Frankie came through his snip just fine. I, however, have some flu or virus that literally makes it feel like Led Zeppelin is playing "Since I've Been Loving You" in my stomach. And if my beloved literallyblog wants to find some wanky concert photo of Robert Plant flaunting his dick and Jimmy Page dancing around in his black velvet pantsuit with the sequined runes on it, and Photoshop the goddamn thing onto the interior of a human stomach, then I will be honored, because I goddamn well do mean literally.

It would be best to expect no further communication from me until this non-command performance is over.

Some of you may recall that I received samples from Body Java, coffee infused bath & body products. It's a local company located in Garrett, Indiana. In fact, I grew up a couple houses down from one of the owners. (Hello Michelle!)

I think the folks at bodyjava have a hit on their hands. I tried the amaretto vanilla latte body wash, bath bar and body lotion. The soap left my skin feeling really clean. And I'm particularly fond of the body lotion and the way it made me feel all silky and sexy and stuff. You know, like a vixen or, hell, some sex kitten. Yeah, that's it. (Maybe they'll hire me to write their catalog copy. Or not. Heh.) It all smells so good, too. Heavenly! They have a sweet deal going on right now. Give 'em a shot if you or someone you know is a coffee lover looking for unique bath products.

Jeff Funk says, "Dude, people will totally want to lick you if you wear this stuff. Seriously."

I'm very sad that I have posted my clever new FAIL icon in several places and no one has commented on its brilliance.



Maybe these young Internet kids have no clue what it's all about ... *mutter* *fulminate*

Apropos of some slightly confused/confusing conversations on prime_liquor: In addition to my plethora of names, I pretty much answer to any pronoun, too.

I do have a question, though. If I have fallen in love with a .38 revolver named "Betsy," does that make me a lesbian?

Another arrival in today's mail was a package from Wildside Press containing three recent issues of Weird Tales. I don't know why they came -- perhaps John Betancourt in yon faraway tower still spares a stray, fond thought for me -- but I don't mind; they look to contain some pretty good reading, and there aren't nearly as many Darrell Schweitzer stories as I remembered from the '90s.

HOWEVER.

One of the copies is their 85th Anniversary Edition (congratulations). In honor of this, Weird Tales has compiled a list of "The 85 Weirdest Storytellers of the Past 85 Years." The nominees were collected, apparently, via a readers' poll.

Making such a list is a thankless task, and I can only add to the thanklessness.

I can say very honestly, whether you choose to believe me or not, that I would neither want not expect to be on such a list. I would probably find it vaguely irritating if I were on the list. Personal noninclusion is not a problem.

BUT.

Any such list that includes Tanith Lee, Cirque du Soleil, and motherfuckin' Björk, but does not include Ramsey Campbell, is a sad and scurrilous joke.

And that's all I have to say about that.

I've mentioned here before that I try to spend every dollar I can in Orleans Parish. I also mentioned yesterday that my printer died. So today I went to the Office Depot on St. Charles to look at new ones. I knew I could probably get a better price at one of the big computer stores in Metairie or Kenner, but as I say, I buy locally whenever possible. The only problem was that the moron employees up front were shrieking, laughing, and cutting up at such a high volume that I could barely hear myself think, let alone compare features on what may be a several-hundred-dollar purchase (I'm determined that this time I will not get the cheapest model available and end up, predictably enough, hating it). I didn't see why I should have to ask these screaming loons to quiet down, so I simply left the store without buying a printer or any of the several other items I needed, came home, and sent an e-mail to Office Depot saying most of what I've just said here. On Tuesday, I'll go out to Jefferson Parish and check out the printers at CompUSA, where at least I know I'll have some peace and quiet.

I know from experience that working retail can be hellish, and I don't begrudge the poor bastards a little fun, but when I can barely figure out whether a machine has a scanner or not because cries of hilarity are piercing my eardrums, I'm sorry; that's a bit much to put up with.

I think I'm just really, really, really sick of people. I wish I were spending a week on Grand Isle starting tomorrow instead of three days week after next. Speaking of which, here's my birthday present to myself:



It's only 15 inches tall and 12 inches wide, but it is a real boat anchor. I won it on eBay. Someday I'll have one taller than me. In keeping with my persistent longing for marine supplies, I have informed Chris that, if he is having trouble selecting a birthday present for me, I will be very happy with a $200 shopping spree at Golden Meadow Ace Hardware on the way home from Grand Isle. Lots and lots of marine supplies there.

