physically to our offices and show us proof that you own the copyright, and maybe we'll think of shutting him down. That blogger also stole from the BBC. I bet they get better treatment when and if they complain.
So that's why I don't post stories in my blog, just in case you wondered.
Besides, there are a lot of other very cool stories on ERWA. Read. Enjoy.
Thanks.
Read here and enjoy.
I've had private e-mails suggesting I could get more traffic if I posted my stories in my blog. That's probably true. However, Blogger.Com's refusal to protect writers from theft makes that impossible. There is a blog here on Blogger.Com that outright stole stories off blogs and websites of friends of mine. Blogger.Com has been notified by many people that the blog violates their copyright. Blogger's answer? Come here physically to our offices and show us proof that you own the copyright, and maybe we'll think of shutting him down. That blogger also stole from the BBC. I bet they get better treatment when and if they complain.
So that's why I don't post stories in my blog, just in case you wondered.
Besides, there are a lot of other very cool stories on ERWA. Read. Enjoy.
Thanks.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
City of Angeles
The SO and I took the nieces to see the musical City of Angels at UCLA last night. We first saw it years ago and loved the clever dialog and lyrics. The story about a writer being screwed over by Hollywood doesn't play so well here, since most of the audience was probably in the movie business, but no one seemed to mind. It's not exactly a fresh or original concept, and even as a writer I have a hard time feeling much sympathy for writers who whine about book adaptations, but the music makes up for that.
Niece #1 is a theater arts major, so we knew she'd appreciate the incredible staging that switches between "color" and "black and white" as the scenes switch between the story of the writer and the movie of his book. It was all about lighting, which is her big area of interest. Afterwards, I was intrigued by her take on the production, which focused on the technical details. It shows how people can see the same thing and yet have a completely different experience.
Niece #2 was the wild card.
While driving in to work Friday morning, I remembered something about the production - it had a nude scene. The nieces have a sophisticated acceptance of nudity. While in the Ufizzi, they decided to have a scavenger hunt for the biggest penis on a statute. I stood in awe of The Birth of Venus; they debated whether bigger meant overall size, or in proportion to the rest of the body. Mom was shocked when one of them, after staring at a very famous piece of art, commented that "it must have been really cold in the artist's studio."
I debated warning the niece that there would be nudity, but cringed at the vision of her poking me in the ribs through the whole thing going, "Is she the one who gets naked?" "When will she take her clothes off?" Etc.
The other choice was to let her find out when it happened, risking her standing up in her seat and saying, "Holy smokes, that lady is naked!" and bringing the entire production to a screeching halt.
Both scenarios were possible. To make it clear, I wasn't worried about her seeing a naked woman. I was worried about her mouth.
We had a chat with her about proper theater behavior beforehand. And we warned her that nudity happened. As it turned out, in the production last night, the actress wore a white sheet and only flashed the actor while her back was turned to us. As far as the niece was concerned, it was a non-event. I did hear her mutter, "ugh, pasty white man flesh," when another character was getting a massage. She kept it to herself, pretty much, and I honestly had to agree.
It was a great night. Except for having to trek to the Westside (shudder) it was one of those nights when I was glad I live in LA.
Niece #1 is a theater arts major, so we knew she'd appreciate the incredible staging that switches between "color" and "black and white" as the scenes switch between the story of the writer and the movie of his book. It was all about lighting, which is her big area of interest. Afterwards, I was intrigued by her take on the production, which focused on the technical details. It shows how people can see the same thing and yet have a completely different experience.
Niece #2 was the wild card.
While driving in to work Friday morning, I remembered something about the production - it had a nude scene. The nieces have a sophisticated acceptance of nudity. While in the Ufizzi, they decided to have a scavenger hunt for the biggest penis on a statute. I stood in awe of The Birth of Venus; they debated whether bigger meant overall size, or in proportion to the rest of the body. Mom was shocked when one of them, after staring at a very famous piece of art, commented that "it must have been really cold in the artist's studio."
I debated warning the niece that there would be nudity, but cringed at the vision of her poking me in the ribs through the whole thing going, "Is she the one who gets naked?" "When will she take her clothes off?" Etc.
The other choice was to let her find out when it happened, risking her standing up in her seat and saying, "Holy smokes, that lady is naked!" and bringing the entire production to a screeching halt.
Both scenarios were possible. To make it clear, I wasn't worried about her seeing a naked woman. I was worried about her mouth.
We had a chat with her about proper theater behavior beforehand. And we warned her that nudity happened. As it turned out, in the production last night, the actress wore a white sheet and only flashed the actor while her back was turned to us. As far as the niece was concerned, it was a non-event. I did hear her mutter, "ugh, pasty white man flesh," when another character was getting a massage. She kept it to herself, pretty much, and I honestly had to agree.
