Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Adrian Paul, a very very nice change of scenery. He's probably saying, "I will kill you with my GREAT BIG DAGGER!"
And here... "I changed my mind. I'll kill you ... with pleasure... with my other GREATER BIGGER DAGGER OF LOVE." hee hee!
@*&# spammers hit this post before, so I deleted and now I have comment verification. If this keeps up, I'm prohibiting all comments. Damn them!
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
We were married and he came home from work in this funky red jacket, dark trousers, white starched shirt and red silk tie. He threw down his briefcase and said, “I can’t wait to make love to you, right now.”
But trouble was, it was … meh. I couldn’t climax. He asked me what was wrong and I told him I was tense.
Then all the sudden, he shapeshifts. Changes before my eyes… and changes to…
Jim Cantore from The Weather Channel. Complete in his raingear, talking about hurricanes. I screamed, “noooooooo!”
It’s not a deep dream, I know what it means, See, Jim Cantore has the knack of picking areas to broadcast from that get slammed. Thursday, Katrina was due to hit us in northern Broward. He broadcast from Miami. What got hit worst? Miami.
For the gulf coast landing, he picked Gulfport, Mississippi. Everyone thought New Orleans was ground zero. So what got the worst of it? Gulfport, Mississippi.
So what does all this, and my dream mean? Simple.
If Jim Cantore shows up anywhere near you, you’re f**ked.
All this and I find myself with a bit of survivor's guilt. I have power, house, family, dogs, everything. And my job. Don't forget all those whose homes were wiped out are probably now unemployed as well, since businesses were destroyed. Why did Katrina, the hurricane that was supposed to hit my city and swerved left at the last minute, miss me? There are people in Dade and south Broward without power and with flooded homes. People dead on the Gulf Coast. Why was I so lucky?
As for the devastation...it's horrific. People won't even be able to get back to their homes for weeks b/c of flooding. Checked Alison Kent's blog and author Larissa Ione, her CP, is okay but house damaged, flooded. Alison and others will be doing something to help out in the near future.
In the meantime, haven't heard anything from my friend in Mobile, AL. She stayed. I'm sure she's without power, maybe even phone. Down here after Katrina, some couldn't even call out on her cell phone. I'm sure she's okay and so is her family...
Still, I'm worried.
Monday, August 29, 2005
50,000 topless virgins are dancing for the privilege of being the king of Swaziland’s next bride. They sing tributes to the great She-Elephant, (no kidding), otherwise known as the king’s mom.
Chance to get a cell phone, a Beamer and call your MIL a she-elephant. Sounds good to me.
Wonder if the MIL is the great She-Elephant, does that mean her son has a substantially-sized “trunk” of his own?
Okay, bad joke.
MSNBC has the story. Seems the king, 37, wanted the national ritual to pick a new wife (already has a few in the royal stable). Said king wears a leopard-skin loincloth. Must be his "picking out a new virgin" outfit. The virgins perform the reed dance and he picks one to be his wife. He paid a fine of one cow to lift the ban on sex with virgins.
One cow = one virgin.
The virgins all wear chastity scarves. Supposed to ward off preying men. I’ve heard of chastity belts, of course. But a scarf? Is it Hermes? Silk? How does the scarf ward off lusty men?
Doesn’t seem very effective to me. If items of clothing are used, might I suggest a chastity steel-toed boot that plays a classic Stones tune? When you kick something with it, it plays “Can’t get no satisfaction.”
Lusty panting male: There she is! A VIRGIN! The last one the king hasn’t nabbed yet! She’s mine!
Virgin: Back off, you lusty panting male! I’m armed with my chastity boots!
Kicks lusty panting male squarely in the ballocks with steel-toed boot. Mick’s voice warbles out, “Can’t get no satisfaction.”
Lusty panting male doubles over, howling. Virginity preserved. Lusty panting male starts thinking maybe a nice older widow the age of the Great She-Elephant might be better for nooky. And he’ll save himself a cow or two.
It’s sunny outside my window and on the television, it’s raining. Pouring. I watched footage of a Mobile, AL television reporter filming on the top of a hotel roof. Downtown is submerged. Looks like New Orleans got spared, a little, the worst of the storm surge, but Mobile didn’t. Water was rising up to the top of traffic lights in some areas.
My friend lives there.
We talked on the phone last night. She assured me they are on high ground, were boarded up, etc. We talked for a bit about hurricanes. She told me how they, and their neighbors, didn’t even board up until yesterday. And she told me why… something only someone who has seen the relentless conga line of hurricanes approaching can understand.
