What are the can’t–live–without things on your web homepage?
Really, Yahoo? You wanna play this game?
I use myway.com so a big thing for me is what isn't there. Banner ads.
That's pretty much it. You gonna do that for me, Yahoo?
Yeah, that's what I thought.
I was at Barnes & Noble today, where my daughter gets her fancy British music magazines, and roamed some of the bargain aisles; there are always twice as many this time of year. Some of these interest me and some amuse me.
First, there are always lots of books on war, for you to buy for Dad. WWII is very big this year, but then it generally is. If it didn't have the benefit of Nazis, Holocaust, fighting in half the world, and G.I. Joe, it still would have been set in the awesome 1940s, which informed the thing highly (and of course were informed by it, as well.)
For the man who is always certain there's more to know. (He is also convinced Kennedy was shot from two different directions. And frankly, I'm kind of on his side, but that's another story.)
For the sort of man who enjoys reading old blueprints.
For the armchair social historian:
For the dad you really don't know very well.
And now here's a fun juxtaposition I felt must have been a source of humor for the person stocking the shelves:
This is something I'd probably enjoy owning; I felt a little sad it's marked down to 14.95:
A threesome from the man who made it safe for Evangelicals to collect "art."
Here's one for the sort of person who likes to start semi-drunken arguments at the Thanksgiving dinner table:
And finally, proof that I flipping love the person stocking these shelves, as all three of these are featured on the same one.
just a few phone pix :-)
How old do you think children should be before they join social networks like Facebook and MySpace?
47.
But you're kind of behind the times. The children have been abandoning those networks, as usual, to the old people who took them over. And I won't betray them by telling you where they hang out now, since you'll just co-opt that as well.
And now, here's a song.
So, my dad had a life insurance policy. But then, too, he borrowed on it at some point, probably because he was no longer able to work part-time, and needed the money. That's cool by me, and I am certain it is by my brothers, too.
There was a little money left on it, though, divided between me, my two brothers, and my six kids so that we each got 350 dollars.
I have purchased things for myself. A new cheap vacuum cleaner to be used until I can get a new fabulous one again. A black and white plaid jacket, flat bronze shoes, brown boots, a purple sweater, purple scarf, sunglasses, and a green dress. I got things in actual colors, so that my dad would like them, instead of being boring and brown, grey and black. And I think there is enough left over for me to get a battery for this computer. But I am also seeing about getting a card reader for my camera card, because the camera has stopped communicating with its software. Tiresome thing.
So I mean, I'd share them with you, but I have to use the phone camera, which isn't nearly as nice. Maybe I will tomorrow. Well, this is the jacket, but it looks better on me, these are the boots, and these are the flat shoes, though in a different color.
It's all kind of weird. The boys are going in on a PS3 together, then they each get a little money to spend on their own, and they will save the rest. And the girls can decide for themselves, though I hope they'll all save some of their share, even though it's not much.
My dad would dig this. But I'd rather just have him back.
Lots more to share, NaNoWriMo to get back to for now.
If you had to be trapped in a TV show for a month, which show would you choose?
I've been mulling over this "stuck in a TV show for a month" question. Unlike some, I am not a snob about TV. I am a snob about most "reality" programming, but that's another matter.
I love TV, as you may know. I go through periods where I watch a little or a lot, but I do not believe it has harmed my brain or my attention span. They are pretty much what they were always going to be. TV teaches us stuff, if we want to learn, and entertains us besides, which is an awesome evolutionary prize.
First I considered what I would have chosen to see on my own, up through about the age of 7, when life was sweet and idyllic.
The children's shows I watched were Captain Kangaroo, Mister Roger's Neighborhood, Sesame Street, The Electric Company, (and later, ZOOM.) The afternoon reruns I (sometimes) watched were Star Trek, Lost in Space, and The Munsters. The Dick Van Dyke Show figured in there somewhere, but I don't quite remember how. I also liked Hanna Barbera cartoons, old ones and new ones, mostly on Saturday mornings. But I mean, I also played outside and with my toys. And read zillions of books.
Anyway. The Dick Van Dyke Show might be a cool one to spend a day in, but I think not a whole month, unless I could just be Laura Petrie before she had the kid.
After all that, in the 1970s, a lot of evening broadcast TV was fantastic. But also gritty and argumentative, so I wouldn't want to be there. And then after that, TV was very, very demented and knuckle-dragging for the most part, until the late-90s or so, with only a few exceptions.
One of those exceptions is Star Trek: The Next Generation. It had a slow start, but you could see potential from the beginning. When it started to get good was when it lifted off from the original episode themes and began doing its own thing. Eventually it was very, very cool. Most of the time.
So I'd want to be female, of some rank enough to waste time on the Holodeck like the other officers, have a lot of sex with Picard or possibly Riker before he got to be a bit too much, and not have anything at all to do with Counselor Troi, unless we were eating chocolate together in Ten-Forward.
1707 words. Unedited, of course.
