Thirteen home-grown culinary abominations
Recently, my sister reminded me that my post Thirteen culinary abominations barely touched on our long and frightful familial heritage. Shit peas (#13), that was the only home-grown entry, but with a little brainstorming we came up with several more.
Follow me below the fold for thirteen home-grown culinary abominations.
Is it safe?
I like my dentist. No, I really do.
I like her because she and I have the same attitude towards procedures: we both prefer to err on the conservative side. I know she wouldn’t recommend something if it wasn’t strictly necessary.
I like her because she’s smart and cheerful and cute. I like her because she and her husband are cool people, and I wish we could hang out together, my family and her family. We at Chez Walnut don’t get out much.
I like her because she doesn’t resemble Laurence Olivier . . . not often, anyway.
But as much as I might like her, it’s hard to keep a smile on my face when she comes at me with the drill. Wait. That deserves caps: The Drill. The DRILL.
It isn’t so much the pain as the anticipation of pain; and it isn’t so much the anesthetic injection as that horrible fat-faced feeling which seems to last for hours afterwards (because it does). Not to mention that awful unscratchable itch which presages the return of feeling . . . oh sweet Lord, it’s a good thing I bite my fingernails to the quick, or I would have scratched myself so raw I’d only be presentable for a George Romero flick.
But I’m all better now; I even ate a hamburger for dinner. Thank God for Motrin.
***
Juvenilia
Here’s an accompaniment for your morning coffee: Two Birds, One Stone, one of my older stories. I wrote it for AlienSkin’s 1000-words-or-less category, so if it reads skimpy, that’s why.
Undoubtedly, I dreamed this one up while watching Boogie Nights . . . probably wishing that I, too, could demand Rollergirl.
Sometimes, life is all about the little disappointments.
D.
Coming soon: Jackie Kessler, author of Hell’s Belles
I recall lamenting that Glen Duncan’s I, Lucifer was a good read, but lacked page-turnability and, well, sex. Duncan strived so hard for the Literary, Fun got sacrificed along the way.
Not so Jackie Kessler’s Hell’s Belles, which was a blast from start to finish. Read the first chapter here. Michelle gave it a shout-out some time ago, so I checked it out. Jezebel, a succubus on the lam from Hell (with assorted demons, an incubus, and a Fury hot on her tail) has a delightfully distinctive voice: humorous, passionate, so full of joie de mal. True to form for a succubus, I loved her instantly.
Here’s the good news: Ms. Kessler has agreed to an interview. Woot! I already know my first question:
You write so convincingly about the predations of the succubi. In lascivious, dripping detail, please tell us all about the research you did in order to write with such authority.
I’ll keep y’all posted.
D.
Mashup extravaganza
I never thought I would owe a debt of gratitude to USA Today, but here goes: thanks, USA Today! In the 1/23/7 issue, Janet Kornblum reported on the mashup phenomenon. Remember Brokeback Spongebob? Brokeback to the Future? The Shining reinterpreted as the feel-good movie of the century? All mashups.
Naturally, I’ve been spending the last half hour watching mashups, first at YouTube, then at The Trailer Mash, a blog devoted to mashups. Favorites thus far:
Saturday Night Live’s Apocalypto. See the Apocalypto Gibson really wanted to make.
Titanic: Two the Surface. Jack’s back! Frozen in a block of ice, he’s revived in the 21st Century to begin life anew.
Neo vs. Robocop. Which would have been MUCH better if Robocop had iced Neo, but hey, you takes what you gets. With a special guest appearance from Yoda.
and my personal favorite,
Hamlet is Back. Schwarzenegger as Hamlet. Brilliant concept, masterful execution.
Now you night owls have something to keep you entertained.
D.
SBD: Ellora’s Cavepeople
For today’s Smart Bitches Day, I bring you:
Ellora’s CAVEMEN
Dreams of the Oasis, Vol. IV
A few of my beta readers know that my romance-in-progress began its days as an Ellora’s Cave wannabe. I launched into it as ignorant as could be, my erotica knowledge limited to Pauline Reage’s Story of O, Anais Nin’s Delta of Venus, and Anonymous’s Deva-Dasi (hot writer, that Anonymous). But after I was two, three, four chapters into it — and no flesh — my betas informed me I was writing romance, not erotica. Oh, well.
