23 Days to Doctor Who

The BBC One trailer. Squee!

Dogs and Cats Living Together!

Usually there's a strict no touching rule in play between the canines and the felines (save for Pete's signature pounce/swat/run), but since Wilson was in a snit from a traumatic trip to the bathtub and Pete was displaced by a laundry-folding operation, they happened to end up in the same quadrant of the bed. I'll use this for blackmail later.

In other news, the spymobile is home early, which is surprising because in order to install a new clutch in a Volkswagen you have to completely dismantle the vehicle into each single component piece, do a ritual dance handed down from the Visigoths, and sacrifice a two-headed chicken before reassembling the car. There must have been a sale on two-headed chickens. Coming back from New Orleans I only got lost once, due in part to my non-existent navigational abilities and due in part to the fact that the footprint of New Orleans was laid out by absinthe-addled pirates. Now the spymobile just has to last four more years to break even on repairs.

I am slacking on my rewriting/proofreading, because I am a terrible person. I should be sent away, preferably to some nice quiet place far, far from screaming children and barking dogs, where I can properly meditate on my shortcomings. Probably won't happen, so tonight I will set up the wall of Coke Zero cans and sharpen my virtual red pencil for the virtual bloodbath.

The Black Keys in the Most Awesome Video Ever.

I have no word for the amount of cool in this video. Sean Patrick Flanery in a an eye-patch! Corbin Bernsen punching things! Tricia Helfer in a leather bustier! Ninja cowboy henchmen on horseback! Revenge, murder, and stuffed dinosaurs! Mariachis with fake mustaches! Todd Bridges as a chupacabra-killing priest! This is the most awesomest thing in the history of awesome things.

Just When You Thought It Was Safe to Go Back to the Cell Phone

For my sweetie, who even in the midst of a knock-down/drag-out argument, is still surreptitiously playing on his phone . I have never, ever played a single second of Angry Birds, which technically means I WIN!

This Proves the Universe Is Not A Cold, Unfeeling Void

Fringe has been miraculously renewed for a fourth season.

Why I Don't Like Bigots

Okay, you know how I said one of the reasons I created this blog was so I could safely rant when people pissed me off? Well, dog knows I have better things to do today (and a lot of them), but my day has been rudely interrupted by people being jackasses. It all started with an email. Another stupid email from the kids' school. It was letting people know that the Domincan Provincial was holding an emergency meeting today to talk to parents about Father Hank. Wait, who is Father Hank? I don't know any Father Hank. And being that the school is administrated by a woman with the common sense of an artichoke, that was all the email said.

Since I trust the Catholic church about as far as I can throw it, I called the S/O and asked him to find out who the hell Father Hank was and why I should care. After playing telephone with numerous people, the S/O sent me a link in an email. At first glance I could find no rational reason why Paula Deen's Family Sex Shocker! had a damn thing to do with anything. This entailed a follow-up phone call, where I learned that in 2003, Paula Deen's brother-in-law was nabbed for soliciting sex from an undercover policeman. Oh, and he happens to be a priest. Oh, and he's a local priest who sometimes fills in at the church affiliated with the kids' school.  So I was pissed off at the school for their cryptic email, and for being stupid in general.

The day wears on and there's another email. This one assuring me that Father Hank has been relieved of his duties in his parish and counseling will be available to children who are upset by this fooferaw.

First off, let me say that the Catholic church is totally fucked up when it comes to sex, heterosexual sex and especially homosexual sex. They are bigots. Sorry. If you hate people for the way they are intrinsically, you're a bigot. I don't care what fancy little dress you put on it, you're a bigot. I hate bigots. Now, some smartass might say I'm a bigot because I don't care for Republicans (which is ignoring the fact that the S/O is, gulp, a Republican) but it's well within my rights to despise people for what they think. That's different than despising people for what they are. You can change political parties if you're so inclined, but you can't stop being gay.

So in their haste to care so much about what people do with their naughty bits, the church sets up situations just like this, and then everybody has to deal with the fallout. Lives are ruined. I don't know Father Hank. Maybe he's a jerk. He certainly did something ill-advised. But being taught that sexuality is sinful and awful warps people, whether they're gay or straight. It takes one of the best things about life and turns it into something ugly, something to be ashamed of. I can't help but think of the likelihood that he's someone now paying the price for dedicating his life to an institution that despises him for the way he was born.

