Matt gave a warm reception to my latest chapter. It involved him running into the living room, grabbing me up, jumping up and down, shouting "Gimme more, gimme more! Want next chapter! More! More!" I think that's the most encouraging reception I've ever received.
Any writer knows, no matter how you plot your novel, no matter how detailed the outline or extensive the notes, sometimes an event happens that you just don't expect. In my case, Matt has been watching Charmed reruns for months, going through the entire series, and is now going back through for episodes he particularly liked. He has ideas he wants to see done in Shadowstrider. Some things I think are intriguing, some I just raise an eyebrow and tell him firmly "No!"
I have a character with psionic abilities. Matt's idea was to have this character able to, for lack of a better word, teleport. It's a lot cooler explained than simply she can go from one place to another instantaneously, but I'm trying to keep things vague so I won't spoil any plotiness.
This concept of teleportation was solely Matt's idea, having watched a dozen ways the demons, witches, and white-lighters do this on the television show. A cheap plot device, hero has to get ten miles away to save helpless dame from evil demon, but jumping into your car and driving that far, especially in San Francisco where the show takes place, will take such a long time, our hapless dame would be worse than dead by then. How do we shorten the episode time and make things more fast-paced and exciting? Oh wow, look, they can teleport anywhere, and lookie, simple computer graphics make it all so pretty!
Matt basically wants to turn my character into a white-lighters, "orbing" from one place to another, with the body dissolving into white glowing orbs of energy that float away. The concept of turning into energy was one I established back in Book 3, and this is Book 8, so it's not something new. In Book 7, it is a major issue in almost a third of the story. Other characters have turned into energy, but energy has to travel. Going from point A to point B can be done super quick, but teleporting? I dunno...
So we've been haggling how to handle this. Charmed is all about magic. Shadowstrider makes fun of the possibilities that exist in the realm of science being passed off as impossible and therefore shoved into the catch-all phrase of "magic." So whatever it is I'm doing, it has to be within the laws of physics. E=mc^2
Of course, all of Books 7 & 8 are Matt's idea. If I stray from the usual pattern, I can blame him. The two of us, over dinner at Shari's, came up with an outline for these two books, but it was generalized for the most part. I have strayed from so many key issues. Just a few days ago, I went through and changed the names of three characters, including one who is mentioned in all ten books. About to wrap this story up, and I'm making massive changes like that!
Then again, the fun things about plot outlines is deviating away from them and seeing what strange areas we end up in.
At least the reception he gave me after reading the finish chapter was good.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Friday, January 09, 2009
The Sex Scene
A writer friend and I were discussing sex scenes in novels. These tend to go three ways:
1) PG-13 fluff, man and woman kiss, maybe go so far as to collapse together in a bed, cut scene before anyone gets naked;
2) trashy romance novels, rippling muscles, heaving breasts;
3) smut-books, oh-baby-god-yes with screaming profanity.
In her endearingly blatant way, my friend brought up that people either fear any form of romantic involvement between characters (oh dear, high schools can't force their apathetic students to analyze your novel), they read Fanny Hill as a teen and think anything vaguely erotic has to contain enough nearly-archaic words to make the reader forget what is going on as they research a dictionary (example: "lo, a turgid passion did throb in the weapon of his manhood as, through the revealing casement, he beheld the swathes of virescent and rufous chenille tumble off the junoesque ingénue, disclosing her swart opulence, as her limpid orbs gazed wistfully into the hesperian blush of the gloaming welkin"), or they are oversexed (or even more likely, undersexed) slash wannabes who believe every moan of the porno business, that sex really can't be good unless it involves oral, vaginal, and anal sex with a cum shot and lots of vulgarities. Androgynous boys and lesbian twins help, too. And fetishes. Lots of fetishes.
Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but the last thing I want to hear as I experience utter physical bliss is a guy yelling "oh f***, yeah, you b****, I f***ing love how you f*** my c*ck." Just ... no!
In the book I'm currently working on, more than in any other serious project, I'm faced with many explicit scenes as my young main character discovers love in its many forms, from cute teen love with fears of loss of virginity, to endearing romance and walks along the beach, to the persistent jerk who only wants a wife, to total WTF oddities only possible in the realm of science fiction. Therefore, I've been experimenting with how many ways to present the trouble of a love scene.
I've already had my husband tell me to tone down one scene, and for my own defense, I knew it was over the top, reaching into Category 3: the smut novel. It was an experiment in writing, done mostly because I wanted to see if I could write that graphically. I got it out of my system, yay me, time to get serious again and at least tame it to rated R. After all, I want Barnes and Noble to be able to sell this book, not Fanny Hill's Bordello of Books.
