Last Day at the End of the Road

Did not go to the Opal Mines. Did not pass go. Did not leave the yard. Sat on the old white couch on the deck and read and worked crossword puzzles all day. Petted the cat. Drank some wine and some rum, not together. Ate leftover Spanish Rice for dinner.

Tomorrow the long drive, the long flight. No food. Yuck. I have my trusty granola bars.

Next Monday I have invited my writing group to dinner. It's hard to feed 6 - 8 on a Monday night after a busy weekend. I have a yummy chicken-pasta casserole with a mornay sauce I was planning to make. When I announced this, someone said she was on weight watchers and would bring a salad. So I am re-thinking the menu as to make it diet-friendly. Of course, Lasagne doesn't work either, nor would a tortilla casserole. Maybe a turkey breast on the grill with corn on the cob and tomatoes provencal. Kind of bland. I have a diet rice pudding that might make a decent dessert.

I'm going to New Hampshire and work for Obama.

Enough for now. Life is still weird at the end of the road.

Grapeshot

Aaaachooo from the end of the road

Aeons ago, I had allergy shots which provided a cure. Now, suddenly, 77 miles from the nearest store my hay fever has gone into high gear. I'm making do with some Tylenol cold medicine which stops the sneezing and runny nose.

We do laundry in an "egg" which works pretty well for small hand laundry stuff like underwear and socks but not towels. For towels and sheets, you go to Bruno's laundromat, all three washers. Bruno's has a monopoly here. Restaurant, gas station, motel, casino, laundromat, rental mobil homes, you name it, Bruno's got it.

If I ever went into the witness protection program, I might consider Northern Nevada.

Last night there was a "talent show' at one of the local watering holes. This town has several bars, including Brunos, of course.

The last of the Burners, the DPW crew were whoopping it up. God, they were young and with attitude and I felt like, well, old, and I left the party to the younger crowd. Some guy knew I had written a book and maybe he said he had it or had read it. In the noise I couldn't hear. Came home and watched CSI Miami, Nip/Tuck and House. Nip/Tuck is one sick weird program, but it compels. House was one I had seen before. So it goes.

The sun is rising and I can see a gazillion ripe pears on a tree a few doors down. My black sweater is drying on the line from yesterday. We made Spanish Rice with the wonderful tomatoes from the garden and some other stuff that was lying around. I like to take a look at what's available in the larder and cook something.

Today we're driving up to the Opal Mine toward Soldier Meadow, so I won't do big cooking.

Greetings and Aaachhhooo from the end of the road.

Grapeshot

Blogging From the End of the Road

The last roses of summer are rife here in Northern Nevada. Tomatoes still going crazy, and herbs strong and straight. Yesterday we picked peaches and tiny plums from the trees in the yard. This morning I made a compote of pears and peaches, and also an open faced tart with same.

Last night I concocted a tomatoes provencal from the contents of the yard. The sun is bright and the crysanthemums are ready to bloom. I've been sticking close to the house and don't beat up on myself for indulging in a bit of rum with ice in mid-afternoon with another one closer to the cocktail hour.

It's fun to take what is in the fridge, the pantry and the yard and concoct meals. Next month I'm taking a "writing about food class" at Brown. Ideas abound.

Reading and listening to the train at night are the other activities.

More anon.

Easy Party Menu

So, after four super-hectic days of NEIBA activities, we had a little dinner party last night. Normally I like to cook ahead for such events, but this was not an option.

We ate everything too fast for photos. Sorry about that.

Le Menu

Crackers with cream cheese and apricot pepper jelly
Hot Artichoke Dip

Pork Tenderloin with Smoked Paprika Rouille
Green Beans with Pancetta
Sweet Corn and Basmati Rice Salad

Italian Pastries

Below is a recipe for the salad, which is a great summer dish and note that it took the place of a salad AND a starch, hooray, hooray.

http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/SWEET-CORN-AND-BASMATI-RICE-SALAD-103494

I looked around the web for Hot Artichoke Dip recipes, and didn’t find mine.

