This morning was quite fine, with my daughter ecstatic over her American Girl doll, Emily. My wife liked the things I bought her, and my parents appreciated the gifts they received. I too, looked about and thought myself blessed.
Isabelle, Karen, and I spent the day hammering out different games on the Wii... Entertaining, but sore shoulders for all.
Then it came time for dinner: Turkey, stuffing, cranberries, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, green beans, aunts, uncles, dog trainers, dog, cat, and a general wonderland of wine. What I wouldn't give for another stomach!
Now we sit and digest, and I try not to watch Prince Caspian for the 8 millionth time (my daughter absolutely adores it, and can quote lines from any portion of the film). I am supposed to get some writing done, I think. Luckily, the laptop lets me be among the family and cozy whilst I type this out.
I am blessed in many ways, most of all with regard to my family. I treasure these times, I really do.
Merry Christmas to you and yours, and best wishes for the New Year.
Later, District 9.
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Friday, December 25, 2009
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Flying the Red Eye with Red Ma-Girl
"Holy shit, but I need to peeeeeeh!" quoth my squealing neighbor as we finally ended the long taxi to the gate in Memphis. It was a merciful ending to a strange leg of my trip home fo the holidays.
It started with a fifteen minute bus ride that shoud have taken three. Got to the gate in good time, regardless. Boarded on time, which meant we had a nice long wait for the stampede. While we all stood waiting, three marines on our flight were enjoying a few libations.
Now usually when I fly, at least one leg of the trip results in me being seated next to another large mammal, and one of us either arranges to take a different seat or we suffer through bumping shoulders and a great deal of discomfort.
So of course, as the stampede begins, I have a large man behind me. I ask where he's seated, and... wait for it... he's in the same row... other side of the aisle, thank god!
While I'm talking to him, he sneezes rather fiercely (into his elbow, thankfully). I say the usual, to which he replies, "I'm not sure what I've got. Haven't been the same since Singapore."
My first thought? FUCK ME!
"Don't advertise that," I said. speeding up to avoid over-exposure.
I took my seat, a window. The aisle seat was quickly occupied by a guy about my age who seemed to be an experienced traveller. Chatted a moment, confirmed the cool. we both kept our eyes forward, looking for the middle seat, dreading the outcome.
Here comes a Marine.
A dog starts whining in the back of the plane.
The Marine staggers past, blearily checking rows. My row buddy and I share a relieved nod. A family of indian women take seats in front of us.
Behind them comes another of the Marines. Digicam hat popped high and clutching a soda bottle in her hand. Being of exceedingly small stature, as she comes closer she tips her head back to look at the row numbers and the rather large lump of chaw in her lower lip becomes visible. The soda bottle, a rather large 2o oz, is a third full with her spittle and used vegetable product.
"Shit, but it's hot in here."
"You sitting here?" my cool row mate asks.
"Yep, this is meeee!" the Marine replies slurring her vowels as only alcohol and one born in the south can do competently.
The gent in the aisle seat rises and lets her in, helplessly looking to the front of the cabin.
The scent of chewing tobacco and no small amount of alcohol swirls in a sickening melange with the yapping whine of the dog somewhere behind us as she moves into position. She takes a while to take her seat, having to first pound her bag into the space between her seat and the indian's to her front.
"Hooweee! That was shit."
What followed was either a tactful silence or stunned muteness. I am still not sure which.
All the sudden her head is in my lap as she's scrabbling at her bag. This goes on for more time than was comfortable for me, adn I am relieved to discover her scrabbling has a purpose. She's trying to get her Marine training manuals out and study.
"Just made lance, tryin' for corporal," she mutters.
"Congratualtions," I say, releived to have her chaw-soaked mouth away from my crotch, and meaning it too; just cause she's uncouth doesn't mean she isn't a good soldier.
"Uhm-huh," a delay, then, "Shit, I gotta go to the latrine."
The aisle fellow rises, the Marine departs. My aisle buddy looks disappointed. Not that she left, but that she'll be coming back.
"Could be a big drunk one," I say.
He shrugs, as if to say, "Or it could have been a Maxim model."
The Marine returns, sans spitoon and bulging lip. Relieved, I buckle up and prepare to get off the ground.
We get off the ground without a hitch, aside from more muttered imprecautions from tiny Marine next to me, which I am good with. Some people just don't travel well.
The tiny Marine passes out, slumping between myself and Mr Cool Aisle for the duration of the flight, which means lights out for me too. I wake as we start to descend. There's a good bit of weather turbulence, setting the plane to rocking.
