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Dude. That sounds like a yes.
OK. The next five or so days are basically dead zone for work getting done except in small bites between party and stuff, but I still think Cruel Sister is getting finished next week. And working on an Ormand short on one hand and London Calling on the the other? Actually probably good for both books.
BTW, I want to pimp something, because anyone who knows me at all well will know what inspired this: a beloved buddy (went to hang out with her San Diego a few weekends back) wrote an incredible villanelle and, well, what made her do it will be obvious to my friends and I should shut up and just say, WOW. Go read.
I'd begin with the Daly City cop who told me I "didn't look crippled enough" to merit that blue parking placard.
BTDT, a cop looked me in the face while I was sitting in the car and said I didn't look handicapped. I think I gave him a wise ass response by asking him how he could know that by looking at my face, and then pointed out the hand controls on my car.
Ginger, thanks for the advice. I figured it would be a good idea to let this anger become something creative.
I think I gave him a wise ass response by asking him how he could know that by looking at my face, and then pointed out the hand controls on my car.
I went ballistic. This was after he'd asked to see my paperwork and been shown everything he was legally entitled to ask to see. He then threw his demand for more ID, I told him no, I didn't think so and I didn't much care for the reek of harrassment I was getting off his sorry ass, and he'd better have a damned good reason and now would be a good time to produce it. He made his crack, and I went nuts. I don't like authority figures even on good days, but this was two days after San Jose Metro cops had beat our homeless friend John up and taken all his stuff, including the shoes he was wearing, leaving him shivering in a rainstorm until we could get there.
I got out of the car and body-bumped him and screamed at him, along the lines of "listen up you braindead insensitive asshole motherfucking moron, I have multiple sclerosis and there are days when it hurts to put my feet to the ground but you know what, fuckwad, that is NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS, I want to see your ID and when I'm done nailing you you'll be scooping dog turds along the highway" melt melt melt.
Son of a bitch took it in total silence, and then apologised and gave me his ID and told me he'd learned something, and he hoped I woudn't report him but he absolutely had it coming.
Bastard. Took the wind right out of my sails. I wanted to stay mad.
FYI, Deb, the Seattle library system now has six copies of Matty Groves on order.
Hoobah! Thanks, Susan - the first library google hits are beginning to show up.
I'm weirdly relaxed about this one. Makes a nice change, although the reason for being relaxed is a bit unsettling.
Back to Cruel Sister. Up over 68K words and I want to try and get it done by the end of next week.
Nobody's ever done that to me but over the telephone. Of course, I helped matters so much by offering to chew a jawbreaker while calling back.
I bought "Woe is I", a grammar book, last Saturday. I bought it primarily for the wittiness factor, but it's actually managed to explain the subjunctive mood and when to use "was" or "were" and "may" or "might", so it's been worth the money.
I love grammar, but only at a distance. One of our guys at the London office of a Certain Noise Reduction Company That Rhymes With Shmolby was a very sweet, very precise German dude called Elmar. Elmar's secretary Maggie would regularly wander into my office talking to herself, because Elmar's letters were grammatically perfect and completely unreadable.
Basic vague idea for MWA submission starring Patrick Ormand: Cases that haunt him, and why, one in each place he's worked, and why he gets so damned restless.
Since the Kinkaid books are all well-known song titles, I'm going to call this one "Jet to the Promised Land". Assuming I can write the fucker.
I think you should do really great with that.