1 cup mayo (can be low-fat but not non-fat)
1 lg. can artichoke hearts in water, drained well
½ cup grated Parmesan cheese
¾ tsp. grated onion
Dash Tabasco and Worcestershire sauce
1 tsp. Dijon mustard

In a food processor, mix all ingredients. Pour into buttered casserole or soufflé dish.
Bake at 350 for 20 minutes until puffy and light brown. Sprinkle with paprika. Serve with Triscuits, Wheat Thins or any other crackers.

Here is the recipe for the pork tenderloin. I believe I got it from Stephen Weber’s email, as in Weber kettle.

http://www.sportsline.com/mcc/blogs/entry/5887511/9823827

Now invite somebody you like to dinner.

Grapeshot

NEIBA photos

The car is unpacked and the booth needs to be stashed on the garage shelves, a two-person job.

I'm drooling over all the books we picked up, including War and Peace, Christmas presents, and plenty of good airplane reading.

Toni Kelner and Dana Cameron are blogging NEIBA, as well as many other Sisters in Crime and MWA members. Isn't the blogosphere cool?

I'm going on one of my semi-annual pilgrimages to my tiny place Northern Nevada tomorrow, so postings may be scanty. On the other hand, I may write volumes. Photos will be fab. And the books come with. That's a Chicago expression that pains S.O., but I still like it.

Next post will be recipes, so come back soon.

Grapeshot

Feet Up, Brain in Neutral

We spent the last three days at NEIBA at the Hynes Convention Center. I discovered I have no comfortable shoes that are good for 8 hours of standing, at least none of the non-sneaker variety.

Being around books and writers and booksellers and publishers is heady stuff, and free books are totally awesome, esp. if signed by the author. We worked hard and had a good time, and am I ever glad it's over.

After I finish my Red Zinger tea, I'm going to soak my feet and slather on some of the Body Shop's Peppermint Foot Balm.

Then I find some totally mindless TV, or maybe I pull out one of the cool new books I've got and curl up. What could be finer? SinC into a good mystery. Yeah.

Grapeshot

New England Independent Booksellers = NEIBA

This weekend, you'll find me at NEIBA in the Hynes Convention Center in Downtown Boston. If there's anything a writer loves more than writing it's reading and books, books, books.

We are representing Mystery Writer's of America and Sisters in Crime in the New York-New England areas. So, last year we used one of S.O.'s old pop up booths from aeons ago, something still in our garage along with other sundry items. This year, with yet a bigger floor space we brought two more sections. Now a few years ago, we had put up one in the driveway/garage area to make sure all the pieces were present, because we were going to put it on Craig's List.

Actually we did put it on Craig's List, and it didn't sell, no inquiries even, and that was the end of that. Until today. We got everything into our smallist car and tooled into town. We put the easy part together first and then tackled the unfamiliar.

Yikes! Put it together wrong not twice but thrice, and that was only the first section. Second section was missing a few pieces. We made do, hoping no one leans against it and sends it crashing down. Got all the signage up. Stuffed some "goody bags." Busy, busy with no time to cruise around and scope out all the really cool books. The University of Chicago always has a wonderful booth, but then I am an academic at heart.

Left everything looking a-ok. Up to P.K. Chang's for a Chinese Bistro meal that can't be beat. Home again, home again, jiggety jig to a mailbox full of crap and some stupid phone messages that made no sense at all.

Put the towels in the dryer and gave the cat and pill and hear we are. Exciting day, no? Tomorrow the show opens and we promote our organizations like crazy. Saturday, too.

I really need to work on this book, but duty calls. Seems like duty calls a lot. Is duty another name for procrastination? Someone tell me, quick.

Grapeshot

The Dewy Morning Grass

My mother-in-law, bless her, claimed it was healthy to walk barefoot on the lawn when the grass was still wet with dew. I can't recall what health properties this wetting of the tootsies with the dew had, but it is a pleasant sensation, and I think of her whenever I indulge, which was this morning when I performed garden grooming, a chore that I do at least twice a week.

Grooming the garden is like cleaning up the kitchen after a meal. Do it regularly and it's small potatoes, Wait until you have a backlog and eeek!

