But It's a Dry Heat

Archive for November, 2011

Scrambled Brain and Ham

It’s done. The art show season for 2011 is o-vah. Finis. No mas. Which leaves me loads of time to … finish painting the dining room. Before Christmas.

I need a holiday from the holidays.

As I write this, it doesn’t have a cover image yet (I’ve seen the prelim, but I don’t know if it’s official), but The Canvas Thief is up for pre-order at Amazon. (Also has the author name listed as “Patricia Kirby,” but that should get fixed soon.)

Anyway…I came across this saying by Louisa May Alcott and decided it was the perfect fit for an old drawing on my hard drive. What would we do without books? Face reality?  Shudder. (Click image for larger view.)

Murder Most Foul

Today, on the very day that my Cyber Monday purchase–two gopher traps–shipped, I find my nemesis in the yard, D.E.A.D, dead. Yes, ding-dong, the wicked rodent’s dead.

Friends know that as a rule, my garden is a welcoming place to wildlife. Heck, this year I even called off hostilities against the paper wasps. (It turns out they are great allies in the war against tomato worms, which, as a rule, I also don’t kill. I just pluck ’em off the plants and chuck ’em over the fence.)

But my garden is my life, in darkest times the bright spot that keeps me going. (And my dark spots are abysmal, think Laurentian Trench.) There is no coexistence with an animal, no matter how cute, that is laying waste to my organic Prozac.

As this is war, I first dug trenches and (more…)

The King’s Speech

Years ago my husband dragged me to see Master and Commander. I sulked in the uncomfortable seat and grumbled, “Stupid, period drama. Ships, bleh.” And then … I loved it. It’s one of my favorite movies.

So, even though the premise held no promise, I tried to watch The King’s Speech with an open mind.

The King’s Speech is no Master and Commander.  It’s a well made movie. The acting, particularly by Geoffrey Rush and Helena Bonham Carter, is excellent. But like many Oscar-winning movies that are dripping with critics’ slobber, I really don’t see the allure.

Prince, soon-to-be King George VI, “Bertie” (Colin Firth) has a problem. He stutters. Since his primary job as royalty, besides consuming enormous financial resources, is to cut ribbons and give speeches at the opening of the newest Wal-Mart, he struggles with his vocation. Yeah, I’m being facetious–Wal-Mart–but it does seem that all he is expected to do is give speeches. And make heirs, which, despite his speech problems, he’s managed handily, producing with his wife, two little princesses. Nothin’ wrong with that part of His Majesty.

Most of Bertie’s time, when not mucking up speeches, is spent moping about mucking up speeches. Seriously. He doesn’t do much else. Unlike other royalty, hopping on a horse and galloping across the countryside after a pack of hounds, to eventually sate royal bloodlust with the rending limb-from-limb of a fox, isn’t on Bertie’s agenda. Maybe it was, but he doesn’t do that in this movie.

His wife, Queen Elizabeth (Carter) gets tired of the angst and hires Lionel Logue (Rush), an eccentric speech therapist. Eccentric because his crazy ideas actually work. At the time, conventional therapy involved having the stutterer hold several marbles in his mouth and speak. “Speak clearly. Enunciate!” berates one doctor. (One of the few times I really pitied Bertie.) Lionel’s irreverent attitude clashes with the stick-up-his-arse prince/king, but of course, eventually the two become fast friends.

Yep. This is buddy movie, sans Seth Rogin, a road trip, or humor involving farts and body parts.  (Fuck is dropped with repeatedly with great glee as part of Bertie’s therapy.  Fuck is an awesome word; it even cures stuttering.)  Instead, Bertie and Lionel work toward their ultimate triumph … a speech.

If your taste runs to period character studies or tales where terribly rich people overcome adversity, then this is a fabulous movie. Me, I’ll stick with something a bit more lowbrow.

But It’s a Dry Heat

Fun with Telemarketers

I work at a church. Don’t laugh. Okay, laugh. But thus far, god hasn’t smote his ruin upon the unfortunate house of worship for hiring me.

Being a place of worship doesn’t exclude it from getting calls from telemarketers and scammers (the line between the two being [Elrond voice on] “thin.” [Elrond voice off]).

It’s a pity I don’t think quickly on my feet, because imagine the fun I might have. For example, take the call I got last week.

Phone rings, I pick up, say “Good morning,” and clearly identify that this is church.  There’s a pause–the telltale sign that this is some kind of telemarketer–and a man shoots a rapid-fire stream of words at me: “Hi, this is Bob Smith. Can I speak with the company owner, the head honcho, the person that makes all the big decisions?”

I pause, taken by the immediate image of an arrogant asshat. He’s twitching with nervous energy and a ten-cup-a-day coffee habit. He’s balding or he’s got a buzz cut. He most certainly is reeking of cologne (it’s a salesman thing). If this were a role playing game, his chief attribute would be +50 Annoying. I hate him instantly.

“They’re not in,” I say in my best robotic monotone, which is code for, “Find something sharp, sit on it and spin until the pointy side erupts from the top of your head.” He asks if there’s a time to reach them, and I mutter something like, “No, they come and go.” Also code for “Find something sharp….” He gives up and rings off.

Now, what I should have said was:
“The ‘head honcho?’ Sure. You can talk to him any time. Just put you hands together and pray.”