The Beatings Will Continue Till Morale Improves

Remember how I was bemoaning the anticipated slow decline of the spymobile? Well, turns out it's not so slow. Coming home from chauffeur duty the other day, the clutch went kablooey. It was actually kind of terrifying, seeing as I was going about 70 on the interstate at the time. But with my mad skillz, I managed to downshift into second, push the hazard blinkers, and ride the clutch the last three miles home without killing us all. Soon I was waving a tearful goodbye as the spymobile was loaded onto a tow truck for another stint at the mechanics.

But with the bathroom floor needing replacing, kid #3 taking a summer class (do you know how much three credit hours costs? yikes!), and the prospect of filling my car with hundred dollar bills and setting it on fire, we are rapidly leaving the territory of "Sorry, kids, no vacation this year," and crossing the border into, "Hey, who wants to sell a kidney on the black market?"

On top of that, the overwhelming mental weight of the whole publishing thing is causing my brain to short circuit. In studying up on what it takes to properly format a novel manuscript across all the different publishing platforms, I have realized that typesetting is far more terrifying than having your car explode on the interstate. I'm actually having nightmares about typesetting. It's like the Microsoft Word Zombie Formatting Apocalypse. 

But I think my initial panic attack is fading, so I'm pressing forward. Slow and steady wins the race, blah, blah, blah, blah. I just hope to make enough money to pay for all the tranquilizers I see in my future.

Why I'm Skeptical of the News

So this morning I figure I'll look at an online news site, which I tend to avoid doing because it's generally ridiculously framed and not informative enough for thinking people. (Which is not to say I'm not up on current events, I'm just pretty picky about where I go for my information. Usually I stick to the BBC, where they occasionally have actual reporting.)

So civil war is popping up in the Arab world like a  massive game of whack-a-mole, the UN has sanctioned bombing Qaddafi, and Japan is a radioactive wasteland. But when I look at the top 10 stories, what do I find?

"Zombies Ahead" warns road sign in South Carolina

Sammy Hagar say he was abducted by aliens.

(Although I will say, seeing as South Carolina is represented by the likes of Jim DeMint and Joe Wilson, if you find yourself wandering through there, you're going to find some pretty hungry zombies.)

Farewell, Michael Gough

It is with great sadness that I note the passing of one my favorite British character actors of all time, the illustrious Michael Gough. In a career spanning his film debut in 1948 to his final voice role in Tim Burton's 2010 version of Alice in Wonderland, Gough made an indelible impact.  He was featured in Doctor Who, The Avengers, many Hammer films, as Alfred Pennyworth in the Tim Burton's Batman films, plus other roles both great and small that are too numerous to mention here.  You can check out the list here.  One of my favorite little easter eggs is his uncredited appearance as the corpse of the evil Emeric Belasco in 1964's The Legend of Hell House.

When I was a kid, he was right up there in the pantheon with Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing and Vincent Price. I will remember him fondly.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

There is Some Joy in Mudville

After my manic brainstorming of the past week, I had the quick and startling revelation that I had to do some real work (the kind that offers currency that can be traded for foodstuffs at your local greengrocers) or the kidlets would starve. Luckily work has been plentiful, so I can't count their ribs quite yet.

I have launched a new blog, a companion blog of sorts, called Publishing Yourself: Navigating the World of Indie Publishing.  It's right around the corner and will focus on the highs and lows of publishing your own work, while this space can remain whatever the hell it is, the mental driftwood and sea glass that washes up inside my head. I'm going to probably cross-post the things that look like they need to be cross-posted. It's all a work in progress. So visit if you would care to!

On the homefront, where there is less joy? Spike is affecting what I believe is a sympathy limp, because Pete has an excess of cute. Apparently the air conditioning in the spymobile is a cipher to normal mechanics, so this summer will be an experiment in tolerance of extreme temperatures. I told my daughter I was going to start driving topless, a suggestion at which she was totally appalled. But they're predicting mid-80s this week, so nothing is off the table. Also the windshield wipers have taken to randomly going on strike. I have a feeling this is the beginning of the long, slow decline of the beloved spymobile. Sigh.

Also, another swift realization I had is that fantastic ideas, no matter how thrilling they are, don't pay the bills. So for the foreseeable future, not only will I be working my full-time day job, running a household that is now bursting at the seams with critters both furry and not-so-furry, trying to whip four full-length novels into shape, running two blogs, and designing a new author's website, but I've also launched a new business with all the attendant business-y stuff. If I did the math, I believe that might require days now be roughly 37 hours long. But math is for quitters. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Adventures in Parenting

The S/O is not coming home tonight because, as he put it, "Your car is in still in pieces." While that sounds alarming, I'm hoping the mechanics have found the faulty backing-up lights switch and can wave a magic wand over the air compressor. I can probably survive a Louisiana summer without air conditioning because I'm from hearty pioneer stock, but I fear my pasty little children might melt and slip under the seats like so much goo.

