Lemmings 'R Us

Nothing is more exasperating that to discover you have this huge herd instinct. Yesterday, the forecast for New Year's Eve was not encouraging, and I thought rather than trek into Boston in bad weather, we could opt for a visit to the Museum of Science today. It's Tuesday, a nothing kind of day, right, and sure, kids are out of schools, but so what?

Naturally, we got a late start and arrived at the museum around 12:30. Pandemonium. There must have been 10,000 kids and parents and strollers and ye gods, the noise. No one was screaming, or anything, in fact I actually did not hear a kid cry all day, but there were so freakin' many of them. The IMAX was sold out until 4:00 p.m.

We saw the cool "monsters" exhibit, ate a bit of lunch. The pizza line was ENDLESS, so most of us opted for the salad bar which had no wait. We visited the Planetarium for the first time, and of course all the adults fell asleep. Soothing music, darkness, after lunch with no coffee. Zzzzzz. How fine it was.

We got out of there around 3:30, and of course, in true lock step with the HERD, the rush hour had begun. 93 South was a parking lot, and we opted for the Pike which was fine.

Speaking of herds, the obstrerperous and pregnant young cow that was jumping the fence and misbehaving last week is not in the pasture. Hope she's in the barn or a shed or somewhere besides back where she came from. Of course if Iris's baby returned, I would be very happy. Maggie and the young black bull seemed to be bonding yesterday, and I wanted to say, "listen here, that's your grandson!" but she's a cow.

Every now and then a recipe comes along that is so fine one makes it forever. Breast Budapest, is such a find. Sounds like something the old Gabor sisters might have concocted.

It came from Perdue when their thin-sliced cutlets first appeared in the supermarket, and recipes were included to give the cook a leg up. The cutlets were kind of pricey, and I can understand why Perdue wanted to popularize them.

Breast Budapest is sauteed-in-butter chicken breast in a delicious goulash sauce, heavy on the cream. Is it ever good. We had it tonight with bow tie pasta, and peas and carrots. Yum!! If I can scare up the recipe on the Net I'll post the link.

So now we're still without plans for New Year's Eve, the most over-rated holiday of all. The best one I ever had was at a party in the Adolphus Hotel in Dallas before the Cotton Bowl. Zowie.

Grapeshot, regretfully just one of the herd.

No luck on the recipe, but you get some odd hits if you Google Breast Budapest.

Why I Am No Longer Fashionable

I was always a skinny-Minnie until I stopped smoking, and then I packed on the pounds, so badly that I went from a six to a ten without ever stopping at an eight. Yikes! This happened after I moved to Boston where fashion is a dirty word. Oh, I know. The local newspapers like to tell us we really are stylish, honest, truly, but anyone who drives I-95 South to the Big Apple understands that The Big Apple is the Big Apple, and that Beantown, is, well, Beantown.

In my skinny days, I was terribly fashionable. Jax, Saks, Anne Klein, Jaeger. You name it. My god, I had a Gucci tennis outfit, purchased in Florence. So gaining weight put a huge crimp in my fashionableness, and in addition, I became older, and when I looked at the ads, they sure as hell didn’t show me. They showed anorexic twenty year olds. The clothes didn’t look like anything I could wear to the office or to dinner or to my writing group or even to the theater. In Boston that is.

So I became unfashionable, and from time to time I still stick my nose into Vogue or The New York Times Style section, but those clothes don’t belong in Boston. Cambridge is the worst dressed town in the world. We are talking serious tacky. You can wear the most god-awful getups in Cambridge and no one will look askance. No one will even look.

Boston proper is nearly as bad. A couple years ago I decided to buy a brown or camel jacket. We make an appearance at symphony hall a few times a year, and I noticed many nice wool blazers there in the winter months. So I hie myself to Nordstrom’s and wander around the department where women’s jackets can be found. Cripes, there wasn’t a wool blazer in sight except as part of a suit. Then it dawned on me. The matrons of Boston wore their eight-ten year old wool blazers to the symphony just like I did. I bought a cool non-tailored jacket and have received beaucoup compliments. And I’m the most stylish person at the Handel & Haydn performance. But that’s not saying much.

I never really worked anywhere in the Boston area where women were fashionably dressed. We already mentioned Cambridge. Writers are notoriously poor dressers. In Boston, anyway. When we go out to dinner in the suburbs, everyone wears jeans and sweaters. No fashion there. So I don’t even SEE any fashion to emulate. It’s sad. And then I go to New York and Zowie! Where did all these skinny, cool-looking women come from?

Sometimes coming back from the symphony we are on the same subway cars as the young girls coming into town to go to dance clubs or whatever. Slinky tops and jeans. I could do that, but sometimes you don’t wanna dress down two generations. It’s just not the same.

When we were in Paris two years ago, I did all right, but the Parisian women were stylishly dressed, all in black--the shoes, the coats, the dresses. Très faconnable! Where do women even buy that stuff? Nonetheless, I looked suave having lunch at the museum. See photo.