Tiny Marine gets agitated, bouncing in her seat and pressing one breast into my arm as she cranks her neck over to look out the window, "I fuckin' hate not fuckin' bein' able to see the ground. Hate worryin' we'll fall outta the sky and crash."
The Indian woman in front of us gives a tiny squeek of fear, not in response to the plane's movement so much as the Marine's brining that movement to her attention.
I just nod wordlessly, working my mouth to pop my ears. Some shit you just don't say out loud, even when you're giving cheap thrills.
We get on the ground and she's all over her phone, shooting the shit with someone, cursing every third word. I wouldn't have batted an eye, but then she starts to tell a story.
"Yeah, that Marine I was telling you about, he tried to kiss me."
....
"Shit, I told you he tried to kiss me. And I told him, 'I'm no whore to be kissing some Marine I just met. I was raised in a God-fearing household.'"
"Shit, I know. Oh, and by the way I have one word to tell you about- you know."
.....
"Pink."
.....
"Pink."
We make the gate and passengers start to disembark.
"Holy shit, but I need to peeeeeeh!I know, I've been sleepin' the whole trip since we got in the fuckin' air."
By now the other passengers have finally emptied rows through to thirteen, the row before us. I breath deeply, thinking, 'Freedom is nigh!'
Another head-in-lap session as she starts to pull her bag from beneath the seat in front of her.
At last, it ends.
Now for the Memphis to Chattanooga leg.
And back again.
It should be noted: I respect and appreciate all our armed forces. They give more than they should have to each and every day. The individual soldier can often do some funny shit, though. Especially the young, intoxicated and uncomplicated.
It started with a fifteen minute bus ride that shoud have taken three. Got to the gate in good time, regardless. Boarded on time, which meant we had a nice long wait for the stampede. While we all stood waiting, three marines on our flight were enjoying a few libations.
Now usually when I fly, at least one leg of the trip results in me being seated next to another large mammal, and one of us either arranges to take a different seat or we suffer through bumping shoulders and a great deal of discomfort.
So of course, as the stampede begins, I have a large man behind me. I ask where he's seated, and... wait for it... he's in the same row... other side of the aisle, thank god!
While I'm talking to him, he sneezes rather fiercely (into his elbow, thankfully). I say the usual, to which he replies, "I'm not sure what I've got. Haven't been the same since Singapore."
My first thought? FUCK ME!
"Don't advertise that," I said. speeding up to avoid over-exposure.
I took my seat, a window. The aisle seat was quickly occupied by a guy about my age who seemed to be an experienced traveller. Chatted a moment, confirmed the cool. we both kept our eyes forward, looking for the middle seat, dreading the outcome.
Here comes a Marine.
A dog starts whining in the back of the plane.
The Marine staggers past, blearily checking rows. My row buddy and I share a relieved nod. A family of indian women take seats in front of us.
Behind them comes another of the Marines. Digicam hat popped high and clutching a soda bottle in her hand. Being of exceedingly small stature, as she comes closer she tips her head back to look at the row numbers and the rather large lump of chaw in her lower lip becomes visible. The soda bottle, a rather large 2o oz, is a third full with her spittle and used vegetable product.
"Shit, but it's hot in here."
"You sitting here?" my cool row mate asks.
"Yep, this is meeee!" the Marine replies slurring her vowels as only alcohol and one born in the south can do competently.
The gent in the aisle seat rises and lets her in, helplessly looking to the front of the cabin.
The scent of chewing tobacco and no small amount of alcohol swirls in a sickening melange with the yapping whine of the dog somewhere behind us as she moves into position. She takes a while to take her seat, having to first pound her bag into the space between her seat and the indian's to her front.
"Hooweee! That was shit."
What followed was either a tactful silence or stunned muteness. I am still not sure which.
All the sudden her head is in my lap as she's scrabbling at her bag. This goes on for more time than was comfortable for me, adn I am relieved to discover her scrabbling has a purpose. She's trying to get her Marine training manuals out and study.
"Just made lance, tryin' for corporal," she mutters.
"Congratualtions," I say, releived to have her chaw-soaked mouth away from my crotch, and meaning it too; just cause she's uncouth doesn't mean she isn't a good soldier.
"Uhm-huh," a delay, then, "Shit, I gotta go to the latrine."
The aisle fellow rises, the Marine departs. My aisle buddy looks disappointed. Not that she left, but that she'll be coming back.
