Spunky: R.I.P.

AT 10:30 this morning I brought Spunky to the vet's to have her put to sleep. She was suffering from kidney failure and arthritis. This morning she was under the trampoline in the backyard on cold, damp ground and looked miserable. We'd already decided today would be the day she'd have to be put down, and the state she was in made it clear it was the necessary decision.

That doesn't make it easy, but the poor dog was suffering badly. She was 13 and a sweet, gentle animal. We'll miss her.

Here she is five years ago, during better times.

Are All Library Operators Stupid...

...or is it just Tacoma's?

Here's the scenario. Several months ago I checked out a western by the late Bill DeAndrea, one from his Lobo Blacke series. A month or so later I got a letter from the library saying it was overdue and I owed them ten bucks. Somehow, I'd forgotten that I'd borrowed the book; I thought it was mine (I rarely get books from the library since my own is better stocked). I decide that for a few dollars more I could say I'd lost the book and decided to pay for it.
I went to the library with this offer and was told I owed $31 and change. What? The book couldn't have cost more than $15. Turns out it was about $18. PLUS they wanted me to pay the $10 late fine on top of that, plus tax.
Hold the wedding, says I. Why should I pay for the book AND pay the fine? And since when is an ex-library copy worth full retail?
They were adamant. So was I.
Anyway, I think fines are bullshit.
Some weeks after this I decided to return the book (plus a tattered paperback Kristine had misplaced after checking it out on my card). So, according to their lights, I should owe only $20, a fine I have no plans to ever pay.
However, I receive many review copies every month and I thought of a brilliant way to both get the library off my back and increase their stock. I offered eight pristine new hardbacks as a payment for the fines. The books I offered were worth ten times what I owed.
That's when the bureaucrat hit the fan.
The head of the branch library I approached decided such a decision was above her authority and promised to consult someone higher up. After ten days of high-level discussions, no doubt involving a bevy of middle-management pencil gnawers, I was told they must decline my offer. Their ultimate fear was of setting a precedent. "What if someone should offer us furniture?" I was asked.
Decline, I said. You're a library. You buy books. I'm offering you ten times what you want. You save money. I also told them I'd have other books to offer in the future, free of charge.
I was given some malarkey about their computer and accountings, but I know they can wipe out a fine with a keystroke and it won't destroy their ledger.
I finally got the phone number of someone higher up the ladder to call.
What galls me is how impotent this bureaucracy is. It's like no one has the courage or brains or authority to make a simple decision, even one favorable to them. They are paralyzed by the prospect of dealing with a situation that requires someone to show foresight and initiative.
I've always been favorably disposed towards libraries, but when I hear the inevitable cry about their budget woes next year I'll be saying tough turkey. You had a chance to make a killing and you rejected it. And they can expect my vote to reflect this disgust.

Who is mysterydick (and why is he saying all those nice things about me)?

Powell's City of Book in Portland, OR, is taking preorders for my book for $30.95. That's five bucks over retail. You can get a better deal at Barnes & Noble, but they don't have the following review:

"Strap yourself into your easy chair and get set for a wild ride. Love, Death, and the Toyman is very likely the world's first hardboiled toy dealer novel.
Actually, hero Jack Lorentz is a former hardboiled investigative reporter turned baby-boomer collectible trader who gets sucked back into action by a sexy ex-finace and her aristocratic in-laws. Jack confronts a cast of wicked and wacky characters in his quest to discover who dumped a body (or is it two?) on the family's exclusive resort property. It's a whirlwind tale of mystery, sex, love, politics, humor, snobbery, adultery, violence, tenderness, Doo-Wop, a Lone Ranger wrist watcht and a Betty Boop mantle clock, sweeping you along to a slam-bang finish. It's a shotgun blast in the pants! Buy it!"

Rated five out of five stars by mysterydick

This is the first review I've seen from someone outside my circle of family an friends, and it's wonderfully flattering. Whoever you are mysterydick, thank you.