Now I’m resigned to looking only slightly better than someone going out to wash the car. But I never wear sneakers on Newbury Street. Some standards have to be upheld.

Back and Alive - 4 years since the Tsunami

It's been four years since the devastating 2004 Tsunami, December 26th, 2004. I try to remember to post this account which a relative received in an email. However bad the economy at least we haven't been washed away.

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 sleepThe 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 andAnd 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 theWithout 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 up corpses.

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.

Christmas In Kansas

When I was in elementary school, we lived in Northeastern Colorado and my grandparents lived in Central Kansas. It was a several hundred mile ride across windswept plains and iffy (sometimes) weather. Always bitter cold. (See map on the right.)

We would normally arrive at my grandparents in time for the Christmas Eve service at my grandma's Evangelical church. This church was originally founded by French Canadians who left their Catholic Church in Illinois due to a dust up with the bishop. First they were Episcopalians and then they became Baptists and when I was a child it was the First Evangelical church, a white frame building with room for a Sunday school. Ten years ago when we were last in town to bury my mother, the church was a nursery school. I was just happy it hadn't been torn down.

When I was in town I went to Sunday School there, and remember rousing chorus's of Onward Christian Soldiers. At Christmas, I was always stuffed into the Christmas pageant, which involved mostly carols, but sometimes a speaking part, only a sentence, which I was suppose to memorize that evening. My parents used to laugh about my mouthing carol lyrics which I didn't know. In my family, gentle teasing was a part of life.

My second cousins and their mother always played a few marimba solos. To me they were rock stars.

We would repair to my grandma's for cookies, always plentiful, and unwrap the gifts, which we did on Christmas Eve. My uncle always gave me a box of chocolate-covered cherries, which I adored, and except for a gray mechanical elephant, that's the only gift I remember. Paper dolls, perhaps. Christmas was not so elaborate then. My mom bought cigarettes and handkerchiefs for me to give my Dad. As a child, I couldn't imagine why he would want hankies.

This was a Mennonite town (my grandpa was a lapsed Mennonite) and everything was always kept low key and one had to be quiet and sedate on the Sabbath. To this day I am somewhat horrified if someone dances to Christmas music or applauds after sacred music. Childhood stays with us in so many unexpected ways. Hooray.

All the relatives (and there were many) came Christmas Day to a big feed. Turkey, I suppose or maybe a ham or a roast. Always potatoes and gravy and pie and cake. I was an indifferent eater except of fried chicken which I liked as much as chocolate-covered cherries but ate much more frequently.

One of my uncles had a dog, Tojo, which had come from Japan. He was a cool dog. Another uncle had a pointer, that pointed the parakeet, house flies, anything that moved.

Lovely memories of days long ago. Our family was less dysfunctional than many, although of course, every family is a little weird. My mom and her brothers argued politics in a heated but still friendly way, which made my grandma very nervous.

Me and three cousins are all that is left, and everyone is in the little cemetery that is full. The Inn is not the only spot with no room.

Merry Christmas,

Grapeshot

Airport Late At Night With Delays and Holiday Travel

Last night, waiting to leave for T.F. Green Airport, we were trying to kill time, which always passes very slowly except when want wants to savor something. Finally, the flight information was so obtuse that we decided to leave for the airport anyway, because the flight might actually be in the air.

Slick neighborhood streets, and then a clear shot down I-95. At the airport things didn't look good. Sirens galore pulling up to the terminal, and hazmat vehicles and fireman going into the terminal, while inside we heard emergency beeps. The nightmare begins.

Plane was late. Really late, and then it got later. Sirens finally stop. By now, you understand the time was heading toward, well, midnight. We're cool. We brought something to read, because every business is closed. No newspapers, no books, no coffee, no snacks.

The crowd has taken over Starbucks seating area because there is no place to sit. The terminal is crowded, like on a Sunday at 6:00 p.m. There's luggage all over--big mother's of suitcases that hold two weeks worth of dreck, suitcases from hell, thousands of them. A sea of suitcases.

The board reveals that all the flights coming in are at least two hours late. From the south, the north, and the west. From wherever. This is still the fallout from the weekend snow and snow today here and there, althought mostly there, because Boston has been sunny all day, Providence, too, and the flight was originally on time, nay even early.

So much for that dead optimism.

Of course, the people watching is good. The temperature outside is 15 chilly degrees, and a wind that came up in the afternoon makes it feel like -15. So it is always instructive to see guys in those weird girly-looking long shorts that look like skirts, traipsing along, incredibly dorky. Dorky to the max. If they knew how stupid they looked, they would hide in a closet forever.

One of the weirdest sites is a well-dressed attractive woman, but Mon Dieu, she is wearing flip flops! Kids, the New England snow is national news. 15 Chilly Degrees? Got that?

Has this clueless flier been under a rock? Reading People? Shopping till she dropped? Dropped her brain most likely. Ooops! Sorry, I dropped my brain.