So since dad is gone, mom is charge of homework. And wouldn't you know it, there's religion homework. I'm double excused from religion homework because of the whole, you know, religion thing. But I got out the kid's homework and glanced at something about "Apollo Creed." That's quite exciting. I was imagining a whole shoebox diorama featuring Carl Weathers. Unfortunately on closer inspection, it said "Apostle's Creed," which, disappointingly, has nothing to do with Carl Weathers.

I am still considering ditching this whole "apostle's" thing and writing an Ode to Apollo Creed with matching patriotic diorama anyway, because that sounds way more fun, and I am a terrible parent.

The New Paradigm in Publishing

Used to be, only idiots self-published. I know I was against it. Vehemently against it. The only people who self-published were delusional, furtive little creatures, the kind who show up at writer's conferences with their scrawled and dog-eared manuscripts clutched in their sweaty paws, wanting someone, anyone to tell them, "You're a genius!"

When that unlikely event failed to occur, there was always the vanity presses, waiting like snake-oil salesmen in the backs of their shabby carnival wagons, doling out self-labeled bottles of misplaced self-esteem. It was a step up from hermits cranking out mimeographed pages in their parent's basement and forcing them onto hapless passers-by, but not by much. Every once in a while there was a success story like Robert James Waller, proving that it could be done. Why, one minute he was a failed writer and the next minute Clint Eastwood was speaking his words on the big screen! Ah, but that ignored the thousands of dollars and hours and miles Waller had to put in before he sold his first book. And even then, you have to factor in luck. Luck had a lot to do with it.

Well, the days of investing your life's savings in a crate of books, packing them in the rumble seat of your jalopy and heading out on a whistlestop tour of the byways are over. Way over.

Now, it costs you next to nothing. You don't have to quit your day job or save up sick days. You can do it all from the comfort of your home for pennies. And most importantly, it no longer matters if you self-publish. The leper colonies have shut down and self-published people can walk out among decent society without having to disguise themselves.

Ah, I've made it sound so effortless, so tantalizing! Why, I can just publish my masterpiece and readers will intuitively find me and realize my magnificent work! Er, no.

There are still two unavoidable facts that hold true and will always hold true. One, your work has to be good, and I mean good enough pass the same muster as a book from a big publisher. I've been looking and north of 80% of self-published fiction is a hot mess. That's a non-scientific number, but it's not far off and bound to only increase as writers realize the possibilities and throw their overripe bait out into the water. Underdeveloped writers are going to stop working to get better, and hopeless writers are going to be able to publish unreadable dreck. You see, the problem with removing the gatekeepers of quality is you've leveled the playing field to a point where it's going to be flooded with people who have no idea what they're doing. On the up side, if you're good and smart and tenacious and work your butt off doing what you need to do, you have a good chance of doing at least as well as you would do with a traditional publisher, perhaps even better.

Fact number two has to do with working your butt off. If you bypass a traditional publisher, you still have to do everything a traditional publisher does. Your private publishing staff must include: beta readers, a copy editor, a proofreader, a cover designer/illustrator, a typesetter, a marketing strategist, a publicist, an IT expert/web designer, and a business manager. If you lack in any of those departments, you're apt to fail.

Now, if you're lucky and clever, you yourself may be able to fill many of those roles. You may have friends, acquaintances, and family that can fill some of those roles. Chances are, you'll have to hire some independent contractors or barter services to fill some of those roles. The truth is, you're likely at first to spend way more time marketing yourself than you do writing. And, boy, you better be a good writer to start off with, and willing to learn from your mistakes.

So, no, it's not easy, not by a far shot. But the publishing business is changing and I can't think of anything more exciting than that.

(Coming soon:  the myths of self-publishing versus legacy publishing.)

The Lonliness of the Long Distance Blogger

I began this blog for two reasons. Okay, three.  First of all, I wanted to familiarize myself with online self-promotion. If you take away the creative part of writing for audience, it's all about promotion. People can't read you if they aren't aware you exist. So I began this to learn the ropes in a low-expectation way, figuring that at some magical point in the future, I'd put together an professional author's website, using what I had gleaned from my "fun" blog.

