Playdate at the ICA in Boston

The last Saturday of the month is playdate day at the ICA, which means adults with a kid get in free. We chugged into town in a light snow (Yay for snow!) and used our very small houseguest as entry to the museum which just opened this month. It is awesome, and it was so cool to see adults, kids, old, young, gay, straight, transgendered and pretty much EVERYONE enjoying the kids activities, the exhibits and the view across the harbor. It's awesome!

Nowadays at classical concerts and the theater it's the exception rather than the rule to find lots of young folks in the audience, but this is not true at museums and certainly not at the ICA. I liked it a lot. The young lady enjoyed the big mural in the lobby, the eyeballs, the Latin exhibit and the view over the harbor. Chacun a son gout (without various accents).

Thisbe, the younger more sensitive cat has decided that the young guest is not so scary after all, after making an ass of herself by hiding under the bed and spitting when peeked at. Well, a cat's got to do what a cat's got to do.

We had a HEAPING stack of potato pancakes (latkes) tonight, and are topping it off with banana espresso pudding. What better way to maintain weight during the holidays?

Tongue in cheek and in jest,

Grapeshot

The High-Kickin' Rockettes

Trekked down to the Wang Center this afternoon to take in the Radio City Music Hall show starring the Rockettes. Those ladies sure can dance. It was fun, and the Nutcracker portion was really neat. I could have done without Mr. and Mrs. Santa--all that false heartiness starts to wear quickly, but the rest of the show was entertaining, even the live nativity with honest-to-god camels and sheep. When's the last time you saw a camel on stage?

The cold weather has finally arrived. We popped into Jacob Wirth's for a bite and the German specialties disappointed. Definitely needed seasoning. Kind of blah. Oh well.

In spite of house guests and steady kitchen duty, I've ground out a few more pages. Won't finish this year, but will surely finish in January.

I am reading Measuring The World and Disco of the Dead. Wildly different except that they both take place on foreign soil.

We fed the cows today. The calves, who stayed back, have grown unbelievably large, especially the November baby. We had some old cheese pizza which proved to be a popular treat. Why does everyone but moi love pizza?

I finished The Year of Reading Proust book, and she talked about Proust very little. It was basically a memoir written during a year of reading Proust. I want to read Proust again, but my New Year's resolution will be to start baking bread. Maybe I can read Proust while waiting for the bread to rise. Or I can finish the novel, lose 15 pounds before the class reunion or do any number of things.

The old year passeth. I got a small royalty check today, and tied for third in a short fiction contest. Not bad, not bad. Celebrate every writing achievement, even the form letter replies to the queries. Well, not those. They come under the sucking it up heading. Maybe 2007 will see less of that, do you suppose?

Hopefully,

Grapeshot

On a Scale of One to Ten

Recalling the Tsunami, Katrina, Iraq and all the big ugly disasters that we face makes my little publishing woes seem like the proverbial (cliche alert!!!) tempest in a teapot. Tantrum in a teapot? Taken in with the global warming crisis, when even Bush is ready to take action about the polar bear's decline, I feel rather sheepish. Baaa!

On the other hand, I'm not having a 2 day, $250,000 wedding (my guess) at a fancy Boston hotel on New Year's Eve. Nope. And I didn't talk about anybody's sex life in great detail on this blog. Had I done so, probably would have had a sh__load of hits. Nope, Grapeshot is frugal and discrete. Always puts a dollar in the Salvation Army bucket.

I'm starting (to read) a new novel. Measuring the World. Notice it begins with a big conflict. Even good literary novelists know about that. Have to tweak World of Mirrors beginning one more time. Then both of these books I'm trying to sell go off to publishers, not agents. Coming down (another cliche alert! ) the home stretch with Festival Madness. Got the team to the Adirondacks. Now for some action. This writing business is hard hard hard.

This is a season for sadness, sentiment and summing up. The predictions in the papers for the New Year are always codswallop! We are actually looking for a prediction of some snow. That simple. A small guest from the South would li ke to put on the new gloves and give her little snow shovel a work out. The cats could look out the window from their new kitchen perch in what counts for awe in cat. The cows would be brown and black and cream blobs on a field on white. They like snow. I could make a big pot of soup and get out the jigsaw puzzle we never got around to last winter.

So: sadness, which comes from remembering the past and all those now gone, sentiment, the feelings that come with remembrance, and summing up, what counts, what doesn't, and how to proceed. Life can be simple, but it almost never is.

Grapeshot

Back and Alive - Remember the Tsunami?

I posted this to an earlier blog.


Back and alive.... Sitting around, day after Christmas, just staring at the TV –some movie we’ve seen before. Mid-morning, post-breakfast stupor controlling Karin and me. The power flickers and we moan. We ’ll have to get up and do something? Then we hear some yelling

People are running up our street yelling. It looks like a fire at the large two story resort thateffectively blocks our view of the beach. Smoke and dust coming up and allthese people. Then a small line of really brown water comes rolling towards us. That ’s weird. But I reckon it must be some strange full moon high tide. So we goupstairs so we don ’t get wet. I look out the window and try and take some pictures. There is a quiet rumble to it, like those white noise generators that are supposed to helpyou sleep

The water is getting higher and higher and then it destroys our friend's cement bungalow! Then our front door caves in, and then water is coming up the stairs! HOLY SHIT. This was the last point my brain worked for a long time. We try and throw a mattress out the window to float on, but the water is rising too fast, and out the window we climb. It ’s all going so fast. It’s faster than conscious thought and by the time we are on our secondstory roof, the water is coming out the window. We jump. Karin doesn ’t jump at the same time or did I jump too early? We ’re separated. I scream her name, but the crashing roiling water mutes me. I can ’t hear her. I scream and scream until I get hit by something and pulled under. I can ’t swim to the top, I pull myself through trash andwood to the surface and off I go.

Ahead are trees wrapped in flotsam and as I look a Thai guy is strugglingto get free of it, as I pass by at 30 MPH I realize he is impaled on apiece of wood and can ’t even scream. My brain shut down when Karin disappeared, and now all I can do is survive. Something triggers and I swim. I swim to avoid the trees whichwill trap me, possibly kill me. It seems that I am atop the crest of the tsunami, which is less like a wave than a flood. From on high I can see the water hit buildings, then rise, then watch the buildings collapse into piles of concrete and rebar. I swim to avoid these. Left and right I paddle, looking ahead the whole time trying to figure the hazards.