Her travelling companion performs an act that I confess would not have been mine. The companion, equally well dressed with cool sheepskin shoes, opens a big unweildy suitcase, extracts a new pair of white cotton socks and gives them to her fellow traveller. Then she hands over the warm comfy shoes and takes boots from her suitcase. She has given her friend clean warm socks and fleecy shoes. Getting this metal zippered suitcase open and closed in the crowded confines of the Starbucks area is not an easy feat.

This woman is a hero, the one a.m. hero of T.F. Green. Where is her medal?

I spend the rest of my time reading Ellery Queen, people watching, hitting the vending machines, and checking the flight board. Sometimes I ogle guys, the gray-haired ones, but sometimes the young, but never the ones in girly skirts. I have standards.

Finally, finally, our voyager arrives, just at the alarms go off again. Someone opened an "illegal door." Probably some poor fool sneaking out for a smoke. To the sound of the sirens, we get out of there at 1:30, home by a little after 2:00, and asleep around 3:00.

Question: did I make my 8:00 a.m. workout?

Ha ha ha. What do you think?

I am still feeling sorry for those waiting for the flights that still hadn't arrived. And the travellers in sandals and shorts and flipflops. Hey, their vote counts the same as yours.

Think about that.

Grapeshot

Notes from All Over

Caption: A cats gotta do what a cats gotta do.

Everyone and his brother, mother-in-law, and 2nd cousins was out running errands today, after three days of snow. I have this to report:

More people are shopping at Walmart than Nordstroms, and Walmart had some pretty decent women's tee shirts for $5.00. I buy them for a) workouts and b) pajama tops. Walmart has the cheapest cat litter in the country. And the cats like it!

It used to be that baggers in a super market, unless they were totally out-of-it sixteen year olds, knew how to, well, how to bag groceries. Now, no matter the age, no matter what we say, the baggers still stick two big bottles of cranberry juice and 2 large jars to tomato sauce in the same sack. If you bring reusable bags in, as we do, and there aren't quite enough, the bagger just jams everything together. Do they ask, "Paper or plastic?" for the remainder. Nope.

It can be hard to intuit where in the store grocery items are stored. Sometimes, when you ask, the clerk knows, and sometimes, there's much head-scratching and wandering about, and it's like a treaure hunt with no map until finally, finally, the missing item is located. So far this month, barley has been the most elusive foodstuff.

The main roads are plowed, but major roads are still hard to park on, i.e. poorly plowed at the edges. This was true in Providence, where we damn near died getting across the street, over the snowbank, past the sheet of ice and in the door. Damn! This is living dangerously. My idea of living dangerously is going into town for dinner without reservations, although this year, that is probably not an issue.

Last night, still recovering from the stomach whatever, I felt like chilling on the sofa and watching some nice Christmas show. The only thing I could find was on the Grand Ol Oprey channel. A group, Clay Jar or something like that did a wonderful "Little Drummer Boy," but "O Little Town of Bethlehem" was too much of a "treatment" for me, and I looked for something else. Zilch! Can you believe it? No Christmas music the Sunday before Christmas?

This afternoon Annie gave voice to two mad meows. S.O. was her target. Where were you? Why didn't you take a nap today? She offers no quarter. Besides her tail, a cat's ears give her emotional temperature away. Of course the eyes tell their own tales. Very emotional creatures, are cats. This year they've been respectful of the tree and (most of) the ornaments. Sometimes a cats just gotta do what a cats gotta do.

More anon,

Grapeshot

Where Are The Snows Of Yesterday?

More snow, after drifting flakes came down all day yesterday. A trip to the store is in order, and also the bookstore, the beleagured Border's, for last minute gifts. Books make great personalized gifts. So hie thee to a bookstore with the remainder of your shopping list.

Yesterday, another marathon of baking. Some cookies with pine nuts and cardamon, a great Christmas spice, then more of Martha Stewart's cranberry short bread and the one disaster of the season, the granola bars. First, they stuck to the (so-called) non-stick pan, then they crumbled. Actually I have a dozen in individually wrapped plastic. The problem is, they are way too sticky (did someone say treacle?) to eat in the car, which is what I like them for. So---scrap that idea. The bars do taste delish, and I rounded up all the little crumbles to sprinkle on our cereal. So the bars have been more or less salvaged, but I won't make them again.

We ate more leftovers from the company that didn't come last night and tonight, too. Then it's on to something else to eat. I still have a meal to freeze. Criminy, I did get carried away with extra portions.

Mostly now, I have a case of the holiday blahs, which will maybe dissipate when the rest of the family arrives. One hopes. Right now, each upcoming meal seems like a high hurdle, and the impossibility of catering to people who don't like meat, cheese or fish has me under a cook's cloud. I mean, how many meals of potato pancakes can you fix? They're delicious but they destroy the kitchen and have to be cooked at the last minute.

