March 07, 2006

Beautiful Atrocities

. . . offers some sage fashion advice to Cindy Sheehan, on the occasion of her latest arrest:

Shoes: Ever hear of pumps? A lady will put up with a little sciatica as long as she looks fabulous, & you'll have all the lesbians fighting over you when they throw you in the pit!

That does it. He's my only fashion consultant from here on out.

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GOP Congresscritters

. . . apparently want to "get serious" about blogging. We'll see about that.

In related news, Stephen Colbert of Comedy Central's The Colbert Report may be one of us. Don't tell anyone in the Industry, though: I'm sure the man has bills to pay.

I hope he does know the secret handshake, though: he was incredible on Strangers with Candy, one of the best TV shows ever made.

(Via Insty.)

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March 06, 2006

So. Washer-Dryers.

I've been doing my mother's laundry since October. (I pick it up, then drop it off the next time I see her.)

Now that she has the second mortgage in place, she thinks it's time to get a washer and dryer. Oddly enough, I'm being really supportive of this idea.

It looks like this will be a splurge: she'd really like to get a state-of-the-art European-style front-loader, and I think it's justified since it'll be a big energy saver. Besides, she lives simply in most ways.

So: thoughts on those water-wise washers? It needs to be big enough to handle queen-size comforters. Other than that, we just want a good deal, and something sooper-dooper energy efficient.

(Yes, I'll drop by the Consumer Reports website before I head out to take her shopping.)

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Personally,

I liked the Simpsons back when they were pure, Man. Before they sold out. I'm talking the Tracy Ullman days, Man. When they got their own show, it all turned to shit.

Hat tip: Georgie Girl, of the Capers Club.

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Okay; I'm Out of the Game for Awhile.

Clients to feed. Sorry.

You can always check out my blogroll, and let me know which addresses therein are obsolete. (I haven't pruned it in a while.)

Or, you know. Read an ook-bay.

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I Was Naughty and Ditched the Oscars.

Because I have work to do tomorrow, and because—let's face it—there's too much of them these days.

However, PJ Media covered it. So I was able to read their entries over and kind of glean the highlights: which dresses showed off the most cleavage, how offensive the political commentary was. You know.

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March 05, 2006

Who Moved My Civil War?

Reynolds, on that Iraqi Civil War that really should be on its way, somewhere over the rainbow: "The press had better hope we win this war, because if we don't, a lot of people will blame the media."

Yup. Head over there: he's got good handful of links on media attempts to manufacture a juicy, delicious civil war, and quotes Greyhawk at The Mudville Gazette on the media's bad faith:

There are no requirements for media outlets to acknowledge that they are printing unverified claims made by "other parties" in the war as confirmed "news"—as was the case in the aftermath of the Shrine bombing (See here and here). But consumers of those reports should be aware of their flaws.

It's worth going over there as well: Greyhawk provides specifics from General Casey's press conference on mosque bombings and militia attacks, and then quotes the way these segments were misrepresented in The New York Times and the Washington Post. Pretty amazing stuff.

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A Spirited Discussion Today

With Zeke regarding the old Cuba vs. China issue. It's interesting that Zeke and I approach the issue completely differently: he suspects that the reason we're engaging China is because it's such a ridiculously big market, and because it provides us cheap goods that sell like hotcakes.

I say that we might be attempting constructive engagement with Cuba if the noose were just a bit looser around its people's necks, and if the Cuban population in Florida didn't feel quite so strongly about punishing Castro's regime.

I also point out that the State Department's policies toward China have to reflect a friendliness no one quite feels, since we need China's help to keep North Korea in line. Not to mention making nice-nice with the Chinese directly, lest our vaguely competitive relationship turn into something chillier.

As we talk it emerges that Zeke feels commercial interests control the State Department, and it strikes me as an odd idea: State is run by career bureaucrats, for the most part. Some policy is made in the executive branch, but even that doesn't change with the winds to the degree people seem to imagine. Things like blockades are determined by politicians, rather than companies.

"Prove that I lie."

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March 04, 2006

I Tried the Talking Clock Function

. . . on the system in my Mac. The idea is, it announces the time every hour on the hour, so you have an awareness of time as it goes by.