Fuzzy and Tsunami, RIP

Not a good week for small animals at Chez Cap'n. My Thai Fighting Fish, Tsunami, died three days ago, and my rat, Fuzzy, passed away overnight. It was a bit of a relief that Fuzzy went. He'd been suffering from two serious maladies for months (crippled and blind), but was always spirited and would crawl out of his house looking for a treat whenever I entered the room. He was at least three years old, which is ancient for a rat, and I like to think his time here was comfortable and happy. Attached is a picture of him taken when he was healthier.

The Cover

As threatened, here's the cover.

Show Me the Proof

Yesterday I got a box of uncorrected proofs of my novel, LOVE, DEATH, AND THE TOYMAN, due from Five Star in December. They're bound up like books, albeit with soft covers. I'm beginning to get the idea this thing is actually going to see the light of day.
If I can remember how to do it I'll publish a picture of the cover. I'm not sure what it's supposed to represent, but I realize the publishers are limited by what they can glean from public domain art. There's a bit in the book about a red tattoo on the derriere of the beautiful female lead. I volunteered to perform a nationwide search for the perfect posterior and paint the tattoo on myself, but my generous offer was met by silence. Too bad, it would have been the best cover since Mickey Spillane's ex appeared nude on the dj of--dang, was it THE ERECTION SET? Bill Crider will know.
Anyway, make room in your Christmas budget for a copy of this future collectible. The royalty you create may be mine.

Louiefest

On August 19 I joined Dave Lewis, his friend Drew the Omaha dj, Tough Jim (alias Sir Trafford) Gaston, Alex Mills, and my daughter Kristine for Louiefest 2006. The intent of this gathering is to have 1,000 guitars play the song "Louie, Louie" simultaneously. Year one came closest, with around 750 players. Year two drew half that, and despite the promoter's claim I think this year topped out at around 200. In addition to the mass "Louie, Louie" playing, there were a number of local bands entertaining on one of the five stages located around Spanaway's Spinker Center athletic fields, a custom car display, and vendors selling anything from jewelry to real estate.

Kristine called this her Day of Misery. She didn't want to attend and had a bad time except for the "Louie, Louie" part. In truth, I wasn't that overwhelmed by the local groups and it seemed like I spent a lot of time walking around in the hot sun.

For those who don't know, "Louie, Louie" is a song that was recorded by The Fabulous Wailers in 1961 with modest success. Two years later The Kingsmen did another verson of "Louie, Louie" and had a big hit. The song also caused a sensation because the lyrics were so garbled that a rumor spread claiming they were obscene. It got so bad that FBI agents would attend Kingsmen concerts, notepads in hand, trying to write down what the band was singing.
Because both The Kingsmen and The Fabulous Wailers are Northwest groups, the song has had special signifigance in this part of the world. Some years ago a movement grew to have "Louie, Louie" declared the state song of Washington. It failed.

I must admit I've never been a big fan of the song, although I don't dislike it.

To see and hear the spectacle, log on to:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=CXFXDqg5aG0 I think that's a zero at the end.

I'm the chap in the red tee-shirt, Drew's in the black one. Tough Jim has the yellow guitar, and Alex is the young guy. Kristine is the cutie with the ponytail. The woman with the camera is Laurie, Alex's mother. Dave took the video with a camera hanging around his neck, thus the MTV effects.

By the way, a drawing was held before the song started to pick 10 Guitar Heroes to perform on stage with the bigger names. Dave and I were both picked but refused the honor. What kills me is that right after they drew my name for that they drew one for a free Epiphone electric guitar. Missed it by this much.

The promoters--Wailers Performing Arts Foundation--hoped to get The Guiness Book of World Records to accept this as a category, but it was not to be. I don't know if there will be another Louiefest (last year was skipped), but I hope so. If nothing else, I end up with a neat tee-shirt and a couple of guitar picks every year.