“I think we’re just weary.”
Though a hurricane hasn’t slammed into my city and I’ve been lucky just to get sideswiped, I know the feeling. Last year. Charley. Frances. Jeanne. Ivan missed us entirely.
This year, holding breath for Cindy, and Dennis. And last week, boarding up for Katrina.
She didn't miss us. Not entirely.
Then there was the monster, Andrew, in 1992. In 1992, at one point, they said my city would suffer a direct hit. Instead Homestead got nailed. It took years to recover.
Hurricanes make you weary. Again and again, get the supplies, shutter up the house, ride it out, swallow that lump of fear in your throat. How bad will it be? How high will the water rise? Will trees fall on the house? When is it time to go into a safe room? Will the roof hold? Will we get hit directly or just skirted? Will the power hold out and if it doesn’t, how long will it be before we have it? Did I store enough water?
And, on a lighter note, Do I have enough underarm deodorant?
The uncertainty factor plays a huge part of the anxiety. And then we discussed the weatherman phenomena. It happens when you tune into the Weather Channel, or CNN, or any national TV station and see the grim-faced weatherman/woman pointing at the spinning monster spitting back wind and water and saying, “Storm surge, blah blah blah, heading, blah blah blah.”
They’re talking about YOUR house. Your city. You. You’re thinking, “Easy for you to say there’s a hurricane coming, chum. YOU don’t have to live through it.”
Then there’s the aftermath. No power. You pick up debris, survey the yard, house, damage. If you’ve got flooding, there’s water in your house. Or maybe your house has become its own little island.
I felt so sorry for a guy they interviewed on TV who planned to ride Katrina out in his house. He said, "We have enough water, food, blah blah, and we'll be okay if it's just a few weeks. Hopefully it won't be a few months."
Trust me, mister, it will be months. Get used to standing in a long, long line for supplies like they are now in Miami. For a long long time. The sun beating down on your neck, the sweat rolling off your brow. People in Homestead packed their bags after Andrew and moved away. Deserting their homes. Some parts of south Dade looked like a ghost town after Andrew.
I’ve been fortunate never to get flooded, but I’ve covered enough storms in my day job to know what it’s like. A few years ago after a tropical storm dumped tons of rain in Jamaica, I went there to survey the damage and see how my organization can help. We had water boots. We waded through this woman’s yard, water sloshing up past our boots, to her porch. She showed me her house…safe and snug, and then she took me out to her bedroom. She opened the back door and warned, “Don’t fall out.”
Water was up to the door’s jam.
She had a sea of brown, ucky water in her yard. In another area, people were paddling down a roadway in a bamboo rafts they use for tourists on the Black River.
And last year, in Haiti, Gonaives. 2,000 people killed from Jeanne. No real warning, they died in their homes or swept away in flood waters. Our vehicle tipped and nearly fell on its side last year as we drove through the brown, murky flood waters filled with sewage and rotting corpses. We stood in that water, as it sloshed up to our hips, for nearly an hour, helplessly waiting for someone to help pull our Montero out.
Did I mention how much I loathe hurricanes?
So I’m sitting here, worried sick for my friend. Feeling depressed at all the mess and muck and possible loss of life. The fear for all those trapped in this hurricane… those inside the Superdome with its leaks and rising water, my friend in Mobile, and everyone else.
In the meantime, I sure hope that water stops rising.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
This freaking storm scares the bejesus out of me. And I'm in Florida. It's like watching a disaster movie on TV, only it's real. I'm feeling the same anxiety I felt on Thursday when it hit us down here in Florida, only this is ten times worse because the storm is ten times bigger... o.m.g.
Predictable, with the warm waters stirring it up. But absolutely freaking scary. I saw what happened to Dade county after Andrew. Flattened like a pancake. Nothing left, no trees, roofs ripped off. A bunch of us went down there to help out afterward and it was like someone dumped a bomb on the region. But this is worse. Katrina is a bigger storm and the rain it will dump... the flooding... people south of me are still bailing out from when Katrina hit us. And if it hits New Orleans... o.m.g. Those poor people. I hope and pray they can all get out... or at least can reach higher ground. I love New Orleans. What a city. Hot and mellow jazz, the smooth, cool slide of a hurricane down your throat, terrific food...
Will all that just be memories?