Pulled up the spent green pepper plant, trimmed the dead leaves off the tomatoes, and cut spent blossoms off of practically everything. The nasturtiums are enjoying a second growth, and I have dozens of moss rose which reseeded themselves from last year and are blooming like mad. It's like, free plants!

The sun has shifted and some things are still doing well, while other flowers seem a bit forlorn. The dew may have benefited my general health, but I've been sneezing like mad since I went into the garden. We hope the hummingbird has begun her long migration. Say a little prayer for all the tiny birds that travel such long distances. They need our "bon voyage."

My mother-in-law had other beliefs that are non-standard. She thought it was bad luck to do laundry between Christmas and New Year's, and she also stated that if you put a few scales from the Christmas carp (ewww!) into your wallet, you'd always have money for the coming year. I tried that one, and it worked. Or was it because I stopped smoking? That will certainly put money in your pockets.

Whatever, it's way cool to pussy foot through the wet grass in bare feet.

Grapeshot

On the Literary Scene

A moment of silence for David Foster Wallace, a victim of depression. How deadly this disease can be. How sad for anyone, and especially when we lose one of our great writers. It is hard.

I continue to struggle, but in a good way, on my newest novel. It is my sixth, and I currently have three unpublished babies that want to be adopted. They are feeling like ugly stepchildren, wanting love and appreciation.

Tomorrow night, if you're in the vicinity of Cambridge, MA/Somerville, MA, drop in for a drink and some appetizers at Redbones Barbecue and meet three Boston mystery/suspense writers. My friend Sibylle Barrasso will be signing Dark Waters, along with two fellow writers. The company can't be beat and the food is to die for. Sponsored by Kate's Mystery Books.

A confession is now in order. Saturday I made the appetizer that my main character in the new book is taking to a party and I carried it to not one but two parties. It is called Shrimp Butter on Toast, and it actually tastes quite yummy. The shrimp butter is made out of shrimp and butter with some seasonings, and dumped into the Cuisinart, and the toast is made with little triangles of sandwich bread brushed with butter and toasted in the oven. It's a fairly simple thing if you have a Cuisinart, and isn't too fancy or complicated, because my character is not a gourmet cook, only an adequate cook. Fancy is when you garnish it with tiny shrimp and a bit of parsley.

My character is eating in a restuarants where I ate and living in my friend's father's old condo. It's nice when you don't have to make everything up, and I need a bit of local Florida color.

Don't forget The New England Crime Bake if you're a mystery fan or writer. See the website for details, www.crimebake.org.

The Red Sox are creaming Tampa Bay, and I have to watch the last inning.

Grapeshot

Out and About in the City

Yesterday we were at an art auction in downtown Boston, and as usual, the trip had an educational aspect, but not in the ways one would anticipate.

Hint: if you like to avoid eating with small children or if you have small children and would like to go out to eat, Legal Seafood in the Park Plaza neighborhood on a rainy Friday is just the ticket. I ate the spicy fish and chips (Yowza!) and S.O. had gumbo. Drank a glass of Fernaccia from Tuscany that hit the spot.

Fashion. Black is the new black. You can mix black and brown. Who knew? A black top and slacks with a tan safari type jacket is the cat's meow.

Jeans go with everything, especially with long legs. Ballet flats good. Long blond hair always good, the less styled the better. Boston didn't look so unstylish yesterday, but maybe because I am so friggin' out of it. My navy blazer and tan slacks looked so . . . yesterday, so suburban, so matronly.

If you have a new house and need good art on the walls--we are NOT talking Kincaid here, hie yourself to one of the Skinner auctions and pick up some nice paintings under $400.00. Hard to believe, when some of the shopping center art in its yuckky awfulness goes for thousands. Portraits are especially a good bargain. Tell someone it's your great aunt.

Weird man on the subway, asking for spare change. Usually someone weird on the subway, but that's the not-so-discreet charm of the city.

Get out and about. Away from the TV. You didn't want to hear about Sarah Palin's trip to Ireland anyhow. The plane refueled. Hey, I saw the coast of Vietnam once. Does that count?
O.K. enough.