"Could be a big drunk one," I say.
He shrugs, as if to say, "Or it could have been a Maxim model."
The Marine returns, sans spitoon and bulging lip. Relieved, I buckle up and prepare to get off the ground.
We get off the ground without a hitch, aside from more muttered imprecautions from tiny Marine next to me, which I am good with. Some people just don't travel well.
The tiny Marine passes out, slumping between myself and Mr Cool Aisle for the duration of the flight, which means lights out for me too. I wake as we start to descend. There's a good bit of weather turbulence, setting the plane to rocking.
Tiny Marine gets agitated, bouncing in her seat and pressing one breast into my arm as she cranks her neck over to look out the window, "I fuckin' hate not fuckin' bein' able to see the ground. Hate worryin' we'll fall outta the sky and crash."
The Indian woman in front of us gives a tiny squeek of fear, not in response to the plane's movement so much as the Marine's brining that movement to her attention.
I just nod wordlessly, working my mouth to pop my ears. Some shit you just don't say out loud, even when you're giving cheap thrills.
We get on the ground and she's all over her phone, shooting the shit with someone, cursing every third word. I wouldn't have batted an eye, but then she starts to tell a story.
"Yeah, that Marine I was telling you about, he tried to kiss me."
....
"Shit, I told you he tried to kiss me. And I told him, 'I'm no whore to be kissing some Marine I just met. I was raised in a God-fearing household.'"
"Shit, I know. Oh, and by the way I have one word to tell you about- you know."
.....
"Pink."
.....
"Pink."
We make the gate and passengers start to disembark.
"Holy shit, but I need to peeeeeeh!I know, I've been sleepin' the whole trip since we got in the fuckin' air."
By now the other passengers have finally emptied rows through to thirteen, the row before us. I breath deeply, thinking, 'Freedom is nigh!'
Another head-in-lap session as she starts to pull her bag from beneath the seat in front of her.
At last, it ends.
Now for the Memphis to Chattanooga leg.
And back again.
It should be noted: I respect and appreciate all our armed forces. They give more than they should have to each and every day. The individual soldier can often do some funny shit, though. Especially the young, intoxicated and uncomplicated.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Ten Signs I'm Getting Older
1) Movies I remember watching as a kid are being remade, and yes, thirty years have passed since I first watched 'em.
2) I have more hair on my back than my head.
3) Video Games I played as a kid appear so clunky they look like a phone from the twenties set next to my cell phone.
4) People of a legal age to drink were born after I started having sex.
5) My kid has a hard time thinking of me as a kid.
6) I can't stay up all night and still function effeciently the next day.
7) I can't drink like a fish and feel okay within a few hours of waking. Now it takes all week, and it's never a good week.
8) Celebrities that die young were younger than I am.
9) The music of my youth sounds dated, even to me.
10) and the worst: Grey hair in the pubes.
2) I have more hair on my back than my head.
3) Video Games I played as a kid appear so clunky they look like a phone from the twenties set next to my cell phone.
4) People of a legal age to drink were born after I started having sex.
5) My kid has a hard time thinking of me as a kid.
6) I can't stay up all night and still function effeciently the next day.
7) I can't drink like a fish and feel okay within a few hours of waking. Now it takes all week, and it's never a good week.
8) Celebrities that die young were younger than I am.
9) The music of my youth sounds dated, even to me.
10) and the worst: Grey hair in the pubes.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
My Results and Observations from Strikeforce 121909
Got 'em all, and in the manner I thought they'd go, for the most part.
Le Vs Smith:
I should have bet on this one, damn it. Smith just wanted it so very badly. He took a brutal beating from Cung's kicks, getting knocked flat at least five times. Smith came through it to land his brute of a left hook repeatedly in the last minute of the bout. Le ended on his face with a couple of goose eggs on his forehead. Smith's unlikely to make a long career of it, based on the lumping he took to win, but man, what a chin and a will to win.
Thomson vs. Melendez
Again, as I called it. Though there was little ground action, it was because both defended so well. The standup was incredible, with Melendez winning because he had been more a student of Thomson than Thomson was of him. They went the full five rounds again. Amazing battle. Can't wait for the third matchup of these two.
Souza vs. Lindland:
Another resent sign for Strikeforce, Souza (The crocodile) is a BJJ specialist who used to have little in the way of strike game. Tonight he came out with a sick arsenal of punches that so rattled Lindland that he was an easy victim for Souza's submission, which was a good example of the jujitsu's ability to knock you out with your own limbs.