After all, Attila the Hub uses it. So it must be good. His announces the time in a Lurch voice.

I try for something softer. I think perhaps a female voice is a good idea. No. But the whole concept doesn't work for me: when the computer tells me it's thus-and-such time, I get furious and defensive. I think it's accusing me of being a slacker. I find myself asking it who wanted to know?—and, what the fuck are you doing that's so freaking productive?

I explain to it that I work hard, and don't appreciate its nagging.

So what I'd like to know is what can be done about my computer's personality disorders. I like it, but I just feel it needs . . . well, Prozac. How do I do that? Can I just sprinkle it into the CD drive or something?

I mean, it's a good computer. I just think it might be time for an intervention, and an SSRI.

I want to help.

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So, I'm Eating Greek Food at Lunch

. . . with Hog Beatty and his friend, Zeke. Hog was at this restaurant last weekend with another buddy of his, and today we sit outside near the Venice "boardwalk" (no, it does not contain boards). It's a beautiful day by the beach.

The waitress, Mona, remembers Hog and calls him by name. We order, and she comes up to chat with us a bit. I ask her what part of England she's from, and she fills us in on her background, her upcoming travel plans, and what it's like to be an emigre in the States. She doesn't spare the eye contact with Hog. She goes back inside the restaurant.

"You should come here more often," I tell Hog, who still appears oblivious.

"What? You mean, so I can get in Mona's good graces."

"'Good graces' isn't how I'd put it," Zeke remarks.

Mona comes back out and chats with us some more, confiding that she's going to be working a lot of late shifts this week so she can fly back home. Then she excuses herself to go to another table.

"It's like money in the bank," I remark to Hog, and Zeke smiles. Hog appears to think we're making it up, but his antennae are up now, and when Mona shows up to collect the check and chat a bit more she holds the eye contact a bit longer.

"We're going for a short walk along the boardwalk," Zeke informs her.

"I envy you," she tells us. "It's lovely along the beach."

"What time did you say you leave work?" Hog asks.

"Midnight."

"I'll be here," he tells her, as Zeke and I grin into our water glasses.

Hog may start out slow, but he certainly catches up in a hurry.

Zeke is married, with a child. I'm married, with a mortgage. We're having fun watching the kids play the game—never mind that Hog is older than both of us. He's divorced, and free, and getting hit on by a waitress from Nottiingham. And, you know: hitting back.

We walk along the boardwalk just up to muscle beach, wander back, and get into Zeke's Honda. We take Hog back to his apartment and tell him to rest up.

'Cause, you know. It might be a long night.

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What a Great Evening.

Dinner tonight with Darleen Click and her charming husband, a photographer/bass player who likes a lot of the same classic rock music I love to crank when I'm driving.

"Drums and bass," I tell him. "No one appreciates either one enough. But there's no rock and roll without either one."

The occasion? Well, I forgot to return Darleen's camera last summer when she left it at my house, and she knows I love good Mexican food—so she wanted to share her family's favorite Mexican place with me. My own husband has a badass deadline, so I bore my guilt and went out for excellent food, fun music, margaritas, and terrific conversation. And, uh, to finally return that camera.

Needless to say, with Darleen's excellent law-enforcement contacts, I got plenty of story ideas, but I'm not sharing them with any of you, lest you steal them and execute them imperfectly. (The former is bad enough, but the latter is entirely unacceptable.)

What amazes me is this: one assumes a lot of the writers out there on the web—bloggers, especially—cannot be as engaging in real life as they are online.

Of course, most of 'em are. It turns out that the world is full of smart people. I mean, smart like X-Acto blades.

Having an online presence can be like panning for gold: it isn't until things get shaken up a bit that you realize whom you like and trust.

Not that this didn't happen to me in high school: I have a core group of friends now whom I've held onto for better than 30 years. But to have it happen all over again, to find people who walk in real life like they talk online, is frosting on the cake.

Thank you, Darleen. (Green corn tamales in a few months, and maybe Attila the Hub will be able to make it! Can't wait.)

Excelsior.

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Jeff Attempts

. . . some straight talk with Sean Hannity.