Why I Will Never Be On WHEEL OF FORTUNE

Earlier this week the WHEEL OF FORTUNE show held contestant tryouts at The Emerald Queen Casino, my favorite place to game. It's close, and I know which machines are likely to pay off.
Anyway, the call was for five in the afternoon. When Linda and I got there the line went through a sereies of switchbacks in the auditorium, across the second level, and halfway through the main floor of the joint. For all that it moved reasonable quickly. We were given yellow slips to fill out, which then went into a rotating drum, and eventually we got seated in the large theater. I don't know how many were in that hopeful audience, but at a bare minimum I'd say 500.
On stage was a cheap replica of the WOF board, a small upright wheel, and a table piled with prizes (hats, T-shirts, tote bages, etc.). Some bozo and a pretty blonde were also up there. The bozo's job was to whip the mob into a frenzy and the blonde worked the answer board, filling in letters with a marker during the test games.
It was made abundantly clear from the get go that frenzy and manic enthusiasm meant everything; playing skill meant zero. And most of the largely female crowd was only too happy to make fools of themselves toward this end. If you've ever read H.L. Mencken's essay The Hills of Zion, about a Fundamentalist camp meeting that takes on the emotional aspects of an orgy, you have an idea of what I witnessed.
The procedure was to call five people to the stage, briefly interview each one, and play a quick round sans spinning the wheen, just calling out letters. The purpose of the interviews were to test people for perkiness. The more agog the better.
Of the assembled multitude perhaps 35 made in onto the stage. That number could have been doubled had not Bozo, with his mike set to a level five times the necessary decible level, not flogged and prodded the crowd into a froth every ten seconds. Not much fun when the room is hotter than a burning outhouse.
After about 90 minutes of this spectacle we were herded out and another batch of candidates allowed to suffer the same ordeal. We were assured that more names would be selected from the uncalled slips at a later date, and those people would be given a chance to compete.
You have to wonder at some people. One old gent whose name was called to go on stage was so feeble his wife had to come along and hold him up. The topper was the woman who didn't speak English. What was going through her cabeza? If you watch the show you know the lame and the halt never get get on stage.
If you know me, my personality is not one of ebullience. I don't jump around like a drunken kangaroo every time I win a keychain. I don't care to make a spectacle of myself and I manage to keep my emotions in check, except for anger. Good to let that one out, I think. However, I'm good at word games and would likely be a good player. It irks me that the people who run WOF (and most other game shows) prefer a raving lunatic to a controlled, competent player. Perhaps that's why I like JEOPARDY best. They value brains over behavior.

On the way out of the casino that afternoon I decided to play the slots. I gave Linda $20, took $60 for myself, and started playing. I mean losing. Couldn't hit a thing. She wasn't doing so well, either, so she decided to try her luck in the non-smoking room. I headed over to a Three Stooges slot machine and started winning. I was ahead a bit when Linda comes back and shows me she'd trippled her $20. And right away I started losing again. I finally went bust.
Hmmmm... On my last six visits I'd won four times and lost twice. The two times I lost I had Linda with me. I even won when she was there but not around me, and started losing when she came back. Coincidence? I doubt it. On my future trips, I'll fly solo.

Take Two

I tried to post this yesterday, June 7, but it failed.

So, a belated Happy Birthday to my role model, Eddie Haskell. Okay, to Ken Osmond, who played Eddie on the best family sitcom ever, Leave It to Beaver.

We start war games at work next week. I hate that crap.

Correction

My post from earlier today said that our ports were being sold to Saudi Arabians. Not so. It's the United Arab Emirates, a country of 12,000 square miles on the eastern coast of the Arabian Peninsula. Still, that's close enough to Saudi Arabia for me. This whole idea of selling US companies or land to foreign nations upsets me.
I think the movie NETWORK was right. There will be no more U.S., or England, or Russia; only Exxon and Time Warner and Sony. I assume there have been s-f books based on the premise that the world is one large mall occupied by competing corporations. I'd like to read some of them one of these days.

Long Live Big Mac Brother!