None of this is conscious, this isn't me thinking it out, it 's some recessed part of the brain coming out and taking control. I was busy seeing the weird things, like massive diesel trucks being rolled end over end. Or the car launched through the 2nd storey wall of aformer luggage shop. Or the person high up in a standing tree in a luridorange thong. Or the older foreigner that got stuck in the wood and steelwrapped around a tree, and then his body torn off while his head remained.I could't scream. I was pulled under, my pants caught on something, I decided that this was neither the place nor time for me to die, and ripped my pants off.

I surfaced into a hunk of wood which cut my forehead. A 5 gallon water bottle sped by, and I wrapped myself around it like ahorny German Shepard on a Chihuahua. I was passing people with bleedingf aces and caked in refuse. Some people reached out to me, and I back, but the water was too fast and erratic. Some people screamed for help and I told them to swim. Some people just stared with empty eyes, watching what happened, but seeing nothing. Some were just floating bodies. At some point, I passed a guy, cut on his cheek, holding onto big piece of foam. We just made eye contact and shrugged apathetically at each other.Then I turned ahead to watch fate. When I looked back he was gone. Trees were pulled down, and their flotsam added to the flow.

I was hit by a refrigerator and pushed towards a building that was collapsing. I swam and swam and swam and swam and still was pushed right towards a huge clump of jagged sticks and metal. I was pulled under, kicked towards the mass,cut my feet and kicked again. I popped up on the other side, spun around and pulled under again. Down there, I knew it was not the time, and I pulled my way up through the floating rubbish of my former town.

I pulled and pulled and my lungs ached for air. I flashed on Star Wars, the trash compactor scene, and had some big grin in the back of head as I popped up. Sucking shitty water and air deep in my lungs. This went on for weeks. Time simply left the area alone. I grabbed the edge of a mattress and floated. Breathing, just breathing. Awareness brought back by the sound and look of a water fall. Trying to push up onto the mattress more and more, and it took my weight less and less. Tumbling over the edge, sucked under again, and out I shot, swirled into a coconut grove, where the water seemed to have stopped. There was even a dyke like wall around the grove.

The water spun and churned, but went no where, and got no higher. It wasn't swimming, or climbing, but something in between. I made my way to the land. Every step had to be careful with broken glass everywhere, and sheetmetal poking out. It was a long slow struggle. The low rumble had stopped, and now is the occasional creak of wood on wood and metal scraping. Moans came across the new brown lake. A small boywas in a tree crying, asking for his parents in Norwegian. I climbed up onto the dyke and looked around. I screamed out for Karin,only getting responses in Thai. I stood there, panting, trying to find a thought, anything. As I came back to earth I needed to pee.

The firstthing I did after surviving the tsunami was piss! Along limps an older Thai guy, finds me, naked atop a dyke amid the destruction, covered in mud and filth pissing. He didn't even smile ,nor did I. I spent the next minutes running from high point to high point screaming out for Karin. If I made it, she could too. There was no response from her. I found plenty of other people, and helped who I could, but always looking across this vast area of new lakes for her head. Through the trees was a PT boat, a large steel police cruiser. The boatand I had been brought more than a kilometer (2/3 mile) inland. I was standing near a tree, hoping for a clue, anything to say she was out there somewhere. A small boy in a tree whimpered, and I pulled him down.We went inland.

There were houses, still standing, a whole neighborhood atop a rise that was untouched. Just feet away were cars wrapped around trees. I handed them the boy. I had finished my medic training exactly one month before, so I went to work. Pulling people out of mud, from under houses. One car, upright against the trunk of a tree still had the driver. He was dead. It went on.Before this I had only seen a dead body once or twice. That was remediedvery quickly. I pulled people out of the water, only to have them choke and die right there. I would take someone 's pulse, scream for help, thenfind that they had died before we could do anything. It was beyond any nightmare or fear I have ever had.

An older Thai woman came up to me with a pair of shorts and averted eyes.She was ashamed that I was totally naked. I smirked and slipped them on.She smiled and scurried away. Was it the bright white ass or the fear shriveled cock that had embarrassed her? Roaming the former streets looking for foreigners to send to the higher ground, a place where we could all meet and tend to wounds. After an hour the Thais came screaming out of the mud saying there was another wave coming , and flying into the hills.

We were left alone. Those that could walk did, the rest were carried. We made a new base, higher and safer. And the same thing happened again. And again. Eventually we ended up in the jungle at a park, where there was water and high ground. It was messy. Eventually there were about 300 foreigners,about 120 of whom were injured pretty severely with broken limbs and ribs, near-drownings, everyone had gashes of some kind, severed fingers or toes and shock everywhere. There was no medicine, no tools, no scissors, no bandages. Nothing but well water (of questionable cleanliness) and some sticks and clothes.

I tried to find anyone medically trained. It was only the diving instructorswho all had basic first aid. So we cleaned with the water, we broke sticks and set bones and talked people into a relatively calm place. If someonewas severely cut, we used their own clothing to mend the wounds. It was a horror story. The floor was covered in blood, people were moaning, or vomiting or asking us to help them. And more arrived with every new wave of cars and trucks fleeing the next wave ? After hours of this, we got news of helicopters evacuating the injured.

So everyone rushed towards the trucks. I had to scream and push and pull people out of the way. The ones who needed the evac the most were the ones who couldn 't get to the trucks. After twenty minutes of sorting through the priorities, and feeling like we had a handle on it, someone brought meto a girl who was bleeding severely out of her thigh and was in shock. No one had brought her to our little clinic area, they had left her in the back of truck. Finally, after a few helicopters had pulled out the worst, I headed back down. Through rubber tree plantations, and coconut groves we drove. It seemed quiet and relaxed. At the last corner it was devastation.

The road was clear and dry up to a certain point and then it was a horizon of rubble. I shuddered. Someone on a scooter came up and asked for a doctor. Everyone looked at me! I jumped on and they took me up roads I never knew existed, and over bridges that were barely standing until I was brought to five foreigners in the middle of nowhere. One of them was a good friend and diving instructor. It was the first person I had seen that I knew. It was a totalj oy. He was banged up pretty bad, but he got out and sent off to the hospital. Then the Thais came roaring up the hill, saying there was another wave. We had to carry four more people with broken bones(including a broken hip) up a hill. There was no wave. There never was. I stumbled back down, wandering through the town looking for people to help.

I found only bodies.

I found one with a tattoo like Karin's on ascooter under some rubble. I pulled her out, and it was a Thai woman. Still griping her scooter, mouth agape. Eventually I made my way back to the dive shop I worked at. We had always whined about how it was too far off the main road, but it survived. Itwas a center for the survivors. I walked up to find friends alive andthings clean and organized. I had been able to keep on, doing what I could to help people, to closeout my mind to what was around me and look only at what I was doing, to not see the dead people, to not worry about where Karin was.