Grapeshot

Lemon-Glazed Poppy Seed Cake

Clowning in my sister-in-laws kitchen.


When I was fourteen, I palled around with the Lutheran minister's daughter in our small town. The Lutheran church had a Wednesday night pot luck supper--I can't recall if it was weekly or monthly, but I used to go with Jurene, and the highlight, foodwise, was a poppy seed cake made by Mrs. Dahms. She never gave out the recipe. I wasn't into cooking at all, but once I asked my mom, and she said that the recipe was secret. Secrets are good. Secrets are tempting.

It was a white cake with poppyseeds, and there was somekind of curd, maybe lemonish on top, an frosting on top of that. Years later, when I ran across what looked to be that recipe, I passed on it. Too sweet and too gloppy, but when you're fourteen that's good stuff.

The great love of my fourteen year old life, Jerry D. , was at those church suppers, and I swooned over his father, too. The men would go outside to smoke and stand on the corner in their suits. Jerry's father was very handsome, and he smiled at me. Of course Jerry didn't smoke because he was a football player and a wrestler. We took piano lessons from the same teacher and he played "Dangerous Journey."

Jerry was one of the few kids in the school who was smarter than me. Hey, it was a small school and I was kind of a dweeb.

Those were the peak of my piano playing years, at least, the years when I still took lessons. The one piece I tried to master but couldn't was Rachmaninoff's Prelude in C Sharp Minor. God, it seemed to me then a beautiful, passionate piece of music, but playing it without strugges, missed notes and hesitations was beyond my talent, which is to say, I played it, but badly.

This all came together in my head yesterday, because I made a poppy seed cake, much simpler and maybe even better than Mrs. Dahms, and my friend is writing a book with Rachmaninoff in it, and we were talking about my piano abilities, now sadly gone.

I remember practicing the piece in the Manse, and the reverend being somewhat uncomplimentary about my efforts. I remember the Christian fellowship in the church basement and the cake and Jerry and his Dad and being fourteen years old. I remember where every church in town was.

How much I remember from those years and how little from others. Proust had much to say about memory, and he said it so well.

My cake was sort of a Proustian thing, although the taste was unique and did not transport me back to Northeastern Colorado and the high plains, just the idea of the cake and thinking of that piece of music brought back strong memories.

You can probably Google the recipe. It was in a May Gourmet, most likely a couple years back because I am cooking and baking my way through the clippings slowly, and either my arteries will clog or I will weight 300 pounds before I finish.

I found it for you: http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/GLAZED-LEMON-POPPY-SEED-CAKE-238394

Create your own Proustian moments.

Thoughts on a cool September eve when the Red Sox are travelling.

Grapeshot

Maureen Dowd is right on!

Maureen Dowd's column in the New York Times today has humor, irony and sticks it to Sarah Palin on any number of issues.

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/09/10/opinion/10dowd.html?_r=1&oref=slogin

Wish I would have said that. Now if only she had mentioned polar bear helper. . . .

Grapeshot

Look Ma! No Interviews

I am aghast that Ms. Palin has yet to be interviewed. Am I crazy, or does everyone else think it's incredibly weird that a vice-presidential candidate cannot participate in an interview. Tonight S.O. mentioned that lots of guys are planning to vote for her, and my reply was unprintable in a family blog like this, but a little hint is what would the guys be voting with, and another hint is that it wasn't their brains.

Seems incredible to believe men are as stupid as women. The Hilary loyalists were hard to understand, There is an old saying, "cutting off your nose to spite your face," and it seems to happen every day.

I know my sex to be emotional, that being one of the bats I used to be beat over the head with on one job. Practically daily. "You're too emotional."

But guys? Voting for Caribou Barbie? Fantasies of the hunt? Goin' fishing? Fantasies of her coming on to them? I mean really. More people should have a life.

Today in Boston, you would have thought the Pope died, with all the caterwauling about Tom Brady. Now I love Brady and Belechik, something about their intensity is really appealing, but the man is injured, not dead, and football is a game of injuries, and the Pats have had their days in the sun and no one seems to want to take their lumps, as it were.

