greygirlbeast: (Default)
Just something quick. I have tomorrow off, and we'll be heading off to Connecticut, to the Yale Peabody Museum.

I was somewhat impressed by toady's web protests against SOPA/PIPA, though Goggle's seemed halfhearted, at best. A shame Google, Twitter, and Facebook didn't shutdown. That would have made an impression.

All this said, I want no one, even for a second to think that I support internet piracy. I don't. However, I also don't believe in burning down a house to kill a termite. But...I'm going to explain in more details my feelings on SOPA/PIPA, internet freedom, copyright, and internet piracy in Friday's entry. And yeah, leaving comments disabled until Friday.

Until then...



Fading,
Aunt Beast
greygirlbeast: (Chi and Aeryn)


My black out begins now. Props to Wikipedia et al. Glad tomorrow is a school day; help drive the message home. Unless Wikipedia is blocked...for boobs and sex and stuff.
greygirlbeast: (Chiana 6)
Note that I will make a post just after midnight (CaST), probably just a few words, and then this journal will "go black" as a protest against SOPA/PIPA. The blackout will end at midnight (CaST) on the 19th. No, I don't think it will change a thing. The whole internet going black won't change a thing. That's not the point. Sometimes we tilt at windmills because it's the right thing to do. We have also been assured that President Obama will block the legislation, and there's word Congress is already preparing to shelve it. By the way, my book sales are being seriously harmed by internet piracy, and I still oppose SOPA/PIPA. You do not burn down a fucking house to kill a termite.

And, more good news. Believed lost for some 165 years, hundreds of paleobotanical thin sections, once owned by Charles Darwin, have been rediscovered in the archives of the British Geological Survey.

If I do not leave the house today, it will have been eleven days since last I left the house. This is becoming serious. Again. And I have to face it and get out of here.

When we went to bed about 3:30 a.m., there was a very light dusting of snow on the ground, already beginning to melt.

I had a dream, this morning, that one of my molars fell out. This isn't unusual. I frequently have dreams of breaking and shattering teeth. I have bad teeth, and, moreover, many psychoanalysts believe this a sign that someone – whichever dreamer in question - feels they have lost, or are losing control of...well, whatever. In this case, I point to Alabaster #4. As I near the end of the next to last issue of the first series, I am terrified I am making missteps, that I was never cut out to write comics. And I cannot fail in this. Every single word matters, and, in many ways, this is a far, far more difficult undertaking than writing a novel. Yesterday, I wrote three more pages, 16-18 (manuscript pages 27-29, 951 words), which is probably more than I should have written yesterday. Likely, I will finish the three remaining pages today.

Please be reminded of the auction of ARC of the The Drowning Girl: A Memoir. By the way, if you haven't seen Publishers Weekly's STARRED review of the novel, you ought. Sure, too much time is wasted on synopsis, but too many reviewers these days don't know the difference between a review and book report.

Oh, and here's a photograph Spooky took day before yesterday, when I was washing my hair. All my life, I've known I had a birthmark on the back of my neck, just at and under the hairline. This is the first time I've ever seen it (behind the cut).

Birthmark )


After the writing, I curled up on the chaise in the middle parlor, in front of the fire place (it only sounds a tenth as cozy as it actually is), with the iPad and finished watching the National Geographic pterosaur documentary. It only got worse. Aside from Kevin Padian and David Unwin, actual experts on pterosaur paleontology were generally ignored (where was Peter Wellnhofer, for example, or Chris Bennett, or Dave Martill?). The science went from slipshod to fanciful. In short, whoever wrote this thing just started making shit up. Assemblages of animals were shown coexisting in the same environment, even though we know they belonged to different faunas separated by tens of millions of years. At least a third (and maybe half) of the documentary was wasted on an attempt to build a mechanical scale model of a pterosaur that would fly as a pterosaur flew. But it didn't work, even though the designers cheated right and left on the design (adding an elaborate "rudder" to an anhanguerine, for example, a group that all but lacked a tail, and certainly didn't use them for stabilization during flight). No, no, no. Bad science. This is National Geographic? My advice, stay away from this one.

Later, before sleep, I read Bruce Sterling's "Maneki Neko" (1998), a somewhat dull bit of cyberpunk. Near as I could tell, it was hellbent on showing that just as there's truth to the "ugly American" stereotype, there's also the "ugly Japanese." No shock there. The story's most interesting aspect is it's view of what the internet would become, but, in the ensuing fourteen years, has failed to do so.

And it's getting late. And I should scoot.