I had held together so well. When I found out Karin was alive it all fell apart. I could smell the destruction, the horror I had just walked through, just lived through,that she had lived through. My body shouted out all the bruises and cuts I had ignored. It all struck me and threw me to the ground. It was too much! I could no longer accept this. We hugged and ate and slept. My feet were cut up, I had small cuts all over my body, and a sinus infection from all the bad water. Karin had gotten hold of a coconut tree, wrapped herself around it and never let go. She had a few bruises and small cuts and a black eye. I was ecstatic to see her like that. First time I've been happy to see a woman with a black eye.

Most of the rest of our friends had come through. They had set up first aid stations and help stations, organized food and created a center forpeople to meet. The diving community came together and became our support,our medical care, our food - they did everything they could to help andthen some. I can 't help but give massive appreciation and even a bit of awe to several people. Whether you know them or not, these are the true heroes. Keith -he was tireless - for days, running around, getting medicine, doing first aid, cooking food, getting clothes, talking to the forlorn,coordinating doing everything he could. His energy was endless and bright.

Jim and Andrea opened the doors of their shop, and clothed and housed everyone they could. Joakim ran about grabbing people, helping wherever he could, evacuating people to the next town, the whole while wondering about the safety of his own family. And the two DM'Ts that helped me out -two guys who had just taken a first aid class and then had to deal with massive trauma, death and

And all the others. . . When there was no one else, they all stepped forward. I can't help but swell with pride to count myself among them. The next day I went back to where my house had been and surveyed the damage. One bungalow nearby had been lifted up and dropped on top of another. The whole beach was visible, meaning all of the two or three story hotels that had lined it were gone. There was a jet ski just near our house. The bottom floor of our house was gone, the upper floor wasmissing a couple of walls. The only thing left, was a plastic Jesus doll I had bought as a joke. So I was left with nothing in the world except my own plastic Jesus. The level of destruction is virtually impossible to describe. On our beachwe had approx. 2500 hotel rooms. It looked to me, that maybe 50 coulds till be called hotel rooms. The week between Christmas and New Year 's isthe busiest of the

Without warning, without an evacuation plan the survival rates were minimal. The wave at our house was about 7 meters high(20 feet) and in some places it was 10 meters (30 feet) high. It wiped out the third floor of most resorts. The number of dead is astronomical,several thousand on my beach alone. By the second day you could smell it,and in the short walk to my former house, we passed about 10 bodies just strewn about. Our final glance of the town was a cattle truck stacked full of wrapped upcorpses.

We wanted to go home. In Bangkok most people got help pretty quick. The Swedes, Germans and English had charted flights for their citizens to get home. The Thaig overnment gave free hotel rooms to survivors and there were lists of places to get food. EXCEPT the Americans. I went in to find out what help I could get . I was able to get a replacement passport, a toothbrush and a paperback book.They said it was not their policy to arrange flights home.

I was cut up,still covered in a pretty good layer of mud, I had no home, no money, noclothing (except some borrowed off Keith) nothing at all, and they could do nothing to help. They did offer to let me borrow money, but they would have to find three people in America who would vouch for me, and that process should takeless than a week. In the mean time I was fucked.

I was destitute and rejected by the embassy. Karin was with me (she 's Swedish) and said thatI could still try and emigrate to Sweden. I was VERY tempted. In these last days, watching politicians go on about helping and giving aide, but they won't even take care of their own citizens?

I am very,very angry. All the other nations of the world were taking care of their own citizens! Eventually I got a flight home with JAL --that would be JAPAN airlines ,not even an American company, but a JAPANESE company helped me get home. I am still listed as neither found nor alive. Before I left I had spoken to the embassy twice on the phone, giving my name so I would be listed as alive so my family would not worry. I went to the embassy twice, once to get a passport to replace the one lost in the tsunami, and they never listed me as alive or found. I flew out of the country using said passport and am still not found.

I went to the hospital three times, and, as of yesterday I am now listed as injured (having been in the states three days already). My family is now waiting to see how long it will take before they are notified about my status. So am I. It does raise a good question ?if I am missing or dead, do I have to pay taxes? While spiteful about the embassy, I am grateful to be alive, and that those I care about are still alive. I still look around and am in awe at what just happened. I really feel like someone has slipped me some roofies and I woke up in America.

On the First Day

Must have posted this before, but I can't find it. Happy Christmas, Hannuka, Kwanza, Saturnalia, Mithra's Birthday and so forth!

Grapeshot

The Twelve Days of Agents ©

On the first day of querying, an agent sent to me,
A "not right for us" in my SASE.

On the second day of querying, an agent sent to me,
Two "does not fit our needs" responses
And a "not right for us" in my SASE.

On the third day of querying an agent sent to me,
Three no new clients notices
Two "does not fit our needs" responses
And a "not right for us" in my SASE.

On the fourth day of querying an agent sent to me,
Four cookie cutter form letters
Three no new clients notices
Two "does not fit our needs" responses
And a "not right for us" in my SASE.

On the fifth day of querying an agent sent to me,
Five "addressee unknown" envelopes
Four cookie cutter form letters
Three no new clients notices
Two "does not fit our needs" responses
And a "not right for us" in my SASE.

On the sixth day of querying an agent sent to me,
Six "going to pass" notes
Five "addressee unknown" envelopes
Four cookie cutter form letters
Three no new clients notices
Two "does not fit our needs"

On the seventh day of querying an agent sent to
Seven "please try elsewhere" miss
Six "going to pass" notes
Five "addressee unknown" envelopes
Four cookie cutter form letters
Three no new clients notic
Two "does not fit our needs" responses
And a "not right for us" in my SASE.

On the eighth day of querying, an agent sent to me,
Eight curt "not interested" messages
Seven "please try elsewhere" missi
Six "going to pass" notes
Five "addressee unknown" envelopes
Four cookie cutter form letters
Three no new clients notices
Two "does not fit our needs" responses
And a "not right for us" in my SASE.

On the ninth day of querying, an agent sent to me,
Nine "I've retired" memos
Eight curt "not interested" messages
Seven "please try elsewhere" missives
Six "going to pass" notes
Five "addressee unknowns" envelopes
Four cookie cutter form letters
Three no new clients notices
Two "does not fit our needs" responses
And a "not right for us" in my SASE.