It was a great night. Except for having to trek to the Westside (shudder) it was one of those nights when I was glad I live in LA.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Monsters
I don't read many horror novels. Not because I'm a literary snob. I'm no genre elitist. The reason I don't read horror is because I am a huge wuss. Anything I read takes on sinister dimensions after sundown, and then there I am, two o'clock in the morning, eyes WIDE open, pulse cranking, wondering why I do that to myself.
Ages ago, my sister and I would crawl under my grandmother's dining table and pretend to fall asleep while the adults talked. We listened to the family stories the adults would never repeat in front of us - the much debated murder/self-defense/justifiable homicide, the prisoners in the insane asylum, the reluctant bride who was forced to give up table-top dancing in the local tavern.... You know, the good stuff.
My sister would remind me to keep quiet by putting her finger to her lips. As the night wore on, the adults would tell creepy stories of the frovoliki (you would call them vampires), in a classic game of storytelling one-upsmanship. I'd want to leave, but crawling out from under the table would have been an admission of our guilt. Besides, after hearing a few of those stories, closing my eyes in our dark bedroom in the attic of my grandparents' ancient farmhouse was out of the question. My sister must have felt the same way, because she'd clutch my hands, and we'd stare into each other's wide eyes. If someone would have lifted up the long lace tablecloth and said "Boo!" we would have jumped out of our skins.
Those stories, no matter how fantasic, were related as personal histories. If it didn't happen directly to the storyteller, then it was about his mother, cousin, or brother. Every hair on my arms would rise and I would listen carefully to the house beyond the dining room, half expecting to hear the voice of a recently deceased relative calling for me. By the time I got carried upstairs, I was a wreck. If I got lucky, my parents would let me sleep with them, or my sister would slip into the bed with me after the adults closed the door. If not, I'd spend the night with my back pressed so tight to the mattress that it was amazing my skin didn't bond to it. I'd keep the covers tight around my neck, my feet away from the edge of the bed, and I'd hold my breath until the last chime of midnight faded.
As frightened as I was, the next night I'd crawl under the table again to listen. Sometimes, the adults lapsed into Romanian and I really would fall asleep, lulled by the musical language I didn't understand as it was spoken in the deep, rumbling voices of the old world men.
Even though the tales terrified me, there was something comforting about them too, because they always ended with a mere human doing something simple with tools close at hand to thwart the seemingly unstoppable monster. Besides, all those vampires were back in Galsa, not in the US. In the US, the way I understood it, the dead stayed buried. Bubskah once said about a relative, "Well, she's gone, and she isn't coming back." Imagine my relief.
The frovoliki weren't like Dracula. (Don't get me started on the special place Judzja reserved in hell for Braham Stoker.) They were always family or close friends who had gone feral. Sometimes they had died (or were considered "dead" to the family), but most of the time they simply mysteriously vanished (and were presumed dead) and then turned up again in a wild state. Those prodigal sons of the dammed tried then to entice family members into leaving the safety of the home- not a good idea if the family stories were to be believed, or into allowing the frovoliki into the house - a worse idea.
That makes sense, if you think of vampirism as an allegory for disease, and the threshold of the house as a symbolic (and literal) barrier against illness. One member of your family, who had been away and probably in contact with strangers, could infect everyone under your roof. The real monster was carried in the blood, the lungs, or in the bite of fleas, but the monster people saw was the returned-from-the-dead family member.
I think the reason why the frovoliki stayed in Galsa and didn't travel with my family to the US was because the frovoliki would have been so out of place here. Modern life wouldn't have tolerated them. Science, medicine, and electric lighting have taken the micky out of most monsters. Now in books and movies they're heroes or misunderstood defenders of mankind. They had to change. But they aren't monstrous anymore.
If I were to write a horror story, I think I would first take a good look at the world I built as a setting. I'd need to figure out the reasonable fears of the society. By reasonable fears, I mean that it was reasonable for my great grandfather to worry about being buried alive, but I'm comfortable with the idea that medical science will pronounce me truly dead before my body is ashed. It is reasonable for me to fear being hit by a car or being electrocuted by a downed powerline. In the 1800s, anyone who worried about that would have been considered mad. When Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein, a body cobbled together from parts of other bodies was horrific. Now implants and donated organs are considered a miracle of modern science and a boon to mankind. For something to be horror, it has to horrify the characters and their society.
Monsters reflect the psychological needs of the society that "creates" them. They are a release valve, a way to talk about forbidden desires and taboo subjects. The words coded into the stories of some monsters is lost to us because we don't understand the society that spawned them, or over time the tale was poorly translated and sanitized so that the monster is no longer what it once was. A monster has to fill a need in the society it terrifies. They have to fit together. Otherwise, the story won't work.