So I was delighted when Kris Starr asked me to read “Virtuosity,” her story in Dreams of the Oasis, Volume IV. Maybe now I would have a clearer idea of what goes into modern erotica.
Here’s the setup. You’re in the faaaar future. Three years after her husband was killed in a surprise Korgon attack, Commander Dillon Walker needs to get her groove on – and her friends know just the thing. Whackin’ off in the HoloSuite! Because, face it, HoloSuites were invented for meaningless, no-strings-attached, no-risk-of-STDs, non-stop, HOT SEX. (You just know that between episodes, Jean Luc Picard was getting a computer-simulated Counselor Troi to give him some o’ dat “around the alpha quadrant” action. And Worf? That Klingon was such a sub. You don’t want to know.)
Enter Aidan. Or perhaps the appropriate syntax is, “Aidan, enter. Several times, please.” Aidan is Dillon’s dream squeeze. He may be a hologram but he’s solid man-flesh, and you know those holocreations can’t be bargained with. They can’t be reasoned with. They don’t whine, fart in bed, or come in your mouth (unless you ask them to), and they absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are satisfied.
It occurs to me that if George W. Bush had taken the money wasted on the Iraq War and used it for basic research, not only would we have true energy independence, but each and every family would have its own HoloSuite. Damn him, damn him to hell!
Rest assured, Dillon is well and truly satisfied by the story’s end; she’s moved beyond the death of Dear Hubs, and a surprisingly human (i.e., not computer generated) prospect looms hornily on her horizon.
How’s the sex? Chick friendly, but what do you expect — this is Dillon’s fantasy, after all. I had hopes for something a tad S&M when Aidan, in 21st Century police officer’s garb, told Dillon she needed to be punished, and followed that with a surly, “Spread your legs, ma’am,” but no tasers, no cuffs, no hot baton action (unless you count what Dillon does to Aidan’s baton in the next scene . . .) Thorough rogering is the name of the game.
It occurs to me that I’m not writing my sex scenes with women in mind. I’m spare on the foreplay, heavy on the genital action, and probably too clinical in my descriptions. If Kris’s story is representative, I need more kissing, breast-groping, and nipple-strumming. My counter-argument is that my protagonists are horny 25-year-olds. Do they have time for foreplay? No! They don’t even have enough time to sleep!
By the way, you know those back-cover author photos? I have just the one for Kris. Here she is with her friend Rella downing shots of Krugy. Note third Krugy comfortably lodged in the author’s cleavage.
I gotta love two gals who swallow my Krugys.
D.
Duggar delight: Seventeen Sixteen and one in the oven
Remember the Duggars?
I can always tell when Michelle Duggar is pregnant. No, she doesn’t have to pee on a stick; I need only check my blog’s top entry pages. When Snape Hearts Michelle Duggar starts creeping up in the ratings, some sort of Duggary Goodness is a-brew; and if you’re a Duggar, goodness = fecundity.
If Shara can be trusted, Number Eighteen is on the way. Should we start the naming pool? J-names only, people. I pick “Jaggers” if it’s a boy, “Jezebel” if it’s a girl.
From Shara’s blog:
Now, I know a lot of people might think that having 18 kids is irresponsible or just plain crazy and I might have even been one of those people once. But, this is one of the happiest most well adjusted families that you will EVER meet. I would like to be one of the Duggars! Really!
How does she know this? How can Shara distinguish happiness from Stepfordian acquiescence? She went to school with Michelle. That’s right — Shara is a firsthand witness to Duggary. I wish she had given us some insight into the teen pre-Duggar Michelle, but sadly she does not.
In a recent comment to this blog, Stefanie writes,
The Duggar family inspires me quite a bit. I mean, yes they have 16 children, but look at how much patience they have with all their children, especially the little ones. More power to them! If the Lord decided that this is the lifestyle for them to live, so be it. It’s not our place to judge each other. Like the bible says “Judge not les ye be judged†and “He without sin casts the first stoneâ€. Let the family live in peace. They are doing God’s work upon Earth. They are truly blessed with a wonderful family and I hope to see more documentaries about them in the future. God Bless Duggar Family!
