Yeah, so apparently I don't feel much like blogging. Huh.

Hey, here's some stuff I was thinking of:

Three Things That Don't Piss Me Off, which other people get all up-in-arms about

1. Dead American soldiers. If they were forced into service, sure. But they weren't. Every time I hear the death toll from Iraq on the news, I always think "They signed up to fight and die, who cares - how many civilians are dead today?" Because the civilians never had a choice. Or a chance, for that matter. I'm plenty rageful about dead civilians, but not dead soldiers. It's a war, after all. They're soldiers. It's pretty much exactly the job description.

2. Rosie O'Donnell, Alec Baldwin, or pretty much any other celebrity. People have loudmouthed opinions. People act like assholes. Some of them are famous. The famous ones are probably the ones who are least likely to affect your life in any direct way (as opposed to all the other loudmouths and assholes whom you see every day and are often related to), so why the hell do people rant on and on and on about these famous people they don't like? Get a life, please.

3. Energy prices. This is a big thing in Illinois just now, as rates went up recently. It was a huge increase, because they'd been unable to increase it gradually (due to government intervention). You would not believe the screaming and yelling and bellyaching about it. You know what? How about you get rid of the second fridge out in your garage? How about you turn off your 4 TVs for a couple of hours? Get compact flourescent lightbulbs and energy-saving smart strips for all your outlets and maybe just maybe unplug your 48 major and minor appliances when they're not being used. THEN bitch to me about how dare they raise the prices. Jaysus.

Three Things That Do Piss Me Off, which maybe 0.0001% of the population also cares about (and that's a generous estimate) and all of which I know are irrational, thanks.

1. Crocs. Those ugly shoes, the plastic gardening clogs. They enrage me. Seriously. I consider them an affront and an outrage and a sign of the downfall of civilization as we know it. When more than 50% of the population is wearing them in the streets, then we deserve an alien race to come blow up this planet. The Crocs must be stopped.

2. When people ask me, "What are you reading?" For whatever reason, that question has always put me into a blind rage. Clarification: I get insane when the question is asked while I'm actually reading. I always have to bite back my immediate answer, which is "None of your fucking business." Because dude - I'm READING here. I do not want a goddamn chitchat conversation with you right now, I AM READING. And what are you, blind? Can you NOT see the cover? Now fuck off and die. (I know it's irrational.)

3. The Menards theme song. When the opening strains of the banjo-twanging jingle come on, I will do anything to turn off the radio or TV from whence it issues. I've nearly broken bones and run off the road because of this tune. There are not words to express my loathing, how it makes me physically ill, how it becomes a Major Emergency the second that song begins. I will never, ever, ever willingly patronize that business, because they are the menacing and remorseless creators of Evil in music form.

Three Things I Just Don't Get and it was damn hard keeping it to just three

1. The excitement over the iPhone. Sorry. It's just another cool gadget. There are a ton of cool gadgets out there, a new one every week, at least. It's just another neat-o toy. It's not going to revolutionize your world. Well, unless you work for Apple, maybe.

2. Loving your car. I don't get it. A car is a tool, and that's all it will ever be to me. People who lovingly carress it with a baby diaper every weekend confound me. Hell, people who go through the car wash (unless it's thoroughly covered with mud or birdshit) confound me. It's just a hunk of metal. Sheesh.

3. That prostitution is illegal. When I first learned that, back when I was maybe 9 years old, I think something actually short-circuited in my brain. That's how hard I tried to figure out why someone couldn't sell their body for money. I still don't get it. Why is it so much worse to sell your body than it is to sell your brain? Or your time? Or your essentially empty presence, face-time at the office, keeping the chairs full? I STILL don't get it. It's MY body. Why can't I use it to make money, however I want? It's the same absolute confusion as when I found out you can't buy liquor on Sundays in Indiana. (But why? Separation of church and state. So ... WHY?????)

There ya go.

Welcome to the day of the Smart Bitches.

(You know, every once in a while when I type that, I wonder how the hell it is that I host something called Smart Bitches Day. The life, she is weird. Alors.)

Behold, yon celebrants!

Kate!
and
Chas!
and
Salomé!
and
Doug!
and
jmc!


The Shadow and the Star, by Laura Kinsale - totally not a review, just a few random and disjointed thoughts

So I have read this book I don't even know how many times. Though I admit that the entire Kinsale Kanon(tm) is a kollective komfort read for me, this is the one that I Just. Can't. Live. Without.

Many times, I have tried to decide which is the best of the Kanon(tm), and the top two are always The Shadow and the Star and Flowers From the Storm. I have been known to assess and evaluate the virtues of each ad nauseum, detailing various weaknesses, imperfections, annoyances. I have repeatedly come to the conclusion that of the two, only Flowers From the Storm contains no weaknesses, imperfections, or annoyances. It's about as close to flawless as you can get.

But Shadow and the Star is still better. To me.