My last step would be to expose the underbelly of my society. I'd find out what agents of change would rock my society to its core. I'd have to know what government or religion repressed so harshly that it seethed under the surface. The best possible horror for my society would probably be found in its darkest reflection. "Here, There Be Monsters." Indeed.
Ages ago, my sister and I would crawl under my grandmother's dining table and pretend to fall asleep while the adults talked. We listened to the family stories the adults would never repeat in front of us - the much debated murder/self-defense/justifiable homicide, the prisoners in the insane asylum, the reluctant bride who was forced to give up table-top dancing in the local tavern.... You know, the good stuff.
My sister would remind me to keep quiet by putting her finger to her lips. As the night wore on, the adults would tell creepy stories of the frovoliki (you would call them vampires), in a classic game of storytelling one-upsmanship. I'd want to leave, but crawling out from under the table would have been an admission of our guilt. Besides, after hearing a few of those stories, closing my eyes in our dark bedroom in the attic of my grandparents' ancient farmhouse was out of the question. My sister must have felt the same way, because she'd clutch my hands, and we'd stare into each other's wide eyes. If someone would have lifted up the long lace tablecloth and said "Boo!" we would have jumped out of our skins.
Those stories, no matter how fantasic, were related as personal histories. If it didn't happen directly to the storyteller, then it was about his mother, cousin, or brother. Every hair on my arms would rise and I would listen carefully to the house beyond the dining room, half expecting to hear the voice of a recently deceased relative calling for me. By the time I got carried upstairs, I was a wreck. If I got lucky, my parents would let me sleep with them, or my sister would slip into the bed with me after the adults closed the door. If not, I'd spend the night with my back pressed so tight to the mattress that it was amazing my skin didn't bond to it. I'd keep the covers tight around my neck, my feet away from the edge of the bed, and I'd hold my breath until the last chime of midnight faded.
As frightened as I was, the next night I'd crawl under the table again to listen. Sometimes, the adults lapsed into Romanian and I really would fall asleep, lulled by the musical language I didn't understand as it was spoken in the deep, rumbling voices of the old world men.
Even though the tales terrified me, there was something comforting about them too, because they always ended with a mere human doing something simple with tools close at hand to thwart the seemingly unstoppable monster. Besides, all those vampires were back in Galsa, not in the US. In the US, the way I understood it, the dead stayed buried. Bubskah once said about a relative, "Well, she's gone, and she isn't coming back." Imagine my relief.
The frovoliki weren't like Dracula. (Don't get me started on the special place Judzja reserved in hell for Braham Stoker.) They were always family or close friends who had gone feral. Sometimes they had died (or were considered "dead" to the family), but most of the time they simply mysteriously vanished (and were presumed dead) and then turned up again in a wild state. Those prodigal sons of the dammed tried then to entice family members into leaving the safety of the home- not a good idea if the family stories were to be believed, or into allowing the frovoliki into the house - a worse idea.
That makes sense, if you think of vampirism as an allegory for disease, and the threshold of the house as a symbolic (and literal) barrier against illness. One member of your family, who had been away and probably in contact with strangers, could infect everyone under your roof. The real monster was carried in the blood, the lungs, or in the bite of fleas, but the monster people saw was the returned-from-the-dead family member.
I think the reason why the frovoliki stayed in Galsa and didn't travel with my family to the US was because the frovoliki would have been so out of place here. Modern life wouldn't have tolerated them. Science, medicine, and electric lighting have taken the micky out of most monsters. Now in books and movies they're heroes or misunderstood defenders of mankind. They had to change. But they aren't monstrous anymore.
If I were to write a horror story, I think I would first take a good look at the world I built as a setting. I'd need to figure out the reasonable fears of the society. By reasonable fears, I mean that it was reasonable for my great grandfather to worry about being buried alive, but I'm comfortable with the idea that medical science will pronounce me truly dead before my body is ashed. It is reasonable for me to fear being hit by a car or being electrocuted by a downed powerline. In the 1800s, anyone who worried about that would have been considered mad. When Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein, a body cobbled together from parts of other bodies was horrific. Now implants and donated organs are considered a miracle of modern science and a boon to mankind. For something to be horror, it has to horrify the characters and their society.
Monsters reflect the psychological needs of the society that "creates" them. They are a release valve, a way to talk about forbidden desires and taboo subjects. The words coded into the stories of some monsters is lost to us because we don't understand the society that spawned them, or over time the tale was poorly translated and sanitized so that the monster is no longer what it once was. A monster has to fill a need in the society it terrifies. They have to fit together. Otherwise, the story won't work.