On a brighter note, things are settling back to "normal" whatever that is, around my house. FIL is back home, power is back. Friends have their power back as well (they hooked up the generator to the icemaker and fridge, two essentials. Food and ice for drinks) Tiger has resumed hiding in his usual spot by the couch instead of stalking me around. And I finished a proposal for my agent and mailed it off yesterday. Just wanted to get something accomplished this weekend other than picking up debris and taking down shutters.
One week from Tuesday, I'll be in Haiti. Never thought I'd think visiting a volatile country where they kidnap and kill people as no big deal. That's what hurricanes do to you... even a cat. 1.
Saturday, August 27, 2005
It was a powerful dream. I looked out this back door and saw a beautiful meadow, shorn emerald grass, and wildflowers and trees and brush in the distance. I was drawn to walk across it. I said to myself, "This is a dream, but I'm going to follow it." I got to the edge and suddenly a small dirt path appeared. I knew I had to walk it.
I walked upon it and then it suddenly split into two. The lower half had families walking along it, and the upper path was fairly deserted. I took the upper path. I came upon a few teenagers at this waystation, reading religious material. I knew that wasn't for me. I knew where I was going.
I was walking to heaven to meet Jesus. So I kept walking and I came to another waystation, like a picnic table. There were some kids playing there with plastic toys. And a bearded guy in a robe and cloak. I knew it was Jesus. I didn't ask. I didn't grovel or start gushing. I just said Hi, as if we were old friends. And we started talking.
I didn't want to treat him any different in heaven than I treated him on earth, because when you're friends with someone, why change the relationship just because the setting is different? I was respectful, following his lead. But I didn't gush.
I forget what we talked about. I did ask him something. I told him the bible passage about the parable he told of the workers getting paid equally whether they started work at 5 p.m. or dawn bugged me. Because I said it seemed unfair. He just smiled. Then I asked him if, since I was dreaming this, if heaven was just what everyone imagined it to be in their own minds. I love wildflowers and meadows. I told him, "I mean, is all this just an illusion and is heaven filled with a bunch of old naked people walking about? Because that would gross me out, seeing a bunch of old naked people."
He laughed. He told me no, it was really what I saw.
Some parts are a blur, but I do remember showing him one of my loves - steam engines. There was an old guy there wearing a train engineer's cap. He talked about locomotives and stuff and then we were going to ride the train, but I told Jesus we needed the old guy to operate the engine. Because I love steam locomotives, but I don't know how to operate them. So we went for a train ride and we pretended we were in a wild west movie, chasing after bandits. It was fun.
And then at one point, because I had the feeling I wasn't supposed to stay there, it was just a visit, I asked the Lord why I was there. And he told me that he had been very depressed about what was happening in the world today and his dad sent me up there for a visit to cheer him up and entertain him.
And that's when I woke up. And I felt pretty depressed myself. Things must be pretty rotten in the world today if I'm the one chosen to cheer Jesus up.
Friday, August 26, 2005
It wasn't any excuse to wear my husband's underpants.
So what if I couldn't really see and thought his freshly washed briefs were my panties? Okay, that thingie in the front SHOULD have warned me. But hell, it was a hurricane and I was scared and distracted, the wind is howling outside, tree branches are whacking the roof, the parrot, in the living room was squawking and the dogs were whimpering ... again... and my husband was at the hospital, working, AGAIN... leaving me alone during yet another hurricane... (how many is this now? Five?) I just wanted to have on fresh panties.
Just in case. Because my mom always told me, always wear clean underwear in case of an accident. And I always listened to my mom. And I figured an accident can apply directly to a hurricane. So as the trees are bending and the rain is pouring, I put on my husband's underwear.
I took them off immediately, of course, as soon as I figured out what happened.
I didn't like the feel of that thingie in the front.
And now it's after the fact, and I still have power. The dogs are fine, the parrot is back on teh patio warbling FU to anyone who listens and I even cooked a lasanga for my husband (who worked 17 hours straight) and my father-in-law (who is staying with us now b/c he doesn't have power).
I just didn't tell him about the underwear incident. It's our little secret, okay? ;-)
Thursday, August 25, 2005
And scattered newspersons standing at the beach, screaming on television and trying to look like Jim Cantore so s/he can be picked up on the national feeds.
Note to local newscasters: You will NEVER be Jim Cantore
Occasional sprinklings of rum, followed by possible downpour of muscle relaxers
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
RING RING RING!!!
Me: zzzz...uhhuh? WTF?
DH: zzzz...uhhhhh...lo? uh...blah blah blah blah. OKAY. Gotta go to work. Emergency. blah blah blah
Me: WTF? WTF? It's 12:30, blah blah blah, WTF? WTF? WTF?