Lawal vs. Whitehead:
Lawal did as I predicted. I've never been all that impressed with Whitehead, who looks like a regional fighter more than someone who should be watched on a card with the likes of the rest of the fighters.
Some other observations:
Strikeforce has made some very smart decisions recently in signing a series of fighters I first watched in the Dream tournaments televised in the US on HDNet Fights. Names include Miller, Mousasi, Souza and Fedor. All fighting and earning good money in Japan through the Dream series of promotions.
Mousasi took Souza with an upkick knockout (in Dream 8, I think it was?). All the fighters are something to watch. Every one of these guys was signed at about the same time, to punch up Strikeforce's credibility after the thunderous collapse of EliteXC. They are all also about as good as they come in the international scene.
I noticed Melendez had both Shields and Miller in his corner. Miller is a favorite of mine from the Dream series in Japan. He's known for his showmanship both in the ring and on his approach, something the Japanese audience expects. Interestingly, he had the smarts to tamp down his presentation to make sure that he didn't upstage Melendez on the lightweight's night, to the point of dying his hair all one color.
All this has me looking forward to the Strikeforce fights of 2o1o with a great deal of excitement.
Le Vs Smith:
I should have bet on this one, damn it. Smith just wanted it so very badly. He took a brutal beating from Cung's kicks, getting knocked flat at least five times. Smith came through it to land his brute of a left hook repeatedly in the last minute of the bout. Le ended on his face with a couple of goose eggs on his forehead. Smith's unlikely to make a long career of it, based on the lumping he took to win, but man, what a chin and a will to win.
Thomson vs. Melendez
Again, as I called it. Though there was little ground action, it was because both defended so well. The standup was incredible, with Melendez winning because he had been more a student of Thomson than Thomson was of him. They went the full five rounds again. Amazing battle. Can't wait for the third matchup of these two.
Souza vs. Lindland:
Another resent sign for Strikeforce, Souza (The crocodile) is a BJJ specialist who used to have little in the way of strike game. Tonight he came out with a sick arsenal of punches that so rattled Lindland that he was an easy victim for Souza's submission, which was a good example of the jujitsu's ability to knock you out with your own limbs.
Lawal vs. Whitehead:
Lawal did as I predicted. I've never been all that impressed with Whitehead, who looks like a regional fighter more than someone who should be watched on a card with the likes of the rest of the fighters.
Some other observations:
Strikeforce has made some very smart decisions recently in signing a series of fighters I first watched in the Dream tournaments televised in the US on HDNet Fights. Names include Miller, Mousasi, Souza and Fedor. All fighting and earning good money in Japan through the Dream series of promotions.
Mousasi took Souza with an upkick knockout (in Dream 8, I think it was?). All the fighters are something to watch. Every one of these guys was signed at about the same time, to punch up Strikeforce's credibility after the thunderous collapse of EliteXC. They are all also about as good as they come in the international scene.
I noticed Melendez had both Shields and Miller in his corner. Miller is a favorite of mine from the Dream series in Japan. He's known for his showmanship both in the ring and on his approach, something the Japanese audience expects. Interestingly, he had the smarts to tamp down his presentation to make sure that he didn't upstage Melendez on the lightweight's night, to the point of dying his hair all one color.
All this has me looking forward to the Strikeforce fights of 2o1o with a great deal of excitement.
Strikeforce Fight Night December 19 Calls
Taking a page from Mark's Journal, I am calling a few fights of my own.
He's a big UFC fan, and while I don't watch UFC (mainly because I just can't justify pay per view), I do follow anything on HDNet Fights and Strikeforce pretty religiously. Here are my calls for this fight night.
Le Vs Smith:
I would call this for Le, thinking that barring a lucky shot, he should own Smith. Then I considered that while Le hasn't been away from fighting long at all, he has been away from fighting for longer than he has _ever_ been away from the discipline, and it seems to me there are some shenanigans going on with all the title crap. So I give it to Smith by a surprise knockout or a TKO. If it goes to a decision, Le. He has the home crowd advantage, after all.
Thomson vs. Melendez:
Both can kick ass, but Melendez just can't be easily hurt. He can just take so much punishment. I think it'll be a long, very good fight ending with Melendez winning either a decision or submission. This will be the fight of the night, with good skill exhibition by both fighters.
