Overheard

"I've signed up with Match.com."

"Why not J-Date?"

"Have you met either one of my sisters?"

"You know I have—oh, wait. Okay."

Oh, What the Heck.

Life's short.

Nigger.

My Mother Calls.

She wants to give me moral support. I tell her I'm getting some questionable advice at my less-premium writer's group, but it's about an issue I don't really intend to fully address until I'm at the second-draft stage, anyway.

"Well, ask your good writer's group about it."

"It's okay. I'm not worried about it."

"You are too, or you wouldn't have brought it up. Go talk to your other group about it, and see if they think it's a problem. Maybe you should fix it now."

The Malkin-Esmay Debate

What Eric said.

Every Time I'm Tempted to Give Up

I write another chapter or scene that charms the hell out of me, and I think, "I don't give a shit if no one else likes it. I'm keeping myself amused. It's good stuff."

James Joyner

. . . reproduces the declassified portions of the NIE, and remarks, "we're actually paying people to come up with this?"

Sad, but true.

Mine Your Own Business

This looks like a pretty interesting examination of the dysfunctional relationship between the world's poor and the environmental extremists who appear to want them as human exhibits in a sort of global zoo.

"Poverty," the film proclaims, "is not charming."

Fuckin' A.

Iraq As a Terrorist Training Tool

Karl has started an interesting discussion over at Protein Wisdom.

Protests in Budapest

. . . continue.

These people have to fix their Constitution so they can oust a PM by initiative. In the meantime, we'll know how angry the people still are after the election on Sunday.

Attila the Hub is seeing his Hungarian friend this week, so we may get the inside story from his relatives in-country.

Why AQ Is Off the Air

Via Insty comes this news from Strategy Page: people are flying less, because procedures for air travel are so arbitrary. But terrorists are only targeting airplanes less because they fear mutiny—the "Flight 93 Syndrome."

I have to admit that I'm a bit tired of airlines taking advantage of 9/11. For example, why not let us transfer air tickets from one person to another after they've been bought? If everyone has ID, how can this possibly be a risk?

Still Depressed.

Or perhaps unhappy. I think I'm a bit low on estrogen right now.

Also, I'm drinking diet fucking tonic water with a wedge of lime: no sugar, no alcohol, no caffeine. No fucking good, really.

I need to produce a chapter a day for the next two days, and that would be okay if I didn't also have other work to do alongside it all. The beauty of it all?—deep down, I know I have the bitchinest life. I mean, geez: I'm within 100 pages of finishing the draft for my murder mystery. How cool is that?

Sunday Afternoon at the Reading Party

The instructor of my Thursday group had one of her semi-annual soirees yesterday, and I read something aloud that I hadn't edited as thoroughly as I might have.

So I felt and silly and oddly exposed; and it took me a while to get past that.

It shocks me when I get shy. Sometimes my moxie departs rather suddenly, and I'm left wondering whether my shy self is more authentic, or whether it's the extraverted version that's the "real me."

UFC

I believe Attila the Hub finds it slightly indecent that I love to tell my parents about how we watch UFC fights on pay-per-view.

My father always asks if this is professional wrestling. "No," I tell him. "This isn't the guys in the pink tights."

My mother simply looks at me as if I'd suggested we roast up a plump rat for supper.

Hungarian Nights

In Budapest they work by day, and protest by night. It seems that the Hungarian PM is determined to stay on. So far.

Pray that the innocent will be protected, and that Hungary will find a way to refine its economy into something that actually, um, works.

I know the Hungarians want to join the EU, and they have to improve their credit rating to do so. The people have been lied to, and it's not okay.

Bitter Late . . .

I didn't make it over to On Tap for their 9/11 anniversary discussion. I should have. It's a nice, intro-level "why I'm a warmonger" piece.

Memo to Christians, Jews, the Vatican, and the West:

Stop fucking apologizing!

Anne Applebaum was more polite about it.

As was Glenn.

But I'll leave manners to those who possess them.

"If you accuse us of being violent, we will kill you." Say what? Piss off.

Live in Budapest

There are riots in Hungary, and there's talk of a second revolution, to get rid of the last remnants of the Communist regime for good. I don't really blame the Hungarians: how would you react to news like this?

Rum, Sodomy and the Lash in the Land of the Mullahs

Via Insty, Austin Bay discusses the possibility that Iran already has nuclear weapons, and concludes that it's damned unlikely; he points out that there are other reasons the U.S. appears so oddly passive right now.

Australia:

An island of sanity.

"Did You Meet Your Mother's New Dog?" Attila the Hub Asks.

"Yes, I did. What a sweet puppy."

"What breed is she?"

"Breed? Ah, yes. Well, we think she's a mix—maybe with some Labrador."

