April 16th, 2007

sf farscape leather

the regulars are coming out!

leahbobet posted the chat transcript this time: This way for Ikea in the 25th century!

This week in history: post rider Israel Bissell's 1775 ride from Watertown, Massachusetts to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania to warn of the advent of war.

Through the propaganda of that Longfellow er, fellow, history recollects the other guy, the silversmith who rode from Boston to Cambridge for a total of 19 miles in company of William Dawes, but Bissell, a Connecticut native, rode 345 miles in a little over four days, provided with fresh horses along the way.

Connecticut, aptly, named a bridge after him.
writing gorey earbrass unspeakable horro

for forty days and forty nights--

So, reports of flooding or incipient flooding throughout the state, the rivers already high, and another three days of rain and possible snow forecast.

Gives "swamp yankee"* a whole new meaning, doesn't it?

*New Englanders divide themselves into two groups: swamp yankees** (Southern New Englanders) and hill yankees (Northern New Englanders). That is to say, when we can get the hill yankees to admit that swamp yankees exist at all.***

**In the rest of the world, a Yankee is somebody from the USA. In the USA, a Yankee is somebody from north of the Mason-Dixon line (what George Carlin calls the Manson-Nixon line). In the North, a Yankee is somebody from the Northeast. In the Northeast, a Yankee is somebody from the six New England states: Maine, Vermont, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Connecticut, and Rhode Island.

In the six New England states, a yankee is somebody who eats pie for breakfast.****

***But they can bite me, because we have Mark Twain in our corner.********

****Apple pie.****** With a slice of sharp white cheddar.*****

*****Pronounced ch'duh.

******Or sometimes peach or strawberry rhubarb. But that's cheating, and you don't get cheese with that.

*******Because we think it's funny to adopt ditties that the brits made up to mock us as self-identifiers, yes. Yankees are also deeply ironical.

And now that tea is made, I really need to settle in and get some work done.
bear by san

the continuing saga of a quack who's gone to the dogs.

1009 words today on a new short story, "Black is the Color," about a PONY. That EATS PEOPLE.

Yes, THAT pony.

The first writing I've done since the fanfic on April 2. I feel less like a complete waste of breathable oxygen, at least.

In related news, word knows "caparison." And my hairclip just exploded.

The revenge of Cat v. Monkey

Monkey: Cat, get off my face.
Cat: But Monkey, I'm bored!
Monkey: I would bite you, but I don't want a mouthful of fur.
Cat: Still bored!
Monkey: You couldn't be bored if I bit you.
Cat: You never take me anywhere. You don't love me anymore. All you do is work. Work work work. Why don't you bring me another monkey to play with? Like the red monkey, she was fun.
Monkey: Cat, get off my keyboard.
Cat: Eeerow. Fssht. Kk-kkk-kkk.
Monkey: Nice Kif impersonation.
Cat: Thank you.
Monkey: Cat, get off my knee.
Cat: Is there no compromise that's good enough for you?
Monkey: I want more tea.
Cat: I want a summer home in Key West, but you don't see me complaining.
Monkey: I could ship you there. Nobody would notice one more cat at the Hemingway estate. And you'd have lots of new friends, who travel in prides and probably don't like outlanders.
Cat: ...
Cat: ...
Monkey: *deadpan*
Cat: Monkey, you're not funny.

325.6 miles to Rivendell, or will be after I get back from the gym.
rengeek will

(no subject)

I was just sitting down to write a book report on triciasullivan's Maul when I heard the news, via Paul di Filippo, that SF writer Michael Bishop's son Jamie may be--seems to be likely to have been--among the dead in Virginia.

As much as the community of SFF writers and editors and publishers and fans may brawl and posture, on some level we are a family. A family of a few thousand, which also means that there is always something going on with somebody.

Horrors happen every day, here and elsewhere. We cannot build our lives around them all, and so mostly we nod and maybe hold our breath for a minute and walk past, in a moment of silence. This is not the first time in my life that a news report has turned out to fall closer to home than I guessed when I heard it.

This is a distant link, for me, as such things go. It's nothing like being the person actually getting that phone call. Just a moment of grief, instead of a lifetime.

It would be an imposition for me to claim any of that grief. It's not mine.

All the same, I think I'll leave the book report for tomorrow.
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