Souza vs. Lindland:
Souza for sure, he has to prove he's worth the money Strikeforce paid to get him signed. Quick submission or submission over time, it's still Souza's to lose.
Lawal vs. Whitehead:
Lawal for an artless win. That said, I think there will be lots of pounding, so a lucky strike by either could end it quick.
He's a big UFC fan, and while I don't watch UFC (mainly because I just can't justify pay per view), I do follow anything on HDNet Fights and Strikeforce pretty religiously. Here are my calls for this fight night.
Le Vs Smith:
I would call this for Le, thinking that barring a lucky shot, he should own Smith. Then I considered that while Le hasn't been away from fighting long at all, he has been away from fighting for longer than he has _ever_ been away from the discipline, and it seems to me there are some shenanigans going on with all the title crap. So I give it to Smith by a surprise knockout or a TKO. If it goes to a decision, Le. He has the home crowd advantage, after all.
Thomson vs. Melendez:
Both can kick ass, but Melendez just can't be easily hurt. He can just take so much punishment. I think it'll be a long, very good fight ending with Melendez winning either a decision or submission. This will be the fight of the night, with good skill exhibition by both fighters.
Souza vs. Lindland:
Souza for sure, he has to prove he's worth the money Strikeforce paid to get him signed. Quick submission or submission over time, it's still Souza's to lose.
Lawal vs. Whitehead:
Lawal for an artless win. That said, I think there will be lots of pounding, so a lucky strike by either could end it quick.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Jealousy is a Dark God
I met Peter V Brett at World Fantasy after I was privileged to attend his and Mark Van Name's panel about violence in fantasy. I say Mark and his panel because they were the two panelists whose contributions I took the most value from.
I later cornered Peter (AKA Peat) and spoke with him for a few hours over drinks: A very good time that I both learned a lot from and enjoyed quite a bit. During this time I also met Myke, Alessa, and Rob, the latter two having blogs you can check out along the side here---------------------------------------------------------------------->
All this to say: like many of the folks I met at the convention, I hadn't read his work, but determined that it would be my next purchase. The book, The Warded Man remained unpurchased until I had completed my sergeant's oral.
I picked up the book Monday. I finally had time and opportunity to read it today.
I had thought to pick it up and read for an hour, then get to writing. BIG MISTAKE! HUGE! Holy shit! I've read 287 pages thus far, and I haven't written a thing all day.
When I read something, I often say to myself, "Shit! I could write this."
Sometimes I even say, in the long, drawn out southern style of my maternal forebears, "SHIiiiiT! I could write better than this."
Not once has that occurred to me while reading The Warded Man.
It is original stuff. He's written a gritty fantasy world that is one thing many fantasy worlds are not: believable. The characters have deep-seated, emotional reasons for doing the things they do. Even when it is the thing you would rather they didn't do, you still understand why they are doing it.
Peter writes with a smooth surety that makes me want to bang my head against the keyboard, cry, and drink a couple of my agent's bottles of Scotch to drown my sorrows.
I might get over it.
Until the next installment of his work.
Fucker.
Jealousy is a Dark God.
I later cornered Peter (AKA Peat) and spoke with him for a few hours over drinks: A very good time that I both learned a lot from and enjoyed quite a bit. During this time I also met Myke, Alessa, and Rob, the latter two having blogs you can check out along the side here---------------------------------------------------------------------->
All this to say: like many of the folks I met at the convention, I hadn't read his work, but determined that it would be my next purchase. The book, The Warded Man remained unpurchased until I had completed my sergeant's oral.
I picked up the book Monday. I finally had time and opportunity to read it today.
I had thought to pick it up and read for an hour, then get to writing. BIG MISTAKE! HUGE! Holy shit! I've read 287 pages thus far, and I haven't written a thing all day.
When I read something, I often say to myself, "Shit! I could write this."
Sometimes I even say, in the long, drawn out southern style of my maternal forebears, "SHIiiiiT! I could write better than this."
Not once has that occurred to me while reading The Warded Man.
It is original stuff. He's written a gritty fantasy world that is one thing many fantasy worlds are not: believable. The characters have deep-seated, emotional reasons for doing the things they do. Even when it is the thing you would rather they didn't do, you still understand why they are doing it.
Peter writes with a smooth surety that makes me want to bang my head against the keyboard, cry, and drink a couple of my agent's bottles of Scotch to drown my sorrows.
I might get over it.
Until the next installment of his work.
Fucker.
Jealousy is a Dark God.
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