[ETA: I just opened my mail. I was saving it for when I had calmed down a little. One of today's more intriguing arrivals was a copy of Graham Greene: Man of Paradox, a fat and delicious-looking collection of interviews and impressions edited by A.F. Cassis. Unfortunately, the bookseller did not include a gift card or any other indication of who had sent me the book. So whoever you are, thank you!]

[ETA2: louismaistros just clued me in to the fact that all CompUSA stores everywhere are closed, so I guess I'd have a little too much peace and quiet if I went there. May order online, as per his advice, but I HATE getting packages at home; they always bang and bang and bang on the door at some ungodly hour, and then look at me like a sleazy welfare bum when I come staggering to the door with bedhead and hastily dragged-on T-shirt and pajama pants.]

In quite another context, I had reason to list the various names I answer to, and was a little surprised at the plenitude.

Many members of my family still call me Melissa ... [and I also answer to] Poppy, Peezy Bee, Sucky P, Zee, Zed, Penny, Polly, Doc, Sir, Dude, Packer, Fudgepacker, Sis, Red, Knave, Mr. Joe, Charles, the Popster (not crazy about that one), Brite, Mrs. Brite, Mr. Brite*, Mrs. DeBarr, Bungholio, and pretty much everything else except late for dinner.

*Chris also gets called "Mr. Brite," which always makes us happy.

Sigh. I just called the vet and made an appointment to get Frankie fixed on Monday. This should have been done ages ago (he's ten months old and has great big bouncing cojones), but first I didn't do it because Augie was sick and I didn't want to separate them for even a day, and then Augie died and I just couldn't bring myself to turn loose of Frankie knowing he would have to be anesthetized. Gotta be done, though. He hasn't started spraying -- in fact, I've never known an Oriental Shorthair to spray -- but I suspect the macho pheromones he's emitting may be responsible for all the unauthorized peeing and pooing that has gone on around here lately.

Also just made reservations for my birthday trip to Grand Isle week after next. Our usual hotel is booked until next year (! -- it's an apartment-style hotel, and apparently some corporation has put up all their people there, the lucky bastards), so we decided to stay at a place closer to the bridge, on a wilder part of the beach. When we stayed there once before, we would float on our backs in the water as Brown Pelicans dipped down to check us out and Magnificent Frigatebirds soared and swirled far above. I need to cleanse my soul with some Grand Isle time; it's been far too long ... in fact, we haven't been there since my 40th birthday last year, when the picture in my icon was taken.

Oh, and reader Leah H. asked if I would help spread the word about The Cat House on the Kings, an amazing but underfunded no-kill, no-cage cat sanctuary in California. Happy to. (I sent them $25 myself -- wish it were more, but our own vet bills have been crushing lately. I also just discovered that my printer seems to be dead, but I can't get too upset about that, as I've always hated it and have been waiting for an excuse to buy a new one.) Here's the video her brother-in-law made:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vwM6f0liHpo#GU5U2spHI_4

My favorite line: "Basically, it's like Planet of the Cats." I know the feeling.

What do you do when you want to help people who are in a situation even worse than the one that almost killed you, but you have every reason in the world to be suspicious of aid groups? Well, I guess you just suck it up and try to trust someone who has researched the situation.

For example: After the post-Katrina failure of the federal levees, church groups and other private citizens' groups were down here feeding people and handing out supplies while the Red Cross was still trying to find its ass with two hands and a flashlight. A dear friend of mine wanted to come and volunteer in the post-storm days, but the Red Cross kept obfuscating and postponing her training so long that she finally gave up. After we'd returned to New Orleans, just out of curiosity, I stopped one day and got one of the free meals the Red Cross was handing out at various locations around the city. It consisted of minced white chicken or turkey meat (I couldn't tell which, as it was absolutely flavorless), soggy white rice, and one slice of white bread. I wasn't expecting Galatoire's, but it would have been nice if the thing had contained some flavor and/or nutritional value. (I gave it to Colm, our now-deceased old cat with the weak stomach, who enjoyed it quite a bit.) More than a year later, the Red Cross did give me a $2000 grant for mental health services I sorely needed, and I am very grateful to them for that. When it comes to on-the-spot emergency help, though, I can't say I have much confidence in them.

