Thursday, April 30, 2009



Saturday, April 25, 2009

Ninja Sex Pants

Somewhere in time I set my time setting to Pacific time. I know, I know; my cleverness makes your heart ache, and you probably just peed a little. Now I don't know where I did it or how to fix it. Is it in Blogger? Is it in Firefox somehow? My computer shows the right time. Is it inside my fingers? *licks one* Mmm, maple walnut scone.

Anyhoo, while my minds sorts and sifts and waits and wades through some things of late, I am not in a posting frame of mind or heart these days, so in order to entertain the masses (i.e. Ealish and Hawkman), I've started a new blog for the purpose of posting a cheesy romance I started writing in 1996. I was working at Waldenbooks then and saw daily what utter crap was selling like hotcakes. (See "Throwing 'The Horse Whisperer' across the room upon completion, circa 1996.")

So I present to you the unfinished result. Please to find some form of enjoyment in it. If not today, revel in the promise of tomorrow! Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you ... Ninja Sex Pants.

(This is, as the monkeys of destiny would have it, the name of the new blog but *not* the name of the story. That remains Cheesy Bookstore Romance for now.)

Now please remember, this was written to make fun of other books. The initial idea was to take something exceedingly dull and cheese it up. I believe that when it's done right, this is termed something along the lines of "farce" or "satire." But fear not. I promise that you will find no such thing in the reality that is CBR.

Critical acclaim for Cheesy Bookstore Romance
"That's some well-written crap!" -- Uncle Howie

Sunday, April 19, 2009

Saturday, April 4, 2009

It only gets better/worse from "rubbers"

I got me a Wegmans in-store-brand razor (correction! 6-blade shaving system). It's curvy and green and sure to be like shaving with a springtime meadow. And? Bonus!

"Ergonomically designed handle:
"Non-slip rubbers along the side of the handle provide special benefits for a woman's grip."

Is ... tennis involved somehow? Did anyone who had ever accidentally overheard English while walking past a foreign theater or local place of sex trade come near this copy?* Wait. Maybe that's it. Overheard at the Mango Road Palace of Special Tourism and Kabobs. Is there some pleasure internal to the hands that Thai hookers have just now shared with Wegmans?

Also: Blades Made [sic] in Korea. The plastic rest was birthed by lilypads in a gentle summer's pond and lifted from the water on the breath of baby turtles.

*OK, granted, this is way far from Engrish. Perhaps written by an Oxford-educated Indonesian lady of pleasure who tended to only have a certain vocabulary.

Ich bien ein president you will LOVE

I was inspired today. Without even going to Strasbourg.
I did have some cheese, though, so that's close.

Thursday, April 2, 2009

All right, Lost, it's time we had a talk.


Dear Lost:

Please sit down there at the kitchen table. Here. Have a cookie.

I saw that Kate gave Aaron to his rightful grandmother last night. A grandmother who is Australian and just in town for ... wait, for what again? Wasn't Daddy Jack's funeral three years ago? Why IS she still here and living in a motel?

Hawkman tells me Hot Lips Littleton was there to see the lawyer. OK. Let's proceed.

Hawkman (1:43 PM):
she was in town because she's suing Oceanic Airlines
she was picking up her settlement check from that lawyer

That being said, and it's debatable whether I actually said anything or not, I'm pretty sure you can't just give an apparently American baby to a visiting Aussie woman, no matter how skinny and maybe 35 she is. One, she can't stay in America and especially with some random kid. B., she can't just take said random kid back to Australia with her. Believe me. It only works with Borneo. So did Kate take a few minutes to fill out all the legal papers before heading to the airport?

OK, saying that out loud I just realized that there will be DNA tests and -- wait, no there won't! Will there? Can she say anything about Claire actually having the baby?


Give me the cookie back. You're giving me a headache. Go to your room. Your father will deal with you later.


This photo is wee

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

For Don, and for Rheta

When I worked at King Features I was lucky to be assigned the columnist Rheta Grimsley Johnson, whose writing has always reminded me of Charles Kuralt, and who goes in private life by Rheta Grierson. Current Rheta editor Amy sent me her column for this week. I don't think she'd mind my posting it here. I hope some of you see in it what I love about her, and also go give your significant other a 3-hour hug or a phone call or shout from a mountaintop about how much you love them.

The world lost a good man Sunday.

This old world is big and full to bulging, yet there are so few truly good men.

