Come and Gimme Some Sugar
"From the Borderlands" should be on the shelves now! Today! Please go to your favorite bookseller now -- and I mean NOW -- and buy one. Baby needs new shoes.
And Momma needs a new case of Corona because the old one's, well... gone.
Seriously though, please do check out this wonderful Bram Stoker Award-winning anthology. All new stories by some yummy people, edited by Tom and Elizabeth Monteleone, who, I might add, are pretty damn yummy, too .
Lookit the pretty cover
Now, why, oh, why has my "About Me" thingie migrated to the bottom of the page? I hate that!
Apropos of nothing, I fell asleep while watching the RNC. Caught Giuliani's riveting speech (and I'm not being facetious here), and though I was nauseated by the Bush-kissin' and Kerry-bashin', I did enjoy his humor, his easy, warm, conversational tone, like he was speaking at a dinner party to a few of his close friends instead of to a room full of glassy-eyed idiots. Idiots who wore rictus grins and funny hats.
Aw, I don't mean to insult anyone. Some of my favorite buds and family members (Hey, Dan!) happen to be Republican. How that happened, I have no idea, but it's true. Not all of them are glassy-eyed, rictus-wearing, pious, racist, uncompassionate, clueless monkey asses. But, y'know, though I love them as people, I still have the urge sometimes to vomit on their shoes. This does not take away the love I feel, however. Not one bit.
Bend Over and Kiss Your Ass Goodbye
I'm obsessed with This
Don't know why, just am. Showed this to my bro' on Saturday, and upon watching his reaction, spewed beer all over the poor dude's pant leg. Just like in the movies, the ol' "spew beverage all over the place when flabbergasted" gag. It was funny. Then he punched me in the throat and called me a fuckwit.
I was thrilled to see such a huge turnout during the NYC protests. Did my heart good. I love how the city refuses to state the estimated numbers (CNN estimates over 400,000). Gee willies, that's interesting. Media coverage has been woefully thin, but that doesn't surprise me. Bush People poke their pricks up against the buttocks of almost everyone, it seems. Everyone's so afraid to speak the truth, so careful and polite -- but WHY? Corporate sponsorship, maybe? Say this, expose that and your program goes bye-bye? I tend to go there, myself. Remember when the Conservatives used to whine about the "liberal media"? Sure they did, but the media wasn't so much liberal as it was *free*. Why, there's been nary a peep in that regard since...well, since Bush moved his big red behind into the Oval Office. Pure coincidence that freedom of press was a given under Democratic leadership, right? Yeah, sure. Journalists these days are walking mighty funny, got that "dick up ass" expression all over their faces.
400,000-plus souls virtually ignored by the once all-up-in-yo'-face media.
Chill, babies -- it's only democracy peeking through the heavy totalitarian curtain; it's only the MAJORITY exercising Constitutional rights, stepping over the thick velvet rope of theocracy.
It sickens me to watch the news now. Sickens me to see these daily polls (a.k.a the "who is smarter and makes more sense" polls) reporting that the majority of our country oppose Bush's policies, both domestic and foreign, yet Bush, in the "who ya gonna vote for" polls, is ahead of Kerry. ?????????????
'Course, if that stupid ass puppet excuse for a human being, Nader, would just shut the hell up and go home -- for good -- maybe, just maybe, the three percent that he uses for onanistic purposes will head on over to Kerry and the polls wouldn't be so worrisome. But Nader won't do that, not when he's got all that prime Republican wiener servicing him on a daily basis. Blah.
And what the hell's up with Zell Miller? This "Democrat" Georgia senator who gave the keynote address for Clinton (denounced Bush Sr. as "a timid man who hears only the voices of caution and the status quo") will be the keynote speaker at the Republican National Convention. Wasn't too long ago he described Kerry as "one of America's authentic heroes" Wait, gotta do this again:
My God, if ever there was a bigger ass puppet, I sure don't know about it. Someone not only stole this man's brain and ate it with fava beans and a nice Chianti, but they ripped out his integrity and used it for a place mat. Christ!
So, I'll be watching the Republican convention tonight. Not because I want to, mind you, but because, as they say, know your enemy.
Bill Clinton's Hands: An Important Lesson for All Men
I like man hands. First thing that attracted me to my husband, other than his delicious scent and large head, were his hands. I like big, strong hands, hands that complement gold rings, hands that make calluses seem sexy. Hands lead up to forearms, which, as most women would agree, are pure foreplay. Most of us can get worked up over the mere sight of a well-turned, beefy forearm.