Scooting,
Aunt Beast
greygirlbeast: (Eli2)
A band I knew when I lived in Athens (well, mostly Linda Hopper and Ruthie Morris) back in the nineties, in that other time and that other world. Coming home from the sea tonight, I remembered the song, and started wondering what happened to everyone. Of course, all I have to do is check Wikipedia. I sort of loathe the internet. The video was censored by MTV, because assholes don't want to hear the truth.



"Careful when you say goodbye..."
greygirlbeast: (white2)
Lots and lots of people I know are currently at ALA. No, not Alabama. Me, I'm quite glad not to be at ALA. Not my scene, man.

I was considering an apology for the tone of my post yesterday morning. But, upon further reflection, I'm not so sure all the whining was unjustified. At any rate, my thanks to [livejournal.com profile] readingthedark for be willing to go to absurd lengths to try to get me to Boston today for the shoot with [livejournal.com profile] kylecassidy and Our Eva Canning. I finally came to my senses and realized that there was no reason on Earth I actually needed to be there, and that I'd likely just get in the way.

So...

Hey! have a look at the current round the Big Damn eBay Auction. You need a book. By me. Signed. By Me. Thanks. Auctions expire TOMORROW, and we really need to sell these books.

I wrote about a thousand words yesterday on "Sexing the Weird," the introduction for Confessions of a Five-Chambered Heart. Not sure any of it's useable, but I wrote it. I've decided that, before I proceed, I need to track down a copy of Angela's Carter's The Sadeian Woman: And the Ideology of Pornography (1978), which I'm pretty sure is out of print.* And, inexplicably, I don't have a copy. Oh, there was more work, with [livejournal.com profile] jacobluest on the new Sirenia Digest website yesterday.

A couple of links. First, from the CBLDF Case Files, a new atrocity, as a man attempting to enter Canada was searched by customs and is facing a minimum sentence of year in a Canadian prison and being forced to register as a sex offender. Just for having manga on his laptop. The customs officer considered it to be child pornography. The CBLDF has agreed to assist in the case by contributing funds towards the defense, which it has been estimated will cost $150,000 CDN. The CBLDF will also provide access to experts and assistance on legal strategy.

On a lighter note, here's something wonderful: a seven-year-old's paleoblog, Life Before the Dinosaurs, specializing in Precambrian and early Paleozoic life. His mom does his typing. Kid, you rock.

Here in Rhode Island, we are finally having a lovely May.

I don't know what's worse, that people ask me to read their unpublished fiction, or that they get pissy when I tell them I'd charge $20/page to read their unpublished fiction and make them sign a waiver indemnifying me from any accusations of plagiarism, ever. Even if, you know, I actually do steal their ideas. Anyway, as you can imagine, I don't do a booming business in reading other people's shit. Which is a good thing.

I slept a lot last night. I wandered through dreams of idealized cities and idealized rivers. The sorts of dreams that can only reduce waking to regret.

Now...I'm sure there's something I have to type. While I sit in this chair. At this desk.

Not a Nice Person,
Aunt Beast

* Actually, it's still in print. The subtitle was changed to An Exercise in Cultural History. Which, you know, won't offend the prudes, the very people Carter was...oh, never mind.
greygirlbeast: (Barker)
Sunny and cool again today.

About half an hour after I made the blog entry yesterday, there was a fairly bad seizure. I spent most of the remainder of the day in bed. Spooky brought me Ranier cherries and slices of chipotle cheddar. I sketched and read. Just before sunset, I began to feel better, and had a bath, and dinner, after which I felt much, much better. Another hour, I was good as new. But, all of yesterday was lost, workwise, and now I have to scramble to try to make up for the lost time. I'd like to be back at work on Blood Oranges by Tuesday. I mean to have another three chapters written by the end of the month, at least.

But today, I have Vince's illustration of "Figurehead," and it's the fifth of May, so today pretty much has to be assembly day for Sirenia Digest #67. Tomorrow, I'll make a furiously determined effort to finish up with the galleys of Two Worlds and In Between. Oh, and I need to proof the galleys of "Fish Bride," which is being reprinted in the second issue of S. T. Joshi's Weird Fiction Review. And there are contracts, and...

I need to be writing. There's too much writing needs doing not to be writing.

---

Hopefully, a fair number of you read last month's "book of the month" selection, Kathe Koja's Under the Poppy (if you didn't, or haven't finished, don't apologize; nothing here is compulsory). I mean to write more about Under the Poppy, but I'm going to do so when I'm just a little more awake than I am now. I had a double-dose of the Good Worker Bee Pill last night, and I feel like it.

