Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Monthly Archives: September 2007
I’m not sure I want to live in a world without Prairie Muffins.
Look what happened to PrairieMuffins.com.
At first I thought these Dominionist anti-feminists had gone all commercial. See, I wanted to find a link to their clothing retailers (Fugliest. Dresses. And. Swimwear. ANYWHERE.) and what do I see? Links to Frederick’s of Hollywood and Victoria’s Secret. I call this poetic justice.
Fortunately, the Prairie Muffin Manifesto is still online. My favorite commandments?
9) Prairie Muffins do not reflect badly on their husbands by neglecting their appearance; they work with the clay God has given, molding it into an attractive package for the pleasure of their husbands.
All women should aspire to be attractive packages. And,
18) Prairie Muffins are fiercely submissive to God and to their husbands.
How does one submit fiercely? Is fierce submission something like timid domination? This confuses me. I am such a Pharisee.
TODAY’S TOP SEARCH TERMS: Heather Graham, cleansing colon, Lopez butt photo, and spank your balls for me.
By the way: no Prairie Muffin, not even the consummate Prairie Muffin Michelle Duggar, would be cruel enough to make ferret loaf.
Live blogging tonight, starting some time around 7 or 8ish. Can you tell I got nothing?
D.
GallimauFriday II: Lost in Translation
This store-bought apple pie I’m eating? Sucks ass. And not in the pleasurable ass-sucking sense, but in the high school bully forcing you to lick his hairy cheeks sense. Not that I would know anything about that.
I have to learn how to make a decent apple pie.
***
It was bound to happen: a wingnut found my 9/11 post:
Featured Flickr artist: McNeney
Ode to Magritte, originally uploaded by McNeney.
Another of McNeney’s homages to Magritte: Not for Reproduction.
When it comes to bondage, I’m a pushover.
This scares me, but hmm . . . might be fodder for a future blog post.
D.
Thirteen Things I Learned From Cosmo: the Jessica Alba Edition
I don’t have a normal life. No doctor does. Ours is a calling that balances sacrifice with privilege, and it is for each physician to decide, at the end of the day or at the end of a career, if it has all been worthwhile. I’m not a regretful man (much), but like any doctor, I’m so distant from the mainstream of humanity that I sometimes forget the things that are truly important.
And that’s why I always return to Cosmo — to keep me grounded.
This month’s teasers include:
- His #1 SEX Fantasy. His. Not mine. Although I wouldn’t toss this sex fantasy out of bed for laying refried bean farts.
- Could Your Man Be Gay? That totally ripped plumber you found him in bed with last week might be a clue!
- “My Boyfriend Didn’t Change His Boxers for 3 Months!” Stop writing letters to Cosmo, Mom. And . . .
- JESSICA FRICKIN’ ALBA. Maybe we’ll find out if she has a thing for married, middle-aged, balding hobbits.
You know you’re old when . . .
. . . the supermarket plays a muzacked version of the stuff you liked in college. I thought it was bad the first time I heard Yes’s “Roundabout,” the Muzack Edition. But The Clash, “Rock the Casbah”? So depressing.
When I hear a muzacked version of Nine Inch Nails’ “Closer,” I hope someone will put me out of my misery. And quickly.
More. Later. Gotta work on the Thirteen.
D.
9/11 Blogswarm: No War With Iran
President Vice President Cheney? You can’t bomb the crap out of this
without also bombing the crap out of this.
Not convinced? Then share this with Junior, too. He supposedly likes children.
Mr. President? Try turning the book right-side up.
D.
Zappa vs. Zappa
| Released Weasels Ripped My Flesh in 1970 | This weasel’s claws ripped my flesh in 2007 |
| Only in it for the money. | Only in it for the ferret chow. |
| Once appeared on Dance Fever | Every night’s a weasel war dance! |
| Never ate his excrement on stage* | Never ate his excrement. Not intentionally, anyway. |
| Son named Dweezil | Son of a weasel |
That’s it for tonight, folks. As usual, I thought, “Gaaaah, I’m so tired, I need to do something easy. Hey, THIS idea would be easy!”