Don Grierson was one. Don loved the old cowboy movie “Shane” and Hank Williams songs, which he played on the same Gibson guitar he’d had since he was 16. He could sing “Cold, Cold Heart” and “I Can’t Help It If I’m Still In Love With You” and knew the entire recitative of “Be Careful of Stones That You Throw.”

He spoke in a South Mississippi drawl so soft and low you sometimes had to lean in toward him to hear him. He didn’t talk much, but, when he did, he had something to say. People who didn’t know him well often underestimated him. Don thought we all should listen more and talk less.

He joked that he got his masters in English just so he could tell Yankees he had one. He was up in Knoxville finishing up on his doctorate when he got tired of the academic scene and came on home to enjoy another squirrel-hunting season.

Don Grierson was, to quote Kristofferson, a walking contradiction -- a small man who loomed large, an academic whose passion was duck hunting, a voracious reader of poetry, periodicals and Shakespeare who also loved TV’s “The Beverly Hillbillies.”

Don grew up on the Mississippi Gulf Coast, which changed dramatically after his boyhood. His stories of a Huck Finn childhood sounded too good to be true, and the names of his friends -- Gator and Luray, Marvin Earl and Scooter -- added fictional flair to his memories. He felt most at home in recent years in Southwest Louisiana, which Don frequently compared to the Mississippi of his youth. He liked the informality of the place, the fact that neighbors would stop by without phoning, and that Cajun cooks knew you are supposed to fry seafood.

He was the least materialistic person I’ve ever known, his one luxury being a convertible car he bought after retirement. Before that, he drove the same Dodge truck for 20 years. He had shirts in the closet that were 30 years old.

Don did not suffer fools, and he never mistook acquaintances for friends. But the friends he had -- most of them for decades -- were loyal to him in a way that makes most of us envious. One of his best buddies, for instance, was a former reporter Don fired while he was managing editor of The Natchez (Miss.) Democrat. Instead of hating Don, the discharged reporter took Don’s journalism course when he began his teaching career at Mississippi State. And they remained fast friends.

Nobody could hate Don.

Don had a bad year last year. He lost his older brother, Buba, whom he loved beyond reason. He lost his former wife, Pat, who was an accomplished poet and English teacher and, typically, remained good friends with Don. Don’s bad heart was taxed by these losses, but he also had much to live for.

We were planning to drive to Canada this summer, and to host friends from France. Don loved our dogs and me and proved it in a million quiet ways. Our life together the past 16 years was one of travel and reading and music on the porch. We had it made, and most days realized it. When I’d fret over something that couldn’t be helped or fixed, Don would gently say, “Let’s just try to have fun.”

Many of my friends I don’t know by name. You read this column and follow my meandering thoughts on the days when I write. You tolerate my politics.

Some days it’s tougher to write than others. I need for you to indulge me again, today, as I deal with the hardest loss I’ve ever been dealt.

Take this advice from your friend: Love your mate as well and as hard as you possibly can.

At least only half of it is rusty

I was halfway through shaving this morning (left leg done, for everyone keeping track) when I discovered I was using a rusty razor, having just grabbed an old disposable one from the shower caddy after abandoning my PRESERVE Triple once and for all. Now I feel (a) lopsided and (2) like our neanderthal ancestral grandmothers must have felt after starting to shave with their scythes and then having to bolt across the veldt to get away from the sabretooth tigers.

(The other day I was listening to the Radio Lab show entitled Stress, and they kept talking about tigers on the veldt and I kept yelling TIGERS LIVE IN ASIA! Which I'm pretty sure is true, but then again, sabretooths? How would we ever know about THAT? )

(And if you don't already listen to Radio Lab, you totally should, because it's awesome and have I ever steered you wrong?)

Fortunately I'm current on my tetanus, and I sure meant to check the razor blades before starting to shave, but I must've started thinking about my handsome boyfriend or how late I was for work or maybe pie. (Handsome BF actually saved the right leg from attack with a well-timed and clearly clairvoyant phone call, so, whoo, Sexy Ninja Superhero!)

Too bad the Preserve cut my legs for a good two months (and now keeps falling apart, after a tumble to the tubby ground the other day). I'll at least avoid the animal-testers (I hope) and get a Wegmans brand. It's possible that I put too much trust in Wegmans. Except that nothing but wonderfulness comes from Wegmans. It's true. I saw it in Wikipedia somewhere.