Secondly, when I'm mad, I like to write. I figure my putting pen to paper is the thing that keeps me from doing something untoward and newsworthy. ("Oh, yes, we all knew one day she would snap. It was just a matter of time.") Even before I started blogging, I wrote long, vituperative missives to people who really pissed me off. I usually did not send them, but just the act of letting out the venom was enough to stop bad thoughts from pinging around inside my little head. I still have some of them. There was one to the Evil Priest who attempted to sabotage the S/O and I's relationship. (And, yes, he has forever after been referred to in our household as "The Evil Priest.") I think it ended with, "And my one overarching goal in life is to live long enough to dance on your grave, you horrid, bitter little gnome" or something like that.  Hence, every few weeks, I'm not blogging so much as yelling at the world about the latest stupid crap it's pulled. It's my safety valve.

And then to the third reason is that desire to be read. If you ask any writer if they want to be read and they tell you no, they are BIG FAT LIARS. Making a living off writing is nice, but you'd be surprised at the very small number of people who do it. Being read is what real writers want. So, thanks, you 125 or so people who read what is basically my online diary/entertainment review/rant. (Hi, Mom, David, Susan, Richard, you lovely people from Denmark who show up in my stats every week.) It's nice to know you're out there and that occasionally I may amuse you to some degree.

That being said, with my new wacky adventure, I'm going to be focusing somewhat more on writing and publishing stuff, and the posts here are going to reflect that. I need to work some things out mentally, and writing stuff that I know has to make sense to other people tends to do that. Great news for those of you who care about writing and publishing and books, not so great for those who drop by for pictures of Pete, essays on why I hate to drive someone else's car, or snarky reviews of stupid TV shows. A new website is coming, completely separate from this one, but I'm still rather fond of my little garret here, so the nonsense will continue, it's just more likely to be interspersed with something, I don't know, useful.

Cheers!

Big Decisions

So, anyway, last Thursday night I was in the throes of rewriting. What had started out as a lark -- hey, let's dust off that old manuscript and see what it looks like -- had morphed into this life-and-death struggle worthy of a nature-documentary-waterhole-showdown-on-the-savannah. And I was very much the gazelle and not the crocodile.

The actual rewrite was going well in terms of, you know, improving the book. I now had the experience and judgment to see the saggy spots and the repetitive imagery and the telling-versus-showing. As of Thursday night, I had cut something close to 40,000 words and had a nice little roadmap for switching around some action, integrating the remaining parallel storyline, and strengthening some dicey motivation. Problem was, it was never going to hit the magic word number the publisher was adamant about. (The publisher had not seen the whole book, just sample chapters and an outline. And while there are good reasons for books to be shorter, it's also my belief that a story takes as long to tell as it takes to tell.)

So I had a dilemma. Make the book less rich and the story weaker by taking some shortcuts to hit an arbitrary number, or put the manuscript back in a drawer. At about 7:00, I had an epiphany. It was probably a combination of things: words from some truly swell writers I've met, research on a somewhat unrelated matter, and some inexplicable light going on in my head. So for the next several hours I put the book aside and did some research. (I am a whiz a research, a research-savant, if you will.)

It came down to a comparison chart, the kind you see when you're trying to decide between "standard" and "premium" options of whatever you're buying. What comes with what? I was dealing with a small press (a nice, respectable small press -- I wish them no ill will). And what were they offering me? No advance. Publishing in trade paperback and ebook formats. A professional cover. Listings in the catalogues, a press release, and a few copies sent around to reviewers. A standard royalty fee.

I realized quite quickly that whatever they were offering me, I could offer myself. So, just like that, I've decided to become to my own small press. I've been editing professionally for 20 years. I've been advising people on marketing their writing for about that amount of time. I'm surrounded by people who are talented designers and marketers.

I realize better than anyone that this is going to take an immense amount of work, but the only thing I'm risking is my time. (Well, and the time of the people around me who have agreed to launch this experiment with me, but they're doing it of their own free will.) Phase one should be finished by July. For the first time in two years, I'm actually excited about my writing.

(Of course starting, oh, about now, it's back to the rewrite. The sagging middle ain't going to fix itself.)