This month's selection for Aunt Beast's Book of the Month Club is Sara Gruen's Water for Elephants:



You may have seen the movie, which I liked a lot and is a fairly faithful adaptation. But it's no substitute for the novel, which you ought to read. Also, Spooky says the Audible.com adaptation is pretty good. It's unabridged, so you might go that route. Either way, book or audiobook. But, with the actual book-type-book, you get cool vintage circus photos.

---

An utterly moronic article in the Wall Street Journal, "Darkness too Visible," by someone named MEGHAN COX GURDON. Hey, it was in all caps on the website. Truth in journalism, right? The article carries the provocative subtitle, "Contemporary fiction for teens is rife with explicit abuse, violence and depravity. Why is this considered a good idea?" Anyway, obviously Gurdon isn't at all happy about "dark" themes in YA literature. In fact, she's pretty sure that books like Suzanne Collins's The Hunger Game are mangling the minds of impressionable teens everywhere and will, I don't know, lead to mass suicides or something of the sort. The article is...well, read it if you must. But it's most entirely angrifying, fair warning. In response, a Twitter hashtag, #YAsaves, has sprung up, and editors such as [livejournal.com profile] ellen_datlow and authors such as [livejournal.com profile] blackholly have weighed in (lending their support to YA).

Look at this stinking shithole of a world, people. You really want to sugar-coat literature for the young'uns? You really want to try to insulate them from the difficulties of being a teen, or the hardships they're going to be facing very, very soon (if they aren't already)? Here again, we have the threat of warning labels rearing it's censorious, myopic head.

Whether I'm writing for an adult or a YA audience (and now I do both; also as my agent recently pointed out, Silk, Threshold, and Alabaster would likely now be considered YA), I mean for my fiction to be triggering. That's not a word that ought in speaking of art carry negative connotations. This is the very objective of art, and most especially including fiction: to trigger. To elicit in the mind of the reader a powerful emotional response that will move them, change them, upset or inspire them. We do not "protect" readers from this, else there's no point in writing or reading. We create art that will get their attention and make them think, and will help them survive some nightmare/s past, present, or future. Hey, other kids beside me cut. Other kids have survived rape. Other kids are gay and trans. And, fuck, look at this Catniss chick, what a kick-ass role model. And even if the reader has not experienced or is experiencing some personal trauma, just maybe these books will cause them to behave towards those who have with a little more understanding and sympathy.

Oh. I almost forgot. Gurdon hates dirty words, too. And she segregates the sexes, recommending "books for young men" and "books" for young women." It's still 1945, right?

So, fuck off, MEGHAN COX GURDON. You have the nerve (and are dumb enough) to recommend Fahrenheit 451 - a novel about book burning - in an article calling for censorship. Have you read Bradbury's book, MEGHAN COX GURDON? Do you understand the meaning of the word "irony"?

I'm sure there are many others who responses will be more "civil" and "politic," but I don't feel this nonsense deserves the effort required for either. However, if you'd like to see a really good and thoughtful response, read this post by [livejournal.com profile] kylecassidy, or this post by Laurie Hall Anderson.

---

Last night we watched what must be one of the worst films ever committed to celluloid, Chris Sivertson's I Know Who Killed Me (2007). Two words, Lindsay Lohan. Why did I inflict this upon myself? I don't know. Plain and simple. This film is so bad...never mind, there are no adjectives in the English language capable of expressing of the badness of this film. Lohan can't act. The script...wait, what script? Silverton can't direct. The cinematographer spent the whole film in the crapper. It's like after-school-special torture porn. No, that would be better than this movie. Never mind.

---

Last night, Spooky and I measured Telara as best we could. Choosing as our standard the distance between Lantern Hook to the south and the Chancel of Labors in the north, we arrived at a base measurement of 5,500 meters, which I then used to get a north/south measurement on Telara, at the widest visible point of the (sub)"continent". And that measurement was 7,333 meters (+ or -), or about 4.5 miles. I was stunned. Truly. I'd expected to arrive at a measurement of at least 15 miles. As a point of comparison, the island of Manhattan is 13.4 miles long (or 2.97 Telaras).

Okay. Enough. Work awaits.

Angrified,
Aunt Beast

The R-Word

Feb. 11th, 2011 10:20 pm
greygirlbeast: (Bjorkdroid)
Neil tweeted about this, then Spooky pointed me to it. Brilliant. Lately, I am utterly amazed at the wonderfulness of so many Kickstarter projects...like this one: The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn: Robotic Edition.