I've also gone so far as to write a whole love scene in which I say very little about what the two characters are doing, but by describing what is going on around them (sex on the beach is very nature-filled) I show the reader precisely what is going on in my own roundabout way. And yes, there are many cutaway scenes, nothing more than pulling toward the bedroom, then cut to the next morning. After all, a reader doesn't have to be told the gory details every time a couple copulates or the intensity of the scene vanishes into blasé acceptance. Ho hum, she's at it again.
One thing I aim for in any lovemaking scene is the "love" part, an element too often missing in novels these days. Even if it's with a total stranger or friend-with-benefits, there has got to be a reason, emotions the character feels. I don't want to be Lady Chatterley's Lover and spend ten pages delving into his/her emotional mindset, not when it'll probably take the reader longer to read all that emo-tripe than it would take them to have the ride of their life, but I think a reader deserves to know just why Johnny and Susy are playing hanky-panky in the backseat of a Buick.
Crude? Verbose? Coy? The nice thing about this current project is I have 800+ pages already (yeah, major editing needed) to experiment a little with it all, from the adorable to the abnormal. And if it's too much, that's what editors are for. I'm sure, like my husband, someone's going to tell me to take it down a few notches.
1) PG-13 fluff, man and woman kiss, maybe go so far as to collapse together in a bed, cut scene before anyone gets naked;
2) trashy romance novels, rippling muscles, heaving breasts;
3) smut-books, oh-baby-god-yes with screaming profanity.
In her endearingly blatant way, my friend brought up that people either fear any form of romantic involvement between characters (oh dear, high schools can't force their apathetic students to analyze your novel), they read Fanny Hill as a teen and think anything vaguely erotic has to contain enough nearly-archaic words to make the reader forget what is going on as they research a dictionary (example: "lo, a turgid passion did throb in the weapon of his manhood as, through the revealing casement, he beheld the swathes of virescent and rufous chenille tumble off the junoesque ingénue, disclosing her swart opulence, as her limpid orbs gazed wistfully into the hesperian blush of the gloaming welkin"), or they are oversexed (or even more likely, undersexed) slash wannabes who believe every moan of the porno business, that sex really can't be good unless it involves oral, vaginal, and anal sex with a cum shot and lots of vulgarities. Androgynous boys and lesbian twins help, too. And fetishes. Lots of fetishes.
Maybe I'm old-fashioned, but the last thing I want to hear as I experience utter physical bliss is a guy yelling "oh f***, yeah, you b****, I f***ing love how you f*** my c*ck." Just ... no!
In the book I'm currently working on, more than in any other serious project, I'm faced with many explicit scenes as my young main character discovers love in its many forms, from cute teen love with fears of loss of virginity, to endearing romance and walks along the beach, to the persistent jerk who only wants a wife, to total WTF oddities only possible in the realm of science fiction. Therefore, I've been experimenting with how many ways to present the trouble of a love scene.
I've already had my husband tell me to tone down one scene, and for my own defense, I knew it was over the top, reaching into Category 3: the smut novel. It was an experiment in writing, done mostly because I wanted to see if I could write that graphically. I got it out of my system, yay me, time to get serious again and at least tame it to rated R. After all, I want Barnes and Noble to be able to sell this book, not Fanny Hill's Bordello of Books.
I've also gone so far as to write a whole love scene in which I say very little about what the two characters are doing, but by describing what is going on around them (sex on the beach is very nature-filled) I show the reader precisely what is going on in my own roundabout way. And yes, there are many cutaway scenes, nothing more than pulling toward the bedroom, then cut to the next morning. After all, a reader doesn't have to be told the gory details every time a couple copulates or the intensity of the scene vanishes into blasé acceptance. Ho hum, she's at it again.
One thing I aim for in any lovemaking scene is the "love" part, an element too often missing in novels these days. Even if it's with a total stranger or friend-with-benefits, there has got to be a reason, emotions the character feels. I don't want to be Lady Chatterley's Lover and spend ten pages delving into his/her emotional mindset, not when it'll probably take the reader longer to read all that emo-tripe than it would take them to have the ride of their life, but I think a reader deserves to know just why Johnny and Susy are playing hanky-panky in the backseat of a Buick.
Crude? Verbose? Coy? The nice thing about this current project is I have 800+ pages already (yeah, major editing needed) to experiment a little with it all, from the adorable to the abnormal. And if it's too much, that's what editors are for. I'm sure, like my husband, someone's going to tell me to take it down a few notches.
Of Cats and Christmas Trees
I never celebrated Christmas as a kid, but I knew about all the usual traditions involved. As one comic writer I love put it, "Jesus was born in a manger, so we go shopping at Macy's." Yes, a hapless tree, poisonous holly, and parasitic mistletoe to dupe chaste women into osculating.
It didn't make sense as a child, it still doesn't makes sense.
BUT my hubby loves Christmas, despite his mother being Jewish and coming from what was, for all intents and purposes, a Jewish family, albeit not a strict one as I learned one Christmas evening when his mother told me we were having ham for dinner.
