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.
Goddess of Love
Goddess of Love, originally uploaded by Downtrodden Angel. (Here she is with her guy.) (And with this photo I’m flashing on that line from 40-Year-Old Virgin — “I’ll haunt your dreams.”)
Hey, Karen, she’s into tarantulas, too!
At long last, I think I have Dean beat. And Dean, before you claim this isn’t a competition, I’m type A. Everything is a competition.
If this was only a four-day week, why did it feel so damned long?
D.
PS: Funny? Bizarre? Funzarry? You decide. How To Kill A Mockingbird (TKAM — with light sabers and pirates!)
Meanwhile, over at Indecision 2008
Fred Thompson caption contest! (My favorite: MelOakley’s “Move that hand a little lower ma’am, and it’ll be right on the Seat of Presidential Power.”)
Who would be best suited as each candidate’s Karl Rove? The responses for Mitt Romney and Rudy Giuliani are brilliant.
Going through Colbert/Stewart withdrawal? They’ve got the vids.
Stay tuned for a Friday Flickr babe.
D.
Permanently blissed.
Charlotte Brontë died sometime last night. She was getting up there for a ferret, maybe six years old, and had begun losing hair from her back. Last time we let her out of her cage to jump around, she didn’t jump around much, just raced off to her favorite spot in the bathroom to have another nap. No dancing, no chook-chooking.
This isn’t one of those depressing “woe is me, my beloved pet hath bit the big one” posts. Charlotte died in her sleep, looking as contented as she did in the above photo. I’ve seen so many pets die badly: Chi Chi, my sibling rival who died slowly from congestive heart failure; Perrita, my pal growing up who died while I was away at college, cause of death equal parts old age and neglect from my parents; Brownie the Rat, one of our favorite pets, who died of breast cancer. Baby, our boa constrictor and the first pet Karen and I bought as a couple, went insane after two failed pregnancies, developed mouth rot, and seemed to be suffering so much we had to put her down. Hamachi, our four-horned chameleon, who had more personality than many humans I’ve known, died of natural causes; but when chameleons die, they turn jet black and their eyes sink into their heads. It looks painful.
Our pets seem to die badly no matter how well we try to take care of them. And that’s why this story has such a happy ending: we loved Charlotte, we knew she was old and bound to move on at any time, and she died in her sleep, not a hint of pain evident in her expression or body habitus. I’m very happy about that.
Charlotte was such a sweetie, I’m tempted to get another ferret or two. But what about a guinea pig? Or hamsters? Or gerbils? Or rabbits?
D.
Thirteen Excuses Not to Write a Thursday Thirteen
Yup, it’s a day early. Rejoice — I’ll have more for you tomorrow evening!
Why can’t I manage to write a Thirteen this week?
1. Trite. My dog ate numbers 5 through 11.
2. Whiny and self-pitying. I work soooo hard and soooo many people depend on me and I had this looong committee meeting tonight and I still have to write my Wednesday post.
3. Shirking. My son’s new computer game arrived in the mail today. I’d rather watch him play than write.
4. Shizophrenic. Here:
You see as soon as the skull is smashed and one still has flowers [laughs] with difficulty, so it will not leak out constantly. I have a sort of silver bullet which held me by my leg, that one cannot jump in, where one wants, and that ends beautifully like the stars. Former service, then she puts it on her head and will soon be respectable, I say, O God, but one must have eyes. Sits himself and eats it.
5. Shocked. Damn, coming up with thirteen excuses is harder than I thought.
6. Irrelevant. Look at the kitties!
7. Testosterony (with a dash of politics). I’m too busy searching for nude photos of Fred Thompson’s granddaughter wife.
8. Bizarre. Mind your own business, Mr. Spock, I’m sick of your half-breed interference, do you hear?
9. Brown-nosing. You guys are the greatest readers a blogger could ever have in the whole, wide world. You deserve the very best, and if I can’t give you the very best, I’d rather give you nothing at all.
10. Obnoxious. All you ever do is take, take, take, and all I ever do is give, give, give!
11. Vacuous. Uhhh . . . I dunno.
12. Honest. I’m working on a Cosmo Thirteen, but I need more time to do it up proper.
13. Clever. I know: I’ll write a “Thirteen Excuses” Thirteen!
I have a cunning plan . . .
You know what to do, and you have a reasonable expectation that I shall respond in an appropriate manner.
Dan holds forth on childish behavior
microsoar and Ms. Canada take a B-Spon ride
Omigod Darla, I want a becher, too
Carrie’s has the list of new releases. I’m looking forward to 7 and 9.
Kate has even more Jackie Kessler foo!
Trust me, Da Nator, the kewl kids will lurve you.
Oooh. Those amalows.
Pat: Dodge Caliber, Teh Suxx0r of rental cars.
D.
Wheels
Spurred on by Shakesville’s Mustang Bobby, I’d like to tell you about my first set of gas-powered wheels. But first, check out my idea of procrastination . . .
Jess’s Eight Women Who Look Better Bald Than Britney. Yeah, it’s outdated, but I found this while making a point to an old friend and well PERSYS KHAMBATTA IS HOT, OKAY? Do hhhaawt bald women need any other reason?
Jackie Kessler gives it away. (An iPod Nano, three iPod Shuffles, and a Byzantine bracelet, to be exact.) No purchase necessary.
Who says ear, nose, and throat docs aren’t fun-loving guys and gals? All depends what you call fun. Watch that video to the end, and you’ll understand why some of the women I scope say (while watching themselves on the monitor), “Is that . . . ? NO! You couldn’t be down that far!”
Amazing, the poor anatomic knowledge some folks have.
Follow me below the fold for the coolest car ever made.