Wave the Flag

I've just finished filling out an extensive and somewhat insulting form to insure that my government security status remains Secret. I accomplished this onerous task a little over two years ago, and it should not have been due until 10 years after that, but God forbid the people who are supposed to keep these records shouldn't lose them. It is reassuring to know that those responsible for our security are so efficient.

This taste of government efficiency got me to thinking about just how long I have been associated with the military. For openers, I was born in the Brooklyn Naval Hospital in 1947. As a Navy brat I lived in New York, Rhode Island, Louisiana, Maryland, and Virginia. I think I was 12 1/2 years old when my father retired from the service, but he worked for a year or so at the D.E.W. Line when I was 14-15. In 1966 I joined the Army and spent 28 months in that venerable service, including 13 1/2 months in Viet Nam. Skip ahead to 1979 and I started my civil service job with the Air Force. So we add 12 1/2, 1, 2 1/3, and 25 years and we get (mm, mm, carry the one...) 40 years and 10 months in Uncle Sam's embrace. Maybe 41 if you add in the odd days and weeks. Over two-thirds of my life. And I have to justify to this nation that I'm worthy of a security clearance? Meanwhile, this nation is selling its major shipping ports to the Saudi Arabians--the nation that spawned the 9/11 murderers. Wotta world!

Kristine dragged me to my second and her fourth viewing of the latest Harry Potter movie last night. I'm glad I went, as I'd forgotten a lot of what I saw the first time. I suspect that my poor recollection stemmed from the fact that by the time the film started I was bone tired from standing in line for 90 minutes after a long work week. I'm surprised I didn't fall asleep and snore up the theater. One of these days I may read the books, but at this point I'm not interested in switching genres.

Although, to be honest, I bought a couple of s-f paperback short story volumes at a thrift store last week. One is The Machineries of Joy, by Ray Bradbury; the other is The Year's Best S-F, 8th Annual Edition. I believe Bill Crider's warm reminiscences about his youthful s-f reading influenced my decision to buy these books. And, being short stories, I can nibble away at them as I wait for Kristine to get out of school, or when she's having her guitar lesson.

It always sounds like whining when you complain about bad officiating leading to your team's defeat, but this year's Super Bowl resulted in nationwide complaints and questions about the job the officials did. I thought it was an appalling display of incompetence and/or bias. Would Pittsburgh have won if the game had been called properly? Maybe. They're a good team and worthy of their appearance in the Super Bowl. But we'll never know, and a strong case could be made for the Seahawks winning if the zebras didn't destroy so many of their drives or nullify their scores. My ultimate reaction to it can be summed up thusly: "I is regusted."

We're Number One!

SEA-HAWKS! SEA-HAWKS! SEA-HAWKS! SEA-HAWKS!

I was calling for a 28-24 Seahawk victory, but they kicked Panther butt throughout the game. This is the first time a Seahawk football team made it to the Superbowl and we're all excited here in the great PNW. Can we beat Pittsburgh?

Damn right we can.

Freedom Day

I wanted to post this yesterday, Jan 19, because it's a special anniversary for me. It was on that day in 1969 that I got my discharge from the Army. Never was I so happy to get rid of an obligation. Not that I minded the Army during my regular duty, but when I got out I'd been cooling my heels at West Point awaiting said discharge. It took two weeks to have it approved (I was getting a hardship discharge, allegedly as the sole support of my mother) and another 2 1/2 months to make it happen. Those 2 1/2 months, during which I had no idea when my paperwork would come through, were awful. By the time I got out I had a burning hatred for the Army and just about anything else connected to the government. That made going to California and becoming an antiestablishment hippy a few months later very easy for me.