Me: WTF? zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
DOG BARKS. DH HOME.
DH: I'm home. blah blah blah blah. Night.
ALARM CLOCK BLARES
DH: zzzzzzzzzz...hhhhuhhhhhhhh...WTF? Oh, F.
Me: zzzzzzzzzz....oh sheesh. WTF? Already? WTF?
Me: Stumbles to patio to bird cage.
Me: Tosses cover over bird cage
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
In my doll days, I stole my bro's GI Joe and had Barbie ride off on her horse with Joe. My Barbie deserved Joe. Ken was too much into competing with her clothing. GI Joe back then was a foot tall. When dolls were men.
Speaking of foot longs... heard on the radio this a.m. that some company is now making condoms just to please South African men. Seems the SA male complains regular sized is too tight. The new condoms accomodate a, um, member that is one foot long and eight inches in circumference. Holy summer sausage, Batman! A FOOT LONG penis?
Monday, August 22, 2005
“Heisei tanuki gassen pompoko” was the movie’s Japanese name. “Gassen pompoko.” Sounds what Tia, my female Shih Tzu, does when she’s finished choking down her dinner.
Scott Chitwood, reviewing this movie for Coming Soon.net, writes, “As the movie progressed, an older male raccoon asked all the other male raccoons to sit on a large red carpet. The carpet then transformed and folded up between the male raccoon’s legs. Yes, he transformed his scrotum into a giant carpet. Again, I said, “Was that what I thought it was?!?” It got weirder from there. Later in the film, a bunch of raccoons start flying in formation to attack the humans. Their testicles then swell up to about 10 feet in diameter and they dropped out of the sky and flattened the humans with their massive balls.”
I’ve heard of all kinds of military maneuvers, but never giant raccoon testicles being used as weapons of mass destruction. Hmm. I wonder if the Pentagon is onto this?
Okay, I’ve got a great idea for a new romance novel. It’s “ballsy”.
A romance novel with a muscled, studly hero shapeshifter who changes into a raccoon. His man-part holder swells to ten times its size. Kick Ass Heroine is much impressed when said man-part turns into flying carpet taxicab. He takes her for a magic carpet ride.
Raccoon then does the slow mo move from “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon” at the mall when his beloved gets into a catfight with another female shopper over the last pair of Manolo slingbacks. He takes his giant testicles, slaps the bitch silly with them. Whap whap whap. Stunned, she collapses to the floor, muttering about bad LSD flashbacks and resolving never to wear anything but flats again.
But…oh no! The Manolos are GONE! Who took them? Raccoon-Scrotum Man and his sexy chick prowl the mall for the thief, sniffing down clues while stopping at the food court for some marvy cheese fries and having sex in the restroom during which he shapeshifts back to Handsome Hero with a 10-inch dong, but normal sized testicles.
The book ends with a thrilling conclusion of Raccoon-Scrotum Man and Kicking Ass Heroine chasing down the missing Manolos in “Bed, Bath & Beyond” where they are being used as a plant holder. Delighted, kick ass heroine dons shoes; then she and raccoon scrotum man have hot sex in the linens section. The new Manolos leave a heel imprint on the ecru duvets marked half price.
Chick lit paranormal romantic suspense erotic romance. Call it Crotch-swinging Raccoon, Not Hidden, but Dragging.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Nope. Not scared. Gulp. Gulp. Note to self: Take more muscle relaxers.
Today I'm thinking of why our culture is obsessed with men's equipment. Last night DH picked up his sinus meds, without looking at the label. When he got into the parking lot he glanced at it. The pharamacist had given him the wrong 'script. He gave him a script for a male enhancement pill.
Dh roared with laughter. He got his sinus pills after exchanging the 'script with the red-faced pharmacist, who apologized. I asked DH, "Hey, if that stuff works on equipment that needs to grow, and you have sinus trouble and take it, does it mean your nose will grow?
It reminded me of something I encountered in my travels. I already blogged about this, but I think it's worth a repeat "performance."
Last year I encountered the penis controversy in Jamaica. In downtown Kingston, near a hotel where we stay when we’re working in the field, there is a park called Emancipation Park. With a bronze sculpture of a naked man and woman. They are facing each other. They are about 11 feet tall. The man’s equipment is displayed to the world and it is rather large equipment indeed.
When I remarked on this to one of my co-workers, she laughed. The penis size stirred a huge controversy in Jamaica. People complained the man’s genitals were “too big.” The sculptor who created the statue says she did not purposely enlarge that particular part and noted how the man has muscles in his torso and butt and the female is also well-endowed.