Revelation

I had a breakthrough tonight, in my panic. I'll discuss it later. Suffice to say, I am at relative peace and see a way forward. For now, I'm breaking out the beer and I'm going to peruse the Christie's auction website, because nothing soothes me quite like looking at exotic rick-a-rack like silver marrow spoons and etarges and armillary globes and pretending I'm bidding on them. Why, $1,800 for a high Victorian repousee tea caddy? That's highway robbery! Then, after consuming enough beer, off to find semi-naked pictures of Simon Baker. Huzzah!

Also, too,  Brandi Carlisle.

Will No One Rid Me of This Meddlesome Rewrite?

I'm still 16,000 words too heavy for this lifeboat. The draft that I started working with was roughly 168,000 words last year. I killed a parallel storyline that should belong in another book, what I started with last month was roughly 138,000 words. I finished the major rewrite today and am still over 116,000 words. Broken down, I need to cut 350 words per chapter or 40-some words per page. A page is roughly 250 words. I am at this point failing to see how this is possible, but maybe I'll just keep drinking beer until a path forward becomes clear.

I had planned to send this to the publisher on Monday, but I figure that it still needs 4 more passes before it's ready to go: one for the restructuring rewrite from the notes I've jotted (which may lose a couple thousand words), one to verify that rewrite doesn't screw anything up, one to check for typos and repetitive imagery and words and bits and bobs that got left behind, and one to fix formatting.  I can maybe beg another week, but still.... I think I need a watch that stops time. That and more beer.


Here's a free preview of the book I may never finish rewriting.

CHAPTER 41

     It didn't take Jesse long to cover the few miles that separated the citadel from the camp.  The moon was moving toward a new phase, nearly full now, and it seemed almost daylight to him.  He longed suddenly for the bike, feeling small and vulnerable without it.  He would just have to be fast enough on his own.

     As he neared the ridge that edged the small canyon, a new scent was carried to him through the still air.  It was slightly acrid, sweet and smoky underneath.  Familiar.  There was no other smell on Earth quite like it.  He slowed down and unslung the rifle as he moved closer. The sound from the canyon was like the crackling of paper, punctuated by an occasional shout.  He lowered himself to the ground and crawled to the edge, the rifle ready in his right hand.

     The fire was larger, more alive, and the smoke that drifted up from it billowed an ugly black.  Men still ringed the small inferno, but the Harleys were in an ordered line at the mouth of the canyon and there was no gear littered around.  

     A jumbled mound lay to the right side of the blaze. There were men on either side of the mound--a beefy shirtless man who was not human and a lean James Dean wannabe in full leathers--and as Jesse watched, they leaned down and heaved another body onto the fire.  They had fed and they would be moving.  He quickly counted the figures that ringed the fire, squinted and counted again.  There were eleven men down below.  Two were missing.  One of the missing was Tesca.

     Jesse pulled back and looked around him quickly, a burst of fear squeezing his heart.  He scanned the shadows that lurked in the rocks around him, but could sense no movement.  He moved back to the edge.  .  He chose a target and lifted the rifle to his shoulder.  Had he  been a different man, he might have said a prayer.  He pulled the trigger.

     The crack of the rifle seemed horribly loud in the darkness.  A split second later the shirtless biker's head exploded in a flower of red and he slumped onto the pile of bodies before him.   Jesse worked the lever and fired again, catching a tall thin man with a ponytail in the right temple.  As he fell forward the others broke and began to move, hitting the ground in a chorus of yells, scrambling toward the bikes on the far edge of the fire.

     "No immortality,"  Jesse whispered and pulled the trigger again.  He heard the rumble of engines and couldn't get another clean shot.  He pulled back and waited, adjusting his vision to the cool darkness that surrounded him.  He rolled on his back and scanned the area, hearing the roar behind him fade slightly as they circled up from the canyon.  He got to his feet and began to move, fighting the instinct to run.  He heard a rustle from the rocks to his left and spun, rifle at his waist, finger already squeezing the trigger.  The muzzle flared and the dark figure before him staggered, but kept coming.  Jesse pulled the lever, but there wasn't enough time, and he felt the breath leave his body as his back hit the ground.  His teeth snapped together as the biker rammed his head back into the dirt. 