On the tenth day of querying an agent sent to me,
Ten "not the right agent" answers
Nine "I've retired" memos
Eight curt "not interested" messages
Seven "please try elsewhere" missives
Six "going to pass" " envelopes
Four cookie cutter form
"does not fit our needs" responses
And a "not right for us" in my SASE.

On the eleventh day of querying an agent sent to me,
Eleven "must be recommended" advisements
Ten "not the right agent" answers
Nine "I've retired" memos
Eight curt " not interested" messages
Seven "please try elsewhere" missives
Six "going to pass" notes
Five "addressee unknown" envelopes
Four cookie cutter form letters
Three no new clients notices
Two "does not fit our needs" responses
And a "not right for us" in my SASE.

On the twelfth day of querying an agent sent to me,
Twelve "not keen on the story" remarks
Eleven "must be recommended" advisements
Ten "not the right agent" answers
Nine "I've retired" memos
Eight curt " not interested" messages
Seven "please try elsewhere" missives
Six "going to take a pass" notes
Five "addressee unknowns" envelopes
Four cookie cutter form letters
Three no new clients notices
Two "does not fit our needs" responses
And a "not right for us" in my SASE.

Let's hear it for persistence!

Wellesley, Swellesley

Business in Wellesley, MA today. The great gift and housewares store Marco Polo is shutting down. We bought two used vintage steel office chairs and other sundries. We moved to Wellesley a couple decades ago and has it ever changed! In the old days if you wanted make up you shopped at Filene's or CVS. Now there are at least three high end makeup stores in addition to the Body Shop. Loads of glitzey clothing stores. Gone is the twice annual Wellesley Used Clothing Sale which originated during the 2nd World War. It was a great place to shop for lightly worn children's clothing.

I looked in the shop windows and sure enough, none of them had a tailored blazer. Plenty of jackets, and I realized the last 3 or 4 jacket I bought hadn't been tailored either. Now I know the reason. Probably they'll soon be as scarce as the opera gloves we used to wear to charity benefits. Wasik's Cheese Shop was so crowded you couldn't get in the door, and Roche Brothers had the traditional line up of carts for the check out. I remember in the old days it stretched around the store. Before they expanded. We wondered if this was a New England tradition.

The first nor-easter I experienced occured the first winter we moved here. The train from Boston was so jam-packed that I stood all the way, and the floor felt soft and rotten, as if it might deposit me on the tracks any moment. There were trees across the tracks and a lot of people got out at Wellesley Hills, but I persisted to Wellesley Center. Before cell phones. Didn't know where S.O. was, so I headed for the now obliterated Wellesley Inn, where an old lady and I shared a table and I drank two Manhattans. S.O. finally appeared and we had dinner. Later our neighbor had an impromptu party (by then all the lights were out) and we drank more and ate appetizers from her freezer that she worried might spoil. The next day I had a hangover.

The Wellesley recycling center was so famous we took all out of town visitors there. The book drop and the take and leave sections were best, until various out-of-town scavengers parked all day at the take and leave and mostly took.

Cyrano the cat hung out on the top shelf of the book store above the cash register when he wasn't curled up in a cozy arm chair. When my Dad used to talk about the days when bread was 5 cents a loaf I yawned and vowed that I would never be one of those people who always remembered the good old days. Bah!

Never say never. I am workin on the 25th (at least) World of Mirrors query letter. It's beginning to seem pretty hopeless.

Onward,


Grapeshot

The Old Fart's Club

No matter how au courant I try to be, I still end up 'pas de au courant', so to speak. All the time I slaved away in the work force, a tailored blazer and a nicely fitted pair of wool, cotton, linen or silk slacks would take you to work and back. Anywhere and back. This was my standard uniform, and it always 'worked.' Neither over nor underdressed and not in some weird shapeless fat lady jacket that announced "sartorially clueless." Color me currently clueless.

My winter wardrobe has a tailored navy cashmere blazer and a tailored black wool blazer. A couple of cardigans round out the business casual look. I have several pair of brown slacks, and so it seemed like a good idea to acquire a camel hair blazer, which would also work with black as well as brown. Off to Nordstroms in Providence which is handy, has sales clerks who can do more, much more than talk and chew gum, like give good advice and actually find stuff .

Duh, where are the blazers? I wondered. Actually, when was the last time I saw someone wearing one and looking, well, spiffy? Ooops, they aren't in style anymore. In the entire Providence Center, I saw one woman in a navy blazer with brass buttons and me. And she didn't look too cool. Probably I didn't look too cool either. Thing was, I felt cool. Sucked it up and bought another style jacket, totally another style. It looks pretty good, too. Just not wool or tailored or in my comfort zone.

Walking by Ann Taylor, I saw one tan blazer, and ditto for Talbots. But the serviceable wardrobe staple is hard to find. When did they "go out" of style? Color me clueles. Thank dog that turtlenecks have not gone out of style. It rather like the shirtdress or the buttondown shirt. You assume they will always be around, but you are wrong wrong wrong. Actually, tailored shirts with cool stripes and good colors are back again. I still have plenty from the prior periods. Stuff happens when one is writing novels or programming computers or whatever. And the next thing you know you are totally not with it. You have become an old fart. Arrrrghhhh!

Now I am sort of with it with my new hopefully au courant look. The thing is, for going into Boston or to Toastmasters or even to Providence Center, the tailored blazer and slacks still seems right. Only if you're an old fart, I guess.

How did this happen? .

Alas,

Grapeshot

Celebrate the Solstice

I love how many of our so-called Christmas customs go back to the pagan celebrations of solstice. One can feel a part of a long long tradition.

We had a hard frost last night, and I fear the parsley succumbed. I had primroses bloom again, and some of the spring bulbs have been sticking their noses out of the ground. They'll regret it. In the meantime, the days will gradually grow longer.

Here are some solstice links. Never could get the last one to load.

http://scienceworld.wolfram.com/astronomy/WinterSolstice.html

http://www.candlegrove.com/solstice.html

http://www.religioustolerance.org/winter_solstice.htm

http://www.equinox-and-solstice.com/html/winter_solstice.html

Slug #2: Thisbe

In Thisbe's world, the glass (or dish) is always half empty. If the bottom is visible, she gets nervous. Thisbe is a 'fraidy cat or scaredy cat who is only comfortable with the immediate family. She is the one who needs "Atkins for kitties." She has a cross on her chest, and sometimes we call her "Sacred Kitty." She accepts it has her due. After 6 years, Annie still regards Thisbe as an interloper. Cats, like elephants, have long memories.