Which, believe it or not, leads me to this:
President Clinton was on The Daily Show last night promoting his memoirs. Yah, I realize it's a repeat, but I missed the first go-around. Anyway, I feel bad about the whole obligatory media junket thing, that this man must go out and promote his book like, say, Pamela Anderson. Or Jenna Jameson. Seems so, I dunno...Gross. Buy My Life! Like me, please! Gawd. Just not befitting of a man whom I consider to be one the greatest Americans of our time. And I absolutely hate that his book hasn't exactly received glowing reviews. Critics have described it as overblown, boring...You know what? It's a presidential MEMOIR, assholes! Bill can't be publicly ruminating on wrongs done to him (though there were so many, it boggles the mind), and he can't be describing his indiscretions in salacious detail. He can't name too many names and tear bodices and comment ruefully about he and Hill's intimate moments during some the most difficult times of his term, nor can he point fingers, whine, swear, pump up the volume. He is not a writer, and he didn't have a ghost fluffing and tweaking and buffing his words to comfortable, silky perfection. He wrote it all by himself, and he managed to produce something that is *appropriate* for a man of his importance, nothing more, nothing less.
'Kay, now on to Bill Clinton's hands. They are, without a doubt, the sexiest pair of hands ever to hang from a politician's appendages. I always found him attractive, anyway, but last night it was his hands that captivated me. They are huge, like the Jolly Green Giant's, only they aren't green, and they are graceful, manly; while staring at those hands, I imagined them splayed across the ivories, deftly sweeping over the keys, then, in one fell swoop, picking up that piano and hurling it across the room, veins bulging with effort. I became hypnotized by his hands as he chatted with Stewart, enchanted. I was so busy with Clinton's hands, I actually missed some of the conversation, kind of tuned out. There were other things I imagined as well, but out of respect, I shall not go into them.
He has thick, long, beautifully sculpted fingers.
Which, appallingly, leads me to this:
Men, be assured that it isn’t all about the wallet or the hairline, or even the package -- it’s about the hands, papas. The hands. So please do adorn them with jewelry (remember, though, less is more), trim your nails, use a good hand cream, and be gentle with those hands of yours. Touch nice-nice, never raise them in anger or ball them into fists. You’ve got the power, so use it wisely.
I'm Turning Siamese, Oh Yes, I'm Turning Siamese, I Really Think So
Why do I procrastinate when it comes to submitting my stories? So weird. Stuffing envelopes and hitting "send" are hard things to do. Very hard. I stare and stare at the manuscript, stare at the subject line, the address, make sure everything's fine, for, like, an hour, then I agonize over the cover letter -- do I sound like a dork? Appear pompous? Scream "I AM A TURD, PLEASE DISREGARD THIS STORY!"? Probably. Then I stare at the send button, the mailbox. For a long time. Abnormally long. Onlookers, I’m sure, assume me epileptic, perhaps insane, or possibly even a street performer portraying a statue of not so elegant proportion. I'm quite sad. How I even managed to acquire a lovely list of publication credits is a grand and divine mystery.
I'm also a virtuous submitter, submitting only one story at a time to one market at a time. So the fact that I have Subphobia *and* an unnatural compulsion to always be a good, honest girl, means that I, at any given time, usually have no more than two or three offerings making the rounds. That not only makes me sad, it makes me stupid. I realize this, but I can't help myself. I also returned a pack of gum I shoplifted from 7-Eleven when I was eight years old -- on my own, with no parental intervention. And I told my mother all about it. She grounded me anyway, which goes to show how stupid and virtuous I can be. But I digress.
I am proud to say, however, that as of today, I now have the most work in circulation than ever before: Five stories, two poems. This is good. And it helps beat the despair of finding another hair growing out of my neck. It's a whisker, really, and though I plucked it away fast as can be, I know that another whisker will soon appear. Well, you know what they say about owners resembling their pets, but damn, why couldn't my eyes turn sky blue instead? My nose shrink down to a perfect little pink nub? My legs grow sleek and my butt silky-soft and full of sinewy muscle? But no, I get the whiskers.
Though I have a passable way with words, it is limited to the written word, not spoken. Soon as I open my mouth. I stumble and hem and haw, never able to articulate what it is I’m truly feeling or what my addled brain is trying so desperately to convey. I am not an eloquent speaker, nor am I one to comfortably express affection aloud. I hug, I touch hands, look meaningfully into someone’s eyes, invent pet names, use them liberally and without shame, but the mere act of saying “I love you” does not come easily for me. I tell my children that I love them, though. Frequently. They’re probably sick to death of my mooing and bleating, the daily petting and cooing...Too bad. I won’t ever stop assaulting them with the “L” word. Never. But with others, it’s a rare occurrence, even with my husband of almost fifteen years.