His parents were coming up for Christmas, and since our place is far larger than my uncle-in-law's tiny bachelor pad, it was my duty to provide a Christmas dinner.
Um... great! I know nothing about Christmas dinners.
And if we didn't look properly festive, oy ve, watch out!
The Tree:
We spent money we didn't really have for all the obligatory accouterments of the season: poor tree, plastic wreath, stockings from Dollar Tree, in fact, most of our things came from the Dollar Tree. The ice storm we had the week earlier snapped off a lot of pine branches, so I cut off a few and put sprigs around the house. Gotta admit, the place smells marvelous!
One thing I can say: trees and cats don't mix! Sumo (aka Capone) body-slams everything, and Ninja (aka Stetson) attempts sneak attacks on anything that moves/doesn't move/might-possibly-in-this-century move.
My hubby is a major Trekkie, and for years, his parents would get him the annual Star Trek ornament. Therefore, half our ornaments comprised of starships, Borg cubes, various captains, shuttle crafts, and alien ships. There are plenty of music-related things to hang up as well, stuff I've collected because it was adorable and my traditionalist hubby insisted were really supposed to be ornaments. Whatever. I've learned, when it comes to some issues, just make a man happy.
Thus we had our dead tree. I have to throw it out in two days for the apartment's recycling deadline, but I'm holding onto that thing for the moment. It was sacrificed for the sake of archaic pagan tradition, but it makes one heck of an air freshener. I'm going to keep some sprigs around, considering the ones I gathered for Christmas dinner have dried out. At least the life of that lovely little tree brought happiness for a fleeting moment.
Okay, enough of me being emo over the evergreen. Worse things are done in the name of religion and tradition than the existence of tree farms.
The Dinner:
Dinner with the in-laws went well. We still had lots of snow, so that afternoon we slushed out to Summerlake Park, which at that moment was the most ironically named place I could imagine, gazing out over fields of snow and a frozen lake. We built a snowman, threw snowballs, and let the crazy Californians have their winter delight. It was my mother-in-law's first White Christmas, so she was having fun, although the slush involved three days after a snow and ice storm is not as romantic as Bing Crosby crooned it to be.
Then we marched back home, and since the ham was pre-baked and just needed warmed, everything went into the oven all at once. Green bean casserole, pineapple candied yams, Hawaiian rolls, a trip to the honey-baked ham store, pumpkin pie, and homemade chocolate chip cookies. I had a table-center of the tree branches I cut with a three-candle display I had for a while and some glittery red and white candles from $Tree. Music came from TSO mostly, whatever we had in our iTunes collection. There were all the usual compliments, but most importantly, no one fell sick afterward, unlike a party Matt and I went to where he ate a dessert I did not try and got ill. It was a dessert someone brought, so our dear host and hostess were not to be blamed.
I made a special crock pot brew of mulled apple cider. After assuring them I said "mulled" not "mold," they agreed to a taste, and that quickly became the beverage of choice through the night, even over the egg nog, coffee, wine, Martinelli's, cream soda, and other drinks we splurged on.
1 gallon apple cider (unfiltered tastes better, but regular cheap brand works)
1/2 cup brown sugar
3 cinnamon sticks
12 whole cloves
1 tsp ginger or use crystallized ginger
optional 1 tsp whole allspice (I couldn't find any, and it tasted fine)
Pour cider into crock pot. Mix brown sugar until dissolved; if powdered ginger, mix that too, if crystallized, put it with other seasonings. Wrap cinnamon, cloves, ginger, and allspice into cheesecloth (if you don't have cheesecloth, use a tea ball, coffee filter, or just make sure you fish them all out before serving). Toss in an unpeeled orange to float, or for a tangier taste, float orange slices (I've tried both). Cook high 2 hours or low 4-6 hours. Let the crock pot sit uncovered to make the whole house smell divine! Serve into mugs with a ladle
Optional: add a splash of rum or brandy to each mug, float a pat of butter, add orange slice or cinnamon stick to each mug, many things you can do to individualize your recipe.
The Loot:
I've sort of forgotten much of what I received. Tis better to give, right? Matt got me Prince Caspian. His mom got me new kitchen gloves that I totally needed, plus nice shower gel and crystal-etched nail files that are so wonderful. Matt's uncle knows I love lighthouses, so everything was lighthouse-themed: a little ceramic lighthouse, a DVD on Oregon lighthouses, a fridge magnet, and of course the obligatory 2009 calendar. Matt got the iPod alarm clock he really wanted, Dark Knight, an Andrew Lloyd Webber CD, as well as AC/DC's new album that he's been drooling over. And the kitties got a new scratching post. Their old one was thrashed!
Great Christmas Memory:
Now remember, our cute evergreen was covered in sci-fi paraphernalia. One thing that got everyone cracking up was when I saw Stetson (mister chew-everything) nibbling on a Bird of Prey (must have thought it was a green parrot).