Because it was 36 years since I re-entered civilan life, you might think I'm a bit long in the tooth. But the truth is that I joined up as a drummer boy when I was six years old and was mustered out a year later. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

All this might seem odd considering that I now work for the Air Force and have for the past 26 years. Well, that's what I do for money, and the BS that I faced back in my Army days is still evident in today's action Air Force. On the other hand, I'm glad to have the job and there are even times when it's interesting and fulfilling. Like a couple of weeks ago when I was part of a team that supported a Medivac mission. A baby was flown in from Kadena AFB, Japan, for treatment at Madigan Hospital on neighboring Fort Lewis. There were a good 20 people involved in getting that infant from Japan to here, not to mention the load planners, air crew, ground people, and whoever had to authorize the use of the aircraft. When I went out to the plane I knew we were doing a Medivac, but I was expecting an adult on a gurney to be aboard. Was I surprised. The infant was in something like an incubator, and that was covered by a towel, so I never laid eyes on him or her, nor do I have any idea what its problem was, but my heart went out to the baby and I hope Madigan can help.

Another Year? I Haven't Used Up the Last One.

It seems that if I don't have a broken down car to report I'm out of conversation. Well, the car was in the shop again, but that was a couple or three weeks ago. Thank goodness it was something expensive. I'd hate to see my mechanic miss out on a first-class, around-the-world cruise on my account.

Christmas is over with and I enjoyed it. I didn't even let the crowds, lack of parking, and imbecile drivers bother me. I bought Steff a computer desk and spent most of the evening putting it together. I think there were 500 screws involved, and my power screwdriver was dead. I got Kristine a printer for her computer but beat it out of town before I had to deal with the installation. She probably did it herself; I ought to check.

The day after Xmas, I joined four other old reprobates for the annual gathering in the wilds known as Tankon. The venue is a cozy cabin belonging to Frank Denton. When I arrived this year Frank was there, having arrived a short time before me, and announced there was a problem with the electricity. We had enough to use the two overhead lights, but no more. No fridge, microwave, heaters, DVD player, or laptops (other than the limited battery). We kept the cabin warm using a wood-burning stove, but once we went to bed the fire died and my head and shoulders, not being inside my sleeping bag, were ice cold. I slept little, and finally got up and fired up the stove. Later that day the guys from the power company came and fixed the lines, and we were back to normal. We still don't have running water, but we're used to that.
We did the usual: ate too much, read, watched movies, chatted, argued, slept, wrote. At the end of six days I packed up and left, glad again to have had the isolation of Bestafar's Hut. I was also glad to get home to a hot shower and shave.
My New Year's resolutions are the same ones I break every year: read more, eat less. Maybe this time I'll keep them a bit longer than usual.

One of the movies I watched at the cabin (on my laptop, knowing the others wouldn't appreciate it) was BELA LUGOSI MEETS A BROOKLYN GORILLA, with Sammy Petrillo, Duke Mitchell, and an aged Lugosi. Petrillo's claim to fame, or infamy, is that he's a dead ringer for Jerry Lewis. Looks like him, sounds like him, and annoys me like him. I like Jerry Lewis impressions that exaggerate his goofy mannerisms, but to see someone act exactly as Jerry would act doesn't work for me. About the only thing that made this movie endurable was the pretty island girl. Better was THE ASPHALT JUNGLE, with Sterling Hayden, Jean Hagen, Sam Jaffe, and a very young and breathless Marilyn Monroe. This is a classic noir with dark streets, tough mugs, despair, lost innocence, and every bad act destined to doom the perpetrator. I loved it, with the possible exception of John McIntyre's lecture towards the end about the importance of cops.

Today ends the regular football season. The Seahawks are well positioned for the playoffs, but I wonder how they'll hold up against some of the teams they're apt to face. Sure, they beat the Colts last week, but the Colts' head coach was gone and some key starters were benched after the first quarter. I suppose we'll just have to wait and see. Seattle has never had a team in the Super Bowl or World Series, and this is the year it might happen.

Dinner awaits. May you have a safe and prosperous 2006.