     He shoved up with the rifle and then released it, bringing his right hand up, feeling the knife slide into his palm.  He slashed wildly, feeling slick blood splatter on his upturned face, but the snarling man on top of him didn't let go, his fingers clawing at Jesse's flesh, searching for the redness that lay below the surface.  Jesse struggled, a part of his mind hearing the sound of the engines growing in the distance.  He gave a desperate yell and shoved up hard, feeling the give as the knife bit, the jar as it was stopped by bone.  The man let go abruptly and rolled on his back, hands clawing at the hilt of the knife that protruded from his thick neck.  Jesse got to his feet and pulled out the Colt.  He fired once, and then reached down to retrieve the knife, wiping it on the man's tattered shirt and quickly replacing it against his forearm.  He picked up the Winchester from the ground and turned to look behind him.  The roar was growing, angry bees swarming from a ruined hive, and he could make out the glowing movement of distant headlights.

     "Follow me, you sons of bitches,” Jesse said.  And then he began to run.

(BTW for context's sake, the "good" vampire is leading an ambush on an Aztec biker vampire gang. Because I am nothing if not a fun girl.)

Fuck You, Republicans. Again.

No. Really. Fuck you. I've had enough of your bullshit. Now that you've grown weary of pushing teachers and firefighters down the stairs, trying to abolish kindergarten, fighting tooth and nail to make sure that loving adults can't form legal families, giving big industry carte blanche to poison the food, water, and environment and serve endangered species as hors doevres, destroying poor women's access to healthcare, you would think you'd have run out of ways to screw everyone. I mean, there must be a line somewhere. Even Hitler liked dogs. But no, there are still new depths to which you're willing to sink.

How about handicapped kids? Why, the don't contribute anything to society. And they're already born, so they're not tender little feoti anymore, so who gives a fuck?  Lazy little slackers, they'd probably just take that Special Olympics funding you're taking away and blow it all on T-bone steaks and big screen TVs. I ask you, are there no workhouses?

Elections have consequences, bitchez.  And for anyone who votes Republican, I hope you enjoy it when they get around to fucking you over, because have no doubt, you are on the list. It's just a matter of time.


You may now return to your regularly scheduled programming.

Doctor Who Premier Set - Yay!

The new season of Doctor Who premiers on BBC America April 23! Along with the excellent news that Luther will be back in fall. (Of course this only partially ameliorates my disgust with Fox, which is still poised to cancel both Fringe and Human Target. Stupid Fox.)

Gratuitous Pet Pix

One more week on the rewrite. I wouldn't say that it's been harder than I expected, more like it's been more mentally discomfiting.  Picking at threads gives you a weird fractured perspective, and right now the whole thing has taken on the aspect of an Escher drawing. But I will trudge onward.
Until I can write something coherent again, critters.


When Pete is not sleeping or reminding you that his food bowl is empty, he is imparting helpful zombie-killing tips to kid #4.

Often Pete unfolds himself in a multidimensional space outside our space/time continuum so that he can occupy the maximum space on the bed.

Since I am currently chained to my desk and unable to attend any "fun activities," I missed the Krewe of Barkus dog parade in the French Quarter. But the boys got to go and take Wilson. Here he is with their Aunt Lisa, in a rare moment where he has stopped wiggling enough to be photographed.

A Girl After My Own Heart

Finally a video to go with the nifty "Terrible Things" by April Smith and the Great Picture show.





And then something bouncy, bouncy.

Lost and Found

From The Daily What, I find this unspeakably hilarious.

(And I think the video would been much better if the eventual sculpture had looked nothing like Lionel Richie, but I have an unusual sense of humor.)

Bad News/Good News

Novel update: Still looking to lose roughly 20,000 words. Realize that my parallel storyline needs rearranging. Wish that there was a function in Word where you could tell it what you wanted it to do, and it would actually do it without introducing 14 other formatting gremlins. (Hey, Word, why don't you be a dear and make every fucking indent uniform?)

Bad News? Short story rejection, boilerplate "Best of luck placing your story, blah, blah, blah." The spymobile has decided it now only features "air conditioning" instead of air conditioning. So either it need a new compressor or I can only drive it in Siberia. Also, backing up lights don't work, which can't be remedied by something as mundane as replacing a bulb, but entails using a secret map to find a faulty switch located somewhere in the recesses of the engine, a spot which can apparently unexpectedly change locations at will. Thanks, Volkswagen!

Good News? Kid #2 departs from Afghanistan sometime in the next 3 days, and will be back in sunny California, then home to visit sometime next month.  The new season of BBC's Being Human is very good, with the added surprise bonus of the most excellent Robson Green as a werewolf. Yayayayayay. You see, being a werewolf entails taking off your clothes, repeatedly. Also, found a nice bottle of Riesling in the bargain bin at the Winn-Dixie, which I plan on drinking if I ever finish this fucking rewrite.