(I'd have posted the video, but something about the embed code hates LiveJournal.)
greygirlbeast: (fight dinosaurs)
Sunny today, only a few clouds, and the highs are going to be somewhere in the mid eighties. Which means the House will become uncomfortable. But I have too much work to do to go any place cooler. I could take the laptop with me and hide out at the Peace Dale Library, for example, but I know, from experience, I'd not get any work done. There would be too many distractions. I can only write at the desk in my office. Spooky's going to wheel Muñoz in a little later, to keep the office cool. Of course, we do that at the expense of the rest of the House. But, hey, the words must roll.

Though, they didn't roll very far yesterday. And it wasn't because of the heat. Friday night, it was time to increase my Lamictal dose again, and yesterday the side effects (mostly fatigue and nausea) hit me hard. But I sat here, anyway. I spent an hour tweaking and revising what I wrote on "The Maltese Unicorn" on Thursday and Friday— the opening scene in an interrogation cell at the Drancy Transit Camp in the Paris suburbs, October 1941. This is so much about achieving authenticity— of period and place and culture —every word counts even more than usual. Then I spent two hours beginning the first section of the story proper, which is the narrator recalling events that unfolded six years earlier, in the Manhattan of 1935. But I was ill, as I have mentioned, and as I likely shall be again today, and in two hours I managed only 312 words. I'm fairly certain they are 312 good words, but still. This will be an 8,500-10,000-word story, and I don't have time to write it in 300-word increments.

This story is far more concerned with plot than my stories usually are. Usually, plot is something I allow to accrete while I'm tending to things like characterization and mood and theme. Usually, I go into a story with a vague idea of what "will happen," and allow those events to unfold organically. But this isn't that sort of a story. Occasionally, a story is not the sort of story that is amenable to my usual process, and so I must adapt and work out the plot in great detail beforehand and also as I write. Which, though it seems extremely artificial to me, is necessary with a story like "The Maltese Unicorn." And so, this story feels very much plottier than most of my stories.

And, over breakfast this morning, a thought occurred to me. When a reader complains to a writer that a story did not "satisfy" them, or that it "didn't make sense," or they found the characters "too unsympathetic," this is in no particular way different from telling a painter that his or her painting is not pretty, or that you cannot tell what "it's supposed to be," or that you really prefer the color blue to the color red and why can't they use blue more often. It's the same thing, pretty much.

Anyway, yesterday while I worked, Spooky went out into the world to get me a new walking stick. Two, actually. The one I used for the last two years blew out on me a few weeks back. It had this shock-absorption feature, and that's what blew out. Damn fancy-ass stick. This time, we've opted for a lower tech walking stick, and one with a five-year guarantee, at that.

If you've not yet ordered your copy of The Ammonite Violin & Others, there's no time like the present.

Yesterday, Dennis Hopper died.

Last night, we watched Howard Hawks' The Big Sleep (1946). I love this film, which I've seen times beyond counting, even though it has one of the most torturously convoluted plots I've ever encountered in film. I adore the snappy dialogue. As Roger Ebert said of the screenplay, "It's unusual to find yourself laughing in a movie not because something is funny but because it's so wickedly clever." There's a moment, in Marlowe's office, when Vivian Rutledge has called the police, and the whole thing devolves into Bogart and Bacall passing the phone back and forth, bedeviling the cop at the other end of the line, a scene that would be at home in Marx Bros. film. I love that Faulkner worked on the screenplay (though he probably loathed the job). I love that we never find out who killed Owen Taylor, the Sternwood chauffeur, and that neither the screenwriters nor Raymond Chandler knew whodunit. And sure, the Hays Office made it necessary to muck about with Chalder's story, so we don't know the nature of "the racket" Geiger is running, that he's using the antique bookshop as a front for a shop that sells pornography, or that Lundgren and Geiger are lovers (the Hays Office wouldn't go for homosexuality), or that those photos of Carmen are pornographic. Etc. and etc. It's still a fine film.

I mentioned Pontypool, right?