Of course no one’s complained about the breast size. Just the penis.
The sculpture is supposed to represent freedom from slavery and thus the park’s name, Emancipation Park. One jocular newspaper columnist called it “The emancipated penis.” He noted that simply because European statues have small ones, doesn’t mean Jamaica has to. The Gleaner, the local paper had a column simply titled, “Jamaica Aroused.”
Ironically, there is ANOTHER sculpture of a nude couple, only they complained that man’s equipment was “too small.” If you’ve ever been to Jamaica and flown into Norman Manley airport, you’ll see it on the drive from the airport as the road hooks to the left on the way to Kingston.
Which brings to mind Goldilocks and the three bears. I could steal a line from Sex & the City and call her “Goldicocks,” but I won’t. Goldilocks and the three (what should I call it? Penis? Manhood? Purple warrior? How about Bronzed Male Part?) Bronzed Male Parts. One was too big. One was too small. Surely one could be “just right.” I think they should remove the big guy and replace it with the smaller guy.Then have the classic Bob Marley lyrics underscored beneath the man’s sculpture: “We're coming in from the cold.”
Shrinkage. Solves everything.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Now all the sudden I may be going to Haiti next month.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Okay, now panic.
Like I said, funny how life shifts. Already I feel the tension back in my neck. Reason we will go? We need to squeeze in a trip before elections in November. Right now we hear it is “calm.” Traveling to Haiti is like that scene from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade where Indy maneuvers his way through booby traps to get to the grail. You try to dodge the violence, rush there when there is a bit of peace, do all you can as fast as you can, and then rush home.
Spammers have attacked my blog, thus the reason I shut down comments. I am going to leave this post open and see what happens. The minute I get a spam attack, sorry. Comments go. They aren’t even creative spammers, like the types I get on my email account. Did you know all love enhancers can be found on one portal? Or that my wife will find me more attractive if I increase a certain bodily fluid? The big thing now is the spam coming not from Niger. It’s the spam from an “agent in Europe.” Look at this beauty I had to open from a guy named Fagan (like the character in Dicken’s Oliver Twist?) Rooms for girls who want to model? Is that what they are calling it now? I love the chutzpah of these spammers. I just wish they would learn to spell.
MY NAME IS PHIL SANDERS,I AM AN AGENT IN EUROPE ,I NORMALLY
GET ROOMS FOR GIRLS WHO WANT TO MODEL ,SO I HAVE A COMPANY
IN THE U.S. THAT WILL NEED SOME GIRLS WITH A DIFFERENT ROOM
FOR EACH OF THEM, I'M INTERESTED IN THIS YOUR APPARTMENT SO
THAT I CAN REACH THEM EASILY. (Sure Fagan. I bet you want
to "reach" them easily!)
THEY WILL BE COMING BY THE END OF SEPTEMBER BY GOD'S GRACE
.SO LET ME KNOW WHAT IT WILL COST,FOR RENTAGE FOR AT LEAST
6 MONTHS AND OTHER EXPENSES THAT I'M LIKELY TO INCURE SO I
CAN EFFECT PAYMENT AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.THE COMPANY
WILL ISSUE YOU A CHECK AS SOON AS WE AGREE ON
AVAIL ME WITH THE NECESSARY DETAILS IMMEDIATELY PLEASE.
BETTER STILL YOUR FULL NAME,CONTACT ADDRESS AND PHONE
NUMBER FOR FAST COMMUNICATION.THANK YOU.
Here's what I would reply:
Girls who want to model? No thanks. Give me ten cute cabana boys with sculpted muscles who will wait on me hand and foot, feed me grapes and frozen cocktails with little yellow umbrellas and maybe we can talk. Better yet, get me a dozen hard-working maids and I will be happy to share my living domicile with them in exchange for housework. You should see all the laundry I have.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Ok, I think I need to do laundry. I guess I've let it pile up a tad. I keep trying to get Tia to do the wash, but alas, she can't reach the controls. Must go and strangle parrot now. He is shrieking like mad. Maybe I'll throw him in the washing machine. Set to spin cycle.
Friday, August 12, 2005
And he's getting a book published. By Kensington.
Toby the Rabbit, whose owner has a website to raise money to save his rabbit or he will become rabbit stew, will be famous. In a book. His owner has a book contract.