Not thinking, I yelled at him, "Stetson, don't chew on the Klingons!"
Two seconds later, splitting laughter from all around. (Maybe you had to be there, but it was really hilarious)
A couple hours later, he attempted to nibble the lowest ornament, the Borg cube. My earlier comment prompted Matt to quote the lovable Q: "How many times do I have to tell you: don't provoke the Borg!"
Stetson's insatiable chewing habit meant no ornaments for the first two feet of tree. Of course, our tree is only about four feet tall. He attempted to chew on the branches, but I guess they don't taste as good as Klingons. By luck, the tree is still upright, so the tannenbaum might become a tradition around here. Of course, no offense to Bing Crosby, but I'd rather spend my winter in So-Cal with family and friends than chipping ice off the car.
Watching the hippie Priuses slipping along the road was sort of fun, though.
It didn't make sense as a child, it still doesn't makes sense.
BUT my hubby loves Christmas, despite his mother being Jewish and coming from what was, for all intents and purposes, a Jewish family, albeit not a strict one as I learned one Christmas evening when his mother told me we were having ham for dinner.
His parents were coming up for Christmas, and since our place is far larger than my uncle-in-law's tiny bachelor pad, it was my duty to provide a Christmas dinner.
Um... great! I know nothing about Christmas dinners.
And if we didn't look properly festive, oy ve, watch out!
The Tree:
We spent money we didn't really have for all the obligatory accouterments of the season: poor tree, plastic wreath, stockings from Dollar Tree, in fact, most of our things came from the Dollar Tree. The ice storm we had the week earlier snapped off a lot of pine branches, so I cut off a few and put sprigs around the house. Gotta admit, the place smells marvelous!
One thing I can say: trees and cats don't mix! Sumo (aka Capone) body-slams everything, and Ninja (aka Stetson) attempts sneak attacks on anything that moves/doesn't move/might-possibly-in-this-century move.
My hubby is a major Trekkie, and for years, his parents would get him the annual Star Trek ornament. Therefore, half our ornaments comprised of starships, Borg cubes, various captains, shuttle crafts, and alien ships. There are plenty of music-related things to hang up as well, stuff I've collected because it was adorable and my traditionalist hubby insisted were really supposed to be ornaments. Whatever. I've learned, when it comes to some issues, just make a man happy.
Thus we had our dead tree. I have to throw it out in two days for the apartment's recycling deadline, but I'm holding onto that thing for the moment. It was sacrificed for the sake of archaic pagan tradition, but it makes one heck of an air freshener. I'm going to keep some sprigs around, considering the ones I gathered for Christmas dinner have dried out. At least the life of that lovely little tree brought happiness for a fleeting moment.
Okay, enough of me being emo over the evergreen. Worse things are done in the name of religion and tradition than the existence of tree farms.
The Dinner:
Dinner with the in-laws went well. We still had lots of snow, so that afternoon we slushed out to Summerlake Park, which at that moment was the most ironically named place I could imagine, gazing out over fields of snow and a frozen lake. We built a snowman, threw snowballs, and let the crazy Californians have their winter delight. It was my mother-in-law's first White Christmas, so she was having fun, although the slush involved three days after a snow and ice storm is not as romantic as Bing Crosby crooned it to be.
Then we marched back home, and since the ham was pre-baked and just needed warmed, everything went into the oven all at once. Green bean casserole, pineapple candied yams, Hawaiian rolls, a trip to the honey-baked ham store, pumpkin pie, and homemade chocolate chip cookies. I had a table-center of the tree branches I cut with a three-candle display I had for a while and some glittery red and white candles from $Tree. Music came from TSO mostly, whatever we had in our iTunes collection. There were all the usual compliments, but most importantly, no one fell sick afterward, unlike a party Matt and I went to where he ate a dessert I did not try and got ill. It was a dessert someone brought, so our dear host and hostess were not to be blamed.
I made a special crock pot brew of mulled apple cider. After assuring them I said "mulled" not "mold," they agreed to a taste, and that quickly became the beverage of choice through the night, even over the egg nog, coffee, wine, Martinelli's, cream soda, and other drinks we splurged on.
1 gallon apple cider (unfiltered tastes better, but regular cheap brand works)
1/2 cup brown sugar
3 cinnamon sticks
12 whole cloves
1 tsp ginger or use crystallized ginger
optional 1 tsp whole allspice (I couldn't find any, and it tasted fine)
Pour cider into crock pot. Mix brown sugar until dissolved; if powdered ginger, mix that too, if crystallized, put it with other seasonings. Wrap cinnamon, cloves, ginger, and allspice into cheesecloth (if you don't have cheesecloth, use a tea ball, coffee filter, or just make sure you fish them all out before serving). Toss in an unpeeled orange to float, or for a tangier taste, float orange slices (I've tried both). Cook high 2 hours or low 4-6 hours. Let the crock pot sit uncovered to make the whole house smell divine! Serve into mugs with a ladle
Optional: add a splash of rum or brandy to each mug, float a pat of butter, add orange slice or cinnamon stick to each mug, many things you can do to individualize your recipe.