I've seen Habitat for Humanity building houses here, and I have a few friends who received help from aid groups while they were still in exile. There are also local groups doing a lot of good: for example, The Tipitina's Foundation has done wonderful things for local musicians. Other than these isolated instances, though, I've seen very little evidence that the millions of dollars donated by compassionate folks from around the world has actually made it into the hands of people in South Louisiana.

Anyway, in this entry, my friend Louis Maistros lists some organizations that he believes will actually get money, supplies, and help to the people of Burma. (Or Myanmar, if you like -- I don't.) Send something if you can. I never thought I'd say this about any natural or manmade disaster*, but they make us look lucky.

*Like what happened here, the events in Burma are a combination of natural and manmade -- natural because of the cyclone itself; manmade because their government made no attempt to warn them of the impending danger and still seems very cagey about letting in foreign aid.

Er, sorry about last night's ETA. Chris and I had dinner at Clancy's (which is sort of the Uptown Galatoire's, a place where you can always count on great drinks, good food, and much conviviality even if it is a bit of a "scene") with our friend Harry, with whom we hadn't broken bread in far too long. I haven't been drinking lately -- not for any particuar reason, just not in the mood -- but I cannot go to Clancy's without having a dirty Bombay Sapphire martini, and they wanted wine and I had some too, and I might have become the wee-est bit tiddly (though I did not set fire to the carpet. There was barely any danger at all). When we got home, Chris soothed me with a showing of Blue Velvet, then knocked me unconscious with the wanky might (or mighty wank, if you prefer) of Led Zeppelin's DVD.

Oh, and I got to play with the guns (before drinking, of course). I need to do some actual firing, but I really like the feel of the Smith & Wesson .38 with a Tyler grip added to the standard (smooth) one. It's definitely not too heavy for me, and my hands are not, as some have predicted, anywhere near too small to comfortably reach the trigger.

Text-message conversation between me and Chris, yesterday:

PZB: 1300K royalty check!

CdB: U go, dude!

PZB: I obv need 2 start writing about gay vampires again.

CdB: Not touchin dat w ten ft pole - not evn w yer hogleg!

[ETA: If anybody else e-mails or posts to ask whether I actually meant $13,000 or $1,300,000, I will plug them with my Smith & Wesson the moment I have it. You bitchez know I be banging in the muthafuckin hood, dawg. I just don't have a dollar sign on my phone. A fat royalty check for me equals ONE. THOUSAND. THREE. HUNDRED. DOLLARS. And that comes maybe two or three times a year, and I'm goddamn lucky to still be making any money at all from the goddamn thing. Wake up to the reality of being a freelance writer and stop trying to get cute.]

 I won't go into particulars related to a friend of mine, but I just want to post here what are essentially well-known truths that folks ignore all the time:

Do what makes you happy, which also allows you to feel productive and take care of "your own," whatever "your own" may mean to you.

Don't let the bast*rds get you down.

Ignore the naysayers if you are committed to a particular course. If you decide to quit and change course, do it because you have a new idea and commitment -- not because someone told you to, or actively discouraged you.

I'm talking mainly about anyone who is writing fiction in particular, although I suspect this applies to many endeavors.

But particularly with writing: write what makes you happy and brings you a sense of fulfillment. To me, it's the only way to be a writer.
 

Assuming I don't find it too heavy to use comfortably (remember, I work out with weights and am pretty strong in the arms/shoulders despite being a cripple), I will probably get either this or this. I'm being advised by a former police officer who knows his firearms, so I feel pretty confident. I can't really afford either of these guns, but given that we live in Central City and don't plan to evacuate for hurricanes, I've begun to feel that I can't really not afford it either.

I happily await the day when I can tell people that if they fuck with me, I'll send them a love letter straight from my heart.

In addition to everything else, it turns out that I am the moron who -- not having been to my favorite cheapo Mexican place in several months -- decides this would be a good night to go grab a takeout burrito, TOTALLY FORGETTING THAT IT'S FUCKING CINCO DE MAYO.