Sloth #1: Annie the Cat

This is Annie in her favorite spot and her favorite pose. She would really rather be an only cat. She knows she's good lookin.'

Wherefore art thou, Christmas Tree?

We wanted to buy the tree on Saturday, then Sunday, but it didn't happen until today. It almost didn't happen. First we went to Polilio's, but they had one tree left. Then we tried Ward's Berry Farm, and they had two, neither a likely candidate. Drove to a nursery in Norfolk. No trees. Panic time.

Significant Other remembered a nursery on Route 1, which we never found, but we did find the Tropical Plant Place which not only had an abundance of trees, but gave us absolutely free two big wreaths. Wow! It was cold, cold, cold and I had on my work-out Tee shirt and a light coat. Brrrr! We bonded with our tree right away.

Stopped at the vets so the fat cats would have some chow over Christmas, and the price had gone up 33%. When I professed shock, they countered with the fact that I had been billed wrong for months. Those overfed furry critters are going on a diet. They lie around like huge, giant sloths. $30.00 a bag indeed! Bah and Humbug!

I now have two batches of cookie dough in the fridge. Maybe I will actually do some baking. Life is good, isn't it? Ask the cats.

Meow.

Grapeshot

Festival Madness

On a roll last night until 1:15 a.m. Back at the keyboard this a.m. , butt planted in chair. Always such fun to write the ending, once you're geared up for it. 93,780 words. Yikes. I do want to keep this one under 100,000. A writing teacher once told our class to put everything you like into the first draft. It's easier to subtract than add scenes, he said. So here's hoping.

Writing group thought the Snarklings were really cruel about my pitch. Maybe my group is too supportive. And mystery writers are really nice people, whereas the Snarklings could be writing anything. Lots of Sci-Fi, lots of fantasy, some chic-lit, a tad of literary stuff, a few mysteries, a bit of YA, the whole enchilada. Still, I would never trash anyone's writing. Well, hardly ever.

Have you ever noticed that any group that has "Concerned" or "Family" in the title has an agenda that makes you want to flee and fast? How does Concerned Wellness sound? Or Family Wellness? Flee faster? Concerned Family Wellness? Get out of there at the speed of light.

Scroogie Thoughts, none merry. Amen.

Onward,

Grapeshot

Person of the Year? Let's all take a bow!

Time Magazine has elected us person of the year. "The annual honor for 2006 went to each and every one of us, as Time cited the shift from institutions to individuals -- citizens of the new digital democracy, as the magazine put it. The winners this year were anyone using or creating content on the World Wide Web."

I never expect to be commended for spending at least 2000 hours on line this year, surfing, blogging, email, research for novel, googling, and well, you know, kinda sorta wasting time. Being a slacker, as it were. And now, the reward. No trophies, no money, no book contracts (damn!) but the accolades. Wow! Haven't had many of those lately, except for the Indian stir fry cabbage this weekend, and the cheesecake last week. Maybe that's why I like to cook. There's always someone around to appreciate my efforts and voice pleasure.

I guess this even includes posting and getting snarked by Miss Snark. Was it worth it? Sure? Sometimes, within the sucking it up, there's a moment of pleasure. In writing, there's many moments. Do the suck up and rejection moments (and there have been many) equal the good moments? Any moment writing is a good moment, so they actually do. This is a good moment. Even writing about life's disappointments is good.

Congratulations to all of us persons of the year. Let's raise a glass. Let's raise two. Cheers!

What are the stakes? What is the Dilemma?

Miss Snark repeats this over and over. What's the dilemma, what are the stakes, the choices? What goes wrong if she fails in her mission? Start with you main character. Describe her problem, and her dilemma. Be specific. Focus.

So that's what I need to do. Cripes. I must have read a gazillion articles about how to query. And it never sunk in. I could write the most arcane computer programs and lay out delicious digital logic, but I can't write a goddamn query letter. Well, yes I can. I just haven't yet.

So I printed out all the letters that Miss Snark rewarded with "winner" or "bingo" and now to analyze and study and see how I can do the same for World of Mirrors. There is also a need to concentrate on what's unique to the book: setting, characters, and all that good stuff. And come up with a twist on the plot. I must have one. Don't I? Too close to the forest to gawk at the trees.

Suck it up, yet again and forever. Arrrrghhh!

Grapeshot

59 Rejections: Now We Know Why

At 8:00:06 p.m. EDT yesterday, I submitted my pitch to Miss Snark, the Literary Agent, along with a gazillion other hopefuls. She posted her pithy comments about each one.

What I sent:

All the Cold War rules lie in the rubble heap with the crumbled Berlin Wall and the failed socialist dream. New opportunities, along with unknown risks and dangers pour through the open borders of East Germany in the summer of 1990.

Zara Gray, a high-tech consultant, and T.K. Drummond, a failed spy, are seeking an amiable sociopath who has fled the U.S. with his company’s ahead-of-the curve computer software and his sex-spy girlfriend. T.K. is expecting easy money and a plummy assignment. Blackmailed by her greedy bosses, Zara (POV) has been pushed into this assignment against her will. Zara is nervous about working with T.K. who has no reason to love her and every reason to betray her.

Crumbling old Baltic casinos and a classic sailboat are backdrops as an international cast of miscreants vies for the digital jewels in World of Mirrors, (96,000 words). The “Marquis de Sade on Steroids,” a Russian naval captain, ex-Stasis, a former wall dog, and a North Vietnamese guest worker take the stage as treacheries multiply. Zara and T.K. must rely on the software pirate and the Vietnamese laborer to sail them to safety as they play a deadly game of cat and mouse through the shipping lanes of the fog-shrouded Baltic.

What she said:

Paragraphs 1 and 3 are blather, paragraph 2 is the only thing of interest, but the plot is "so old it has whiskers."
Considering there are only x number of plots, I don't feed so bad about that, because my characters are unique and the setting is great. So I need to expand paragraph 2 to make the book sound extraordinarily interesting. Hmmm.
I am copying the pitches she marks as "Winners" to study them. Make I can get 3 good paragraphs. In the comments, some like the sound of the book and others did not. It was 50/50 which isn't bad.

I must say some of the hooks (lots of fantasy and sci fi which I don't read) sucked. Anyway, the agents are taking their time responding, so that's actually not bad. A quick response often means they reject it immediately. In the meantime, Promiscuous Mode is dead in the water.

We gave a copy of The Shadow Warriors to a boyhood friend of S.O. He lives in Germany and I'm not sure how proficient his English is, but he claimed to love it. Of course the setting is the home town, and everyone likes to read about their turf.