The Loot:
I've sort of forgotten much of what I received. Tis better to give, right? Matt got me Prince Caspian. His mom got me new kitchen gloves that I totally needed, plus nice shower gel and crystal-etched nail files that are so wonderful. Matt's uncle knows I love lighthouses, so everything was lighthouse-themed: a little ceramic lighthouse, a DVD on Oregon lighthouses, a fridge magnet, and of course the obligatory 2009 calendar. Matt got the iPod alarm clock he really wanted, Dark Knight, an Andrew Lloyd Webber CD, as well as AC/DC's new album that he's been drooling over. And the kitties got a new scratching post. Their old one was thrashed!
Great Christmas Memory:
Now remember, our cute evergreen was covered in sci-fi paraphernalia. One thing that got everyone cracking up was when I saw Stetson (mister chew-everything) nibbling on a Bird of Prey (must have thought it was a green parrot).
Not thinking, I yelled at him, "Stetson, don't chew on the Klingons!"
Two seconds later, splitting laughter from all around. (Maybe you had to be there, but it was really hilarious)
A couple hours later, he attempted to nibble the lowest ornament, the Borg cube. My earlier comment prompted Matt to quote the lovable Q: "How many times do I have to tell you: don't provoke the Borg!"
Stetson's insatiable chewing habit meant no ornaments for the first two feet of tree. Of course, our tree is only about four feet tall. He attempted to chew on the branches, but I guess they don't taste as good as Klingons. By luck, the tree is still upright, so the tannenbaum might become a tradition around here. Of course, no offense to Bing Crosby, but I'd rather spend my winter in So-Cal with family and friends than chipping ice off the car.
Watching the hippie Priuses slipping along the road was sort of fun, though.
Monday, August 11, 2008
The Wrist Pop
I damaged my wrist a couple days ago (don't ask how, really!) We can't afford X-rays, but I broke my wrist in 4th grade, I remember what it was like, and this isn't as bad. I've got a brace on it that prevents my wrist and thumb from moving. As for the bones, they're not too bad or I'd be in enormous pain, and honestly my wrist feels great so long as I don't use it. Maybe sprained, maybe broken, who knows. If it's still really sore after my birthday, we might suck it up and get x-rays after all. I REALLLLY do not want to be in a cast during the summer again.
Typing like this hurts after five minutes or so, which means my novel writing is on hiatus. That's fine, I just finished Shadowstrider Book 7 a couple weeks ago. I don't think I blogged about that, so belated YAY for me! Anyway, with the book done, I can go through and start revisions. So my wrist gets some rest.
Otherwise, I'm fine. Matt's taking me out tomorrow for my birthday. And he has a special present for me. I get to find out tomorrow.
Best of wishes to everyone! Summer is halfway over. Ahhhhh!
Typing like this hurts after five minutes or so, which means my novel writing is on hiatus. That's fine, I just finished Shadowstrider Book 7 a couple weeks ago. I don't think I blogged about that, so belated YAY for me! Anyway, with the book done, I can go through and start revisions. So my wrist gets some rest.
Otherwise, I'm fine. Matt's taking me out tomorrow for my birthday. And he has a special present for me. I get to find out tomorrow.
Best of wishes to everyone! Summer is halfway over. Ahhhhh!
Friday, August 08, 2008
8-8-08
Just posting about the numerological significance of today. 8-8-08.
One of my favorite weird numerological coincidences was an old neighbor's sister whose lucky number was 8. She had a lovely baby girl on 8-8-88 at 8:28 who weighed 8 pounds and 8 ounces. Now that's cool!
Oh, and yay for the Olympics!
I know there's all sorts of brouhaha about it being in China and political issues and human rights protests, but you know what, the Olympics were meant to transcend politics. It didn't matter if you were from democratic-loving Athens or one of those toss-the-baby-over-the-cliff oligarchical Spartans (insert obligatory "THIS IS SPARTA" just to get it out of my system), athletes came to the Olympics to compete for individual glory. In fact, during the Greek Olympics, there was a truce held throughout Greece (and yes, Sparta did once break that truce, so they were forbidden from attending... don't ask how I remember these weird historical facts).
Anyway, the Olympics were MEANT as a time of peace, a promotion of camaraderie, a celebration of the human form and physical strength.