He looks at me, hard. "Rottweiler, Doberman, or Pit Bull?"

I sigh. "Pit Bull. But a really cute, good-natured one."

Goodbye, Oriana Fallaci.

If I die someday as a quarter of the woman you were, I'll be content.

I didn't agree with every word that came out of your mouth, but you were the real deal—and when I felt you stated things too strongly, I knew it came from passion, not personal vanity.

Stefania has more.

Sorry I'm late. Ciao, Bella.

Advice from My Computer Lady, 2

"Twenty thousand is kind of a lot of mail to have in your 'in' box. You might want to throw some of it away."

But if I throw it away, that'll guarantee I'll need it soon—no?

A Gin Palace Quickie

This isn't for martini people so much as it is for gin-and-tonic types.

1) Start with Wet.

2) When you can't afford Wet any more, drink Tanqueray.

3) When you can't afford Tanqueray any more, drink Beefeater.

4) Stop there. If you can't afford Beefeater, you can't afford gin.

Remembering 9/11

Thanks, K, for letting us know. If you hadn't called, I might have gotten right into my car five years ago, oblivious to the destruction until I heard about it on the way to work.

After all, I don't usually do media before I leave the house. At least, I didn't then. Now I generally at least check my mail before I'm out of here, so I at least see the Google News headlines. Still no old media, though.

Was 9/11/01 "The Birth of the Blog"?

Yes. Blogs certainly existed before then, but I think the huge involvement/interest in "citizen journalism" is directly linked to 9/11. No one is content to get his/her information filtered through a large institution any more: we want to make up our own minds.

Glenn has more.

The Path to 9/11

The first half of Pathwas beautiful, though grueling.

When I think of the ad revenue ABC forfeited by running it without commercials, it occurs to me that they paid off dems such as Sandy Berger to attack the production, to make sure that the buzz would justify taking that loss. Insty live-blogged it a bit, and links a few reactions, sharing a few thoughts of his own.

I'm Watching

. . . ABC News. Like, television network news.

They now have the blogger market, which . . . you know, if you have us, you have everything.

Advice from My Computer Lady, 1

"Empty out your trash bin every once in a while. You have 200 items in there, including pictures, videos, and applications."

I was very hurt by that. But then, I'm sure the tough love did me good.

It Was a Tuesday Morning.

I was under the weather, sleeping in the living room that night, and woke up to K's voice on the answering machine talking about the Pentagon and WTC. By the time I turned on the radio in the master bathroom, it had all happened, and both towers were gone.

I went back just looked into Attila the Hub's eyes. He crossed himself; it had been the only time I'd seen him do that when he wasn't praying, or at church.

And so it began.

I Drop by Hog's Place.

"I'm trying to lose weight," I tell him.

"Yeah? What are you doing?"

"I haven't figured it out. I'm certainly not willing to exercise, or to eat any differently."

He looks at me for a moment. Finally: "well, good luck with that."

Is that insensitive, or what?

"I Got Wasted; She Got Mad.

She called me names, and she called her dad."

—"Anything, Anything" (Dramarama)

This isn't a zeugma, but it is a syllepsis. I adore it. Here's another one, a true zeugma. Do you recognize it?

"Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey,
Dost sometimes counsel take—and sometimes tea."

I Especially Dig It

. . . when members of my writing groups criticize my punctuation. One woman hates my semicolons, and another doesn't like my colons.

I believe they would like me to write simple, declarative sentences. Subject does verb with predicate. All rather short. And simple. Containing, perhaps, the occasional comma. And a sentence fragment for dramatic effect.

Look for me in South Florida. I'll be writing. Fishing. And hanging out in bars.

What I Was After in this Book

. . . was a hybrid between Michael Connelly and Jane Austen, with a little Dorothy L. Sayers thrown in.

What I've produced is more like a "Scooby Do: Where Are You" script, crossed with Sleepless in Seattle.

Not the level I wanted, but who cares? All that matters is finishing.

I should make the time to wash the dishes. And blame my problems on other people. But first, maybe I'll have another nap.

Cassandra on DNC Censorship

She's produced a pretty comprehensive analysis of the flap over ABC's The Road to 9/11, and points out that the 9/11 Commission Report is a public document. Anyone can read about the Clinton Administration's difficulty in dealing with the CIA.

Censorship. Creepy.

"Laws and Sausages."

Less so with laws these days, now that the "porkbusting" bill (the Federal Funding Accountability and Transparancy Act, S. 2590) has passed the Senate. Unanimously.

Sleep tight, Stevens and Byrd. Don't let the bloggers bite.

"I'm Ready for It;

Come on—bring it."

Hey! What kind of snakes were they? But don't tell me too much. Not yet.

