Bailing out on a Crusie, and a giveaway
Yes, I know I should have consulted with Candy before buying Jennifer Crusie’s Faking It. Can I say anything good about this book? No. Fifty pages into it and I’m bailing.
Here’s why, in ascending order of importance.
1. Poorly written, poorly edited. If my internal editor is having more fun with a novel than I am, something is wrong.
2. Rush job. Close cousin to #1, I know, but here’s the thing: so many of the conversations leave me wondering, “Huh?” that I suspect Crusie zipped through this without re-reading. Or perhaps I’m just that thick.
3. An implausible story line which relies too much on coincidence. ‘Nuff said.
4. Forced humor. I loved Bet Me and What the Lady Wants mostly for Crusie’s sense of humor. I know she can do better than this.
But the most important reason I’m dumping Faking It:
5. I don’t give a damn about the H or the H, I don’t like them, and whether they hate each other forever’n’ever or screw like minks for the last 100 pages of the book, I don’t care. What’s missing is believability — they don’t feel like real people to me.
***
You want a book recommendation? Here’s a book recommendation: buy Carl Hiaasen’s Basket Case. Read it for pleasure or study the man’s technique; he’s a master.
I really ought to write a full review on Basket Case, and perhaps I will some day soon. For now, though, I’m spent. I slept poorly last night, then worked until 5 PM in the OR. (More tonsils. And more tonsils. And more tonsils.) I squeezed in 45 minutes in the gym, then popped back over to the hospital for Surgery Committee Meeting. Oh, the horror: it lasted until just past 8:30. Forgive me if my muse is chattering like a Hellraiser cenobite.
I’m torn over whether to write a crappy Thursday Thirteen or bag it altogether. I think I’ll leave the decision until tomorrow, which means I’ll probably bag it altogether. Ah, well. You’ll live. I have a terrific idea for a TT, but I don’t want to ruin it by writing a tired rush job tonight. (Here’s the idea: Thirteen Horrible Diseases. One of my top picks would be PAM. I’ll let you puzzle over that one.)
But back to Basket Case, and the giveaway: I’ll send a copy of Carl Hiaasen’s Basket Case to one randomly chosen commenter. Lurkers, this is your time to come out of the woodwork.
Suggested topic for comments (if you’re a lurker who doesn’t comment “because I never know what to say”):
Think about a book that you stuck with for a short while (say, less than 100 pages) then gave up on. Why did you stick with it for as long as you did, and why did you finally give up?
Wish me luck getting sleep tonight. Insomnia can be a real bitch sometimes.
D.
I’m begging you, please: brulee my creme
I have to write a post about food tonight. Why? Because, thanks to one of my faithful readers opening my eyes to a novel non-culinary use for ginger, I might otherwise write something which would get me in trouble with my wife, my patients, my hospital, and most likely the law.
But . . . damn. Just when I thought I had heard of every kink known to man or beast, I learn something new.
Back to creamy yummy things that don’t burn when you shove them where the sun don’t shine: creme brulee.
A 10-year-old’s ruminations on HEAs, apropos Wedding Crashers
I had meant to have this Smart Bitches Day post rarin’ to go for this morning, but one thing led to another, yatta yatta. Sorry, Miss Beth. Besides . . . Spartacus down there would have my nuts if I pushed him down the page any sooner than 6 PM.
Here’s Jake’s comment on romantic comedies (and, by extension, the entire romance genre): “It’s boring. You always know what’s going to happen in the end. Can’t someone die for a change?”
We’ll get back to that. First, I want to show you the best thing about Wedding Crashers:
The master of all I survey
This week’s Random Flickr Blogging brought to you by the number 7226.
I blame Kibbles ‘n Bits.
I’m a hunter by nature, a beast who lives for the chase, the capture, the jet of hot blood as I sink my teeth into another hapless furry neck. My mother didn’t bring me into this world to eat out of a bowl.
Kibble. Bits. Bits of what?
They expected me to take it like a bitch, but I showed them. No more rolled-up newspaper for this predator. No more five-minutes-only of sniff-ass in the park, either. Now that they’re gone, I’ll mount whomever and whatever I please, whenever I please, thank you kindly and woof. I’m my own dog now.
When Homicide arrived on the scene, I whined and sulked and made a pretense of deep depression. The ruse worked. Not one of the detectives suspected me, despite the fact I stabbed Him in the eye with my rawhide chew toy and strangled Her with my leash. Oh, delicious irony!
One of them scratched me on the belly and called me a good doggy. I would have shot him with his own weapon — I could have done it, too; I know where to put my claw — but that would have ruined everything. Instead, before Animal Rescue could arrive, I dashed out the front door when they weren’t looking.
From that moment forward it’s been one continuous, exhilarating crime spree. First thing I did, I taught Delilah, that uppity Shih Tzu next door, a lesson. I’ve been wanting to shag that hairy bitch for months. Then I took a dump in her owners’ swimming pool and left her to take the blame.
I hitched a ride by leaping onto the back of an open-bed truck owned by some good ol’ boy with a Golden Retriever named Max. That evening, I told Max How it Was, and How it Was Gonna Be. His master got drunk that night like usual, but this time, Max laid down across his face. Poor bastard choked on his own vomit — ugly, but effective.
Life’s been pretty good. I have a blonde Toy Poodle who does anything I ask (lick me there, I tell her, and she licks me there) and a crew of Pit Bulls who are cleaning up this planet one human at a time. If you’re alive to read this, listen up: get your affairs in order; kiss your loved ones goodbye.