Ah, where to begin. How about the fact that that particular post, aside from poking a little fun at a poorly worded email (supposedly from Jana Duggar), hardly threw “the first stone,” nor was it the least bit judgmental. But I’m more interested in Stefanie’s assertion that the Duggars are doing God’s work upon Earth.
For the sake of argument, let’s grant that God exists. Either (A) God’s ways and movements are mysterious, or (B) God’s ways and movements are revealed to the likes of Stefanie, Pat Robertson, George W. Bush, etc. If (B) is true, I would like these cognoscenti to explain to me the horror of evil, particularly evil inflicted upon the innocent and defenseless. And if they explain it by invoking God’s mysteriousness and ineffability, then (A) is true, in which case I would politely request that these folks shut the eff up about God.
***
‘Kay everyone, I’ve reached my depth for the evening. I had a bad night last night thanks to the horrors of acid reflux; it’s a minor miracle I managed to get some decent writing in today. But I did! Yay me!
One sex scene: down.
Two virgins: deflowered.
Stay tuned for tomorrow, wherein I meet some of Ellora’s cavepeople.
D.
Southern Oregon Coast I
On those days when I get to do cases in Gold Beach, I’m unequivocally happy with my profession. It’s a beautiful drive (photos below), made better by the driver’s tendency to blare Gogol Bordello at cochlea-splitting volume. Gold Beach is a lovely little coastal city with a top notch new/used bookstore. The hospital staff always make me feel welcome, and they take great care of my patients. So — what’s not to love?
I ran out of memory on my camera, unfortunately, and missed what would have been a heartwarming photo op. As I passed through Brookings on my way home, there were two competing political demonstrations: an anti-war group on one corner, and a collection of flag-waving “support our troops” characters on the opposite corner. The anti-war group had the flag-wavers outnumbered 10:1. Yay! And this is one of the more Republican areas of Oregon.
Below the fold: what I did to day, in pictures.
Too clever by half
Imagine a necklace, its wooden locket small, flat, lozenge-shaped. It has a seam along its long diagonal, and it is hinged at the center. Twist it, and it changes from lozenge to heart, and what’s more, a new seam appears. Now the wearer may open the heart, revealing a tiny photo of the face of her beloved.
But the locket is a fiction, a special effect, and the metaphorical strings and wires are in plain sight. Seams visible one shot vanish in the next. Someone has done some sleight of hand, and it wasn’t the young girl’s lover, the budding Illusionist. The locket isn’t a magician’s trick; it’s merely the prop of a dishonest filmmaker.
This is one of the film’s earliest images, and also one of its most emblematic. The filmmaker (director and screenwriter Neil Burger) isn’t content to leave visual deceit to his protagonist, commoner-cum-performer Eisenheim (Edward Norton). He’s willing to fool his audience, too, with misleading reaction shots and uproariously illogical character motivations, whatever is necessary to lead his viewers by their noses to his oh-so-predictable surprise ending.
The H Files
H for Truly Heinous.
From ABC Distributing, meet the Stoneware Egg Separator:
In case the picture wasn’t clear enough, ABC Distributing provides the following explanation:
Just break an egg into the separator, tilt it 45 degrees, and watch as the egg white drips out of his nose, leaving a perfect yolk inside the dish!
Also from ABC Distributing: for that low-expectations nephew of yours, get him his very own 32″ Stamped Steel Pennzoilâ„¢ & John Deere® Gas Pump!
When your little one asks, Mommy, could I grow up to be President someday? don’t you always throw up a little when you say, Yes, dear, anyone in God’s America can grow up to be President? ‘Tis nothing more bitter than to lie to a child. Better, then, to redirect:
President, dear? Why be President, when you could be a gas jockey?
Oy. My mom’s birthday is approaching. Maybe I’ll just get her this Talking Napoleon Dynamite pen.
D.