Happy Plus One

Yesterday's birthday was quite nice. Linda took me to the local Indian casino and gave me $40 to play with. I played a penny slot machine, usually risking 20 cents at a time. After a couple of hours I was down to $11 and change. She'd lost the $20 she brought for herself and all but 36 cents of the fiver I advanced.
The casino has a buffet, so I piled a plate high and stuffed my face. After eating we realized it was getting late, so I figuered I'd just play a buck per pull and get it over with. I went back to one of the penny machines I favored and within five minutes had built my stake up to over $57. I took a couple more plays to make sure the streak was over, and quit at $54.99.
Back at the house we had some cake and ice cream and I opened my presents. A strap for my guitar, a DVD about Guitar Heroes, a season of The Twilight Zone of DVD, lottery tickets, cash, and some trifles. One set of lottery tickets were a bust, alas, but there are some for a drawing on the 22nd and I'm hoping for the best--which would include instant retirement. Well, I can dream.

Today was spent finishing my zine for Dapa-Em. I also watched the Seahawks scape by the lowly 49ers. Not a good showing, but any win is better than no win.

Happy Birthday to Me

Yep, today marks mumbledy-mumble years since I made my Earthly debut at the Brooklyn Naval Hospital. Frankly, aging stinks, but, as the pundits say, it beats the alternative. Linda is taking me to the local Indian casino where I'll wile away some time playing penny slots and wishing I was rich and retired.

Last night I took Linda and the girls to see Harry Potter, after we fortified ourselves on Mongolian grill. We all enjoyed the movie, and Kristine, my Potter maniac, can't wait to see it again. She'll have to wait a week anyway. I missing seeing the movie stairways, and I wish Hermione had a larger role, but I understand that it was impossible to cram everything into a 2 1/2 hour movie. The special effects are so good I never notice them. It seems like all that stuff is really there--the monsters, the magic, the sailing ship rising from the sea.

Reading has been eclectic, but I can recommend TRACE EVIDENCE, by Elizabeth Becca. The author is a trained forensic scientist and her knowledge of forensic procedures and evidence gathering adds a lot to this story of a nut killing young women with tenuous ties to him.

Marvin Albert's APACHE RISING is an action-packed paperback about a scout and troop of cavalry trying to thwart an uprising by an Apache leader. A number of compelling subplots add suspence to the story and Albert's writing is so precise you can feel the burning sun and taste the gritty, omnipresent sand.

More later...

Mama Mia, Hold the Kia!

I just got a call from the mechanic and the problem is a heater hose, not the head gasket. Maybe I'll keep the old bomb after all. At least until it's paid off, which is only 4 or 5 months away.

I confess I watch a lot of courtroom TV shows, and one thing I've noticed is that the bailiff is always in contrast to the judge. Note:

Judge Judy--White female judge / black mail bailiff
People's Court--Hispanic female judge / black male bailiff
Judge Joe Brown--Black male judge / white female bailiff
Divorce Court--Black female judge / white male bailiff
Judge Alex--White male judge / black male bailiff
Texas Justice--White male judge / black male bailiff
Judge Mathis--Black male judge / white male bailiff

I don't know what, if any, significance there is in all this, but it does indicate that someone thinks there ought to be ethnic/gender diversity between the judge and the bailiff (sometimes called the court officer).

I was at a thrift store earlier and checked out the books. I found a western from Belmont Tower (HOT LEAD, by Dwight Bruckner, 1977). I like finding books from the second-string publishers, and I wish there were more houses like BT around these days. We do have some small imprints, but most of them are of better quality than BT and its ilk.

For the first time in ages I hit four numbers on the lottery. I won $30, which I reinvested in tickets. I won $9.00 on them. I added a buck of my own and got $10 worth of tickets, which I parlayed into zero dollars. This has made me wonder if the lottery evolved out of Man's desire to get something for nothing or if there is an Intelligent Design promulgated by The Lottery Gods. Angry, vengeful, Lottery Gods, at that. I'm deep in matters like this.