So this is my bah, humbug post. And I think I have a stomach virus. Or I've been eating too much raw egg in the various batters. Or sticking myself with the cat's insulin needle has not been a cool idea. Or I haven't written a word for a week. That's probably it. Ya gotta write.

Here's a New Year's Eve poem that I wrote a few year's back. It's bleakness cheers me.

The Ramblin’ Rose

New Year's Eve and the Ramblin' Rose
Churns up and down the Inland Waterway
Delray Beach to Boca and back.
Buffet, booze, and other accoutrements
of First Night included.

The heron skulks in silence,
Roosting on her lone piling as we
Glide through manatee mating grounds
Imagining the churn and roil of water
Docile fat bodies thrashing and thrusting.

Stage curtain clouds part to reveal
A sober late December moon.
Diamond-belted Orion arches his bow
Toward apathetic stars.
Indifference is our guide.

This Last Night, no nymphs or dryads
Cavort inside the glitzy glass-facaded palaces
That line our watery road.
Captains of industry and cocaine conquistadors
Gone forth to hidden revels.

Cleopatra dazzling the Nile
Ahab chasing his white whale
Huck and Jim rafting broad river
Kurtz plunging toward the heart of darkness
Dreamt and dared upon the water.

Our placid eve's cocooned in make-believe
Of paddle-wheels. Sustained by party hats
And plastic leis, a slosh in margaritas,
Our pilgrimage to nowhere drifts across the night.

©

The Guests That Never Arrived

Due to the weather, our small dinner party was cancelled, and S.O. and I dined in isolated splendor at the long table with the Christmas cloth and the red napkins, and the little green vases with red and white chyrsanthemums and a few sprigs of cat-chewed baby's breath.

What is is about cats and baby's breath? They go absolutely apeshit.

I took my fruit cake cookies around to the neighbors. The recipe made 9 dozen. Hey, they're good, too. No icky yellow or green weird stuff, but rather my own candied orange peel. How cool is that?

Of course the baked goods disappear rather rapidly. I bake until the New Year, so it matters not if we eat stuff. What else is it for?

The menu was cannolli shells stuffed with spinach, chicken and cheese and baked in a light cream sauce, cherry tomatoes provencal, iceberg salad with special fancy homemade dressing, cheese straws for an appetizer, and then of course, all the desserts, now only two, including cheese cake. What is it with me and cheese? Life would be diminished without cheese.

Of course too busy to write this week. Next week will be worse. The tree is still undecorated and listing to port. The snow, however, is lovely.

More anon.

Grapeshot

I Can't Believe I Ate the Whole Thing

Never, ever, under any circumstances eat at The Cheesecake Factory right before trying on clothes at Nordstrom's. You will need a larger size, and the sight of yourself with three extra pounds of food will cause definite trauma and suicidal thoughts.

Ye Gods! So I bought jeans anyhow, and I hope they aren't too big tomorrow. I ate three chicken tacos and S.O. had basil pasta with chicken. The tacos came with beans, rice, salsa, and guacamole. Yum! The beans were pleasantly spicy and of course salsa and guacamole are to die for. It didn't seem like a lot, but then there was the bread, ooops, and the wine and I had to come home and take a nap in front of the food channel where I totally zoned out.

Thisbe, with a mournful meow, woke me up. "Where's my food, you slothful owner?"

Tomorrow I'm taking treats for a Christmas get-together. Mini-cheesecakes, cheese straws, spiced nuts and Martha Stewart's cranberry shortbread.

We didn't eat cheesecake at the Factory. We had a big cheese cake Thanksgiving, and I've got the mini-ones in the fridge for tomorrow. Topped with fresh cranberry sauce. The red looks so festive.

Tonight I whipped up a huge batch of raisins and other dried fruits for some fruitcake cookies. Recipe is from Bon Appetit and it looketh good. Nice and boozy with nuts and none of that citron or icky green stuff. Home made candied orange rind. Yowza! The recipe makes 9 dozen cookies, so I'm taking to some new neighbors, the folks next door, a kid in Chicago and my friend Diane. That still leaves a few dozen for the home front.

Poets and Writers has an interesting round table discussion between four literary agents. I'll query a couple of them. And now, well, off to bed, like any sane person. We watch the original Grinch tonight and the San Francisco ballet's Nutcracker. Definitely in a Christmas mood.

Remember, no trying on clothes after pigging out at The Cheesecake Factory. No one wants to see a blimp in the mirror or all those unsightly bulges. Is unsightly always the modifier for bulges? They're never beautiful or bountiful or breathtaking. Always unsightly. Yeah, they are.

Grapeshot

Gloom & Doom in Publishing

Today's Galley Cat had one sob story after another about the publishing business. Everything from Border's going under next year (maybe) to a writer saying let's have fewer stupid books, and some riffs about e-books.

I feel like a veteran of these wars. Published an e-book. At the time, you couldn't give them away. Publisher went under, got back my rights and took The Shadow Warriors to a POD outfit. No respect. Tried to find my book on Amazon by its title yesterday and there were something like 103 books with Shadow and Warriors in the title or blurb and somehow The Shadow Warriors was coming up 104. Merde, she said. Wrote a stupid rant on Amazon. With Amazon the owner of the POD company, you'd think they'd bump it up a bit.