I write more than 1,667 words a day nearly every day, no question. Yet when it comes to making things up entirely out of my head for NaNoWriMo, I find it a challenge. I can chat or talk jibberish for hours, especially with someone equally capable of it. But a story, that I make up? That has to be "invented," and I find that when I pressure myself to do so, I draw blanks.
If I tell one of my kids to write a story, I can provide an example, made up on the spot, on just about any subject I've heard of. Extemporaneously, I am often awesome. So what's the deal here, where I struggle all month-long to put together a story? It is a struggle, but it's fun, so I don't worry about it too much. I make a list of topics to cover, and go for it. I do find, though, that as much as I counsel others against it, I tend to think of my words as precious jewels dripping from my fingers, and expect them all to be worthy of hangers-on. That's just silly, and it locks up your brain instead of opening it.
I paint pictures on canvas and with poetry, in careful measured phrasing, embracing informal balance and coaxing it into being. Telling a story gets to be something else entirely, if I can just let go and let it happen.
Today my youngest son is under the weather a bit. He's napping over there on the couch, and I was sitting next to him for a long time, then realized he needed to stretch out more, so I've moved to my little green "easy chair," in front of the cold, cold bow window. Physical memory is very strong for me, and as I plugged in the computer, I was taken back to the Saturday two or three weeks ago when I sat in this chair for nearly the entire day, watching Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin on YouTube. I could feel the air as my son brought in my plants since that was the weekend we were told frost was coming. I remembered some of the exchanges I had with a couple of Twitter friends. All this may seem ordinary, and it is, except for me it is also sensory. I felt the memory, rather than just recalled it. It was fantastic, that day, on this day, a few minutes ago.
This is a handy trait, by the way, when driving to a location I have been to only once before, or a long time before. I just feel my way there even if I don't remember the names of the streets or whatever. Mostly, though, it just means I'm slightly out-of-focus when it comes to reckoning the passage of time. I live partially in a state of kairos, if you know anything about that.
Some NaNoWriMo participants like to talk about how many words they can write in an hour, and do go on to produce "novels" of paramount length by the end of the month. They put signatures at the bottom of their forum posts which detail each year's bountiful effort, like thus:
2005: Big Deal About Dragons - 34k words, :-(
2006: Something Else Indeed (About Dragons) - 57k words SCORE!!!!
2007: And Then Dragons, As It Were: 119k words =)
2008: A Long Thing About Futuristic Dragons: 270k whoo!!!
2009: Beyond Here Be More About Dragons: ????
And I'm exhausted just looking at it. Plus? Whatever. You are no longer on the same page as the rest of us. Move along, then.
I just wrote 600 words.
About nothing.
Would you like to know about my actual 2009 NaNoWriMo effort? First you should know that I know I'll get to 50k, though probably just barely as usual. This year, though, I will not count it a complete success unless it is something that can be regarded as having a beginning, a middle, and an ending. Sure, it'll still be nearly entirely character-driven. No one will die in it, no gigantic crisis will occur; that's not how I roll, baby. But some things will happen, and, like, go from one point to this other point. At least, that is the idea.
I'm either using Steve from my half-book about the twins, Violet and Lily Palm, or someone a lot like him with some of Jack from last year added to the mix. He's fairly new to Sea View, my town, and is trying to learn about the residents for an anthropology project. He attends one of the mayor's weekly meetings at the donut shop and learns they're raising money for a statue of the town founder, Andrew Dexter. Not everyone thinks well of Dexter, and everyone in town has a story about him, so Steve sets out to learn the truth about him, learns some funny secrets along the way, and ends up falling in love with the town.
I love my town called Sea View. It's a conglomeration of the New Jersey shore towns of Rumson, Sea Bright, Long Branch, Fair Haven, and Red Bank. Plus a silly twist thrown in. It's most like Fair Haven, but with liberal Red Bank people, rich Rumson estates, Long Branch hipsters and food, and the Sea Bright (and Rumson) location. Here's the general area: East of 35. I loved it there and would go back. But if I ever get to move to somewhere that feels just right for me, I'll need to have mild, Santa Barbara, California type of weather.
In my town and in my stories there are always a couple of old men who sit around and be funny, a couple of gay people; usually one who has loved or is/has been loved by a non-gay person, at least one dog, argumentative artists, a little drinking, a lot of reminiscing, and someone who is into some form of "alternative spirituality." Oh, and donuts and music and some bad weather. This is New Jersey; those are basic elements. And Sea View is so real to me, I get a little disappointed it's not quite actually over there, just some bits of it spread around that small area.
I think it's probably also heavily influenced by the locations I read about while going through this mad "cozy mystery" phase over the past couple of years with authors such as M.C. Beaton, Nancy Atherton, and Joan Hess. But as much as I love reading mysteries, I'm not very keen on trying to write one. What I most like about those stories is the people and the settings. The plots are secondary, though they are often very interesting or clever. If I ever write a book that is worthy of publication consideration, plot will definitely be my weak point. But I'm working on it a little, this go-round.
