Going Dark to Think

Hi Everyone.  I'll be pretty much going dark across my little corner of the blogosphere until after the New Year.  Other than Killer Chicks, don't expect to see posts here or at The Guide or over at Pound. 

I have some thinking to do.

Of course, if I see something neat I'd like to share, I'll post it whether I'm supposed to be dark or not.  Cuz that's just how I roll. (She says as she sits here in her brand new bib overalls, looking like Weezer* from Steel Magnolias. I just need a floppy hat and shorter hair.) 

Don't fret.  I'll be around here somewhere.  Or over there reading.  But never far.  If nothing else, I'll see ya next year.

*This is apparently spelled Ouiser according to IMDB.

Merry Christmas!

I hope you all have an amazing day today - whether you celebrate the holiday or not.

Weird Dreams

I think I was beating myself up last night.

I know I fell asleep thinking about writing.  Not the fantasy.  Not even the book I'm trying to edit.  Nope, this was a new book whose premise I've been bouncing around in my head for a while now.  That's probably what led to the violence of this morning's dream.

As usual, I don't remember the gist of the whole dream.  I know it was going along rather nicely or I might remember more of it.  All I remember is the end.  I was sitting on a couch typing.  Someone was sitting next to me reading over my shoulder - which I hate, but I was dealing with it.  Then some girl came and sat on the couch next to the person next to me. 

And she was talking rather loudly.  And laughing.  And nudging the person next to me.  Every time she nudged him, he'd bump into me and I'd fatfinger the words I was typing.  I'd say "Just let me finish this sentence."  Delete the fucked up words and try again.  Just when I'd type some more, she'd nudge him and he'd bump into me and I'd screw it up again.  Once more with the "Just let me finish this sentence."

And again, nudge-bump-mistype.  "Just. Let. Me. Finish. This. Sentence."

Nudge-bump... I turned and jumped across the guy onto the girl.  I was beating the holy hell out of her when I woke up.

I told this dream to Hubs a little while ago.  He said, "I was planning on leaving you alone today."  And I assured him he was not the person who annoyed me so bad that I felt the need for physical violence. 

I think I was beating up myself.  Or rather that part of me that isn't allowing me to finish anything.  I opened a can of whoop-ass on her.  She needed it, trust me.

What this means for today?  I'm trying to write a little on the idea that kept me up last night.  I don't know if whipping that chick in my dreams means she'll leave me alone to let me write or not.  All I know is it's a neverending battle. 

Screwed up Carols

My Dad sometimes liked to screw up Christmas carols.  I wish I could remember all the ways he made them funny, but right now I can only remember his version of Deck the Halls...

Deck the halls
With Boston Charlie
Fa la ra la rah, de sis boom bah.

Early in my childhood, I learned a new way to sing Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer...

Randolph the bow-legged cowboy
Had a very shiny gun
And if you ever saw it
You would turn, scream and run
All of the other cowboys
Used to laugh and call him names
They never let poor Randolph
Join in any cowboy games
Then one foggy Christmas Eve
The sheriff came to say
"Randolph with your gun so bright
Won't you shoot my wife tonight?"

I don't remember how that one ends.

Then there was the version of Jingle Bells...

Jingle bells.  
Batman smells.
Robin laid an egg.
Batmobile lost a wheel
And the Joker got away.

Of course, later in life, I was treated to such wonders as The Twelve Pains of Christmas and Cheech and Chong and You Ain't Gettin' Diddly Squat and the newest awesomeness of Jeff Dunham's Jingle Bombs.  So, is it any wonder I've been walking around the house singing...

Later on we'll perspire as we drink by the fire...?

Yeah, I'm screwy that way.  Any messed up carols in your life?

I'm Too Turkey

Okay, because I'm slowly losing my mind, here are some turkey pics I took yesterday set to the refrain of Right Said Fred's "I'm Too Sexy".

"I'm a turkey.  You know what I mean...

And I do my little turn on the catwalk...

On the catwalk...

On the catwalk... hey...

I shake my little tush on the catwalk.

I'm too turkey for this song...

Thoroughly Unmotivated

Looks like I've been a naughty puppy lately.  But don't feel bad, blog readers, it's not just here at The Spectacle.  I haven't really been getting much of anything else done either. 

I don't even have any good excuses. 

I'm not writing.  I'm not editing.  The malaise seems to have struck me early this winter (hell, it's not even winter yet, so what's that say). 

I could sit here and whine about how I hate my book or how much I feel like I suck at being a writer right now, but no one wants to see that - including myself.  Blahdy blah blah blah.  Bleh. 

And that's where I'm at - bleh.  I'm thoroughly unmotivated right now.  The only post I've managed to write was that ranty one yesterday that accidentally got published that I'm not even sure I want to see the light of day.  (If you saw it for the brief time it was out there, I apologize.  It wasn't ready for prime time.)

Anyway, now's the time to talk amongst yourselves.  You'll still see me at Killer Chicks because I'm committed to holding up my end of the blog there.  I don't know how much you'll see me here or at The Guide or at A Pound of B.S. until after the new year, when I might just be able to pull my head out of my orifice.

My One-Sided Conversations with Victor Hugo

Okay, so I've undertaken the task of reading Les Miserables by Victor Hugo.  I'm about 40% through and the daily conversation goes something like this...

"Please, god, let this Bishop be somebody important in the novel!" - after Vic spends the whole beginning of the book talking about him.  Spoiler: He was kinda important, but Vic didn't need to spend the whole beginning of the book detailing the poor man's life in infinite detail.

"Honey?" I said to the Hubs who's read this several times.  "Please tell me all of this has something to do with the story."  His answer was that only about 300-400 pages of the 952 page novel is actually necessary to the story.

"Why are you talking about 1861??  Jean Valjean would be dead by then!  Or really really old.  Please tell me he's not really really old and you're doing a flash-forward before you go back."  Turns out he was just setting up his explanation of Waterloo...

"Victor, Victor, Victor... no, you do not NEED to tell us every little detail about Waterloo."  Turns out he used the entire battle of Waterloo to show - once again - that the man who took in Cosette was an ass.  Which came at the very end of the entire narrative about Waterloo.  :headdesk:

"Please tell me that this boat you're described in painful detail will be important at some point..."  It was for about a paragraph.

"Oh god, you already explained the entire moral character of the convent.  You do not need to tell us about the buildings! Or the garden you already described once. Or the really really old nun."  At which point, I looked at the Hubs and said "You know, I could probably draw the inside of this convent just from his descriptions.  Hubs laughed.  I think he's enjoying my frustration with this book.

All in all, though, once you get past the long-windedness of Mr. Hugo, the story itself is really very good.  I'm drawn in by the characters and by some of the description, but I think a lot of the time, Vic was talking just to hear himself talk.  He even references himself and why he thinks the reader really needs to know what he's putting down in the book.  (He's mostly wrong about that, though.)

(In my defense, I rarely talk to or about the authors of the books I'm reading, but Victor's been dead for a really long time, so I think I'm safe.)