My last step would be to expose the underbelly of my society. I'd find out what agents of change would rock my society to its core. I'd have to know what government or religion repressed so harshly that it seethed under the surface. The best possible horror for my society would probably be found in its darkest reflection. "Here, There Be Monsters." Indeed.
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Another weekend, Pissed Away
Not really. I got a lot of writing done.
I received rejection notices from two editors, but I'm not upset about either one.
In the first case, I realized after I submitted that the editor was looking for M/M erotica geared towards a female audience. Guess I shouldn't have dwelt on the money shot in all it's sticky white gloppy glory. That, when you really get down to it, is the difference between writing for a male reader or a female one. Most women (this is a gross generalization) aren't all that fascinated by men's cum. Men (more sweeping generalization) are damn proud of it. There's no right or wrong about that, there's only difference.
In the second case, the editor said my story didn't fit the anthology I submitted it to, but she liked it, and asked if she could keep it mind for another anthology. My answer? "Yes!" I was hugely flattered that she liked it. Like Mr. Wilde said, I can live off a good compliment for days. So I'm floating was if my story were accepted.
I should have been busting my butt this weekend to work on some short stories, but I couldn't get motivated. So I slaved away on my novel instead. The nice thing about writing this one is that I have such a clear sense of how much story I can tell, and how it will flow together, that I'm not sensing any backtracking issues. Sure, I'll have to tweak little things at the end, but on the whole it's working well.
The only chapters I have left to do in the novel are the bad ones. Bad emotionally. If there's no conflict, there's no story. Unfortunately, conflict means putting your characters through hell. Those are the hard chapters to write. Sometimes, when I'm done writing for the night, I'm so depressed that I feel like someone beat me. So you can see why I'm putting that off. But I'm out of happy scenes, so bring on the angst!
I received rejection notices from two editors, but I'm not upset about either one.
In the first case, I realized after I submitted that the editor was looking for M/M erotica geared towards a female audience. Guess I shouldn't have dwelt on the money shot in all it's sticky white gloppy glory. That, when you really get down to it, is the difference between writing for a male reader or a female one. Most women (this is a gross generalization) aren't all that fascinated by men's cum. Men (more sweeping generalization) are damn proud of it. There's no right or wrong about that, there's only difference.
In the second case, the editor said my story didn't fit the anthology I submitted it to, but she liked it, and asked if she could keep it mind for another anthology. My answer? "Yes!" I was hugely flattered that she liked it. Like Mr. Wilde said, I can live off a good compliment for days. So I'm floating was if my story were accepted.
I should have been busting my butt this weekend to work on some short stories, but I couldn't get motivated. So I slaved away on my novel instead. The nice thing about writing this one is that I have such a clear sense of how much story I can tell, and how it will flow together, that I'm not sensing any backtracking issues. Sure, I'll have to tweak little things at the end, but on the whole it's working well.
The only chapters I have left to do in the novel are the bad ones. Bad emotionally. If there's no conflict, there's no story. Unfortunately, conflict means putting your characters through hell. Those are the hard chapters to write. Sometimes, when I'm done writing for the night, I'm so depressed that I feel like someone beat me. So you can see why I'm putting that off. But I'm out of happy scenes, so bring on the angst!
Friday, January 20, 2006
A Thoughtful Piece on Gay Marriage
I was very pleased to see this letter to the Denver Post by former Broncos player, Reggie Rivers. It's nice to see someone who isn't afraid to speak his mind. I think I'll send him an e-mail thanking him for his words, because I know he's probably getting plenty of hate mail from people who disagree.
And in other good news, Maryland's Supreme Court also recognized that discrimination against gays is wrong.
Its a good day.
And in other good news, Maryland's Supreme Court also recognized that discrimination against gays is wrong.
Its a good day.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
A Little Dissent
I know that the SO reads my blog, but he rarely comments on it. I heard about the soccer one though.
SO: "Look at you, pretending that you can watch a soccer game in silence."
ME: *adopting wide-eyed innocent look* "But I can."
SO: "No you can't."
ME: *Getting a little pissy* "Yes. I. Can."
SO: "Dissent!" *triumphantly whips out yellow caution card he's obviously prepared in advance*
After laughing far to long, and way too hard, at his feeble joke, he slid the card back into his shirt pocket.
SO: "You don't know how long I've been wanting to do that. You should know better than to argue with a ref."
I rolled my eyes. Geek wit. Worse- referee geek wit.
SO: "Oh, more dissent. Watch it." *laughs more at his wit as he pretends to reach for his yellow card.* "But seriously, unlike those idiot parents, you do understand the rules of the game. Have you ever thought of reffing?"