Mrs. French's cat is missing. The signs are posted all over town. "Have you seen Honey?" We've all seen the posters, but nobody has seen Honey the cat. Nobody. Until last Thursday morning, when Miss Colette Piscine swerved her car to miss Honey the cat as she drove across a bridge. Well this bridge, now slightly damaged, is a bit of a local treasure and even has its own fancy name; Pont de Flaque. Now Collette, that sounds like "culotte." That's "panty" in French. And "piscine" means "pool." Panty pool. "Flaque" also means pool in French, so Colete Piscine— in French, Panty Pool —drives over the Pont de Flaque, the Pont de Pool if you will, to avoid hitting Mrs. French's cat that has been missing in Pontypool. Pontypool. Pontypool. Panty pool. Pont de Flaque. What does it mean? Well, Norman Mailer, he had an interesting theory that he used to explain the strange coincidences in the aftermath of the JFK assasination. In the wake of huge events, after them and before them, physical details they spasm for a moment; they sort of unlock and when they come back into focus they suddenly coincide in a weird way. Street names and birth dates and middle names, all kind of superfluous things appear related to each other. It's a ripple effect. So, what does it mean? Well...it means something's going to happen. Something big. But then, something's always about to happen.
greygirlbeast: (Humanoid)
Another one from Zina Saunders:



And from the Boston Globe. "Palin asked Wasilla librarian about censoring books" (9/14/08):

WASILLA —— Back in 1996, when she first became mayor, Sarah Palin asked the city librarian if she would be all right with censoring library books should she be asked to do so.

According to news coverage at the time, the librarian said she would definitely not be all right with it. A few months later, the librarian, Mary Ellen Emmons, got a letter from Palin telling her she was going to be fired. The censorship issue was not mentioned as a reason for the firing. The letter just said the new mayor felt Emmons didn’t fully support her and had to go.


Spooky, never one to debate the finer points of politics, says of Palin, "The woman's a fucking nutjob, and that's all I have to say on the subject."
greygirlbeast: (bluenareth)
Oh, fuck me, how can it be June already? I mean, I'm glad that it's June, that winter is gone, gone, gone, but I am so very far behind. Anyway and whatever and be that as it may. Or June. This morning, I crawled out of bed and sat down on the sofa (after stumbling down the hall), and then I watched a beautiful Melanerpes carolinus (Red-bellied Woodpecker) skittering about on the tree out front. It helped me get back from the dreamsickness, so thank you, bird.

And why, oh why, can't someone put out a really nice Tolkien tarot deck? There are a couple available, but the art is ass. I mean an Alan Lee Tolkien tarot, or something comparable. But I digress.

Yesterday was mostly the sort of day that comes along in the wake of having met a Very Important Writing Goal, having finished a short story or novel or having met a pressing deadline. That is, a Very Goddamn Bad Day. It's one part post-pardem depression (to use that convenient, loathsome writing = childbirth metaphor), one part boredom, one part let-down and self-loathing, one part mind left free to wander off the rails to whatever vile climes it cannot help but wander, and so forth. So, I mixed kava, Klonopin, absinthe, Red Bull, chocolate, and coffee, which, helped for about half an hour. This is called taking a vacation. The irony is not lost on me. I do not love to write, but I hate idle hands, and what else am I to do but write? I mean besides "self-medicate"? I dislike that phrase, "self-medicate"? What's wrong with those good ol' fashioned turns of phrase, those that do not pussy-foot about with psychobabble and new-speak mealy-mouthedness? Is it not more honest to say that I got fucked up, because it helps me get through the interminable days on which I do not write because I am too exhausted (from writing) to write? Screw the medical model of psychology. Self-medication is when I choose to get through a bad cold with herbs and aspirin instead of paying a doctor half a fortune for pills. Self-medication is having Spooky stitch a cut instead of sitting for five hours in some nasty ER. Yesterday, I did not self-medicate. Anyway...

I would like to add my 2¢ regarding the recent LJ/Six Apart capitulations to the demands of one bat-shit insane dominionist Xtian by deleting everything from erotic fic to group-therapy/support communities to private journals to communities devoted to the discussion of the works of Vladimir Nabokov. It's a cowardly bit of business-as-usual American economics, it was censorship, and it a gross example of overreaction. It was a witch hunt prompted by the hysterics of this busy-body calling herself Warriors for Innocence. And I absolutely cannot believe that Warren Ellis, of all people, condoned and defended it. It only shows to go that if you build a big enough boogeyman, you can fool almost all the children of the revolution. There will always be at least one boogeyman to fill the bill. And yes, it surely fucking was an act of censorship:

Censorship: The use of the state and other legal or official means to restrict speech.
Culture Wars, Documents from the Recent Controversies in the Arts (Richard Boltons, ed.)

