Saturday, November 15, 2014
We just saw this film, written and directed by Jon Stewart of The Daily Show. It is hard on the system but worth the distress, and very much worth seeing. This is the only film I can remember since "Z" that shows the risks journalists routinely suffer. Did you know that, proportionally, more journalists die while working than any other profession or line of work? If you are not upset to know this fact, you should be.
Sunday, November 9, 2014
Saturday, October 25, 2014
As usual, I fervently guarantee that I overheard all of the below. I take notes fast!
Now my son’s a good kid, a real hard worker, but the boy’s seriously left-handed, doesn’t read too much. I read over 1500 words per minute, but I just wasn’t into the terminology. I opened for Jimmy Buffett when Jimmy opened for Neil Sedaka. Jimmy wasn’t taking it too seriously. He came off the stage and said, Why don’t you go back on for me? But they expect you, I said. Nah, they didn’t pay me enough. You go on. So I did and the audience loved it, stayed until 4 a.m.
Now I got a lot of pets, but my cat Fluffy, she’s the bomb. Say Fluffy comes up for attention. She wants her head scratched. I tell her I gotta go to work, somebody’s gotta pay the bills around here, but Fluffy don’t care. You don’t do what she wants, she bites. Try to ignore her, she bites. Sharp teeth too. Seriously. She loves those little raspberry chocolate squares. Chocolate’s not good for cats, but somebody forgot to tell Fluffy.
Monday, October 6, 2014
Shame, Lev Grossman and all your editors, shame shame! Your second book in the Magicians series, The Magician King, leads off with the following sentence:
"Quentin rode a gray horse with white socks named Dauntless."
I always name my socks too. Mine are called Clueless and Feckless.
I grant that it is a hard sentence to fix: Quentin rode Dauntless, a gray horse with white socks? Dauntless Quentin wore white socks and rode a gray horse? Quentin rode a gray horse with white socks; the horse's name was Dauntless? Still and yet, even if it meant reshaping the entire paragraph, there must be some way around that misplaced modifier.
Enjoy the above grammarly griefs. Those who displayed them should have known better. Btw, the middle photo shows marshmallow-flavored jellybeans.
Sunday, October 5, 2014
Dr. Bob continues to move in mysterious ways. I have been assembling a book-length manuscript, and I believe that it is at last ready to go out into the (publishing) world. However! when I went to put the finishing touches on it, I found that I could not get Word to paginate. I tried the proper way some five or six times, and I came up with some work-arounds, and nothing worked. I even considered typing in the page numbers by hand, but decided that if I changed the order of poems, I would be typing and confirming page numbers for a long long time.
So, I called our resident computer guy, Dr. Bob Payne. Dr. Bob not only graduated from Microsoft U., he wrote the manuals at Microsoft U. He knows the godforsaken ways of Microsoft. Dr. Bob asked me to talk him through another attempt at pagination. OK. I narrated, "Clicking on Insert. Clicking on Page Numbering. Selecting Bottom, option 3." All this in the tone of voice I use when I am resolutely remaining reasonable despite great provocation. And, may I be damned if the pagination did not take, at last. Yes, all Dr. Bob had to do was listen to me select the commands, and my document was healed. Truly, the man has god-like powers.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
At the Claremont Public Library poetry reading today, from Krista Lukas:
I was up early today wondering which to describe,
the fruits or the mold. I kept a bowl of tomatoes
so I could write about them as they rotted.
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
A teacher friend told me a story from her new classroom. She likes to read to the kids after lunch, a soothing practice, and started by holding up the book she had intended to start with. The cover showed a dog and a boy. Now: by this time, she has some impressions of which kids are going to take which roles in the classroom society. The kid who had looked as though he would be the sullen tough guy puts his head down on his desk and starts to cry. “What is it?” she asked him. “It has a dog in it,” he sobbed, “and the dog always dies.” She bethought the many children’s books with dogs in them—and the adult books too—and she put down the book and told him, “I think we’ll read something else.” Budding lit student, he’s right. The dog always dies. Someone, find another plot device and let the dog live!