Why does one bother? Because there are still a few people who believe in me. That's all I need.

The Christmas baking has begun. I have mini-cheesecakes just out of the oven with some cranberry topping, and savory cheese sticks ready to bake. Glazed spices pecans ready to glaze. Lots of activity in the kitchen tomorrow. Bustle, and good smells.

The tree is up but not decorated. It is huge, large enough for any number of cats to snooze under it. Drinking water like a fish.

Shopping almost done. Cards almost ready. Wrapping not started. Preparations progressing apace. Ho. Ho. Ho.

Mad about Madoff - it's Only Money

Gosh, we're all going to be poor, not just us retired slobs who have seen our IRAs tank, the fools who bought houses with no money down and no assets, and the working stiffs out of a job or with their 401Ks in tatters. Now, it's the super rich who have invested with Mr. Madoff who may be selling pencils on the street.

Does anyone actually sell pencils on the street? I don't think so. For everyone out of money or in reduced circumstances, there is fallout for the rest of the economy. The New York Times had an article about nannies and cleaning help out of a job. We haven't gone out to eat nearly so much in the last few months. Drove to Chicago instead of flying to California. Shopped at Kohl's and Eddie Bauer's outlet instead of Macy's and, well, you know. Baking bread, getting creative with leftovers, shopping the grocery store specials.

In days of yore, I spent some time in Palm Beach, shopping and visiting trendy restaurants. It was fun and I loved to have lunch at Ta-Boo on Worth Avenue, and watch the passing scene.
http://www.taboorestaurant.com/ For a writer, it should be a write-off. Of course it would help to publish something. In Palm Beach I discovered Sesto Miucci shoes ( http://www.zappos.com/n/br/b/145/Sesto%20Meucci.html) that my feet love so well. Saw the Chuli glass at the Museum. Walked Worth Avenue gaping at the show windows.

One would think that resorts and winter homes would be more casual and laid back, but I saw these hideous formal gew-gaws and knick-knacks and table settings and lamps that looked like something in the Newport mansions of the 1800's. Why? Nothing informal about it. Stiff and pretentious and totally boring.

On always thinks of the very rich as somehow financially savvy, folks who would know to diversity and realize that slow and steady wins the race. Apparently not. Why settle for 5% on your investment if you can get 10%?

I feel sorry for the charities that will be busted, but not so much for anyone else. Greed, you know. The greedy have been getting their comeuppance. Is gluttony next?

Tomorrow we'll unpack the ancient ornaments collected over four lifetimes for the real tree and decorate the house as it has been done forever. I make my Mom's cookies and my own and try some new recipes. It would never occur to me to buy Christmas cookies.

We ate the pork roast again last night, and it looks like there's two more meals left. The last two will be our own stir fry, with yummy veggies and not much fat. Cheap, nutritious and filling, with good Basmati rice.

In my new novel, I'm contrasting the Cuban sandwich in the eyes of the bad guy and the heroine. I think the economy being in the toilet will give the bad guy some fits, too. After all, maybe his clients will be using less cocaine. The high cost of transportation. Yes, everyone feels the economic crisis, even drug lords.

Onward with baking and writing and holiday prep. Don't be too depressed. It's only money.

Grapeshot

Red Snapper, Pork Roast and Shopping

Holy freakin' crap! I've been cooking up a storm, starting with a 4 lb. red snapper that our house guests brought. Fortunately, this was not a surprise and I had a simple recipe with garlic, lemon and thyme printed out. The fish was huge and we didn't have a platter that big, so we served it in the baking dish. This was Friday, and for lunch today S.O. and I had cold fish with a mustard-mayonnaise sauce with capers. With the fish Friday we had cherry tomatoes provencal, tiny new Yukon gold potatoes and a fancy salad with iceberg lettuce. I made pumpkin tarts for dessert, with wonderful flaky crust and light as a feather filling.

Did I mention that due to the ugly storm we had, the power was off almost all Saturday morning? I had to use a match to get the burners going, and chilled the tarts in a chest with ice. Was dreading beating the egg white by hand when, yowza, the light blinked on again.

Saturday we visited the Wrentham Mall, and I'm happy to report that the parking lot (acres and acres) was full, the stores were full, with lines to checkout, and people had bags and bags of purchases. Now this is a discount mall, but nonethless, there were crowds of shoppers. Good sales, too, and we left Eddie Bauer and Williams Sonoma with big shopping bags. The Lindt Chocolate store had ever-so-yummy offerings.

Came home and made the New York Times old standby pork roast with lemon, garlic, and thyme, carrying on a good weekend tradition of seasonings. More of the same salad, 4 more tarts for desserts, but I made the Thanksgiving hit of a gratin of cauliflower and Brussels sprouts.

