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Sunday
Nov102013

THE HELL IS WRONG WITH CHILDREN THESE DAYS?

The problem with violence on TV is not, as they tell us, that children are growing from ravening little monsters into ravening big monsters who lack the ability to function in society.  The problem is that it is getting so damn hard to scare children.

Case in point.  Halloween.  I am standing on Julia's porch next to a giant black widow spider we built together, artfully posed in attack position with its fangs raised and chittering.  Projected over the window we have supercloseup video footage of spiders hunting, so detailed that you can see the venom drip.  The porch is swathed in webs.  I am clad in an alligator suit- yes, I know that a certain amount of thematic unity is lost there, alligator hanging out next to a giant spider, but I had already built my costume when Julia came up with the spider theme and I didn't have the time to start over, what with my weekends being annexed by Her Majesty the Queen.  Whatever.  Nuts to thematic unity.  I had many sharp and pointy teeth and I was stalking around roaring for everything I was worth.  

Reaction on the part of the children?  Zip.  And I do not mean the moustachioed youngsters who would probably go straight from trick-or-treating to studying for their MBA.  I mean the tiny downy tykes.  They looked me square in the eye and shoved their treat bags under my nose as though they were terribly embarrassed by the whole situation.  Not one of them fled wailing, abandoning their bag of delicious candy for me to devour.  NOT ONE.

So obviously I will have to go for broke next year.  What concept is fresh enough to get past the defences of today's jaded youth?  Maybe pterodactyls dive-bombing down from overhead.  I will have to get started on some blueprints. 

Sunday
Nov032013

BELATED REFERENCE TO AWARDY TYPE THING

I may not have mentioned this, but I am a Canadian and also a British citizen, which, as we all know, means that I am sworn irrevocably to the service of Her Majesty the Queen.  I also work a job which required me to take a personal oath of loyalty to HMtQ, her heirs and assigns.  Most of the time HMtQ is a pretty good boss- she does not personally come gorgoning down the halls to give me the business- but she is a stern mistress.  Shirking your work is not an option when you are indentured to HMtQ.  She will not be amused.

All this to say that the past couple of months, HMtQ has been cracking down on her servants.  Thus I have been chained to my desk in the law mines, beavering away at the Real Work, rather than putting out copy about bondage pirates and ninjas.  I am very ashamed of myself and will try to do better- worse?- immediately.  

Let me start by acknowledging the nice people over at the Rainbow Awards who have very sweetly named Shell Game as a finalist in the Lesbian Fantasy category.  Huzzah!  I hope this means that some people have enjoyed their time spent with my gay bondage pirates- which, to be fair, is about the same thing as saying "I hope that somebody enjoyed this bowl of melted cheese and bacon which I prepared"- but enjoyment is enjoyment, people.  The world can be pretty grim; let us draw around the bright spots without shame, and if the bright spots are pirate-related, so much the better.

Friday
Sep202013

SO THIS WAS A TERRIBLE IDEA

I may have mentioned at some point my tendency to come up with terrible plans?  I did not think that my two week writing detox was going to be one of said terrible plans.  I thought it was a, dare I say it, sensible idea which would give me a chance to swab out my apartment and interact with persons who are not, like me, reality-challenged.

But it's been ten days and I am going absolutely bats.  Without my preferred avenue for draining off my excess energy, I am forced to expend it in other, arguably less productive ways.  Within the past week, for example, I have:

  • Spent far too much time crayoning specimens of vampyroteuthis infernalis, the vampire squid from Hell;
  • Built a super-elaborate cat fort out of blankets, safety pins, and cardboard;
  • Lost my bra in a burger joint while I, acting in a consultative capacity, offered my wisdom on the subject of Alaskan orgies;
  • Driven myself mad attempting to figure out how a shark would wear a headband if he dressed up as Rambo for Halloween.

 

 

 

 

 NO MATTER WHAT I DO IT JUST DOESN'T LOOK RIGHT.

Sunday
Sep152013

IN WHICH I REASSURE HREDZAK ABOUT MY BOOBS!

One Hredzak has kindly taken the time to repair to Amazon to pan my silly book about bondage pirates.  I am fortunately beyond the point in my life wherein I thought that silly books about bondage pirates were things that needed defending.  They sort of rise and fall on their own innate qualities.  Nor am I going to make a meal out of the fact that Hredzak (Monsieur? Madame? Let's say Monsieur, why not, let's throw a little testosterone around) that Monsieur Hredzak rendered judgment after reading the first chapter.  This be the Internets, and it be a wild frontier where you shouldn't sally out in public if you're not prepared to get your ego bruised.  

Nay nay, I am here for one purpose and one purpose alone.  A mission of mercy, one might say. Monsieur Hredzak, you need not be worried that I suffer in the least from a deficiency of boobs.

I assume that this assurance is necessary based on the following statement in the review:

Perhaps if this author was a big-boobed femme, I mighta enjoyed the kidnapped lead.

I confess that I do not see how an author's boobtaculosity or the lack of it really relates to an enjoyment of a book.  But if that's all that's bothering you, I can save the whole situation right now: I am, and have been from age twelve, rather upsettingly well-endowed.  Many and many a time I have wished that I had the ability to fit myself into a sweater without the assistance of a stretching apparatus and a buttered shoehorn, but such is not the case.  My knockers precede me into a room, in all their splendor.  I burst shirt buttons when I breathe too heavily.  I knock small children unconscious if I swing around too rapidly.  I have got boobs to spare, is what I'm trying to get at.  

Or are you upset that I didn't dwell enough on heaving bosoms and ripping bodices in the chapter you read?  In which case, guilty.  But I did include an actual honest-to-god ripped bodice in part three, out of respect for the fomula, if that makes any difference.  

Right, that's quite enough of that.  Time, I think, for a nice cup of tea.

Different strokes. 

PS- I don't have any drawings of boobs, I'm afraid.  Here, have a bunch of owls for no good reason whatsoever.

Sunday
Sep082013

THE THIRD TRANSPORT IS AWAY


Well, that's THAT.  I don't know about you, but I emerge from the last stages of writing a book like I've just been on a week-long bender, wondering where my pants are and why I have a funny taste at the back of my mouth.  Now begins a two-week period of compulsory detox so that I can take care of life admin, reacquaint myself with that very excellent thing called food, and purge my body of any remaining poisons by drawing dinosaurs. A LOT.  After that, I believe there are some pirates who require attention.