October 24th, 2004

bear by san

It's not that the dawg is spoiled....

...okay, the dawg is spoiled. But he didn't used to be, before his human grandmother started coming over to let him out (and sneak him all sorts of extravagant snacks, like peanut butter sandwiches) during the day.

Now, normally, he sleeps on a full-sized futon mattress at the foot of the human bed, and the great Dane(who just came over and belched lovingly in my face) either sleeps with him (infrequently) or on the living room sofa. (Remember what I said about spoiled? Hey, my dog means more to me than a secondhand sofa that's extremely uncomfortable on its best day, and it makes her happy.) About the only place in the house they're not allowed, and they know it and usually respect it, is on the human type bed. Which I made yesterday, with clean sheets and blankets, and lined up all the pillows, and generally made nice and cozy and tucked in around the edges.

Last night at 10:45 I realized that my eye kept skipping off the page, so I packed up the plantation, did the last rounds, and went off to bed--to find my sleeping platform occupied by 184 pounds of sleeping English mastiff, with his head stuffed under the pillow.

He was snoring.

I had to shake him to wake him up, and by then I was laughing too hard to yell at him, because he kind of dragged himself out from under the pillows blinking blearily, like me on a workday, and was like what? what? is it burglars? is it monsters? what?

I actually think he'd forgotten that he wasn't supposed to be there, or, if not, he was managing a pretty good innocent expression from a standing start.

*g* He's nine years old, which is pretty aged for a mastiff. I suspect he thinks he's achieved the age where he gets what he wants, and us young whippersnappers had best get the hell out of his way or he'll get the AARC after us.
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bear by san

Inigo Montoya voting for Kerry

So, I was listening to the NPR man-on-the-street interviews with New Yorkers this morning, as they stopped random people on Broadway and asked them who they were voting for. And I was almost as amused as the reporter to hear the following:

"I'm Mandy Patinkin, and I'm an actor--"

I was thoroughly charmed by how he seemed not to expect to be recognized (the reporter had to pause the report to insert a small voiceover fangirling him: go her) and by how passionate he obviously is about politics and the election.

And amused by the whole only-in-New-York air of the whole thing.
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bear by san

Things that make you go hmmmmm....

Eudora's spellchecker does not know Marlowe, Ginsberg, or Moloch, but it does know Mephistopheles.


This is the annoying thing about fiction. The more I write it, the more I realize I cannot possibly know enough about ANYTHING to write fiction, because I have to know everything about everything to be able to do it well. Can we talk about the massive case of impostor syndrome I'm developing currently regarding this freaking short story I'm writing?

I'd better win a Hugo for this thing, is all I'm saying. 4 or 5K short, and I've written novels that took less research and thinking and stuff.

And let's talk about the part where it's likely unsalable due to the weirdness of the nontrad format, too. *g*

I was just whining to stillsostrange about just this same thing:

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