It’s still not too late
. . . to get your own World of Warcraft epic gear.
Here is the rest of O’Brien’s armor. I see she’s wearing the Legendary Wicked Cowl of the Dominatrix — nice. Who did you have to kill to get that one, O’Brien?
In other news . . .
Company this weekend. My MIL, SIL, SIL’s hubs, and their daughter are due to arrive any time now. I’ve been shopping and cleaning all morning.
I really hope I didn’t screw up the dates on this. I’d to do all this cleaning for nuthin.
D.
You know you want to.
Here’s an easy way to thank Keith Olbermann.
And, of course, the one time you have ever given us specifics about what you have kept us safe from, Mr. Bush — you got the name of the supposedly targeted Tower in Los Angeles… wrong.
Thus was it left for the previous President to say what so many of us have felt; what so many of us have given you a pass for in the months and even the years after the attack:
You did not try.
You ignored the evidence gathered by your predecessor.
You ignored the evidence gathered by your own people.
Then, you blamed your predecessor.
That would be the textbook definition… Sir, of cowardice.
(Full transcript at Crooks and Liars.)
Why thank the man? Because in a media circus crowded with cowards, it often seems that Keith is the only mensch.
D.
Open offer
If any of my female readers would like their own legendary gear (see below), email me a photo of your panty-clad tush and I will craft phenomenal armor for you. Wouldn’t you like to be the first woman on your block to own Epic Mithril Frilly Pink Panties of the Succubus? You know you would.
If you need chest armor, feel free to send upper torso photos as well.
Email your jpg files to:
azureus at harborside
dot
com
🙂
D.
Thirteen books
Launching into this, I have no idea whether I have thirteen books in me. If I come up short, y’all are going to have to suggest a few.
Here goes nothing.
You know you play too much World of Warcraft when . . .
Your son asks, “Why are you wearing your leopard armor?”
We got some dude off the street to model those undies. Really. Some guy who just happened to be hairy like me. I mean, you don’t really think I’d put my butt up on this blog, do you?
D.
A not-so-short story for you
I published “All Change” about a year ago in Continuum Science Fiction — never really liked the new title the editor gave it (“The Gorjun is Free”), but then, “All Change” kinda sucks, too.
Here’s the story. It’s a bit under 5K words . . . not exactly a quickie, but some folks like longer tales.
There’s a bit of history to this one. I’ve long been a fan of Robert Silverberg’s Beyond Control, a collection which included contributions from Silverberg, Asimov, Bester, Carr, Dick, and Blish. If you can find it, buy it. When I wrote “All Change”, I wanted to capture the same all-hell-breaking-loose atmosphere of those stories.
This is also the story that a Certain Someone over at Writer’s BBS thought would be great as a screenplay. He knew how to write screenplays and I didn’t, so we decided to collaborate. One month later, Certain Someone and I were no longer on speaking terms, and my muse froze me out for weeks.
Enough of that. I have something else in store for you tonight.
D.
Reruns. Better than bupkes.
For all of you folks living on the edge of despair, take heart. Things can turn around overnight. I can’t go into details — would you believe it? I have limits! Who knew! — honestly, I’m happy to tell you anything about myself, but when it affects my family or my friends, I have to keep shtum. But let’s just say that starting with this, I have become a happy man.
Of course, since I’m Jewish, I know it can’t last. I’m already cherishing the memory.
I have an overwhelming desire to regurgitate an old post — my favorite — because when I’m happy, what do I want to do most?
Share my ‘nads with the world.
From nearly a year ago, I present,
Say Hello to My Little Friend
Flickr follies, yet again
I can’t say no to a meme. You all know that.
Random Flickr blogging explained. Today’s number: 1835. Click on photos for original sources.
Edited to add: Ack! I can’t stand looking at her anymore. And you have all been sooo polite, not calling me on my poor taste, having confidence that I would do the right thing and boot this skank off the top page. Here she goes. Buh-bye!
More below the cut, if you dare.
SBD: Boys Need Romance
My son has kindly posed for today’s Smart Bitches Day post, but he urges me to tell my readers that he is NOT reading this romance, he is only pretending to do so to make his father happy.
Oh, well. His loss. He’ll miss all the hot sex scenes.
I’m not the kind of guy who obsesses over his past, looking back a week, a month, or twenty years, putting each and every conflict and conversation under a microscope, second-guessing himself, anguishing over mistakes made, paths not taken. That’s just not me.
Much.
Aaack. Who am I kidding? I regret things I did in dreams. When I was five. If I could remember my dirty diapers, I’d probably regret those, too. If only I had held it in a little longer.
When you obsess over the past, sometimes you manage to figure a few things out, but then again, sometimes you spin your wheels for decades. Does any of this help? Maybe. If it keeps you from effing up your life in the present, then yes, it helps.
Recently I had the thought, If only I had read romance in Junior High. Romance could have transformed my adolescence, could have saved me from missed opportunities and botched relationships. But, no. I was reading Robert Heinlein, whose idea of romance went something like this:
Middle-aged male protagonist surrounds himself with beautiful women who hang upon his every word and give him all the sex a man of his brilliance deserves.
Heinlein’s male characters did not model good courting behavior. (I have strong suspicions that most male SF writers of the 60s and 70s were virgins or had to pay for it.) My brother, father, and friends were all atrocious models, too. I needed something different.
I needed Romance.