As it says on the web site, "The book agreement with James and Brian extends Toby's execution date until Thanksgiving Day of 2006. If 100,000 copies of the book SAVE TOBY! are sold by that date, the rabbit's life will be spared. Otherwise, the rabbit is Thanksgiving dinner. The message to readers is simple: Only you can save Toby...the book, to be published in September, is a guide to the ins and outs of Toby, his likes, dislikes, photos, recipes and the story of how he came into the hands of James and Brian."
Okay, I'm going to start a web site. Save the Pain in the Ass Bird.com. If I don't raise $100,000 by the end of the year, or if I don't get a new book contract by then, the parrot is flying to birdie heaven. He's gonna squawk out his last "FU!" to the world.
Hey, if Toby's owner can do it with his rabbit, I can do it with the damn bird. I figure I'll win anyway.
Anyone know any good recipes for parrot stew? Parrot a 'orange? Parrot de jour?
Then again, I realize how selfish I am. If I want to save something that is in danger of dying, shouldn't it be for the betterment of my fellow human beings? (Although killing the parrot would make my irritated neighbors very very grateful)
So maybe I'll do a Save RWA. com site. Hmmm. Something to think about.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Hubby: "I was planning to strip you naked, turn you upside down and lick you from head to toe... but I hurt my foot at work and I think I'll just lie on the couch."
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Results from tests? I have muscle spasms. Think someone jamming a spike directly into your body, the muscle tightening... that's it. The good news is... cervical disc disease? The neurologist shook her head, said I'm too tense.
Too tense. It's made me do some serious thinking about my life, and what direction I want...
She gave me a script for muscle relaxers, advised wearing the cervical collar when I'm traveling in the Third World, and told me to try yoga. I went to my first yoga class tonight. Unfortunately, they called it "beginner/intermediate" but everyone was advanced. So they are doing these positions in which they twist their bodies and turn their legs and I'm trying to plod along, twist my leg this way and I look like a frantic human pretzel.
In the meantime, I'm testing out a new yoga class later this week. And I have these loverly muscle relaxers which are supposed to make me sleepy so she warned me do NOT use them during the day but I really can't see how they would put me to sleep because I feel...i mean, i'm not sleepy at all, whatz the helz was she talking....zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Monday, August 08, 2005
tests went okay...first was just electrical pulses, like getting tiny shocks. second was a bit worse, needles stuck into skin and muscles, the neurologist listened for nerve damage. kinda cool, actually how the static increases when the muscle is strained. the worst was when she stuck the needle directly into a nerve. I felt it all the way up my arm to my neck. yeow! but even that wasn't too bad...except now my fingers hurt and i'm getting tiny painful muscle spasms in hands and arms. so i'm providing a link to some nice eye candy on another blog -- the bandwagon. Mary likes Gerard B as much as I do and she has great pix. I love the photo she posted on August 5. check it out!
Saturday, August 06, 2005
Short post today. Trying to get edits done on my Ellora's Cave quickie before Monday when they shove needles into my muscles. I think when they are done, I may end up with a new look. Like this. Just don't get any magnets near me or we'll end up having a love fest.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
My suggestion: Have half-naked muscled men in fire engine red thongs present the awards. Strip away ALL taste from the awards presentation. Imagine the scene… A totally clueless, tall he-man, muscles glistening beneath the spotlights, strides onto stage, flexing his biceps. He takes the RITA statuette and goes to hand it to the winner…
Mr. Pecs: “Here yah go, honeybuns. Uh, dunno what the hell this statue is for. What is a RITA anyway?”
Winner, grimacing. “Eeeew. My RITA is covered with… man sweat!”
Mr. Pecs: “That’s not man sweat, honeybuns. That’s Wesson. I always oil myself before coming onstage. I have Wessonality. Hey, wanna see what I can do?”
Winner, dumbfounded, watching Mr. Pecs flex one man titty and then the other. “OMG. That’s, that’s…”
Mr. Pecs, grinning: “Betcha you can’t do that with your boobs, honeybuns. See what a round of steroids and some quality gym time can do?”
Winner, frowning: “Steroids? Well if you’re on steroids, then that bulge must be…”
She dives for his thong in a sudden move, reaches in and pulls out… dozens of missing ballots from the RWA presidential election.
Winner, sighing and tossing ballots in the air: “I knew it. “
Mr. Pecs, turning beet red, trying to catch ballots: “Gimme back my man-stuffing!”
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Also, here's a good article on outlining your novel by Alicia Rasley. She gives a great exercise you can easily follow along, asking thought-provoking questions. It’s a great way to jump start a story.