I managed to obtain my urban food log in spite of all the gaiety, and listening to radio news on the way home, I was exposed to yet another irritant: white people who say they like Barack Obama because "he speaks well." Hello, Chris Rock routine from, like, ten years ago (paraphrased):

"White people say they like Colin Powell because he speaks so well. [Prissy white voice] 'Oh, he speaks so well. He's so well-spoken.' He's an educated man! What the hell do you expect him to sound like? [Ign'ant-ass ghetto voice] 'I'm-a drop me a nucular bum today! I be PREZ-O-DENT!!!'"

This is me today. (Well, Chris says this is me every day, but especially today.) I am not in the mood for knocks on doors, random peeing and pooing (why???), people with bad grammar trying to act intelligent, pineapple/chipotle-glazed charbroiled oysters, people who pull into intersections and stop dead, being sore all over from going to the gym in an attempt to stop being sore all over, the Neville Brothers getting media blowjobs for deigning to return to Jazzfest after only three years, Presidential candidates of any party, Wal-Mart (where I had to go to buy a new DVD remote because of the random peeing), the price of gas (which is why I went to Wal-Mart instead of driving way the hell Uptown to the nice peaceful Radio Shack on Magazine), straight people making out in public, MOVIES BEING FILMED ALL OVER THE FUCKING CITY (although they do give me something to shake my fist at), or any of the other small irritations of life.

Tomorrow night I will be looking at and handling a friend's guns in preparation for buying my own. (For the first time in my life, I feel entirely confident that I can own a firearm without blowing out either my own brains or my partner's.) I CANNOT WAIT. I may take out half the block during my first week of ownership.

Of course, I'm a petty asshole for not making this post all about Burma. What louismaistros said, OK? I'm too cranky to phrase anything well, and I doubt I could phrase it better than Louie at the best of times.

 Every now and then I have to do a trick to get myself to wake up in the middle of writing a novel. This usually comes when I'm knee-deep in it and would rather deal with anything else in the world other than solving the problems of the novel.

So, to trick myself out of this, I bought a diary and began writing as if I were the one character in question who was giving me trouble. I have been writing out her entire life and viewpoint. I'll draw on this from the book, but it is not the main writing itself.

I just need to see her as more alive, and get to know her far beyond the boundary of the novel itself. Then, judiciously, I'll draw from her life into the novel.

On another note, I have an exciting new project that still too early to announce, but it's currently in the planning stages and I think it'll be a lot of fun.

Best,

Douglas Clegg
http://www.DouglasClegg.com

I just listed a couple of surplus DVDs in my eBay store along with the books that haven't sold yet. They are Forbidden Zone (one of the most bizarre movies ever made, and one of my very favorites) and Beavis & Butt-head: The Mike Judge Collection, Vol. 1 (a three-disc boxed set). Many hours of brain-twisting hilarity for your viewing pleasure!

[ETA: Wow, Forbidden Zone went faster than a chocolate-spearmint snowball in August! Congratulations, buyer, on your excellent taste in movies.]

From a Newhouse News Service article on "reducing your carbon footprint" that I refuse to link to:

Read library or used books -- minus 30 pounds [of carbon dioxide you allegedly add to the atmosphere per year]

Yes, folks, by buying new books, you are DESTROYING TEH URF. Cease immediately! It's not as if authors need the money; everybody knows we get million-dollar advances and are all obscenely rich.

I love libraries and used bookstores, but this moronic "tip" makes me want to buy an SUV, start smoking, eat a pound of red meat every day, and encourage cows to fart more.

Pun intended, yes.

I received several "Happy Birthday" messages yesterday and a few more "Happy Belated Birthday" ones today. You have not missed my birthday. I am a Gemini, not a Taurus, and my birthday is May 25. I simply took the opportunity yesterday to declare May my entire ROYAL BIRTH MONTH, as faustfatale has been doing with June for some time now.

Speaking of birth dates, my horoscope for today says, "Use today just for you. You might need some long-overdue downtime. You could find yourself beaming from ear to ear after a nap or two. [Bobby Hebert/Reggie Bush slash dreams? Bring 'em on!] This change of pace could revive you enormously. Tonight: Catch up on mail, call friends and/or curl up with a book."

I'm going to get right on that, thanks.