Oh good god. Never trust a man with 40 volunteer referee spots to fill.
ME: "You know I'd red card (eject from the game) the first spectator that questioned one of my calls."
SO: *sobering up* "Yeah, you would."
ME: "Although.... Power.... Excellent."
I wonder how I'd look in one of those uniforms.
SO: "Look at you, pretending that you can watch a soccer game in silence."
ME: *adopting wide-eyed innocent look* "But I can."
SO: "No you can't."
ME: *Getting a little pissy* "Yes. I. Can."
SO: "Dissent!" *triumphantly whips out yellow caution card he's obviously prepared in advance*
After laughing far to long, and way too hard, at his feeble joke, he slid the card back into his shirt pocket.
SO: "You don't know how long I've been wanting to do that. You should know better than to argue with a ref."
I rolled my eyes. Geek wit. Worse- referee geek wit.
SO: "Oh, more dissent. Watch it." *laughs more at his wit as he pretends to reach for his yellow card.* "But seriously, unlike those idiot parents, you do understand the rules of the game. Have you ever thought of reffing?"
Oh good god. Never trust a man with 40 volunteer referee spots to fill.
ME: "You know I'd red card (eject from the game) the first spectator that questioned one of my calls."
SO: *sobering up* "Yeah, you would."
ME: "Although.... Power.... Excellent."
I wonder how I'd look in one of those uniforms.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Who Do You Write For?
I don't mean as a matter of self-fulfillment.
I'm talking about audience.
Through my writer's lists, but mostly in erotica, debates crop up over the differences in writing for a male reader versus female. There are writers who swear that there should be no difference. The story's the thing, so to speak. I can see that, and I agree to a point, but those writers tend to write hetero stories from the POV of their physical gender. That makes me wonder how much thought they put into gender differences.
Sex isn't the dividing line between the audiences. I've written well received stories targeted for female readers that have been pure raunch from word one, and I've written deeply romantic pieces for male readers that got more fan mail than sexually explicit ones.
While I strongly believe that every person is an individual, there are some generalizations I make when targeting an audience. If I'm writing for women, I don't worry as much about a slower pace in the beginning of a story. I still fret over it, but I recognize that women have more patience with slower pacing if the story is compelling on an emotional level. That makes sense when you think about the way women use fantasy to shut out the real world from their minds before they can lose themselves in sex.
For women, I use lush words. Sound is important, from music to tone of voice. Temperature and weather get mentioned too. Body language matters as much as dialog. I lavish attention on emotional reaction or "feel" rather than a tactile description.
When I envision a man, gay or straight, as my reader, I play up different senses. Men and women seem to believe that men are more visual than women, but I can show a woman silk to get a reaction from her, whereas I have to let a man touch it. Scent plays a big role, as does color. For men, I try to keep the pace tight from the beginning.
None of this changes the core of the story I'm telling, just the way I describe things, the senses I try to engage, and the pace. The story is the thing, but there's more than one way to tell it.
I'm talking about audience.
Through my writer's lists, but mostly in erotica, debates crop up over the differences in writing for a male reader versus female. There are writers who swear that there should be no difference. The story's the thing, so to speak. I can see that, and I agree to a point, but those writers tend to write hetero stories from the POV of their physical gender. That makes me wonder how much thought they put into gender differences.
Sex isn't the dividing line between the audiences. I've written well received stories targeted for female readers that have been pure raunch from word one, and I've written deeply romantic pieces for male readers that got more fan mail than sexually explicit ones.
While I strongly believe that every person is an individual, there are some generalizations I make when targeting an audience. If I'm writing for women, I don't worry as much about a slower pace in the beginning of a story. I still fret over it, but I recognize that women have more patience with slower pacing if the story is compelling on an emotional level. That makes sense when you think about the way women use fantasy to shut out the real world from their minds before they can lose themselves in sex.
For women, I use lush words. Sound is important, from music to tone of voice. Temperature and weather get mentioned too. Body language matters as much as dialog. I lavish attention on emotional reaction or "feel" rather than a tactile description.
When I envision a man, gay or straight, as my reader, I play up different senses. Men and women seem to believe that men are more visual than women, but I can show a woman silk to get a reaction from her, whereas I have to let a man touch it. Scent plays a big role, as does color. For men, I try to keep the pace tight from the beginning.
None of this changes the core of the story I'm telling, just the way I describe things, the senses I try to engage, and the pace. The story is the thing, but there's more than one way to tell it.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Soccer
This weekend, despite the rain, soccer season continued across LA.
The SO is a referee, and sometimes I go along to be his tiny cheering section. How many times have you heard "Good Call Ref!" unless it was delivered in an incredibly sarcastic tone?
With rare exceptions, the kids don't question calls. They simply play the game. The problem is the parents.
