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Well, 133 votes are in from yesterday's poll, and I'm happy to announce that the winner of Least Favorite Food Network Personality is the freakishly perky Rachael Ray. It couldn't have happened to a more deserving soul. Except maybe that simpering idiot Jim O'Connor, and he didn't get a single vote. I suspect it was a matter of name recognition. Emeril Lagasse takes second place with 27 votes, and Bobby Flay comes in third with 25, though the two of them were neck-and-neck and are probably equally annoying. That was fun.
And I am not even going to mention the nightmares this afternoon.
One year ago today I "finished" Daughter of Hounds. Time does fly, indeed. A whole frelling year. Wow. And in only six weeks or so, the whole frelling world can read it. Of course, you can be the first on your block and all, but not unless you bid in this auction (all proceeds go to the Platypus Rehab Intervention Project).
The writing wasn't so bad yesterday. I did 1,179 words, finishing up just before 7 p.m. (CaST).
I hear Subterranean Press is having a big ol' 40%-off sale today. Unfortunately, none of my books are included, because, well, they've pretty much all had the gall to go and sell out. Sorry. But there are lots of great things by the likes of Poppy Z. Brite, Elizabeth Bear, Charles DeLint, Joe Lansdale, Norman Partridge, and oh so many others. Check it out. Also, issue #4 of Subterranean magazine is now available as a free PDF download. You'd think Cephalopodmas had come early this year.
After the writing yesterday, I soaked in a tub of hot water and thought about the end of the world, while Spooky went out to kill something cute for dinner. Then we watched a new ep of Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends (Spooky hated the musical number).
We read Chapter XVIII of House of Leaves. Of all the things in this book that scare the freakin' bejeesus out of me, it's the brief bit about the Jamestown Colony that gets to me the most. The old journal discovered in a Boston bookshop. The three doomed and starving hunters stumbling upon something terrible in a snowy field way back in 1610, almost four hundred years before Navidson began exploring the house on Ash Tree Lane.
Later, speaking of the Food Network, I could not resist a new ep of Iron Chef America, wherein Mario was teamed with the aforementioned Rachel Ray and Bobby Flay got stuck with Giada De Laurentiis (I have a morbid fear that the last thing I will see before I die will be her grotesque carnivorous smile) for Battle Cranberry. Then I played Final Fantasy XII until sometime after 2 a.m. Oh, Fran. I'm going to compose sonnets to you.
Before sleep, I read from J.E.A. Tyler's The Tolkien Companion (Bell Publishing Co., 1979).
Remember that gargantuan hurricane at Saturn's south pole, the one Cassini photographed? Want to see it in motion? Just click here.
Yeah, platypus. I know, I know...
Jeez.
I'm supposed to remind you that the eBay auctions end tomorrow. This includes the Daughter of Hounds ARC and the lettered copy of Alabaster which comes with "Highway 97" and Spooky's green-haired boy doll. I should especially like to draw your attention to the latter. Presently, it's quite near to meeting our reserve price, and the doll alone is worth at least that. The platypus has herhisits dear four-chambered heart set on recuperating at Betty Ford, and I'd hate to tell herhimit that settling for less has become a necessity. Please do bid. On behalf of this poor pr0n-addled monotreme. You'll feel better about yourself, I promise.
And I am not even going to mention the nightmares this afternoon.
One year ago today I "finished" Daughter of Hounds. Time does fly, indeed. A whole frelling year. Wow. And in only six weeks or so, the whole frelling world can read it. Of course, you can be the first on your block and all, but not unless you bid in this auction (all proceeds go to the Platypus Rehab Intervention Project).
The writing wasn't so bad yesterday. I did 1,179 words, finishing up just before 7 p.m. (CaST).
I hear Subterranean Press is having a big ol' 40%-off sale today. Unfortunately, none of my books are included, because, well, they've pretty much all had the gall to go and sell out. Sorry. But there are lots of great things by the likes of Poppy Z. Brite, Elizabeth Bear, Charles DeLint, Joe Lansdale, Norman Partridge, and oh so many others. Check it out. Also, issue #4 of Subterranean magazine is now available as a free PDF download. You'd think Cephalopodmas had come early this year.
After the writing yesterday, I soaked in a tub of hot water and thought about the end of the world, while Spooky went out to kill something cute for dinner. Then we watched a new ep of Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends (Spooky hated the musical number).
We read Chapter XVIII of House of Leaves. Of all the things in this book that scare the freakin' bejeesus out of me, it's the brief bit about the Jamestown Colony that gets to me the most. The old journal discovered in a Boston bookshop. The three doomed and starving hunters stumbling upon something terrible in a snowy field way back in 1610, almost four hundred years before Navidson began exploring the house on Ash Tree Lane.
Later, speaking of the Food Network, I could not resist a new ep of Iron Chef America, wherein Mario was teamed with the aforementioned Rachel Ray and Bobby Flay got stuck with Giada De Laurentiis (I have a morbid fear that the last thing I will see before I die will be her grotesque carnivorous smile) for Battle Cranberry. Then I played Final Fantasy XII until sometime after 2 a.m. Oh, Fran. I'm going to compose sonnets to you.
Before sleep, I read from J.E.A. Tyler's The Tolkien Companion (Bell Publishing Co., 1979).
Remember that gargantuan hurricane at Saturn's south pole, the one Cassini photographed? Want to see it in motion? Just click here.
Yeah, platypus. I know, I know...
Jeez.
I'm supposed to remind you that the eBay auctions end tomorrow. This includes the Daughter of Hounds ARC and the lettered copy of Alabaster which comes with "Highway 97" and Spooky's green-haired boy doll. I should especially like to draw your attention to the latter. Presently, it's quite near to meeting our reserve price, and the doll alone is worth at least that. The platypus has herhisits dear four-chambered heart set on recuperating at Betty Ford, and I'd hate to tell herhimit that settling for less has become a necessity. Please do bid. On behalf of this poor pr0n-addled monotreme. You'll feel better about yourself, I promise.