Our friend brought a cranberry orange cake that we had for breakfast and in mid-afternoon. Very tasty and seasonal with red berries. We watched an old (1980) Walter Matthau movie called Hop Scotch. He was a spy in from the cold who went back to work and caused grief to his old employers. Much fun and cleverness.

This morning I made oeufs au beurre noir. Again from the New York Times Cookbook, always a trustworthy source.

In the afternoon we read the Sunday papers and are watching the Patriots, who are winning.

I love the weekly NY Times Style section. In spite of former aspirations to style, I have become totally unstylish. This was brought home by a perusal of some 1977 photos of a vacation trip where I wore one cool outfit after another. Can't imagine the size of the suitcase, and this was on a small boat yet, and moi size 4 and legs a mile long. Could this be me? In the Terrific T-shirt. Man, that was some cool shirt. Hard to believe,doing the Hustle with some guy in a bar on Fisher's Island. Ah, the days of our youth. . . .

So. We fed the cows yesterday and Iris's baby has definitely been shipped off to other pastures. Iris is still distraught and bawls and picks fights with the other cows. Baby is probably even more distraught. Poor little thing. Such big trusting eyes.

Thisbe is out from under the bed now the our company has gone. I stuck my finger giving her insulin shot and hope it wasn't me who got the insulin. Nursing is not my strong suit.

Back to the kitchen to heat up many yummy leftovers. The upside of cooking. Yep.

Onward,

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In a Key West Hot Tub

Literary characters are a breed all their own. First of all, Maxine, who insisted on being called that name, appeared just as I had completed the first chapter of my 1928 California book. She talked to me and began telling me her story. Naturally I began writing it down, and Maxine and I are off on a little adventure, maybe even a big adventure involving drug lords, lost sisters, murder and mayhem and even a little romance.

Maxine is in Key West now, in June of 2008 and she's come to see a woman who can tell her about . . . well, never mind. Suffice it to say that these two need to have a little heart-to-heart. I could have done that scene with everything hunky dory, just sitting on the patio having this nice friendly chat, but that's not what writing is about. The chat is not friendly and there's a bottle of champagne and a hot tub and a lot of angst and unexpected happenings that move the plot forward.

Everything is subservient to the forward motion of the story. There are surprises and many aren't very pleasant. Maxine, and now Nicole, are both surprising me, and all I do is tell their stories.

God, it's weird.

And in the meantime, poor Carla Curby sits on that Santa Fe train heading to California and I sure hope that when Maxine and I are finished, Carla will be as eager to tell her story.

I'm making pumpkin tarts tomorrow and a very fancy iceberg lettuce salad, and our guest is bring not the bacon but the fish, a whole red snapper that will be baked with garlic and thyme and lemon.

The rain has been general over the South Shore and environs, and we are just glad it's not the white stuff, except for the kids, who crave the white stuff.

Iris is bereft and bawls all the time because her baby is gone. The herd of eleven has been culled to seven. Some old cows, some new. Mary Ann's baby is undoubtedly sad, too, as her playmate is gone. All summer and fall they were calves together and hung out and did calf stuff. So sad.

Grapeshot (Reunion.com)

Holy Freakin' Crap! For the third time, this Reunion outfit has spammed my ENTIRE EMAIL list and even my blog! Unbelievable. This is so humiliating. It takes approx. 3/4 minute to delete one entry from my so-called "friends," and I've spent over 3 hours deleting less than 100 entries, with 700+ to go. People keep emailing me asking, "what's with reunion?"

They're marketers, so go to the bottom and opt out if you get one of these missives. Ah god, editors, agents, classmates, co-workers, professional contacts, fellow writers, 830+ strong. People I would really rather not annoy or have my name conjure up a bad image. I may set my hair on fire.

Grapeshot sent you an invitation on Nov 25, 2008 to connect on Reunion.com. Connect with Grapeshot before the invitation expires! Do you know Grapeshot? Yes No Tell us, and see if someone's searching for you! Reunion.com - Find Everyone from Your Past.™ You have received this email because a Reunion.com Member sent an invitation to this email address. You can stop receiving follow-up invitations by selecting to opt out. For assistance, please refer to our FAQ or Contact Us. Our Address: 2118 Wilshire Blvd., Box 1008, Santa Monica, CA 90403-5784

The Pre-Lit Christmas Tree . . . NOT!

We drive the same route weekly to my writing group, and the way takes us through a mostly rural area. Tonight, for the first time ever, a deer stood in the dark by the side of the road. I hope he had enough sense to wait until all the cars had passed.

Of course in the fall one notices the leaves and the shortening days, and now we notice the bright Christmas lights, making the world a cheerier place. Some houses are lit up, well, lit up like a Christmas tree.

I made lentil soup today, a mess of pottage as the Bible would have it. This was served up with sauteed croutons and kielbasa with a bit of parsley for color. Very nice and tasty. The beef barley was also tasty. What shall I do for an encore?

