Happy Birthday, Dad

When I was in fourth grade, I drew a picture of Snoopy sporting a pair of sunglasses, with the caption, "My dad is Joe Cool." At the tender age of nine, I didn't hesitate to tell the world that my father was my hero.

He still is.

Born on the cusp of the Great Depression, Dad has done amazing things with his life. He mined for gold with his father - using dynamite, no less! He went to UC-Berkeley at age 16 and got his degree in civil engineering. He married my mother soon after graduation, and they're set to celebrate their 60th wedding anniversary next year.

There is no chemistry, physics, or mathematics problem he can't solve (for which, in my high school years, I was infinitely grateful). Always easy-going, he handles difficult problems - and difficult people - with grace, dignity, and aplomb. He taught me how to throw a curveball, and how to fish. Although, it must be said, his patented fish call of "Here, fishee, fishee, fishee" seemed to work for no one but him!

Today is his 80th birthday. Though it's made him a little grayer, age hasn't diminished him one bit. He's my favorite fishing buddy, my mathematics tutor, my fellow pun-a-holic. He's the man who taught me to do the right thing, even when the right thing wasn't always easy. He's *still* Joe Cool. And he's still my hero.

Happy birthday, Dad. I love you.

Shame

This morning, Carrie blogged about the rotters over at AIG who, a few days after their storied bailout, were living it up at a pricey California resort and spa. They spent over $440,000, which is an insane amount of money to us normal folk. Not to them, apparently. Anyone else who thinks these asschapeaus should be made to pay restitution, raise your hand.

Thank you, Mr. Obama. You, at least, get it.

Problem is, those AIG executives don't. Read the article above; they think they did nothing wrong. And that, in a nutshell, is why Wall Street has tanked: too few of the executive types of these failed companies have any sense of shame.

Time was when a person felt shame at doing a poor job at work. Now? Here, have a $50 million compensation package for running the company into the ground! Worse yet, these executive types expect it. Can we say entitlement?

Shame on you, AIG. And shame on every other entitled, shameless, money-grubbing executive putz who thinks like you.

Star Wars + Cartoon Network = Teh Awesome!

During his perusals of the on-screen cable TV programming guide, my hubby often finds gems that otherwise would escape our notice. Case in point: this past weekend, he found a stunning little half-hour series called Star Wars: The Clone Wars. Being a child of the 70s and 80s, I (of course) can't help but squee with delight. Star Wars? Bring it on! But the kicker? It's on Cartoon Network! Dude!!

We watched the two half-hour episodes my husband had recorded, and we were absolutely astounded. Not only is the animation awesome and the stories well-written, but the series also features many of the original voice talents from the Star Wars movies: Frank Oz as Yoda, Ewan McGregor as Obi-Wan Kenobi, and the guy who played Emperor Palpatine/Darth Sidious. At least, it sure *sounded* like him.

*squee!*

After all my complaining about a serious lack of anything decent to read or watch on TV, I find myself eating those words.

Hand me a fork.

SciFi Channel - WTF?

Don't get me wrong - I love the SciFi Channel. They bring me my beloved Doctor Who and Battlestar Galactica, not to mention reruns of kewl, albeit canceled series like SU2 and Buffy.

But WTF is up with their movies?!

Saturdays are the worst. Cine-turds like King Cobra, Ba'al: The Storm God; and Beneath Still Waters grace the small screen for hours on end. Even their series aren't immune - last night my husband and I cringed through the original, yet highly flawed two-hour premier of Sanctuary. Cool idea, really bad follow through. Hackneyed plot devices, stock characters, and a sagging middle only begin to describe the problems with this program.

And yet, it got produced. Somewhere, some writer got paid for coming up with this dreck.

And I worry about ever getting published again? Dude! Maybe I should go write for the SciFi Channel!

*snerk*

Making Scents

As I mentioned in a previous post, I'm a girly girl. When the weather turns cooler I get a yen for new shoes and new perfume. The shoe part of the equation is easy. The perfume part...well...let's say that after my last misadventure at the perfume counter I'm hesitant to go back for a second helping of retail idiocy. Since then I've confined my new fragrance testing to magazine inserts and haphazard sample purchases on eBay. This hit-or-miss approach is inefficient, to say the least. That, and I'm not too fond of the overly synthetic scents being marketed today.

On a whim, I checked the 'Net for people who could create a custom perfume for me; I know exactly which notes smell good on my skin, and which I like in my fragrances. My findings ranged from companies that wanted me to take a personality test to determine my "perfect" perfume (WTF?) to a company that would send me individual scent bottles in lieu of an in-person consultation. The price for these services varied, as well, from $40 for the hit-or-miss, hope-this-combo-works approach to over $1,000 for the long-distance consultation. A few places didn't even list their prices, and I got the distinct impression that these were the kind of companies where if you had to ask, then you couldn't afford it.

So what's a perfume junkie to do?

Why, create her own, of course.

I got on Amazon and found a couple of books on natural perfumery, then located a couple of Internet sites that not only sold natural perfume supplies and equipment, but also had several treatises on creating one's own perfumes. I find the whole concept intriguing, but whether I want to commit that much time and effort into this venture remains to be seen. I'll see how I feel after doing some more research.

Lap Season

The equinox has passed, and fall is upon us. As such, the weather is getting steadily chillier; lately the temp's been getting down into the 40s at night. The thermometer's downward slide has triggered something in my cat's little pea brain, 'cause now she's become a furry heat seeking missile. Two nights ago she hopped up on the bed and nudged me awake to let her under the covers. This morning, without prompting, she leaped onto my lap and settled into the designated cuddle position, purring like a miniature Hemi.

I'm not averse to being used as a kitty bun warmer. There are worse things. :-)

Reading Like a Writer

Carrie and I were talking Monday night about how writing has spoiled us on reading - that how, as writers, we tend to analyze what we're reading in terms of quality of craft. Oy, isn't that the truth. Nowadays it's very difficult to find a book that holds my attention, much less makes me forget I'm a writer!

Take, for example, the book that sits next to my bed. David Weber's Honor Harrington series, a multi-book sci-fi "space opera" saga, boasts a legion of dedicated fans. Sadly, I am unable to count myself among them. I've got the first novel in the series, and it's so rife with infodump and backstory that I can't bring myself to read more than three or four pages at a time. Basically, the only reason I haven't thrown it against the wall and into the trash is that I need something to lull me to sleep at night. (Ouch!)

Contrast this with Lois McMaster Bujold's Miles Vorkosigan series, also categorized as space opera: I read the first thirteen books over the span of a week. Yup. Thirteen books, seven days. Didn't get a whole lot of sleep that week, but it was worth it. Ms. Bujold's talent is mind-blowing; she sucked me in from the first and had me drooling for more. No analysis, not even for a millisecond. Nor was I ever tempted.

THAT is the essence of a writer's craft - to yank the reader into the story and make him/her crave that prose like crack. Unfortunately, not many modern authors have that appeal for me - one in ten, if I'm lucky. Which is why I'll probably have to make a run to the used bookstore this weekend to offload my overflowing box of rejects.

It is my goal in life to write as well as Ms. Bujold, that my books never qualify as wallbangers.

The quest continues.