I tout my books (not to agents, of course) as Anti-Romance, because the romance always ends badly, and boy never gets girl. This works on a book-to-book basis, but a lot of readers are saddened by same. Hmmm. What do you think?

Grapeshot, who is still sucking it up and finding it no more pleasant than of yore.

G

Giving Birth to What?

I've had an amazing active dream life the past six weeks. I am sleeping later and dreaming more, much more. With the darker days I don't wake up until it's really light outside, and in the hour before waking the dreams come.

Last night for the third time in as many weeks, I dreamed about having babies. In one dream I was pregnant, (gaaaa!) and in the other dreams close friends had new babies. One look like a withered root of a child but this morning the friend's baby was perfect and beautiful. When I asked who the father was, she said he was an artist. Hmmm. I wish I knew what these dreams meant.

In another dream, I was in a room full of women writers and someone was announcing whose short stories would be published. Happy squeals of delight, but one other woman and I were not in the elite group. Someone mouthed the cliche, "Keep trying. Don't give up." What a downer. I was devasted.

The dream that started off this series, no, it was a nightmare was a common thread, along the lines of "the final exam is tomorrow and I haven't been to class or read the material." This dream was "we are in Singapore and the plane leaves in an hour and a half and we haven't started to pack." Worse, we had acquired huge boxes of toys, big sets of legos and Fisher Price toys that had to be crammed into unwieldy suitcases. A true nightmare.

What does it all mean? she asked.

I'm all set for Miss Snark's Crapometer tonight. Ready, set, submit.

And finally, finally, the word count of Festival Madness is growing. I've written two scenes and now the Fun Stuff of the INCREDIBLE AND EXCITING FINALE can be addressed. There's been a lot of set up to get to this point, the whole book in fact. It's exciting and intimidating, but I can do it. Whether this book will have more appeal than the others, I don't know. The Wisconsin book seemed like a winner and my writing group was so gung ho and so far one agent loved it, but he doesn't represent that genre, and the agent he passed it on to said it didn't quite work for her. No other feedback. But she obviously liked the writing because she requested the first three chapters of World of Mirrors.

Now the writing group is gung go about World of Mirrors. I read them the prologue and the new beginning and they want to hear the whole thing. Said it sounds much smoother and more polished. Well, I've only rewritten it about 10 times. Knocked 18,000 words out. 18,000 useless words. The current wisdom is that you have to write at least 500,000 words before you'll become a "good" writer. I sure as hell have more than that.

So, now it's time to wrap and bake. Tomorrow night we're going to the Christmas Revels in Sanders Auditorium. I am as eager as a kid to see Santa.

Maybe someone will give me the Interpretation of Dreams for Christmas.

Grapeshot

Hungarian Stuffed-Under-the-Skin Chicken

Alfred's Delicatessen in "the Village" was favored for years by Rice students and professors. Sadly, it is no more. I was a picky eater from day one, and if I didn't like what was served I just didn't eat. Smoking was more fun, anyway. Yes, those were the times. .

I was from Colorado, in those days not a culinary destination, especially the northeast corner, still not by my reckoning. I had never eaten "real" pizza. The list of stuff I wouldn't touch was as long as the Mississippi River. And my friends and I visited Alfred's. I didn't know Jewish food from Adam, but I did know that the sandwiches on rye bread heaped with meat were the best I ever ate. Pastrami, corned beef, roast beef. Yum. A tiny dish of ripe olives (not out of a can) came with each order. Nirvana! A scoop of potato salad, one of the many things I didn't eat, also accompanied the sandwich. The food there was so good that one day I tasted the potato salad. Not bad. Next time I ate a bit more. Pretty good, actually. I became a potato salad eater. And a sardine eater. I ripped thru Indian, Middle Eastern, Chinese, Italian, French, trying more and more foods. But Alfred's was king.

When my folks came to town I took them to Alfred's. We ordered something I couldn't afford on my own, Chicken with the stuffing under the skin. Nirvana, paradise and heaven! An epiphany! Lordy, was it good!

I graduated and left town and never saw it on any menu ever again. Never read a recipe for it It was gone, back in the murky past, but always remembered.

Today the New York Times, in an article about Jewish food, printed the recipe. It was Hungarian! Who knew? I can't wait to make it. I'll even buy some Challah bread, because I want it to be authentic. Go to their website if you are curious. www.nytimes.com/dining.

It can't be as good as I remember, can't it? I'll buy a nice kosher chicken and hope for the best. The second Christmas present of the season, a Jewish recipe. Raise a glass to Alfred's Deli in the Village in Houston, to the memories and the wonderful food and the vast broadening of a young ladies food tastes.

Inconspicuous Consumption

Boston not only has Filene's Basement, but Building 19 and Ocean State Job Lot. There is a Job Lot not far from where we live. It has a big grocery department. No meat, no produce, but excellent chocolate, cookies, jams,coffee, pasta, sauces, you name it at fantastic prices. They have some clever marketing, advising customers to create a gift basket. I bought fleece pajamas bottoms, rechristened "Lounge Pants" by the wild and crazy people in marketing. Of course I didn't put those in anyone's gift basket. So tackey, loung pants in a gift basket.

I lose gloves by the gross. You wouldn't believe how many gloves I lose. This week I lost my next to last pair, and with winter coming on. . . well, you know. The Job Lot had name brand gloves for up to 80% off the retail price. Bought two pair, one normal and one funky (chartreuse + deep green stripes). I figure the funky ones are too ugly to get lost right away.

Significant Other has reading glass from the Job Lot all over the house. At a buck a pair, he stocks up. We both like a bargain. Not for us the inside page of the NY Times with the Gucci bags and shoes, the gold watches, the dazzling diamonds. Conspicuous Consumption to the max. Here's to Inconspicuous Consumption!

Building 19 is even funkier. I found two of my best favorite bowls there, along with the oriental runner in the entry hall, and a Burberry Duffel coat which was mis-sized and stuck in the Men's Department instead of the Ladies. Naturally it didn't fit the guys. Ha ha.

About twenty years ago I bought a four ply purple v-neck cashmere sweater at Filene's basement for $25.00. The label said "Nieman Marcus." It's still going strong. Guess the moths don't like that royal purple.

I hope you are spreading the wealth around and not shopping strictly on Newbury Street and at Copley Place. Otherwise you will miss the chartreuse and forest green gloves at the Job Lot. And lots of other good stuff cheap. Oops, no, that's Building 19.