Our guest this weekend is bringing a whole red snapper along, and I had to scramble to find a recipe. I'm making a special iceberg salad with a buttermilk dressing. The snapper is cooked with thyme, lemon and garlic and sounds wonderful. I'm trying to keep the meal medium cal, not high-cal.

We'll get the house decorated. Coming home we passed a big outlet that has patio furniture in the summer and pool tables and Christmas stuff in the winter. They had a big sign advertising pre-lighted Christmas trees, and we said, "Yuck!" in unison.

When it comes to the holidays, I believe in a real tree with lights and decorations collected since Great Grandma Hess put up her tree. We still have some of her ornaments, old victorian santas and angels, very cool. I have a collection of animal ornaments I've been working on for many years. Everything from a jack rabbit to an armadillo.

Picking out the tree, bringing it home on the roof of the car, putting it up, decorating the tree and the house, wrapping the packages, baking, entertaining--no doubt about it, there's a lot of work involved, and when I was putting in 50+ hour weeks some years I would always wonder if I could get everything done. But I did. Still do. A real tree, and real food, home made cookies, soup-to-nuts, the whole holiday enchilada. There is something to be said for tradition, and tradition is not a pre-lit tree.

Bah! Humbug.

We like to make sure the kitties and the creatures share in the feasts, so outdoor edibles are a must. We hang up the stockings, and decorate our own wreath. We don't go crazy, just make things nice, pleasant, trying to create some warmth on the cold earth.

Driving home tonight, the temperature was 10 degrees, and the frigid air puts one in the holiday mood. Even with pared back presents. Buy everyone a book. Books are such a great gift.

The cats like to sleep under the tree and bat a few ornaments around. We put the cheap, not-very-fragile stuff at the bottom, with the lead tinsel out of reach. Kitties rule. Meow.

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Snowy Sundays

Cats have no problem with snowy Sundays. Thisbe has discovered that the pile of grocery bags (the "green" kind we have begun using) make a wonderful place to nap.

Last night I watched Larry David and then I Celtic Women and wondered if I was maybe the only person on the planet who would enjoy both shows.

Reading another Colin Cotterill book with the old Laotian coroner as the sleuth. A wonderful glimpse into a world we don't know.

http://www.colincotterill.com/books.htm

Cotterill has a cool web site: The book I'm reading is Thirty-three Teeth.

Writers are so interesting.

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Four Uses for an Olde Pumpkin

4) Hollow out and use as a soup tureen

3) A Stool for a very small person (remove stem first)

2) Roll down into the slough for the critters to gnaw on

1) Cut into smallish pieces and feed to the Scottish Highland Cattle

Most years we opt for 2 (roll down the hill toward the slough), but this year we had a big pumpkin which had never been carved, i.e., a pristine pumpkin. S.O. chopped it up and put it into a big bag and we drove over to see our buddies with two bags of fruit and vegetable scraps, including ultra-yum organic carrot tops, and the large bag of pumpkin pieces.

Something weird with the cows. The four moms (Maggie, Iris, Mary Ann and Crooked Horn) were in the pasture, and the other 7 (various babies, half-grown and adult) cows were in the corral.

We drove to the pasture, and gave the four moms a feast. There was LOTS of bawling and mooing from the corral--they must have figured it out and wanted some, too.

In the photo, Iris comes running for a treat.

The cows loved the pumpkin, but we had so much we saved 2/3 for another feast, when everyone can partake. I bet eleven can chomp down that pumpkin in no time.

Kate's Mystery Books

This evening, Kate of Kate's Mystery Bookstore in Cambridge, MA will throw her annual holiday party, a soiree not to be missed. The crime-writing literati of the Boston area will gather to chat with fans, autograph books, nosh, schmooze, and yes, imbibe.

Kate is Boston's best known promoter of the mystery genre. Her wide umbrella shelters thrillers, cozies, horror, true crime and of course the traditional mystery. Her collection of black cats (statuary) is totally awesome.

With the book business in crisis, this is an opportunity to buy personalized (signed by the author) holiday gifts the recipients will actually read and enjoy, support local authors and give a leg up to one of our local booksellers. Kate can always recommend books that you or your gift list will adore, a knack born of many years in the business. Her knowledge is encyclopediac and her inventory is vast.

The party is from 5:30 - 7:45 at Kates (2211 Mass Ave in Cambridge). Close to Porter and Davis Squares. Lots of eateries and drinkeries nearby. The party becomes a mob scene but is ever so much fun. You literally rub elbows.

I'm bringing my spicy empenadas, a riff on Paula Deen's recipe. The dough is resting in the fridge and the filling is waiting for the diced tomato. The party food is always toothsome. One year there was a meatloaf to die for.

Look for me. Ah, hell. You'll probably be gazing at Robert Parker or Dennis Lehane. So will I.

http://www.katesmysterybooks.com/events.html

Come "dressed to kill."

Cheers!