I'd like less plot in my own life, actually. There's been quite enough by now, I think, and the rest of it should just be baked goods, gardening, and conversation. Don't you agree?
What should the next 500 words be about?
I like living in New Jersey, though as I said, I prefer the other side of the state. These people and their attitudes are informed by both Revolutionary history and 20th century immigration patterns, by wet weather, the sea, New York, Philadelphia, and the bigness of a tiny state no one understands unless they've spent real time here, and not just on the Turnpike or at a beach during the summer season. It's beautiful and wild, natural and artificial, like most other U.S. states I've visited. But it's all mushed up together in a teeny space; mountains, beaches, marshes and forests, overcrowded cities, wealthy suburbs, and farm country, no space between any of it. And every region is different, but you can get good pizza in all of them. Real pizza, not the kind you usually eat wherever you live that's not here!
I've lived in three other states and they all have attributes to recommend them, but I felt I belonged here the first time I saw the sea. Now I believe I just belong at the sea, but I'm closer than I ever was before the age of 35, so that's something, at least. Only you wouldn't think an hour is so far away? It really is, somehow. I hardly ever see it anymore, and I feel like it's a necessary and missing component to my life. It was always missing before, all those 35 years, but it hurts more now after getting to embrace it close to me for awhile.
In previous years I always set out to share my NaNo words with friends, but realized that I'd start writing for them, which is not a good thing to do, and then it was harder to share, concerned about receiving judgment and even worse, suggestions. I haven't decided whether to share it this year or not, but if I do, I'll go no-holds barred, and share every word, not just choice segments. The Full Monty. I still won't want judgment or suggestions, though, after all, it's a "30 day novel." First of all, of course it's going to be kind of awful, and second, if you want to judge, you can just go write one yourself and judge that! No, really, how about it? Just click on my icon up there to get started. It's a hoot.
Do people say "hoot" where you're from? Probably not.
It's time to start something for dinner. I have a sick kid, a kind-of sick kid, another out for the evening with his dad, and two picky teen girls who think they have paying jobs and so why should they help with the dishes? If it hadn't been sick kid's dish day, I'd mind going into the kitchen less. But I have to be the substitute, since almost-sick kid would be the usual one. And then decide what sort of food is worth the bother for the circumstance. Even though I had a bourbon drink last night, I might have a martini. Some nights it's nice to do that, and might perk up my mood for the task, make me feel all sprightly and Modern Kitchenish instead of sort of chilly and drudgy.
Have you ever had a premonition? Did you heed it?
Submitted by aynge.
Oh, who doesn't have those? Sometimes you heed them and sometimes you don't. Sometimes it's not about heeding, like on Sunday when my daughter was handed a raffle ticket at the NJIT open house and we both just somehow knew she'd win whatever the prize was—we'd gotten there late and weren't completely on board yet. Her number wasn't called, hers ended in 50 and it was 30 and I kept thinking, the speaker should change that, the 3 should be a 5. It was weird and made me crinkle up my face. That ticket holder wasn't there to win the prize, nor was the next one. And then my daughter's number was called. They're mailing her an iPod.
The night before last, my phone was dying and I knew I should charge it, but I was so sleepy, so when it jingled at me a second time, I shut it off. I laid there for awhile thinking, "this has portent. something isn't right." but then told myself I was paranoid. And then when I charged it in the morning, there was a voice mail from my brother saying he'd been in a car accident, someone had stolen his bag out of the back of the smashed car while he was being put on a stretcher, and he couldn't remember if my bank account number was in it.
He is, apparently, okay now. So is my bank account. But I won't shut the phone off again.
When I was a child, my grandma decided to make granny square afghans for each of her grandchildren for Christmas. There were, let's see, 14 grandchildren. I don't know the whole story, but I know that it was getting to be crunch time and my mom helped her make some of them. I think one of my aunts did, too. But my aunt crocheted tiny tight squares, and my mom's were big and loopy, just like her handwriting. I think Grandma's were somewhere in-between. So there was a disconnect, but it all got done.
My afghan was orange, and it did not have "traditional" black borders, just a darker color. I thought orange was a strange color for it, but I loved it anyway. Grandma died a couple of years later, and I was glad to have it. Eventually it wore out, I don't remember what happened to it exactly. But I'm absurdly sentimental so I can tell you I didn't dispose of it lightly.
Mom did try to teach me how to crochet, but she was up against my left-handedness, my general awkwardness and lack of fine motor skills, and the fact that things just came easily to her, so she didn't give much thought to them. So I never did learn. I can knit, a little, but do not have the patience to excel at it.
A few years ago, I was at a garage sale at the house of an elderly couple. The woman had cancer, and I guess she wasn't going to make it. They were selling afghans she'd crocheted, extremely well-made ones, so I bought several. I keep the blue and white granny square one on my old loveseat in my library, and love to cover up with it while I read or work on the computer. Though not made by my grandma, it was made by someone's grandma, and that's a special thing.
There's a chill in the air. Show us your favorite coat.
Submitted by jacolily.I'm awfully fond of this one.