A Father's Tears

Busy week: physical therapy appointments to try to get the somewhat permanent crick out of my neck, writer's group, Sisters in Crime, MWA, Kate's party, Holiday letter, cards, presents, walks, cooking, baking, 247 words for Ms. Snark, decorating, toastmaster's, etc. Life is busy, life is good.

But the days are dark with the world racing toward the Solstice and I want to sleep ten hours every night. Is this normal? The cat and I, buried in the bed, in dream-filled sleep. It's been a week of many dreams, dreams with the children very young, and that means I must be young, too.

It's the time of year when the past comes crashing back in on one, and even when the past is good, maybe especially when the past is good, the knowledge that the past is also gone is inescapable. And that knowledge provokes sadness. I think of all the Christmases past, with parents, grandparents, all gone. I wonder who will take the old ornaments, the candle holders, the decorations, the wonderful stuff of holidays when I'm gone. And I want to sit in the middle of the mess of half-done decorating and memories and howl. And then of course I get mad at myself, as if that will help. Yesterday, I decided that now that I am that last generation, it is my turn to create all the good memories and times for the young, that they can look back on someday. If I provide a wonderful memorable present, someday it will be a cherished past. But the lump in my throat stays.

Peggy Noonan had a wonderful essay in yesterday's (Dec. 9th) Wall Street Journal. Titled, "A Father's Tears," she wrote of George H.S. Bush breaking into tears during a speech last week. I know just how he felt. She writes, "growing older can leave you more exposed to the force of whatever it is you're feling. Defenses erode like a fence worn by time. But what you feel can surprise you." She goes on to talk of moments, even fragments of moments, and how we can suddenly be "mugged by memory." Ask Proust. Definitely ask Proust.

Maybe we all have a mild case of SAD. I know I'll be much happy when the days are longer. In the meantime, cherish the happy memories that make you sad. Whatever.

Grapeshot

Ready for the Crapometer

Miss Snark, the literary agent, has a popular blog: http://misssnark.blogspot.com/ and from time to time she deigns to let us aspiring writers send our "hook" to her crapometer. This time it's 250 words due on December 15th. On her blog she either hands out orchids (you hooked her) or onions (you didn't), but the most useful thing is not the semi-public (or totally anonymous) humiliation but the feedback from a real agent. She is refreshingly blunt and has a huge following.

I've been polishing my query words for World of Mirrors for the next crapometer. 247 of my best words. Wish me luck. Some are nervous about posting their plots for all the world to see. It's hard but not impossible to believe that someone might swipe a plot online. I wouldn't. Nope, I really wouldn't.

Yesterday, we trekked to the following places: Wellesley Library, Marco Polo (going out of business sale, alas), Joel Bagnol, Roche Brothers, Microcenter, Kate's Mystery Books, Chang Sho, Kate's Mystery Books. Kate had her annual party for the New England Mystery Writers and her customers at her store on Mass Ave in Cambridge. Lots of food, booze, signed books, schmoozing. Fun. It was colder than a well-diggers ass, to be it bluntly. I'm not ready for winter. Lost an old but comfy thread bare glove, my warmest pair, hence the threadbare aspect.

We are cleaning and decorating and doing cards and wrapping and baking and all that good seasonal stuff, and I hope you are also being productive at whatever it is.

Cheers,

Grapeshot

A Dog's Breakfast

The expression, "looks like a dog's breakfast," implies something messy and not appetizing, like maybe dogfood. This morning I had an ugly breakfast: soggy salad from last night, a fried chicken liver from the French meal of two days ago, and an English muffin with low sugar apricot jam.

After years of making salad, I still tend to fix too much. Sometimes we eat it, sometimes we don't and I got used to eating soggy salad and now I even like it. Hey, chicken livers dipped in flour and fried in butter with plenty of salt and pepper. What's not to like? The low sugar apricot jam doesn't look very appetizing, but it tastes great. When did food become so sugar-laden? Everything has sugar now, including milk and water and this sweet craving doesn't speak well for our future health apropos waistlines and diabetes.

I have learned to leave the croutons out of the salad and serve them at the table. Same for avocado. Yum!

This morning I made a West Indian Bean Dip to take to a party. Double yum, and relatively low fat. Life is good. Celebrate. Eat well.

Grapeshot

My mom's Christmas cookies

My mom made the best Christmas cookies ever. She had an original recipe for sugar cookies: wreaths, Santa, reindeer, a star, all decorated beautifully with a frosting made of powdered sugar, milk and food coloring. For Santa’s pack, she added cocoa. She made dozens and dozens and gave a lot as gifts.

Her other specialties were gum drop cookies, Mexican wedding cakes (the best) and little cherry cookies. She loved cookies and as a young woman her nickname was Cookie. She did NOT like chocolate chip cookies, because she had once eaten an entire batch and became rather ill. She also made a delicious no-bake brandy ball cookie from Vanilla Wafer crumbs, powdered sugar, karo syrup and nuts as well as the brandy. These had to age for a week and were naturally hidden.

My mother also made beautiful wreaths and decorations from cones and pods. Not only was she a first-rate gardener with many ribbons and prizes, she had a creative eye for flower arranging, ceramics, stencils and even sewing.

Sad to say, as a young girl I never really appreciated her many talents. Isn’t that always the case? Now, I like to do many of the things she liked and I bake some of her cookies (except the gum drop) every year. The kids all have their favorites, and I bake my mother-in-laws, too.

My mother-in-law made the world’s best potato salad. She was somewhat superstitious and said that it was bad luck to do laundry between Christmas and New Years. She also kept a few scales from the Christmas Eve carp in her wallet which in theory would keep money in the wallet all year. I tried it once and it worked, but here we do not eat the Christmas Eve carp. I have tried several times to like it and can’t. Where I grew up we threw them back into the lake. We used salmon eggs for fish bait and I can’t eat salmon roe either.

Their funny eccentricities are what we remember most about people when they are gone. I hope I have some. Probably way too many. Random thoughts on a Thursday night.

Off to the Agent

Finally, finally World of Mirrors first chapter is off to the agent with the dreaded Chapter Outline completed along with the query. I'm going to slack off on the querying until the new year and try to finish Festival Madness. Right now, in the Christmas season I'm humming along more or less on schedule with the first batch of cookies to be baked tomorrow.

Yesterday I wrote about the Christmas Letter, which I hoped was modest and friendly. Not everyone's letter is modest. Here are some examples: http://www.funnyholidayletters.com/
Hope yours doesn't end up there.