Today I want to express my love to a remarkable woman, albeit through my sorry PC instead of my even sorrier mouth, because she deserves to know, because she should be honored, told how much she has added to my life, and how damned empty my life would be without her.
She is a thirty-something black chick, beautiful, independent, generous, funny, talented, opinionated, kind, forgiving, moody; she is “auntie” to my four kids, sister to me, my shoulder to cry on, sounding board, sympathizer -- she is my best friend.
We met on a bus bound for Syracuse, me with my pink Mohawk, she looking fabulous in white jeans and heavy eyeliner, and we meshed right away. Weird, that, considering I rarely if ever “mesh” with people, especially during that period of my life. But we meshed, dug one another immediately, talked like long lost buds during that hideously smelly ride to the Bowie concert. We passed the Wild Irish Rose back and forth between us and laughed, gagged (as Wild Irish Rose and filthy old men will cause one to do), made rude comments about our fellow passengers, all the while bursting out with intermittent shrieks of excitement (BOWIE! JESUS CHRIST, WE’RE GOING TO SEE BOWIE!). Thus began our almost twenty-five year journey as friends.
And what a journey it has been. We grew up together, she and I. Still find it difficult to wrap my mind around the fact that we’re now grown women with children. We’ve seen one another through crisis after crisis, joy after joy, endured absences and fights, misunderstandings and lordallmighty, some fucking precious times. We have witnessed divorce, death, birth, and we have cried, and we have giggled like little girls, broken the law, slapped, screamed, hugged...No one but no one compares to my girl, and no one will ever understand my quirks like she does, know me like she does. No one. She is strong, perhaps the strongest person I will ever know, and she is honest, a woman made of the right stuff, a woman who takes no crap, who will gladly tell you where to go if provoked. She is a woman of example, a woman who makes her way in this oftentimes rough world by her own
rules. Don’t give this woman pity because she’ll throw it right back in your face then stomp you silly; she has no room in her soul for pity as her soul is filled with integrity, with fiery ambition and autonomy. She makes sense and she knows where it’s at.
And so today I say, “I love you, Nic.” I do. May we grow old and ornery together, the both of us sitting on the porch, knocking back beers and banging our heads to whatever new music is to come in 2034, both of us looking fabulous in black, nails painted silver or red or blue as we laugh, eat mounds of chocolate things, groan about how shitty aging is, cry over how beautiful life is, or how cruel.
May we always be.
Billy Carter Incarnate?
SEATTLE, Washington (Reuters) -- A black bear was found passed out at a campground in Washington state recently after guzzling down three dozen cans of a local beer, a campground worker said on Wednesday.
"We noticed a bear sleeping on the common lawn and wondered what was going on until we discovered that there were a lot of beer cans lying around," said Lisa Broxson, a worker at the Baker Lake Resort, 80 miles (129 kilometers) northeast of Seattle.
The hard-drinking bear, estimated to be about two years old, broke into campers' coolers and, using his claws and teeth to open the cans, swilled down the suds.
It turns out the bear was a bit of a beer sophisticate. He tried a mass-market Busch beer, but switched to Rainier Beer, a local ale, and stuck with it for his drinking binge.
Wildlife agents chased the bear away, but it returned the next day, said Broxson.
They set a trap using as bait some doughnuts, honey and two cans of Rainier Beer. It worked, and the bear was captured for relocation.
I Should Be Writing About Writing, But It's a White Trash Kind of Day
Perhaps in future posts I'll wax intellectual, deconstruct things, criticize, discuss what I'm working on. But not today, not now. Today is a day for drinking massive amounts of beer and eating hotdogs. Today is a day for letting loose, reveling in my white trash splendor. I plan on wearing a flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, Godsmack tank underneath (shut up -- Godsmack used to be good. Once. A long, long time ago. They now, of course, are too Vegas to be taken seriously), and sitting with my neighbors on hard, cheap plastic lawn chairs 'neath the usual shitty skies of Rochester, and drink till the skies appear bright. I'll be listening to "Free Bird" and "The Devil Went Down To Georgia." Might even throw on some Johnny Cash. Gonna let the kids run wild, gonna let them scream and splash in the pool, annoy the old man next door. And I will pepper my speech with the "F" word, use it frequently, loudly.
That's the kind of day today it is.
Dishonest Dubya Doll
>I laughed until I got a really bad headache.
Well, I had a headache to begin with, but I did laugh. Oh, how I laughed. Okay, maybe I didn't *laugh* laugh... Sort of. Chuckled. I did chuckle.