Grapeshot, your humble blogger, has been heard to say, "bah, humbug!" any number of times.

And today, again, the rains came.

Tonight, dinner was a pick up affair, with my own take on eggplant parmesan. We have three ripe tomatoes, garlic, onion, and a bit of green pepper. We had fresh fettucini, and one medium eggplant. Some parmesan and a modicum of mozzarella. And always basil, parsley,oregano and sage. Herbs make the meal.

It was incredibly tasty. I cooked everything in one skillet (except the pasta) and put it under the broiler for a minute or two for the cheese to melt. Vegetarian is good, but this was not low fat or low calorie. We can fight over the little bit left for lunch.

No polar bear helper or caribou helper or evern salmon helper involved. Would you shoot a caribou? Would you leave the polar bears to drown when the ice all melts? Such great creatures, and some politicians would write them off without a shrug.

I don't know. I don't know.

I wouldn't.

God, Mother, Country, Apple Pie, No, I mean Plum Tart

So this election is beginning to look like there will be scant discussion of issues and lots of God, mother and country talk. Are these issues? I don't think so.

I'm tempted to stand on the corner and scream, "you're a nation of sheep! and the wolf is coming to the fold! " But what good would it do? I may set my hair on fire.

In the meantime, there is food. No, not apple pie, but plum tart. Yes, the prune plums have arrived. They are hard to find. Also known as Italian prune plums, and where are the little Italian grandmother (nonas) of yesteryear?

Not shopping where I do. We cleaned the prune plums out of Stop & Shop. Most of them were hard as gourds, but a few days on the counter did ripening miracles, and this morning I made the crust by hand out of flour, sugar, butter, and an egg. The photo is the result.

We haven't tucked into it yet. The nuts are hazlenuts, because I was out of almonds. The top is also sprinkled liberally with sugar into which a soupcon of cinnamon and nutmeg have been sifted.

Mega yum! Now I have to work on my novel, always a pleasure. Did you watch Mad Men last night? The plot thickens. I like that. Good conflict. We like that, too. Some of the characters aren't very nice. In fact, are any of the characters nice? Some of the women are rather like Sarah Baracuda, don't you think? Isn't it weird they won't let her talk to the press? A VP candidate who isn't allowed to talk? A woman, yet? I dunno. It's like she has to be brainwashed and primed and pumped by the handlers. And people are going to vote for these two?

I forgot. People won't vote for them. Sheep will. Are you man or Merino? Baaaa?

The baddest of the bad: fictional villians

More about my villain and how I’m creating him. The Colombian drug lord? How does a suburban housewife fiction writer get into the head of such a person?

The $64,000 question, and of course if the novel ever sells and I receive an advance, that’s what it may boil down to.

S.O. and I had another “villain” conversation, with him arguing that bad people must realize they’re evil, and me saying, no, they justify it somehow and sociopaths and psychopaths have particular personalities.

In World of Mirrors, yet unsold, I created a likable villain, Chuck, who fit the portrait of a sociopath. I also had a bad guy, Putnam, who was worse than Chuck and a venture capitalist who was worse yet. Chuck was easy to write because I was basing him loosing on people I knew, as was Edgar, the worst of the lot. Putnam had a physical model with a few quirks was based on a nice guy I worked with. He began as a good guy and turned bad early on. I used many co-workers for the physical model of my characters.

At work, you can really study a person, and notice all their little habits that create individuality on the page. But I digress.

How does a suburban housewife writer, retired techie, to be sure, get into the head of a Colombian drug lord?

A back-story. Early life, parents, how he got into the “trade.”
How he sees himself now, which is as a businessman, not a drug lord. He does not refer to coke and weed, he thinks of “product.”
What he worries about.
Relationships with women, including his mother.

I like complete characters, not stereotypes, and of course, most villains are horrible stereotypes, so dark that no light shines through. And the villain has to want something, too, something that clashes with the hero. I’ve set mine up on a collision course.

It’s hard work.