Tonight I cooked Chicken in Calvados with Apples and a king's ransom of shallots. This was really good. I mean really good. We smugly decided we were the only couple in the entire Boston area feasting on such a scrumptious dish. We wondered if the folks in Normandy where the dish originated still made it and this led to a discussion of our grandmother's gardens. We think we are the last generation who will be able to reminisce about this. Whither the grandmothers of yesteryear and whither their gardens of yesteryear?

I fed the cows today. They stampeded up to the fence, even the babies. The ground shook. The sweet-faced young bull and the babies born this summer have all grown by the proverbial leaps and bounds. Last month's baby has lost his newborn look, and he hangs out with one of the older calves. I hang around and try to understand their culture. The pieces of melon are always popular. They'll even eat lemon rinds. With relish! Lettuce is ever popular, and squash skins have been a big hit.

Today's Boston Globe had the diets of 3 young people and I was appalled. Corn the only vegetable. Where were the apples? The grapes? The salad? The ickiness of the food boggled the mind and no one drank milk. Grapeshot has definitely joined the age group that tut-tuts about the younger generation. At least a big Mac would have lettuce and tomato. Bah humbug!

Think I'll go out and have a good howl since the moon is almost full. Baying the moon is a time-honored activity. No? Damn.

Grapeshot

The Dreaded Christmas Newsletter

I always stated that I would never write one, but over the years I came to see that I was writing the same thing on card after card, so why not write a Christmas letter? Everyone else does. We don't brag about anything, not there's there's anything to brag about. One of these days when a book is in the stores I'll be blowing my horn. So our letter is basically newsy and low key. Nothing anyone could parody. Make sure you write one that cannot be parodied, and you'll be all right. We always include a couple photographs, and some Christmas clip art, and the letter serves the purpose. I write a "real" letter to old old friends.

Our many photographs are kinda-sorta ordered, at least by decade, but there is a box that is totally unordered that has beaucoup photos of kids that were sent along with Christmas cards. My mother, bless her, would have labelled any photo that arrived unlabeled, but alas, I was lax and so we pitched a bunch of photos of we knew not who. Whom? Nobody says 'whom' anymore. It sounds effete.

Effete in Grapeshot's world is a decaf-soy-latte, the ultimate in effete. And flour tortillas (gag). What could be more effete than that? Well, egg beaters. What is with these faux foods? And these wimpy eaters? If you were born in Montana like me, you scorn tea-sips.

We ate the rest of the Yucutan soup for lunch. Two jalapenos with the seeds and pith therein. Chicken, broth, tomato, the last of the cilantro and some orzo and lime juice. Onions, of course. A healthy nourishing soup nothing effete about it. Ole.

Grapeshot

World of Mirrors

I suppose that once World of Mirrors is off to a publisher, I'll stop tweaking, but right now I can't seem to stop. Heard a presentation of writing dialogue Sunday and I raced home to purge some "I thoughts" right out of the book. Word count keeps dropping. I like that. From 120,000 to 112,000 to 99,000 and now to 96,000. Most of them were useless words. How does so much bad stuff stay in a manuscript that has been gone over and over again for years? Dunno. Chris Roerden's book about self-editing, Don't Murder Your Mystery, is also an invaluable assistant.

I am also still tweaking the chapter by chapter outline. I find it easier to edit with paper than on-screen. Why is that?

We had snow this morning and I suspect the parsley has finally frozen, but I'll take a look tomorrow. Damn, just when I wanted to make the parsley, crouton and gruyere omelette. Sounds good? Lately I have spent too much time in the kitchen and not with butt planted on chair. This will probably get worse as the month wears on.

A strange sight yesterday. A hawk (small) carrying off a bluejay. Saw it with my own eyes right on our street. Our neighbors tell me there are wild turkeys about, too, but I have never seen any. Maybe if we put out some corn along with the suet and the bird seed. The birds of winter are polite and don't squabble like the birds of summer. I like that. One seed at a time, and don't monopolize the feeder. We have a house finch who has decided to stick around.

Winter is icummen in.

Grapeshot, shivering.

What I Did for $25.00

Two facts: 1) Without a paycheck, a certain amount of belt tightening is inevitable. 2) I am getting to the age bracket that advertisers tend to ignore. That used to seem very strange to me, but I have reconsidered. After a certain age you realize you probably have too much stuff and you don't need anymore, hell, you really need to get rid of some of the stuff you already have. So the inclination to run out and buy more stuff diminishes exponentially. You don't go to work and you hardly ever go to super-fancy parties and benefits so the few really snazzy outfits you already own can go on and on. Maybe forever. Except for books and CD's and groceries and gas, you really aren't buying a whole lot of stuff anymore. And without a paycheck, you buy even less.

But money is always welcome, because the dental bills, emergencies, home repairs and all that stuff doesn't disappear just because you don't buy stuff you don't need and you don't have a paycheck. So along with little ways to scrimp, like turning lights out when you leave a room, and buying the specials at the grocery store, and selling some of your old junk you look around for even more legal ways to add a little extra cash to the exchequer. I ride the MBTA and I also read Craig's list and there are always researchers looking for guinea pigs. Step right up.

It went wrong from the beginning. S.O. and I would hotfoot it over to an institution of higher learning and pick up a tidy enough sum to enjoy a good dinner. Except he didn't qualify, so we settled for a cheap dinner. I, Grapeshot, presented myself at the test site and the people were very nice and I had to define some words and remember some numbers and everything was very pleasant. Then the tester announced that I would have to give a five minute speech on a list of topics which required some knowledge of current events, shall we say. Apparently a lot of the guinea pigs headed for the hills at this point, public speaking not being considered a walk in the park. However, currently Grapeshot is not one of the fearful, and she gave her little speech and it was nothing Demosthenes would have been proud of but it was o.k. and she was sincere and even knew a few facts. Then they required all sorts of mathematics nimbleness and that was somewhat stressful, and then it turned out the whole purpose of the experiment was so stress the volunteers enough to measure their stress hormones. I won't say anymore because I don't want to identify the test, but after 2.5 hours I felt like I had earned my $25.00 and then some.

S.O. and I travelled to the Border Cafe in Harvard Square where a cheap, filling and tasty meal can be had for just slightly over $25.00 if you factor in the Margaritas. Ole!

The moral of this story is that you never know what each new day will bring but it may be something just a little bit bizarre. The fish tacos (with corn tortillas, of course), were delicious. I wish someone would devise a test to figure out what this weird gringo fixation with flour tortillas is. Tasteless as wraps, the new scrouge of the fast food industry. But that's another topic.

Onward, etc.

Grapeshot