Never Fails

I told the family last week that as soon as I got my advance from Tekno Books something would happen to eat it up--either my car or computer. Saturday I got the check, Sunday the car started having problems. I'm pretty sure the expensive head gasket job I had done 5-6 months ago gave out. Later today I'll take it to the shop--assuming it'll go that far--and have it repaired again. Then I'm going to trade it in on something else. I'm ashamed to say I've been thinking of a new Kia. Yeah, I know they're chintzy little jokes, but they're cheap and the warranty is pretty good. And I'm sick of used cars. Filling the tank on my pimpmobile is costing about $45 a shot. I need something with better mileage.
As you may recall, when I got my lawsuit settlement I had to immediately spent about half of it fixing that lemon. It is written on the stars, I guess, that Cap'n Bob is not allowed to have money. Thanks a heap, stars.

I want to wish Ed Gorman the best of luck with his cancer treatments. I've said it before and I'll say it again, no one has done more for mystery writers and the mystery community at large than Ed. Come back, Ed. We need you.

Sandra Scoppettone has recanted her statement that paperback books are on the way out. Her industry source didn't know what he or she was talking about, apparently. That's good news, or non-news as the case may be. And that source ought to get a job in the crumbling Bush administration.

How about those White Sox?
How about those Seahawks?

Fall Preview

The leaves are clogging my gutters, it's raining more often, and I'm colder at night. It must be Fall.

As always in this irregular blog, I have to backtrack. Let us cast our memories to late August. I flew to Milwaukee to visit old pal Beth Fedyn for a few days before driving down to Chicago with her for Bouchercon, The World Mystery Convention. The visit was generally pleasant, marred only by one of her dogs trying to rend my flesh whenever my back was turned. I solved that by not turning my back, but I could have done without the cur altogether.
When I wasn't being a chew toy for Cujo I had a nice time seeing the local sights, breaking my diet shamelessly, and invading used book stores. I loaded up on old western paperbacks that I would mail home later.

Then it was on to Chicago and B'con. I must admit I loved the city, at least the area where the convention was held, at The Sheraton Hotel near Lake Michigan. The con was a lot of fun, too. I saw old friends, made a couple of new ones, and reacquainted myself with the tasty libation known as the whiskey sour. Not that I've become a sot, but I'm not above having a cocktail or two if I go out to dinner. I'm lucky in that drinking heavily has never appealed to me.
Among the fun things I did at the con was have a look at the Navy Pier complex, take an evening excursion on a sightseeing boat along the waterfront, visit a park whose name I can never remember (the one with the chrome bean and the spitting woman), hike around the streets with various friends, touch a piece of the Alamo imbedded in the Dearborn Building, watch Bill Crider win the Don Sandstrom Memorial Award for Lifetime Achievement as a mystery fan, take in the view from the 80th floor of the Aon Building, eat a decent banquet meal at the same building, see Beth Fedyn get her B'con Fan Guest of Honor Award at the banquet, buying more books than I should, and meeting Polly the P.I and Elizabeth Becka.

Then it was back to Wisconsin to relax for a couple of days before flying home. My return flight was supposed to be Milwaukee to Minneapolis to Bosie to Sea-Tac, but bad weather in Minneapolis grounded our connecting flight. We were rerouted to Denver and thence to Sea-Tac, saving us an extra takeoff and landing. We also got in ahead of schedule. However, my luggage never got transferred so I had to go home without it. The good news is that it was delievered to my door the next morning, saving me from having to schlepp it around. It would be another week before the two boxes of books I mailed from Oconomowoc appeared, but by then I was caught up with deadlines for Dapa-Em, Slan-Apa, and OWLHOOT. I didn't have time to even open the boxes until another week had passed, and have since read only one of the books I picked up on the road.
That book is HEARTSTONE, by D.C. Brod, and I enjoyed it a lot. It's a modern fantasy/quest story with underpinnings of the Arthurian legend. If you've read Debbie's Quint McCauley books you know she's a good writer, but these are very different and show a completely different side of her talent. I also had an old western I read at work during slack time and finished it. Otherwise, my reading for September has been nil.