I Sweat Buckets of Blood, for Hours

. . . and here I have 1000 words. Wowie-kazowie.

Of course, it's all dialogue, which means it goes on for pages and pages. And, naturally, I'm going to get busted in writer's group for writing too much dialogue.

Even after I add the action in around the spoken words, it'll still be "ring around the collar." I've tried soaking it out, and scrubbing it out.

Yet it's enough. Enough for today.

Pop Quiz!

If my protagonist, while driving a bit crazily—as is her wont—maneuvers around "a slowpoke Latino," is she a racist?

Please advise. Myself, I had trouble keeping a straight face when I was told that the phrase "sounds racist."

I wonder if it would be sexist to introduce a smart blonde female character.

One isn't supposed to notice anyone's physical characteristics, ya know!

And Now for Something

. . . completely butch, courtesy of Ace. I just blundered upon it. That's the best way.

Sandy Berger

is being mischaracterized. And he'd prove it, if only those exculpatory documents hadn't been stolen.

Both the Clinton Administration and the Bush '43 Administration made mistakes in the War on Terror. If The Path to 9/11 makes 'em both look bad, it's probably balanced in that regard.

Insty's right, though. Berger, at least, should STFU.

The Anchoress

cautions us about the supposed harmlessness of forced conversions.

The Evangelical Outpost

. . . on the role of sex in marriage. Too conservative for my taste. Yet there are some kernels of truth in it.

Of course, every time I read one of these essays I get the impression that the author enjoys great sex with his or her spouse, and imagines that all couples would be in the same situation if they would only stop being silly. Once you've had a few girlfriends cry on your shoulder because things are awful and always have been, the issue doesn't look quite that simple.

I Need a New Hobby.

But I can't decide between crochet and smack.

Thoughts?

Ya Gotta Love a Country

. . . that contains more male voters than it does actual men.

Please pray for genuine democracy in Yemen. Or agitate. Or send good vibes.

There are a lot of people suffering there right now.

So Who's the Bigger Liar?

Boston writer Michael Blanding, or the founders of the "pro-gun" American Hunters and Shooters Association itself?

Cam Edwards tries to sort it out.

Via Insty, who's getting mail from genuine grassroots activists who bitterly resent these "Astroturf" groups—and with good reason.

It's Something to See

. . . when the blogosphere gang-rapes the United States Senate. Fortunately, it was the pro-Pork Senators' own fault: they were dressed like crew sluts, from what I hear.

Glenn Reynolds on "The Joys of Flex"

Apparently, teaching at the college level rulz.

World Trade Center.

We saw the movie today. I believe Oliver Stone may have tripped and accidentally made a pro-American film.

It was well-done. At least, parts of it I were: I have a phobia about entombment, so while Attila the Hub watched the movie, I watched his shoulder. He was wearing the green Hawaiian shirt with the white flowers. Good choice, well-crafted. Durable weave.

All I Want

. . . is for someone to tell me that my book is so bad, I should just give up on it and spend the rest of my days eating those little frozen Trader Joe's appetizers. You know: the ones that are like tiny little savory tarts.

None of my bulletin boards are active right now.

I shall have to resort to productive activity. And there aren't any little tarts in the house. (Oh, shut up! You know how I meant it.)

Jeff Makes the Multicultis

. . . into his bitch.

Fun in Chatsworth

Reverend Kevin—really, "Mr. Kevin," since he's teaching school again—has now been installed into his mobile home.

A victim of gender stereotyping, I ended up putting a lot of the food, dishes, and pots and pans away in his kitchen, only moving a few of the smaller pieces of actual furniture.

Between all the different Christian groups there, it could have been a bit theologically eclectic. Perhaps I should have started a food fight over sola scriptura or some such.

So, I Screwed Somthing Up.

Attila the Hub got miffed, and quite rightly.

I hate being in the wrong.

Finally, I went into the family room. He looked up and gave me that "I'm not ready to be friends yet" look.

"Listen," I told him. "I just came down to see if I could kiss your ass."

"Then you should have brought snacks," he replied.

So I went back to the kitchen and got him snacks.

I'm Almost Ready

. . . to wade back into the crime novel. But I don't know whether it sucks tonight. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn't.

Sometimes I write a chapter or scene that's so amazing, the universe nearly hums along to the breathlessly perfect melody of the prose. Then I read it aloud in one of my criticism groups. By then someone's gone into the Word file to add cliches, bad dialogue, and typographical errors.

So it all comes down to this question: Do I feel lucky?

I've Heard of Video-Blogging.

I've heard of drunk-blogging.

But I'd never seen them combined so artfully before.

I'M A CITIZEN JOURNALIST, AND I WANT PUSSY PIE!