An hour later . . .
D.
*From Wikipedia:
An old rumor states that at some point in the 1960s, Zappa once won a gross-out contest against Alice Cooper, by eating his own excrement on stage. Zappa denied the claim, stating, “For the record, folks; I never took a shit on stage and the closest I ever came to eating shit anywhere was at a Holiday Inn buffet in Fayetteville, North Carolina, in 1973.”
Work, work
It’s the good work, the kind of stuff I don’t mind doing.
Thus far, I have:
*identified eight agents who want new clients, represent romance, and represent science fiction. I found them using Agent Query, an online searchable agent database,
*written my query letter,
*reviewed and spiffed my first three chapters, and
*made a dent on my synopsis — the first three paragraphs, anyway, using this page as a model.
The synopsis is the bitchiest part. I’m sure I echoed thousands of writers before me when, upon first learning about synopses, I said, “I have to do WHAT?” And it tweaks me that even if I write a great one-page synopsis, some agents will want to see more detailed three- or five-page synopses. It makes me want to scream, to tell you the truth.
Here’s another page on synopsis writing, one which boils down a lot of the advice I’ve read elsewhere.
And here’s a huge clearinghouse of links on synopsis-writing.
Tempted as I am to send off queries to those folks who ONLY want a query letter, I’m going to hold off until I have the synopsis written. By Murphy’s Law, if someone’s interested in my work, what are they going to want next? The synopsis, of course.
And now, for microsoar and protected static:
Four ferrets and a German Shepherd pup
Yeah, I didn’t waste too much time watching ferret vids . . .
D.
Introducing Zappa
What can I say. Ah needs mah ferrety love.
Why Zappa?
First, there was Teh Cool Zappa.
Then, there were Teh Cute Zappas.
And then, there was Teh Cool and Cute Zappa.
Parting ways
Googling around this morning, trying to find out who is this-or-that author’s agent, I discovered something that might be month-old news to many of you, but it was new-news to me.
At AAR After Hours, Sandy Coleman reports that Jennifer Crusie and her agent, Meg Ruley, are no longer a pair:
Over at argh ink, Jennifer Crusie just broke the news that she was “fired” (in her words) by her long time agent, Meg Ruley. As Ms. Crusie puts it, she and Ms. Ruley wanted her career to go in “different directions”.
This is a powerful statement by an agent. Make that a very powerful statement. And I really hope that Ms. Crusie takes the time to ponder just what it means when a woman who has stood by you for years and supported your work most ably chooses to part ways.
Ms. Crusie added to the comment thread, and she shows herself to be a class act. I know we’ve all read examples of authors behaving badly — bad-mouthing their publishers or agents — but this isn’t one of those stories. Here’s Ms. Crusie back at her place:
Friday, I went for drinks with my agent, Meg, and when I saw her sitting at the table behind a pillar, I knew something was wrong. She looked so strained, and Meg never does, she’s always who-loves-ya-baby upbeat. I sat down and said, out of the blue, before I even knew what was happening, “You’re firing me, aren’t you?†And we talked about what we both knew, that I wanted my career to go in a different direction than she did, and she said, “I think you should find a new agent.†And I thought, This can’t be happening, but I said, “Any suggestions?†not “Wait, we can work this out.†And we talked and hugged each other because she’s truly one of my best friends, and then I went back to the Village and thought, Everything’s new again. That moment of sheer panic when everything changed . . . liberating.
Wow. It would be like me saying, “I’M SICK OF BOOGERS AND WAX, DO YOU HEAR? I’ve always wanted to be lumberjack!”
Or a romance writer. Same difference.
Good luck, Jenny.
D.
PS: Live-blogging tonight . . . same time, same channel, if all goes well.
Correction: we’re going out to eat! Yeah, it doesn’t happen all that often, but tonight I get lucky. (Meaning, I don’t have to cook.) (No telling about the secondary meaning.) So, I may be around here sometime after 8, but not sooner.