And I can go on about why it SHOULDN'T be better - the silly "demon blade" storyline (or as I like to call it, "the requisite histrionics of the Romance Novel") being the chief reason - but the fact is that it just is better. For me, anyway. It took me a long time to admit this to myself, loyal and devoted and in absolute slobbering love with Flowers From the Storm as I am. But after circa 15,000 hours of debate and painstaking analysis with Snookie, I was forced to admit that if ever I had to make a Sophie's choice between the two, I would clutch Shadow and the Star to mine breast with fifty kinds of ferocity.

Why? Because of Samuel. DUH.

So in case you haven't read it, it's this seemingly absurd set-up: American ninja-guy from Hawaii with tortured past meets penniless but cultured Victorian miss. Together, they fight crime! (No, seriously, they do. Just as a wee side project, though, not exactly the main dish here.) Please believe me when I say I have no fucking clue how the hell this story works, but it does. It works better than just about any other romance novel I've ever read, so there. It defies logic, but what're ya gonna do?

Incidentally, if you're reading this entry and you're one of those mentally retarded people who just can't stand Leda because she's so meek and spineless and TSTL? Go away now. No, not just from this entry, but from my blog. And don't ever come back. I don't like you. You are a walking brainstem. No, I'm completely serious about this: if you didn't know it before, this is your official notice that you are really, really stupid. I don't pity you; I revile you. People like you make the world a worse place. People like you get people like Bush elected. I mean that with all sincerity, by the way, not just some hyperbolic spewing: You Are What Is Wrong With The World. Now go away before I vomit in your hair.

Not that I have any strong feelings or anything.

Anyhowitzer, it's really intense. Samuel is really intense. Recently, I was discussing a piece of unpolished writing with a writer friend, and explaining how essential the tension is in a Romance, and how freaking hard to build. And my advice to said writer (who was having difficulty with the tension thing) was: re-read The Shadow and the Star. There is more red-hot, seething, omg-I-may-faint intense sexiness in the cherry brandy scene - a scene where they're fully clothed! she's in a buttoned up Victorian collar! and they don't even kiss! and he hardly touches her or even SAYS anything! - than pretty much any other Romance novelist could ever dream of writing in their life, I don't care how many pages they managed to fill. Shit, Leda watching the ink spread from her pen nib onto the blotting paper says more in three paragraphs than most books manage to say in a thousand pages. The tension is all created by the things that aren't said. That are NEVER said. That's the secret of it, and no one much seems capable of doing it in this genre. Everyone else has to spell everything out, explicitly told via the narrative and spoon-fed to the reader. Jesus, why do we put up with it when there's a textbook of exactly how it should be done? Gah.

Anyway, it's getting late and I gotta sleep. I love this book. It still makes me cry and laugh and feel like I'm an active participant in a miracle. And I don't believe in miracles. But I do believe in Samuel and Leda. Fictional, my eye.

So there.

Ummmm I had not such a good evening last night, so I kinda sorta ignored SBD. Sorry. But we can celebrate it now, with...

Kate!
and
Kate again!
and
Sandy! (yay Sandy!)
and
jmc!
and
Salomé!

And here's my lame-o, superfast, belated SBD:

Books I've been reading, in chronological order:

To Say Nothing of the Dog, by Connie Willis - I don't remember why I picked it up, but I'm glad I did. It's not great or brilliant or anything, but pretty fun. I just skimmed along thinking blahblahblah every time they began to talk about the intricacies of chaos theory (because I just really don't care and really don't need the headache) and tried not to actively compare it to Wodehouse in my head (it was a weak imitation of Wodehouse, see) and I had a great time. Good summer read.

Turn, Magic Wheel, by Dawn Powell - This is the best book I've read in years. Definitely one of the best I've ever read in my whole life. It's just Absolutely Brilliant. The only bad thing about it is how many times it made me think Well just fuck it, there's no use in anyone ever writing anything ever again because it will never hold a candle to this, EVER. It's Genius with a capital G. It's just a matter of time until they start forcing high school kids to read and analyze it, thereby making it not just unappreciated but downright hated. Poor kids. But anyway - you. Yeah, YOU. Read it now. Go on, I said go read it. NOW. Here, go buy it. I will read others by her and report back about how amazing her writing is and how worthless it makes me feel and oh how I worship this goddess of letters. But for right now, just read this one. Give it at least 3 (short) chapters disagree with me, please.

The Food of Love, Anthony Capella - Didn't get past page 4. Here I thought it'd be perfect summer reading, it shows up in my mailbox yesterday just as I was wondering wtf I'd read next, yay rah this is juuuust what I'm looking for. And then it sucked. Bad. It's set in Rome and full of the kind of cultural FYIs that make me want to strangle the author, like "Being an Italian, Giuseppe would never dream of serving a cappucino after 10am." Oh fuck off, please. Maybe if I didn't know Italian cluture so well it wouldn't bug me so bad. (I mean, I don't know if I'd be as irritated if, say, this were Chile instead of Italy. I'd still be really irritated, just probably not AS itrritated.) And there were at least 4 or 5 of these little asides in as many pages. Then the heroine is on the phone with her friend, discussing and musing on her sex life. It's a weak and stilted imitation of Sex and the City, and it feels wrong in a million ways. I couldn't put up with it past page 4, I just couldn't.

So now I got nuttin to read. It's very upsetting.