Christ, my head hurts.
Maiden Voyage Into the Sea of Humiliation and Big, Scary Monsters
I first went online in 1999 after a good friend, disgusted with my computerless ass, gave me her old HP. Grateful though I was, that humming, whirring box of hell intimidated me with its beeps and horrible lights, its terrifying dial-up squeals, caused my stomach to knot and make weird screaming noises . I trembled, sat frozen on the edge of my bed, palms sweating, unwilling to touch the devil's hand, a.k.a., mouse. My friend was patient. "Jesus Christ, woman," she said, "stop with your Amish tendencies already. Sit. Relax. Play around a bit." She patted my hand a tad too roughly. Well, it was a slap, really. She can be kind of mean sometimes. "Do it now," she said, her eyes glowing in that special way only minions of the Dark Father have.
So I did it, mainly because my friend was beginning to freak me out, especially when the green wormy things squirmed from her nostrils and lit from her face on gossamer wings, then flew around my bedroom for awhile before spontaneously combusting into tiny poofs of green smoke that smelled of eggroll and wet dog. That sucked. Frightening as the computer was to me, it had nothing on my friend. So I did it. I clasped hands with Satan's that day and I haven't let go since.
Yet my fears continue. I am afraid of blogging, afraid of showing the world what an ass I am. I am an ass, yes, but an ass with pride, an ass who is intensely private, a secret ass, egotistical, an ass with delusions of grandeur; I believe that I am the biggest ass in the universe, the Chosen Ass. I fear that I may soon regret these very public revelations, but most of all, I fear that you will, too.
L. Lynn Young's work has received nomination for inclusion in Best American Short Stories, and honorable mention in Year's Best Fantasy and Horror
"The Orphan" 100 Drabbles, edited by Sue Phillips, Small Press Books (England) 2002
"Whore of Hoopla" ibid
"Emerils's Hell" ibid
"Nine" Writer Online, May 2000
"A Civil War" Writer Online, October 2000
"Acquired Tastes" Penny Dreadful, Issue Fourteen 2001
"Body Tears" Envelopes of Time (anthology, edited by James E.M. Rasmussen, Electric Wine -- Crimson Triskele Publications) 2001
"The First Wife" ibid
"Blue Mary" Songs of Innocence, Issue Four, 2001
"John Hatfield" ibid
"Jacqueline's Mirror" Dust Devil (anthology, edited by Cindy Main, Mutilated Muse Press) 2002
"Scarlet's Dolly" Wicked Little Girls (anthology, edited by Christina Sng, Allegra Press) 2003
"Joey Kemp" Cemetery Poets: Grave Offerings (anthology, edited by Peggy Jo Shumate, Double Dragon Publishing) 2003
"X and Y" ibid
"Inside the Machine" ibid
"The Birthing" ibid
"Akiko's Revenge" ibid
"Autumn, Like Anais Nin" There is Something in the Autumn (anthology, edited by Michael Pendragon, Pendragonian Publications) 2005
"Sweet Rejection" Writer Online, June 2000
"The Deodorant Follies" Writer Online, December 2000
"Frog Killers" Horrorfind, 2001
"Jenny Go Spin" Writer Online, October 2002
"Aunt Candy's Attic" Cemetery Poets: Grave Offerings (anthology, edited by Peggy Jo Shumate, Double Dragon Publishing) 2003
"Jesus, Mary and Mr. Pyle" Scared Naked Magazine, Issue 3, Volume 1 2003
"Womb Full of Poppies" NFG magazine, Issue 3 2003 ***Received nomination for inclusion in Best American Short Stories.***
"Annabell" Borderlands 5: An Anthology of Imaginative Fiction (anthology, edited by Tom and Elizabeth Monteleone, Borderlands Press) 2003 ***Received honorable mention in the seventeenth annual Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. Won Bram Stoker Award for Best Anthology
"The Old Lady Screamed" Yankee Pot Roast, July 2004
"Annabell" From the Borderlands (anthology, edited by Tom and Elizabeth Monteleone, Warner Books, paperback) September 2004
"Two-Faced Woman" Brutarian Quarterly, issue #43 2005
"Annabell" Best of Borderlands
, Vol.1-5 (anthology, edited by Elizabeth Monteleone, Borderlands Press) September 2005
The following lines (conclusion of story) in "Annabell" are missing in both Borderlands 5: An Anthology of Imaginative Fiction and From the Borderlands:
"I bring her close and breathe in her essence, fragrant, hot, like cinnamon candy.
My mouth waters as I call the police."