True, it's had its political moments. The Nazi's hosting the Berlin games as an "oh look at us we're the good guys" maneuver, then demanding that the USA not have two Jewish athletes, only to receive an in-your-face from African-American Jesse Owens ("take that you racist Nazi scumbag"). And those two guys with their Black Power salute back in the 60s. And let's not forget the 1996 bombing or the Black September terrorists. (shudder)
For some people, politics are just too hard to put behind them. For some, winning a metal isn't just about a personal achievement, it's a national victory. No matter how we optimists would love the Olympics to be "pure" and a competition for Humans, not insert-nationality-here, I also try to be a realist (difficult and not as fun, I know). Considering the condition of this world, I'm surprised political problems have been so few. If you bring that many nations together, you're gonna have issues. Many people are just too shallow, mundane, uneducated (and all sorts of insults I can toss out knowing they will all bounce off their rubbery, hollow heads) to accept that we are one race: Human!
It's gonna take the Vulcans coming to teach us that bit of logic, I guess :P
But you have no idea how many times I've heard people compare the Beijing Olympics to the Nazis. I mean, come on, this is Godwin's Law in flamboyant action here! My favorite is the claim that the Olympic torch is made from Nazi gold, because "Levono" (Chinese name for powerhouse company IBM) had something to do with the gas chambers. What that "something" is, no one will say. I mean, why don't you blame 14 million deaths on the company that made the frickin' locking mechanism, and then claim the Olympics are Nazi because the port-a-pots all use the same frickin' locks.
Really, it's that crazy. I for one am going to watch those US gymnastics girls with the same amazed wonder as if they were in Egypt, Spain, Lithuania, Kuwait, or Easter Island.
Yeah, okay, that's enough for my lousy rant. I'm so bored. Can't wait for my birthday!
Happy 8-8-8.
One of my favorite weird numerological coincidences was an old neighbor's sister whose lucky number was 8. She had a lovely baby girl on 8-8-88 at 8:28 who weighed 8 pounds and 8 ounces. Now that's cool!
Oh, and yay for the Olympics!
I know there's all sorts of brouhaha about it being in China and political issues and human rights protests, but you know what, the Olympics were meant to transcend politics. It didn't matter if you were from democratic-loving Athens or one of those toss-the-baby-over-the-cliff oligarchical Spartans (insert obligatory "THIS IS SPARTA" just to get it out of my system), athletes came to the Olympics to compete for individual glory. In fact, during the Greek Olympics, there was a truce held throughout Greece (and yes, Sparta did once break that truce, so they were forbidden from attending... don't ask how I remember these weird historical facts).
Anyway, the Olympics were MEANT as a time of peace, a promotion of camaraderie, a celebration of the human form and physical strength.
True, it's had its political moments. The Nazi's hosting the Berlin games as an "oh look at us we're the good guys" maneuver, then demanding that the USA not have two Jewish athletes, only to receive an in-your-face from African-American Jesse Owens ("take that you racist Nazi scumbag"). And those two guys with their Black Power salute back in the 60s. And let's not forget the 1996 bombing or the Black September terrorists. (shudder)
For some people, politics are just too hard to put behind them. For some, winning a metal isn't just about a personal achievement, it's a national victory. No matter how we optimists would love the Olympics to be "pure" and a competition for Humans, not insert-nationality-here, I also try to be a realist (difficult and not as fun, I know). Considering the condition of this world, I'm surprised political problems have been so few. If you bring that many nations together, you're gonna have issues. Many people are just too shallow, mundane, uneducated (and all sorts of insults I can toss out knowing they will all bounce off their rubbery, hollow heads) to accept that we are one race: Human!
It's gonna take the Vulcans coming to teach us that bit of logic, I guess :P
But you have no idea how many times I've heard people compare the Beijing Olympics to the Nazis. I mean, come on, this is Godwin's Law in flamboyant action here! My favorite is the claim that the Olympic torch is made from Nazi gold, because "Levono" (Chinese name for powerhouse company IBM) had something to do with the gas chambers. What that "something" is, no one will say. I mean, why don't you blame 14 million deaths on the company that made the frickin' locking mechanism, and then claim the Olympics are Nazi because the port-a-pots all use the same frickin' locks.
Really, it's that crazy. I for one am going to watch those US gymnastics girls with the same amazed wonder as if they were in Egypt, Spain, Lithuania, Kuwait, or Easter Island.
Yeah, okay, that's enough for my lousy rant. I'm so bored. Can't wait for my birthday!
Happy 8-8-8.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Capone
This is my new kitty, Capone.
Capone is a very rare male calico. Only 1 in 3000 calicoes are male, and it is due to a genetic anomaly known as Klinefelter's syndrome.
For a cat to be a calico, it takes two X genes, one carrying an orange characteristic and one carrying the non-orange characteristic (usually black). Since a cat needs the XX combination of genes to be calico, it means 99.99 percent of the calicoes out there are female, giving rise to the myth of "there's no such thing as a male calico," something my vet told us on our first visit. Boy, was she nonplussed when she realized Capone really was male. She said, in her 10 years as a vet, she had never actually seen a male calico!!!