There have been games where the SO has had to sprint for his car after the final whistle, or get an escort off the pitch. I've seen a player's mother grab and shake a teenage referee after a game. We occasionally sit down to dinner with the referee staff, and the stories passed around the table are discouraging. And yet, those men, women, and teenagers still give up their weekends from September until March to be out there for the kids.
I read several years ago about a girl's team in Ohio that was so disgusted by their parents' behavior that they demanded a game in silence. No adult was allowed to speak during play. They could clap, but that was it. Those girls were brilliant. I'd like to see silent weekends more often.
Unfortunately, it doesn't happen.
So I stand on the sidelines and have to hear not only the horrible things parents say to their children, but the crap they spew at the SO. It takes every ounce of willpower not to point out that being in an offsides position does not mean that the player is offsides. (Not that the parent could see if the player was offsides from their position near the center circle. That's why the assistant ref on the sideline is lined up with the second to the last defender, so that they can see when a player is truly offsides. But that major point seems to escape most parents.) I have patiently reminded enraged spectators that the referee clearly signaled advantage, meaning that he saw and acknowledged a foul, but to stop play would mean taking a developing play, and a possible scoring opportunity, from the team that was fouled. But since those parents wouldn't know the hand signal for advantage if they saw it, and they have no idea what advantage means, they keep trash-talking the referee. What a wonderful example they set for their kids.
This weekend really tested my ability to stay silent. One father questioned every call the SO made or yelled "It's about time you called that, Ref." And their team was four goals ahead! By the third quarter, the teeth marks in my tongue were probably permanent. So I turned to the idiot and said, "Gosh, they're always looking for more volunteer referees. Why don't you sign up to be a referee next year?"
He looked shocked, and then shook his head. "Naw, it wouldn't work out."
Because you obviously don't even know the basic rules of the game, asshole?
No, I didn't say it, but I thought it. I wouldn't want to be one of those mouthy spectators.
The SO is a referee, and sometimes I go along to be his tiny cheering section. How many times have you heard "Good Call Ref!" unless it was delivered in an incredibly sarcastic tone?
With rare exceptions, the kids don't question calls. They simply play the game. The problem is the parents.
There have been games where the SO has had to sprint for his car after the final whistle, or get an escort off the pitch. I've seen a player's mother grab and shake a teenage referee after a game. We occasionally sit down to dinner with the referee staff, and the stories passed around the table are discouraging. And yet, those men, women, and teenagers still give up their weekends from September until March to be out there for the kids.
I read several years ago about a girl's team in Ohio that was so disgusted by their parents' behavior that they demanded a game in silence. No adult was allowed to speak during play. They could clap, but that was it. Those girls were brilliant. I'd like to see silent weekends more often.
Unfortunately, it doesn't happen.
So I stand on the sidelines and have to hear not only the horrible things parents say to their children, but the crap they spew at the SO. It takes every ounce of willpower not to point out that being in an offsides position does not mean that the player is offsides. (Not that the parent could see if the player was offsides from their position near the center circle. That's why the assistant ref on the sideline is lined up with the second to the last defender, so that they can see when a player is truly offsides. But that major point seems to escape most parents.) I have patiently reminded enraged spectators that the referee clearly signaled advantage, meaning that he saw and acknowledged a foul, but to stop play would mean taking a developing play, and a possible scoring opportunity, from the team that was fouled. But since those parents wouldn't know the hand signal for advantage if they saw it, and they have no idea what advantage means, they keep trash-talking the referee. What a wonderful example they set for their kids.
This weekend really tested my ability to stay silent. One father questioned every call the SO made or yelled "It's about time you called that, Ref." And their team was four goals ahead! By the third quarter, the teeth marks in my tongue were probably permanent. So I turned to the idiot and said, "Gosh, they're always looking for more volunteer referees. Why don't you sign up to be a referee next year?"
He looked shocked, and then shook his head. "Naw, it wouldn't work out."
Because you obviously don't even know the basic rules of the game, asshole?
No, I didn't say it, but I thought it. I wouldn't want to be one of those mouthy spectators.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Step Away From Your Computer
Writing is a solitary pursuit. Even if you have a writing partner, you sit down alone to work. One of the cures for the isolation is an internet group and writer's list. I belong to several - for erotica, for speculative fiction, for queer writers, etc. and they are fantastic resources. I've raved any times in this blog about the best writer's community in the world, the Erotica Readers and Writers Association. My other lists are good and useful in their own ways, but none comes close to ERWA.
Even in LA, it's difficult to find other writers to meet face to face. For someone who lives in a small town, it can be almost impossible. That's why the internet is so wonderful. Somewhere out there is a group for a writer who has a hard time finding other writers.