There’s a new master in town.
D.
Of kites and guilt and forty-four
Harris Beach is kind to 44-year-old men. On a warm, clear day like this, people of all ages strut their stuff, from the beer gut-wielding sixty-something men to the tattooed, lean, hard-bodied fifty-something women. A handful of lookers are out there, too, but unlike my native Southern California, the babes here aren’t waxed, perfect, or plentiful. I can gawk without becoming despondent. It’s a good show.
Jolly good show
I’m all written out, folks. I reread the last 4000 words of my WiP, edited that part, and then wrote another 5100+ words. Even on my best days of the Brakan Correspondent trilogy (Nest, etc.), I don’t think I ever managed more than 4000 in one day, and I’m sure my average (on a day when I was able to write at all) was closer to 2000.
What does it mean? Does my muse live for writing humorous romance? And please don’t call it “lad lit” or “gick lit” or whatever. *Shiver* what godawful terms.
Anyway.
Just reread the sex scene. I had doubts about it, and I guess I still do, since I’ve never tried to write a sex scene from a female pov. Also, I can well remember how certain writers completely muck up that opposite-sex-pov thing. Guess I’ll have to wait until my gal readers give me feedback on this scene.
I laughed more rereading it than I did writing it. Surely that has to be a good sign. No . . . while I writing it, I was too distracted by the fact I was turning myself on. I do that quite well, but then, I’ve had years of experience.
D.
Jake: “You guys had horrible TV when you were kids.”
Thank Jim Donahue for this one.
Good night already!
D.
One-upped, snap!
Restaurant openings don’t make front page news in Brookings, but they should. They’re rare as golden goose eggs and (as far as I’m concerned) every bit as valuable. Imagine my delight that we have two new upscale restaurants, a reopening under new management of one of my favorite Mexican restaurants, and an expansion of my friends’ Elliot and Suzie’s restaurant, Suzie Q’s.
I had to share this knowledge with the first person possible: my favorite pharmacist, whom we’ll call Nicole.
“Some new restaurants opened up,” I said.
“Yeah, I know. The Grill is great. Good food, good service, reasonable prices. I’m going to the Nautical Inn tonight, though.”
“Eeeew.”
“Oh, I don’t want to hear that,” said Nicole. “I heard they were good.”
“They’re painfully slow. I hope you like spending all night waiting for your food.”
“Nicole’s an awesome chef,” said Stevie, Nicole’s pharm assistant.
“Really?” I said. “We oughta have a cook-off.”
“You’re a chef, too?” said Stevie. Nicole smiled like the Cheshire Cat.
“Yeah,” I said, bold as Keanu Reeves in Speed. (In other words, a total doofus who acts ballsy, and does a damned unconvincing job of it at that.)
“WELLLLLL, Nicole went to Cordon Bleu, and stayed on as faculty.”
For a moment, we all listened to the sound of tens of thousands of pills settling in their respective bins.
“You’re kidding me,” I said. “Then what the hell are you doing here?”
Nicole told me that the only folks who make any money are the executive chefs. Unless she landed one of those gigs, she’d be making eleven bucks an hour. What she really wants is to save up enough money to open a bed and breakfast.
“So what’s your best dish?” Stevie asked me.
In the face of the real thing, I gagged. No, really. Now I can think of my best dish (sweet potato ravioli in sage and brown butter sauce), but at the moment, I could only come up with focaccia.
“At least, my family seems to like it,” I said, suddenly and unusually humble.
“Yeah,” said Nicole, “focaccia’s easy. Not too many ways to screw it up — you just need to avoid overworking the dough.”
I thought: I knew that.
“Desserts are my weak suit,” I offered, now wallowing in my newfound humility.
“I would have been a pastry chef,” said Nicole.
“She makes an incredible Bundt cake,” said Stevie. “Oh, gaaawd.”
“I’m not baking for you,” Nicole told her.
“How’s your spaghetti?” Stevie asked.
“Nothing special,” I said. “But I do great meatballs.”
“Round meatloaf,” Nicole said.
“Nothing special,” I agree. “But they’re from Marcella Hazan’s cookbook and they’re awfully good.”
“Nicole has tons of cookbooks.”
“I’m drowning in them,” Nicole said.
***
Meanwhile, I’m thinking, I must cook for this woman.
Maybe she’ll reciprocate.
D.
Noooooo! Anything but cartilage!
What prompted this high-pitched wail? Lyvvie wants to pierce her nose.
I like to explain to my teenage patients that my objection has nothing to do with puritanical morality. Pierce anything else, I tell them (then dodge mom’s fist), but stay away from the upper part of the ear, and keep the hell away from your nose.
Why? Perichondritis, that’s why.
From Revista Brasileira de Otorrinolaringologia.
Perichondritis is an inflammation (and usually an infection) of the perichondrium, the layer of tissue which nourishes the underlying cartilage. If you think this picture is a one-of-a-kind fluke, think again. Here are more scary pictures.
This condition is a problem because it often leads to permanent deformity of the cartilage. If you’re a woman with long hair, you can hide the deformity with an appropriate hair style. If you’re a guy, you may be out of luck.
Nasal perichondritis is worse. Unless you’re Cousin It, you can’t hide your nose.
Lyvvie? Get your tongue pierced instead. Your husband will thank you for it.
D.