These rare XXY male calico cats rarely live past the age of two, are usually sterile, and are prone to numerous genetic disorders. We got very lucky on this boy. He's 5 years old, which means no early death, he doesn't seem to have any cognitive disabilities, our confounded vet had to shave him to see his underdeveloped manhood, but it's there... barely.
The only problem he's having is some stomach ailments as we try to find food he can digest, and he is FAT. The last owner took him to the vet, worried about diabetes. He's on a special diet now, but the weight just isn't going off. It might be another genetic thing, we don't know.
He gets along great with Stetson and seems to be calming him down, or at least distracting him. He's got a wonderful playful side to him and really tears after his dangly play stick thing.
He's been declawed (poor kitty, don't ever do that to cats, people!) but he quickly realized he has the weight over Stetson. When they play together, he does this sumo wrestling pounce and floors Stetson right down. It's hilarious to see this pudgy cat do a smackdown on Stetson, who is longer and more muscular (not fat, but big) but not anywhere near Capone's whopping 24 pounds!!!
We found him on Craig's List. The last owner had to get rid of him due to a boyfriend with allergies, and being declawed, he can't be tossed outside. Poor guy, I say toss the boyfriend outside!!!
Anyway, she said his name was Chubbs (totally appropriate) but that before that, when she got him, his name had been Capone. She thought that was a terrible name for a cat. Matt and I looked at each other and nodded. Yep, that's the perfect name for our little pudge ball.
Plus, "Stetson and Capone" just sound good together.
One interesting thing to note: black cats are considered unlucky, and calico cats are considered lucky. So they balance each other, a sort of yin-yang thing. Of course, I think all cats are wonderful, no matter the color of their fur, and all cat owners are doubly lucky to take in such quixotic and lovable pets!
Capone is a very rare male calico. Only 1 in 3000 calicoes are male, and it is due to a genetic anomaly known as Klinefelter's syndrome.
For a cat to be a calico, it takes two X genes, one carrying an orange characteristic and one carrying the non-orange characteristic (usually black). Since a cat needs the XX combination of genes to be calico, it means 99.99 percent of the calicoes out there are female, giving rise to the myth of "there's no such thing as a male calico," something my vet told us on our first visit. Boy, was she nonplussed when she realized Capone really was male. She said, in her 10 years as a vet, she had never actually seen a male calico!!!
These rare XXY male calico cats rarely live past the age of two, are usually sterile, and are prone to numerous genetic disorders. We got very lucky on this boy. He's 5 years old, which means no early death, he doesn't seem to have any cognitive disabilities, our confounded vet had to shave him to see his underdeveloped manhood, but it's there... barely.
The only problem he's having is some stomach ailments as we try to find food he can digest, and he is FAT. The last owner took him to the vet, worried about diabetes. He's on a special diet now, but the weight just isn't going off. It might be another genetic thing, we don't know.
He gets along great with Stetson and seems to be calming him down, or at least distracting him. He's got a wonderful playful side to him and really tears after his dangly play stick thing.
He's been declawed (poor kitty, don't ever do that to cats, people!) but he quickly realized he has the weight over Stetson. When they play together, he does this sumo wrestling pounce and floors Stetson right down. It's hilarious to see this pudgy cat do a smackdown on Stetson, who is longer and more muscular (not fat, but big) but not anywhere near Capone's whopping 24 pounds!!!
We found him on Craig's List. The last owner had to get rid of him due to a boyfriend with allergies, and being declawed, he can't be tossed outside. Poor guy, I say toss the boyfriend outside!!!
Anyway, she said his name was Chubbs (totally appropriate) but that before that, when she got him, his name had been Capone. She thought that was a terrible name for a cat. Matt and I looked at each other and nodded. Yep, that's the perfect name for our little pudge ball.
Plus, "Stetson and Capone" just sound good together.
One interesting thing to note: black cats are considered unlucky, and calico cats are considered lucky. So they balance each other, a sort of yin-yang thing. Of course, I think all cats are wonderful, no matter the color of their fur, and all cat owners are doubly lucky to take in such quixotic and lovable pets!
Saturday, June 21, 2008
After a Hiatus, My Mind is an Icy Pop
After a few months away from blogging, MySpace, emails, and the internet in general but for research (with no regrets or withdrawals, I might add), I've checked back in, mostly to see if anyone has messaged me and to hack away at my email account.
Update: we have a new cat, Capone, a MALE calico (very rare XXY chromosome). Our vet had actually never seen a male calico before and told us they almost never live past 2 years. Capone is a whopping 5 years, which means he managed not to get any of the weird genetic disorders male calicoes are prone to. His only problem is his weight. His last owner just fed him whenever the dish was empty, so he's 24 pounds now. The vet says we've got to get him down to 12-15 pounds. So the poor guy is on a special wet food diet and hates us for taking away his regular food. He and Stetson get along as well as two boys are expected to, which means one minute they're rolling around fighting, the next minute they're curled together licking each other.
