But It's a Dry Heat

Archive for October, 2010

Writing with No Brakes

In which I embark on the adventure known as NaNoWriMo.

I’m giving it a go.  November.  Thirty days and thirty nights of literary abandon.

In other words, I’m going to try to crank out 50,000 words of mostly coherent story in thirty days.

My NaNoWriMo profile is here, should someone who isn’t a spammer stumble on this post and want to join me.

As usual, I’m working with a bare skeleton of a synopsis.  Where “skeleton” is the kind that archeologists find: a tibia, part of a scapula, a jaw, a rib.  The trouble is I can’t really write a synopsis  until I get to know the characters.  And I can’t do that until I write the bloody novel.

Onward!

Fifi, Is That You?

This is clearly a case of what happens when you give a dog access to the Internet.

To ‘Your Retail Store’:

Today I went into your store, and I was appalled and disgusted that you blasphemed Almighty God Jesus Christ and His Most Holy Nativity Christmas by selling from your store shelves a filthy pornographic lamp that said “Christmas” Story on it. REMOVE THAT PIECE OF FILTHY, PORNOGRAPHIC BLASPHEMY FROM YOUR STORESHELVES AT ONCE!

The blasphemous object in question being a lamp shaped like a leg. Yep.  A lamp.

My mom once had a dog who like to hump the throw cushions on the couch.  That dog never developed a lust for legs, but if it had, I imagine this lamp would’ve been well loved.

Hot Tacos Sing Dick Cheney

Need proof of evolution?  Look no further than spam. (The virtual version, as the exact taxonomic classification for the edible kind remains a mystery to science.) For every innovation in spam filters, spammers evolve and adapt ways to get around said filters.  Since the majority of filters rely on subject lines, the result is a bizarre array of nonsensical verbiage in the subject line.

Without further ado, I bring you today’s subject lines from my spam box…

“my pic for you”

Neato. Now I have something to throw darts at.

“need to findout more about you”

I’m an evil genius with plans to take over the Universe. What else is there to know?

“The new resume is attached”

Ah, I see you are applying for the position of “minion.” I trust you do windows and vacuum?

“Speaker John Boehner?”

Oh, another advert for erectile dysfunction.

“get a hug when you give her a gift from Tiffany’s”

Just a hug? For some Tiffany’s swag, I expect to get laid.

“Bigger is definitely better.”

Not if we’re talking cockroaches or asses.

“I like you”

Really? You like me? You really like me? [Does best impression of Sally Field.]

“Man gets kicked in teeth by horse”

I.e., the state of dentistry in America.

“It makes gentlemen’s tool wooden”

Ouch! Splinters!

And finally, the old reliable…

“Hi.”

Oh, come on! You’re not even trying. Put some effort into it.

Do You Really Want to Say That?

I’m queen of “speak first, consult brain later” conversation. But eventually, my brain does catch up with my mouth, I realize I sound like a blithering idjit, and I shut up.

But some people have an amazing capacity to spew stupidity without an ounce of self-awareness. Most of these people are in politics, but ordinary folks aren’t immune to stupid.

One particular encounter with stupid revolves around a stray dog. The setting being the morning dog walk, a few days ago.

The greyhound is extremely shy. As far as he’s concerned, there are only two trustworthy beings in the universe. Me and my husband. Everyone else, including his fellow canines, is suspect.

The last thing he wants is to meet and greet pushy stray dogs, even if they are “friendly.” If pushed too hard, he’s likely to get snappish. In my experience, even “friendly” dogs can get nasty when provoked, so my standard stray/off-leash dog procedure is to keep the loose dog away from the hound.

When we were approached that morning by a big, black, lab/shepherd mix, I did what I always do. I stood my ground, glared at the dog, waved my walking stick menacingly, and said, in a deep, growly voice, “No!”

This dog, who I suspect was quite sweet, was also dumber than a bag of hammers. And he just kept coming. So I scooped up a handful of gravel and chucked it at him, repeating the “No!” And he marched toward us, gravel bouncing off his coat, unfazed.

The hound was already at the end of his leash, near panic. When the black dog got within whacking range, I gave him a firm tap with the stick. This deterred him for about a second, at which point,…lather, rinse repeat.

This unfortunate beast was clearly the kind of canine genius who would come home with a snout full of porcupine quills, day after day, after day.

Anyway, as this is going on, a guy from a nearby property peered over his fence and said, “Whose dog is that?”

“I don’t know,” I said and whacked the poor, nit-witted dog again.

“What?” said the guy. At which point, I gave him an exasperated shrug. He started to babble about who he thought owned the dog. I, having pushed the stray far enough away, continued on, ignoring whatever the man was saying.

I’m not good at thinking on my feet. But what I should have said was, “This dog? He’s mine. It’s a game we play. I take him for a walk, let him go, and then throw rocks at him and beat him with a stick. He loves it!”

Oy.

The Well-Adjusted Vampire

Coming at the end of October January 2011…The Music of Chaos, my urban fantasy novel, from Decadent Publishing. With all the usual urban fantasy elements–ass-kicking heroine, magic, snappy dialogue, and cheese enchiladas–and absolutely no whiny, schmopey, mopey vampires.

My vampires like being vampires. No “Woe is me, I’m a beautiful immortal with superpowers on an all-liquid diet. I haaate myself” nonsense.

My eyebrows crawled upward. “You realize you just made a movie reference. I am rubbing off on you.”

“Yeah. Like ringworm.”

~Regan O’Connell, the protagonist, and Breas Montrose, vampire, having a warm fuzzy moment.

The Panty Pest

I’ve got him in my sights, corrosive revolver loaded and ready to fire. “The only good Crimson Lance soldier is a dead one,” I mutter. My finger twitches on the XBox controller.

And then my view is obstructed. By a moth. A smallish moth, who nonetheless, chose now as the perfect time to land on the television screen.

“Ugh. Stupid, stupid panty pest,” I say, with impotent rage. Squishing the moth is out of the question, since the little shit will then be smeared over the screen. So I wait until the Lance soldier moves out from under the bug, before unleashing caustic hell. (Side note: Borderland’s baddies, when shot with caustic and incendiary weapons, melt, dying in a theatrical display of screaming and hand waving. It doth amuse.)

“Panty pest” is code for “flour moth” in our household. You know, those nasty moths and their worms, that feed on foodstuff flour, cookies, etc.? At Casa de Kirby, their prime habitat is birdseed, which is stored in the garage. But periodically, there is a huge population explosion, and some get in the house.

The solution is a little paper trap, loaded with pheromones. The moths, thinking they are about to meet the love of their lives, fly into the trap and are stuck on the sticky sides. The end result, moths embedded in tar-like goo, twitching pitifully, is perversely satisfying.

Once, a few years ago, I scribbled “pantry pest traps” on on the dry erase board in the kitchen.

Soon after, we had company and someone, my sister-in-law maybe, noticed, rather gleefully, that what I had written was: “PANTY PEST TRAPS.”

This, of course, set off a lively discussion as to the nature of a panty pest, and whether this was actually a reference to my husband.

To this day, flour moths are synonymous with “panty pests.”