I read the papers, the Boston Globe, the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal, virtual gold mines. For example, a few weeks ago there was an article about the drug cartels paying for mini-submarines to deliver “product” to these shores, submarines that were hell to detect. Cool huh? Well, not for the DEA, but my character is ordering some, and stewing about the vendors, wanting to talk details with the designers, all good stuff.

And today, an interview with a former CEO on various topics, and the interview is now on my messy desk with a gazillion other papers, because some of the advice he offers will go (reworded, of course, because Grapeshot does not plagiarize) into my villain’s head. I picked up two real gems.

So it goes. Writers love their characters, even the baddest; especially the baddest, people only a mother or creator could love.

In the same book, I have another unsympathetic character who came right out of the checkout line a few weeks ago. I like to say go out into the world and look around. For a writer, it pays big dividends.

Grapeshot

How I'm Writing My Novel and Other Tales

The author bellied up to the bar in Nantucket last summer. We know that writers like to tipple a bit. Grapeshot is no exception. Wonder what that weird-looking pink drink is? Must be a summertime kind of quaff.

The new novel I’m writing, any new novel, is hard going. The bad guy’s voice is difficult. I knew I had to be in the bad guy's head to up the suspense and the tension. And he is very bad, but yanno, I didn’t want to make him a stereotype, and so I’ve been developing his quirks, as he tells them to me, and he isn’t talking to me nearly as much as I would like.

In addition, what he tells me is that he isn’t bad, and things just worked out the way they did. I thought, well, sure. I mean who actually thinks they are evil and rotten to themselves? Lots of neurotics, of course, but bad people would have all of these justifications. And he does.

Significant Other said he doesn’t sound awful. Well, no. Moreover, I’m introducing his life story, or as much as the reader needs to know, in little dribs and drabs. Is that good? All the writing advice says so. One doesn’t need this big back-story dump, yet everyone seems to expect it. Is there that much sloppy writing about or is there something else, a failure on my part?

I got a lot out of The Writer that the post woman delivered yesterday. Yes, we have a mail lady. What the hell do we call her? I don’t know. The Writer had three good articles about writing mysteries, which this book isn't--it's suspense, but nonetheless. Bill Tapply's article on dialogue was particularly good.

Back to the book, tentatively titled, In Flight. I am beginning to like my bad character, the villain. To himself he doesn’t seem that bad, and when I’m in his head, he isn’t. What a crazy thing writing is. I believe in my characters so much. They are as real as the mail woman. She takes her lunch hour in our environs every day, and reads a Chinese newspaper. The little details you remember.

The bad guy needs good, believable details. He has to be an imperfect perfect whole. I know what he wears and how he thinks and about his supermodel girlfriend, although we don’t even know she’s a supermodel yet. It’s fun feeding facts out in little bits and pieces.

I’m coming up on 100 pages, about one-quarter way through. The romance is developing, and I have to find a way to make it rocky from the beginning. After the romance becomes part of the plot, the danger and suspense will make things rocky. I need to get from point A to point B rather quickly with a few more scenes of set up that drive the plot forward. The first quarter of any book is meet the people and set up the story while giving and promising the reader a good thrill. It ain’t easy, but it’s fun.

My greatest current dilemma is not writing this book, but how to get the three existing books published. They all have a good story, with fun stuff, and lots of excitement but the literary agents aren’t seeing it that way. Of course, they haven’t read the books. And that’s my fault for not presenting them with enough juice and pizazz, so freaking exciting that you can’t help but insist on reading the manuscript.

Using technology as part of the plot seems to be a big stumbling block, and I have the feeling if I had cybersex or Internet stalking or some of those eeky tech things everyone knows about, the cliches, if you will, the agents would like the book than the more arcane things I write of.

I didn’t watch McCain’s speech. Just too disgusted. There seem to be so few logical thinkers among us. It’s freaking me out. Absolutely. The Age of Reason has come and gone. Yikes!

God, Mother and Country

After much internal dialogue, I decided to listen to Sarah's speech last night, but finally turned it off because it was a god, mother and country speech and the best one, by far the best was delivered in the Riverwoods Village Hall about a million years ago by Barb Carmen, and after that impassioned rhetoric, none of them passed muster. Sorry. Sarah.