In a couple of weeks my Stephanie turns 16. I can't believe it. I remember the minute she was born as clearly as though it happened yesterday.
My other girl, Kristine, is going to try out for the school play this week. They're doing The Matchmaker, by Thornton Wilder. Kristine will be 15 in December. When I think of what a useless do-nothing I was at those ages I cringe. I really am impressed by the ambition and courage of both these kids. They sure didn't inherit that from me.

Do you remember the scene in THE GOOD EARTH when the couple with the new baby go a temple to thank the gods for their child? They keep the kid under wraps and protest that it's a sickly, ugly child and will be of no use to their family farm. They do this, we are told, lest the gods covet the child (who was in fact quite healthy and attractive) and take it from them. I know how they feel. I just had a bit of good news that I fear trumpeting lest the gods snatch it from my grasp.
But I'll risk it. Five Star has agreed to buy my novel LOVE, DEATH, AND THE TOYMAN. Imagine that. Me, a novelist. I've written articles for professional publication before, and tons of fannish works, but this would be the first time I'll have a novel published. Honestly, it doesn't seem real. It's like the head cheerleader is lusting after me--I know there's a second shoe waiting to drop. But, unless it does, I'm going to ride out this high for a while.

Another Fine Mess

Saturday was one for the books. I'm in the upstairs convenience when I hear Linda yelling that the downstairs convenience is overflowing. Like I'm supposed to come running. I finish up as fast as I can and discover that, sure enough, there's a small flood in the downstairs bathroom. This happened once before and I knew the cause right away: tree roots got into the sewer line and caused a jam. The fun part is watching feces and murky water filling the tub. But, veteran of the wars that I am, I called Roto-Rooter and dug the dirt off the sewer line access so he wouldn't do it at his ungodly rate (approximately $155 for 30 minutes, $40 for every 15 minutes thereafter). Here was there and gone in an hour ($301.11, including the root killer I bought from him) and we're safe for now.

I am learning to hate trees. Oh, I know they're lovely, provide shade and oxygen and homes for dear little woodland critters, but that's only the part above ground. Beneath the earth, like Commie infiltrators in the fifties, they spread their satanic roots everywhere, clogging innocent sewer lines, choking garden plots, and buckling staid old driveways. I've also had their branches all over the roof after a storm, their leaves in my house's gutters, and more leaves in the yard. I expect one of these ruthless monsters to fall on the house one day. If I ever get another house my first requirement is that there is no tree within 100 feet, and those that are on my property never grow more than 15 feet tall.
Maybe those bonsai people have something there.

In six days I'll be on the road for the Bouchercon in Chicago, via Wisconsin. That is, if Northwest Airlines is serious about their scab mechanics keeping 'em flying. Expedia, from where I got my tickets ("from which?" "From whom" doesn't sound right when discussing a company) has sent me a couple of e-mails assuring me that there will be no glitches. But I always expect the worst and with the way my life has gone that still makes me an optimist.

I took Kristine to Wal-Mart yesterday so she could stock up on school supplies. In their dollar bin I found a DVD of MAN AGAINST CRIME, with Ralph Bellamy. The notes on the back say this show was unique in that it was broadcast live. Also on the DVD front, I finished the latest CISCO KID disk I got from Netflix. The stories were generally better than some of the earlier ones, but there are still some time glitches that even the kiddies must have noticed. What's also interesting--at least to me--is that Cisco had three different horses, often in the same show. I call them the 90% black-and-white paint, the 50% black-and-white paint, and the regular paint. It wasn't uncommon to see him climb aboard the 90%, ride across the landscape on the 50%, and rein up with the 90% again. The regular paint (think of the markings on Little Joe Cartwright's horse) was only used in the occasional chase scene. I can't tell if Pancho's horse had stand-ins or not. It's a basic palamino with a blaze face.

As I type this some moron in the area is blasting a stereo. I'm going to stop now so I can counter-program with my electric guitar. "Mr. Checkov, amp on stun."