Censor: One who supervises conduct and morals: as a) an official who examines materials (as publications or films) for objectionable matter; b) an official (as in time of war) who reads communications (as letters) and deletes material considered harmful to the interests of his organization. Censorship: The institution, system or practice of censoring; the actions or practices of censors; esp : censorial control exercised repressively.
Merriam Webster's Collegiate Dictionary

Did Six Apart have a legal right to do what they did? Yes. Does that make it right? No. Does that mean it isn't censorship? No. And can it be forgiven because, personally, slash gives you the willies? No. For my part, I am appalled. But I am always appalled. I think it's why I'm here, just to be chronically appalled at the idiotic actions of mankind.

Don't mind me. I'm just sitting here, waiting on the Big Space Rock to end the whole gorram farce.

Meanwhile, just as I was thinking about the dusty unopened bottle of rum in the pantry, I happened, yesterday, to once again stumble across Second Life, which is sort of like crack when you have a brain like mine. And this time I had the OS and the machine to actually handle Second Life. I spent six and a half straight hours there last night. I strolled on an abandoned pirate ship. I danced to bad '80s music. I visited furries. I flew. And sure, I didn't finish the Steinbeck bio like I'd hoped to do, but my mind quit racing, I didn't break anything, and I was amazed by what I saw. I will be going back today. If you happen to drop by, look me up. I'm the topless, penniless waif of an android named Nareth Nishi (that's Nareth, not Nar'eth). Sure, the place is way too obsessed with capitalism, but it's still an amazing little experiment and somehow quite exhilarating. And a good way to manage rest without driving myself any crazier.

Spooky finally pried me away from the iMac and read me another chapter of The Ersatz Elevator until I could sleep (because she is the best bear).
greygirlbeast: (white)
Yesterday, I wrote 1,636 words, or I marched 1,636 steps. Six of one, half dozen of the other. It is very frustrating that I have to take Wednesday and Thursday "off" for a trip to Birmingham. I just want this to be over, this March, New Consolidated or otherwise.

The good news is that the cold snap of the last five days ends today, at least if you're here in Atlanta. Today, it will be warm enough for a long walk. And it is going to stay warm for the next ten days, at least. Spring is very, very near.

Yesterday, looking at someone's [livejournal.com profile] ditl, I noticed a "Lesser Octopus" stamp from the UK. I think it was a First Class stamp. It said "1st" on it. If someone reading this who resides in the UK would procure such a stamp for me, I would reciprocate with some appropriate trinket or another. Please and thank you. The address is P.O. Box 5381, Atlanta, GA 31107 USA. Because, you know, I need more junk with octopi on it.

Courtesy the remarkable [livejournal.com profile] blackholly, news of a grand absurd kerfuffle over the presence of the word scrotum in the Newberry-Award winning children's book, The Higher Power of Lucky. Among other things, this just goes to show, yet again, how hopelessly screwed up Americans are when it comes to sex. I mean, really. Scrotum. Scrotum, scrotum, scrotum, scrotum, scrotum. American parents allow their little girls to dress themselves like pop whoresluts, but we cannot have the word scrotum in school libraries, because, you know, that might corrupt someone. Yeah, okay, whatever. This is one of those times I wish I were a gazillionaire, so I could buy a million or so copies of this book and distribute it free to children everywhere, just to piss of the prudes. Oh, and maybe I could hire a crack team of graffiti artists to spray-paint the word scrotum on the sidewalk outside one in every ten U.S. schools. Would that be deemed idealogical terrorism or something? I wonder if Susan Patron's book would have raised fewer eyebrows and less censorial wrath if she'd used nutsack, instead?

To quote Col. Kurtz in Apocalypse Now: "They train young men to drop fire on people. But their commanders won't allow them to write fuck on their airplanes because it's obscene!"

Spooky will be beginning a new round of eBay auctions this afternoon. Actual books this time. I'll post an addendum or something when the auctions begin.

Last night's episode of Battlestar Galactica wasn't so bad. At least the soap opera stuff made sense in context of the overall story and contributed something to characterization. It didn't come off like slash. I do wish more time had been taken with the air-lock accident, though. More adventure, please. As for the new episode of The Dresden Files, I thought it was actually a lot of fun. I somewhat enjoyed last week's episode, but I liked this week's even more. I believe it's beginning to find a sense of itself, which probably means the SFC will cancel it in the next two or three weeks to insert some new incarnation of Stargate.

Okay. The platypus says if I wanna walk before I write, I gotta snap to it. So, snap I shall.

(cue theme music; roll credits)

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Caitlín R. Kiernan

February 2012

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