Matt's folks will be up here for the 4th. That should be fun. We're getting ready for a concert on the night of the 4th. We're playing for the city's big fireworks show. Ooh, and I've got a solo. I'm the youngest trombonist and still the "new kid" in the group, but the guy who would usually play the part is going away for the 4th, so I get it, yippee!!! It's to "Good Ol' USA" which anyone from the Santa Ana Winds will remember. Thanks to the Winds, I know the solo quite well, thus I managed to shock those gray-beards... omg, a 20-something GIRL can play dixieland? LOL!!! They really are shocked I can play it, it's hilarious. I'm not telling them I played the part for 6 frickin' years.
I FINALLY got my trombone fixed from the crunch it received thanks to PDX. They got the bell straightened out and a tweak to the slide, and I went for the full sonic cleaning since the thing probably hasn't had a professional cleaning in 50 years. It's so lovely!!! Now I want to get all the little scratches and the lacquer problem taken care of. Next stim-bate check!
That's about all that's been happening. Wow, I live a boring life. Well, most of my time is eaten up writing, and I now do that solely on my laptop, and this old thing doesn't like looking up websites. It's an antique Powerbook G3, great for just using OpenOffice (I didn't like NeoOffice and don't even ASK why I would use something as asinine as M$Word because I will have to smack some sense into you) but if I try to get it to look up graphically intense websites or anything on YouTube, it just doesn't cut it. So I've learned there is more to life than wasting it on stupid video shorts and hours siphoned off my life updating MySpace. Text blogs like this are okay so far.
I'm in a "simplification" mood, making my life less stressful, less complicated, less time consuming... so I can spend more time writing. I'm done with Book One of my dragon story and flipped back to "Shadowstrider." I want to finish Book 7 before the end of the summer so I can get started on Book 8 and have that done by next year. Then a rewrite of Book 9 and, oh yeah baby, on to Book Ten AT LAST! When I'm done, a re-re-readthru of all ten books, and it's off to the publisher. I refuse to publish until I know for a fact I can finish all ten of these books before I die.
Do you hear someone whispering the words "obsession?" Maybe it's just the tangerine orangutans sucking on my icy pops again.
Update: we have a new cat, Capone, a MALE calico (very rare XXY chromosome). Our vet had actually never seen a male calico before and told us they almost never live past 2 years. Capone is a whopping 5 years, which means he managed not to get any of the weird genetic disorders male calicoes are prone to. His only problem is his weight. His last owner just fed him whenever the dish was empty, so he's 24 pounds now. The vet says we've got to get him down to 12-15 pounds. So the poor guy is on a special wet food diet and hates us for taking away his regular food. He and Stetson get along as well as two boys are expected to, which means one minute they're rolling around fighting, the next minute they're curled together licking each other.
Matt's folks will be up here for the 4th. That should be fun. We're getting ready for a concert on the night of the 4th. We're playing for the city's big fireworks show. Ooh, and I've got a solo. I'm the youngest trombonist and still the "new kid" in the group, but the guy who would usually play the part is going away for the 4th, so I get it, yippee!!! It's to "Good Ol' USA" which anyone from the Santa Ana Winds will remember. Thanks to the Winds, I know the solo quite well, thus I managed to shock those gray-beards... omg, a 20-something GIRL can play dixieland? LOL!!! They really are shocked I can play it, it's hilarious. I'm not telling them I played the part for 6 frickin' years.
I FINALLY got my trombone fixed from the crunch it received thanks to PDX. They got the bell straightened out and a tweak to the slide, and I went for the full sonic cleaning since the thing probably hasn't had a professional cleaning in 50 years. It's so lovely!!! Now I want to get all the little scratches and the lacquer problem taken care of. Next stim-bate check!
That's about all that's been happening. Wow, I live a boring life. Well, most of my time is eaten up writing, and I now do that solely on my laptop, and this old thing doesn't like looking up websites. It's an antique Powerbook G3, great for just using OpenOffice (I didn't like NeoOffice and don't even ASK why I would use something as asinine as M$Word because I will have to smack some sense into you) but if I try to get it to look up graphically intense websites or anything on YouTube, it just doesn't cut it. So I've learned there is more to life than wasting it on stupid video shorts and hours siphoned off my life updating MySpace. Text blogs like this are okay so far.
I'm in a "simplification" mood, making my life less stressful, less complicated, less time consuming... so I can spend more time writing. I'm done with Book One of my dragon story and flipped back to "Shadowstrider." I want to finish Book 7 before the end of the summer so I can get started on Book 8 and have that done by next year. Then a rewrite of Book 9 and, oh yeah baby, on to Book Ten AT LAST! When I'm done, a re-re-readthru of all ten books, and it's off to the publisher. I refuse to publish until I know for a fact I can finish all ten of these books before I die.
Do you hear someone whispering the words "obsession?" Maybe it's just the tangerine orangutans sucking on my icy pops again.
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