But sometimes you just have to step away from your computer and talk to another human face to face.
This past Saturday, I was blessed to have a small gathering of writers over at my place. This is the second time I've hosted, and I plan to try to do at least two a year from now on. There is no substitute for sitting down over a meal and discussing writing. Not that we limited our far-ranging discussion to stories, writing styles, or the business of writing. We talked about everything and had a great time doing it. One thing about writers - they tend to be very curious, intelligent people. If they don't know something, they want to find out. Never a dull moment of conversation with a group like that. Although the party went very late into the night, and I drank more wine than I usually do, my mind was so full of ideas and conversation that it was hard to get to sleep.
I can't imagine having writer's block after a night like that. I woke early and wanted to dive into a million projects. I learned, I helped explain, I gossiped. It was lovely. Try it some time. If nothing else, you'll give your keyboard a rest.
Even in LA, it's difficult to find other writers to meet face to face. For someone who lives in a small town, it can be almost impossible. That's why the internet is so wonderful. Somewhere out there is a group for a writer who has a hard time finding other writers.
But sometimes you just have to step away from your computer and talk to another human face to face.
This past Saturday, I was blessed to have a small gathering of writers over at my place. This is the second time I've hosted, and I plan to try to do at least two a year from now on. There is no substitute for sitting down over a meal and discussing writing. Not that we limited our far-ranging discussion to stories, writing styles, or the business of writing. We talked about everything and had a great time doing it. One thing about writers - they tend to be very curious, intelligent people. If they don't know something, they want to find out. Never a dull moment of conversation with a group like that. Although the party went very late into the night, and I drank more wine than I usually do, my mind was so full of ideas and conversation that it was hard to get to sleep.
I can't imagine having writer's block after a night like that. I woke early and wanted to dive into a million projects. I learned, I helped explain, I gossiped. It was lovely. Try it some time. If nothing else, you'll give your keyboard a rest.
I Must Write a Story About This
I've written that I'm not sure where inspiration comes from, but when someone posted this picture on one of the forums I read, and asked for a caption, not only did I think of a great caption, but I'm inspired to write a story.
And yes, that is a urinal.
My caption: FTD announces their new Golden Showers bouquet.
To see the rest of this artist's work, click here.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Orbiting In Retrograde
My story Orbiting In Retrograde has been added to the Erotica Readers and Writer's Association's Treasure Chest, a real honor.
Just me in one of my quirky moods. I was thinking, at the time I wrote this, about the importance of touch, and how it can be so much more sensual than "the act." Donno if I got there, but I tried.
Speculative fiction erotica is hard for me to write, because you're building worlds while delving into libido and balancing the two is difficult unless you're going to limit your speculative fiction to setting, which doesn't make it true speculative fiction, or throw in a casual mention of a space ship, or your character fucks an alien. (Which happens in Helen Madden's Alienated, but her story is about so much more than fucking an alien that seems insulting to talk about it on that level.)
My other story, Kells, was also added, so I'm on a roll.
Just me in one of my quirky moods. I was thinking, at the time I wrote this, about the importance of touch, and how it can be so much more sensual than "the act." Donno if I got there, but I tried.
Speculative fiction erotica is hard for me to write, because you're building worlds while delving into libido and balancing the two is difficult unless you're going to limit your speculative fiction to setting, which doesn't make it true speculative fiction, or throw in a casual mention of a space ship, or your character fucks an alien. (Which happens in Helen Madden's Alienated, but her story is about so much more than fucking an alien that seems insulting to talk about it on that level.)
My other story, Kells, was also added, so I'm on a roll.
Roses
I watched the Rose Bowl last night the same way I watch any TV show – in ten to twelve minute segments separated by half hour breaks.
I’ve always preferred college football over professional, but I can’t claim to be much of a football fan at all. Football was something to sit down and watch with Pops and pretend that counted as having some sort of relationship with him. You could never go to a live game with him. A former football player, he sometimes forgot himself, stood up, and acted out the hits, grunting a bit as if he were feeling each one. It was bad enough to live through it at home. Being with him while strangers could see him was too humiliating to bear. It wasn’t as if he ever acknowledged that we watched with him, nor did he try to explain the game, help us appreciate it, or even share his admiration for plays. Football was his own little world. The most we were allowed into it was sit on the sidelines and watch him watching the game.
I am a big fan of soccer, maybe because I played the sport (poorly) and can appreciate footwork I tried to copy but tripped over and set plays coming together in ways I could never envision while my team was on the pitch. If anything, I enjoy the differences between American football and the sport the rest of the world more correctly calls football, considering that they are derived from the same game.