I will watch McCain's speech tonight. Wonder if he will mention the so-called issues in a way that will tell us his plans. The Republicans seem to be learning hard on God, mother and country. I don't think those are the issues. Well, maybe they are.

Sometimes, one thinks of emigrating, not seriously, but nonetheless, the thought intrudes. How can it have come to this?

Since most of us have families of some sort, or did at one time, no matter how dysfunctional, I fail to see how having a family qualifies one for much of anything. If someone could please explain, I promise to listen.

Sour Grapes About Sarah

I have to confess. I'm jealous of Sarah and mad as hell that no one nominated ME for VP. After all, I was a PTA president, ran a lot of charity benefits (people and organizational skills). For fifteen years I was a project leader in an IT department. Technology! Organization! Difficult people skills.

Lots of trips to Europe, speak German and dabs of French and Spanish. Hey, I have even read Proust. Ergo, good international skills. Once I even confronted East German customs officials.

Hmmm. What else? Yeah, I'm a mother, but my philosophy of motherhood is that any woman whe can lie still for a few moments can become a mother. Motherhood qualifies you for ah--people skills, detail oriented, well, those have been covered already. Cleaning up vomit doesn't count, does it?

I wrote five books. Granted they are computer crime mysteries, and that and ten cents will get you zilch. But doesn't that show attention to detail and big picture person. As well as someone who can work independently with butt planted in chair?

For the "common touch," I like to garden, pet my cats and I cook up a hell of a meal of fried spam, canned peas and macaroni and cheese from the box.

Onceupon a time I served on the boy scout troup committee. Also a great Books Leader. Oh! I forgot. Sorry, no one reads great books anymore. People read--no, people don't read.

Sheep! I can herd sheep, because I can herd cats. Haven't we become a nation of sheep? BAAA!

My parents passed on a love of watching someone else fish.

Native American Blood! Cherokee and something the Canadian French intermarried with--starts with an "A." Not Abysinnian.

Conservative roots: Mennonites! Another great grandpa rode a mule through North Georgia preaching the gospel. Six uncles in the military, no make that seven. Another uncle built Boeing Bombers as did the aunt. Two uncles worked on the railroad. Mother from Kansas. Grandpa who chased Pancho Villa! On a mule! Obviously no elephants in the family. Hmmm. Same grandpa had a still in North Georgia. Those North Georgian roots are pretty interesting.

My Mom was a personage in Denver Republican politics. Ah, there's the elephant. But I don't think the Republicans would have me. Move over, Joe.

Hey, I got creds, real creds. So how come I haven't been, you know, nominated? What kind of country is this, anyhow?

Think I'll go read some Proust. Yeah.

Grapeshot

Three Women and a daughter

All of a sudden the airwaves are full of insipid commercials with three women. They are going orgasmic over non-dairy creamer, or Three Musketeers or baked corn chips. Nothing I recall ever getting too excited about. Actually, sounds like stuff to avoid. All obviously best friends giggling and shrieking over ho-hum stuff. Weird. Who would be stupid enough to buy those products based on these commercials of girl bonding over non-dairy creamer? I mean, think about it.

The Republican vice-presidential candidate appears to have shown zip concern for her pregnant teen-aged daughter's feelings. Think back to seventeen. How would you have liked not just everyone in the U.S. to know about your little mistake, but the entire world. How humiliating is that? Well, kid, stiff upper lip, finish school and leave the reluctant husband when you've had enough. Above all, stiff upper lip. Poor thing.

Caribou Barby. That's good, huh? Well, depending on your point of view. What's interesting, is that the Democratic woman are asking, geez, who's going to be taking care of those kids, especially the special needs baby? and the Republican, womans-place-is-in-the-home church, kids and kitchen folks are saying, "sure, she can have it all. Go for it! "

Do you ever feel like life, real life, has become reality TV and YOU CAN'T TURN IT OFF. There is No REMOTE.

I don't know. I don't know.

Grapehot, who has been expressing doubts about everything of late.