Grapeshot

Beef Stroganoff

In days of yore, suburban housewives whipped up Beef Stroganoff for company and hamburger Stroganoff for family.

This is a quick, easy dish that has fallen out of favor, although there were 584,000 entries in Google. Maybe it's the beef or maybe it's the sour cream or maybe it's because everyone just eats cheese pizza now.

Actually, Beef Stroganoff is something that kids like, so keep that in mind. Because I never see recipes for the dish or see it listed on restaurant menus, it tends to fly below my radar. This week I remembered I had promised myself I would make it soon. The Thanksgiving turkey was history; the time was ripe.

I had two small (8 oz. each) "petite sirloins" in the freezer; I had onions and sour cream and beef broth. Oooops--needed mushrooms, which Significant Other picked up at Trader Joe's.

Got out the New York Times cookbook recipe, and discovered it didn't even call for mushrooms. Mierda! I would incorporate them anyhow. The times called for filet, but who serves that on Tuesday night? I mean, really.

The cookbook also said to saute the onion with the beef and then discard the onion! Discard the onion? How stupid is that? The onion stayed where it was. I sauteed the beef and onion on high heat and poured the sauce over it. Cooked up a few noodles. This was good.

Why did it ever go out of style? There were only 3 tablespoons of sour cream and we ate it two nights in a row, so that's less than 1 tablespoon of sour cream per serving and four ounces of beef. We aren't talking diet busters here. Well, out of style is out of style.

I wandered into the Web and found some truly disgusting recipes, recipes calling for Campbell's mushroom soup and catsup and green peppers and . . . yuck. Not Beef Stroganoff. So maybe after the food police finished with it (non-fat sour cream anyone?) the flavor of the dish took a nosedive.

I don't know. The mushrooms were tiny and delicious. The thin sliced onion added a lot. I will have to dig my old hamburger Stroganoff recipe out.

Time for a revival. If I find the perfect recipe, I'll publish it. In the meantime, you're welcome to peruse the 584,000 Google entries. If there is any mention of margarine, green pepper, mushroom soup or non-fat sour cream, run like hell.

Grapeshot

Discomfort at the Comfort Inn

Most of the Thanksgiving weight is gone, and I only had an orange for breakfast. By lunchtime I'm experiencing serious hunger, specific in that I want a bowl of chili. We don't keep stuff like that in the house, mostly because it is only fit to eat if there's a power failure and you are reduced to heating canned food in the fireplace.

Off to The 99, except they don't have chili so I settle for a pretty decent bowl of the New England version of Tortilla Soup. S.O. has a cheeseburger. We're talking about our Christmases as kids and what we remember, because the Brown Food Writing Course has unleashed a tsunami of memories, and I remember Christmas at my Grandma's in Kansas, in Kearney Nebraska, in McPherson Kansas, in Ft. Morgan, Colorado.

O.K., so I didn't have a Bright Lights, Big City childhood. At least we always had pleasant meals with cameraderie, not the hideous disfuncional kind that are grist for the writer's mill. What can I say? O.K. my mom and her brother argued politics, but very civilly.

So after a decent lunch and I have to tell you The 99 (The Ninety-Nine) serves LARGE glasses of wine, not the three little slurps you might get elsewhere, we toddle off.

Next door there's a "Comfort Inn," and two people are carrying something large out of the back. "Looks like a dead body," I say, half-joking. I am thinking they are removing an old rug, because the "parcel" is wrapped so strangely in what appears to be a brown container.

Except when we pull around and can actually see, there's a cop car sitting at the front door and the vehicle the "rug" is going into is actually a mortuary van. Therefore it must have been a body.

Some poor soul died at the motel. Heart attack? Stroke? Suicide? I don't think "murder" because there would be a gazillion cop cars. Probably. I think of the hotel maid who must have opened the room and discovered the corpse. Yikes. Not pleasant for her. I suppose they see it all and like none of it.

Must have been a man because the parcel was so long. I swear to you it did look like a big parcel. Like a rug.

We'll have to wait to read the paper next week, since local papers are never exactly johnny on the spot with the news and the paper is published tomorrow and must have long gone to press before the body was even cold.

Right before Christmas, too. A business traveller? Must be a story there. We writers can always imagine a story.

A small press actually asked to read "World of Mirrors" today. How do you like them apples?

Onward,

Grapeshot

Why didn't I think of that?

Ah, when the dream dies, it dies slowly and painfully. My dream isn't dead yet, but I must tell you that except for my food writing class and my robotic fish short story, I haven't had much joy as a writer lately. I'm not alone.

Here is a lady with class and imagination and yes, even chutzpah. I can't imagine why her novel didn't sell, but I have come to realize that NOT ALL GOOD BOOKS WILL BE PUBLISHED. For whatever reason. So she's giving her book a funeral. How cool is that? God, I'm about ready to bury World of Mirrors, my East German book, but I keep thinking that someone, somehow will love it.

This is what you do when you decide to give up the battle.

http://www.mydreamisdeadbutimnot.com/

RIP

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