In soccer, a great tackle is all ball, no player. In American football, the ball is the least of the concerns. It’s all player. American football is nothing but a series of set plays. Soccer is a perpetual motion that develops (hopefully) into set plays.
And, of course, there are the players. With the exception of Lacrosse, no sport offers as much eye candy as soccer.
What I did see of the Rose Bowl last night was my favorite kind of football. Even someone with my limited appreciation of the sport could see that there was so much more to the game than simply brute strength pushing against raw muscle. (Hmmm, may have to rethink that eye candy comment.) Even I could see the strategy of going without a huddle and managing the clock and for god’s sake, USC, didn’t you have someone upstairs alerting you through your headphones to take a time out and get that touchdown reviewed? Lord knows every USC fan watching the game was screaming it loud enough from the bars in Santa Monica that you should have been able to hear it in Pasadena.
Ahem.
Anyway, from what I saw of it, it was a good game. Every time I wandered back into the TV room, the lead changed. Kicks were good, kicks were bad. Rugby type lateral passes were sometimes a horrible idea, and sometimes quite brilliant. (A little late maybe, but hey, the officials let it go, so I should too.) I wondered if Pops were watching. I knew he was probably on his feet, channeling the defensive line. I even wondered if he was rooting for Texas or USC, or if, like me, he was simply enjoying the game for the beauty of sports.
I’ve always preferred college football over professional, but I can’t claim to be much of a football fan at all. Football was something to sit down and watch with Pops and pretend that counted as having some sort of relationship with him. You could never go to a live game with him. A former football player, he sometimes forgot himself, stood up, and acted out the hits, grunting a bit as if he were feeling each one. It was bad enough to live through it at home. Being with him while strangers could see him was too humiliating to bear. It wasn’t as if he ever acknowledged that we watched with him, nor did he try to explain the game, help us appreciate it, or even share his admiration for plays. Football was his own little world. The most we were allowed into it was sit on the sidelines and watch him watching the game.
I am a big fan of soccer, maybe because I played the sport (poorly) and can appreciate footwork I tried to copy but tripped over and set plays coming together in ways I could never envision while my team was on the pitch. If anything, I enjoy the differences between American football and the sport the rest of the world more correctly calls football, considering that they are derived from the same game.
In soccer, a great tackle is all ball, no player. In American football, the ball is the least of the concerns. It’s all player. American football is nothing but a series of set plays. Soccer is a perpetual motion that develops (hopefully) into set plays.
And, of course, there are the players. With the exception of Lacrosse, no sport offers as much eye candy as soccer.
What I did see of the Rose Bowl last night was my favorite kind of football. Even someone with my limited appreciation of the sport could see that there was so much more to the game than simply brute strength pushing against raw muscle. (Hmmm, may have to rethink that eye candy comment.) Even I could see the strategy of going without a huddle and managing the clock and for god’s sake, USC, didn’t you have someone upstairs alerting you through your headphones to take a time out and get that touchdown reviewed? Lord knows every USC fan watching the game was screaming it loud enough from the bars in Santa Monica that you should have been able to hear it in Pasadena.
Ahem.
Anyway, from what I saw of it, it was a good game. Every time I wandered back into the TV room, the lead changed. Kicks were good, kicks were bad. Rugby type lateral passes were sometimes a horrible idea, and sometimes quite brilliant. (A little late maybe, but hey, the officials let it go, so I should too.) I wondered if Pops were watching. I knew he was probably on his feet, channeling the defensive line. I even wondered if he was rooting for Texas or USC, or if, like me, he was simply enjoying the game for the beauty of sports.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Gotta Love It
The SO called this morning and told me to open the trunk of his car.
Inside: THIS!
"Happy Birthday!" he told me. "A little something extra, since you never got one from your parents."
My eyes got that certain manic gleam that he fears, er, knows so well. But, since he wasn't there to see it, I chortled with fiendish delight.
I bet I can make something innocent go horribly wrong, I told myself. I could imagine the manufacturer insisting, "It simply isn't possible to melt steel with the chemicals that were in that set, I tell you. A baby could eat that stuff and not even burp!"
My inner Wednesday Aadams is about to be unleashed.
Then, in the voice of a person who's had a couple days to regret an impulse buy, and to reflect on the fact that my parents aren't stupid, the SO asked, "You're not going to catch the house on fire, are you?"
I could have assured him, but where's the fun in that?
"Well.... I'll may try not to."
Now when he gets back from his trip and finds out I haven't gone to the market or done laundry or clean, he'll just be grateful that there are no char marks on our walls. Diminished expectations. They make it that much easier to enjoy life.
It's so nice to be with someone who totally gets me. And yet hasn't learned not to leave home alone with stuff like this.
Muhahahahaha.
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