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March 03, 2006

A Little Tag-Team Action:

Hitchens and Goldstein tackle Francis Fukuyama. Contains some good challenges for my lefty readers (and I know you're out there: I can seeee you).

The Hitchens excerpt is relatively short; read it if you dare.

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I'm Not Really a Size Whore,

but this is impressive.

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March 02, 2006

I Went with My Mother Today

. . . to serve a three-day notice on one of her tenants.

That's the very hardest part of property management. It's probably just as well that I went with her.

She's doing the right thing, but even when someone's trying to game the system a bit it tears one's heart out when anyone falls on hard times. Particularly when they're used to a healthy income. In the best possible universe all our incomes would chart out into a nice, consistent upward trajectory. Almost no one I know has experienced this: instead, it's fat times and lean times and fat again and lean again. And suddenly there we are, practicing the same economies we did in our twenties. The ones we thought we'd left behind for good: Clipping coupons. Cooking from scratch. Ordering just a beverage or an appetizer when we feel we must go out with others. Nothing too onerous, but stuff we thought we'd outgrown.

There's no comfort to be found in this process. I drove her there, I met the tenant, I shook his hand. And I kept my mouth shut.

Snark is for blogging. Not real life.

My mother depends on this income. So, fuck. It's gotta be done. Also: fuck.

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So. What Is My Relationship with the Computer

. . . doing for my attention-span problem? Helping it, I'm beginning to suspect.

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A Tale of Two Clients

Most publishers who contemplate some sort of long-term relationship want a test project, which I don't mind doing. Of course, the tests that are strictly copyediting/proofreading can be annoying: particularly the one that was heavy on the foreign words and phrases, but didn't provide a Wester's 10 (the standard paper edition used in most publications right now [online is 11, and also respected]). And the sub-standard dictionary provided didn't contain the particular foreign phrases used. Other than that, it was an open-book test. Want to verify that the accents are right? Well, tough, Girl: you should have majored in French. Not English.

I sometimes wish the industry would just standardize those tests, and license people, so I don't need to go through the motion of acing their tests. Can't someone simply certify me as God's gift to detail?

Mostly these tests take a lot of time, and are graded by people who firmly believe that copyediting is an objective art. It isn't. Even proofreading isn't a completely objective process.

Client #1 sends me a couple of test stories, including one that needs to be cut. This is good thinking, of course: copy-fitting is one of the most delicate tasks an editor needs to perform: it's easy to cut the essentials out by mistake.

So, so far so good.

Then the client's wrangler asks if I have an example of a story I've edited, and I have to say, no: I can't imagine any author agreeing to let one of the line editors take manuscripts of his/her stories home as work samples (or galleys, even). And I've signed a confidentiality agreement for most clients. Even when I haven't, it's never occurred to me to take proprietary information home with me. (Charts with printer's impositions, sure: I do have a reference folder with some industry-wide information. But that's no one's company secret.)

I tell them "no," and hope that the question was an ethics test of some sort. Surely it was a trick question. I invite them to send me another story, something really "tough," to make up for my being too discreet to steal in-house material.

Then client #2 calls, and wants some help with the direction a particularly long project is going in. I read the stuff that is forwarded to me, and of course it's fantastic. I know what's going on: it's hard not to get lost in the woods when you've got a monster project in front of you. And there are times any writer could swear it all sucks, big time.

But one has to keep on going. I tell him it's great material. I can edit it, sure, but it's compelling work and the final project will be something special. And I'm utterly sincere in this.

Never mind that I'm an incredible prose stylist—if I do say so myself. This particular client is a terrific storyteller. I come home and ask my husband, "who the fuck am I to advise so-and-so on such-and-such?"

"He's paying you to do that," points out Attila the Hub. So he is. And I realize that I'm a very lucky woman indeed: working with people whose projects I genuinely believe in—who represent quality—is a privilege.

So, yes: I suspect I'll be acing this test, and working with Client #1. Because they're doing something extraordinary, and I know it. And they'll sense that I know it.

It's not something most people can fake. At least—I can't.

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A Double Hawkins Poll . . .

This time, his readers take on

The Best Moments in American History

and The Worst Moments in American History.

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March 01, 2006

Catholic Town!

Coming soon, to a warm, humid environment near you.

Hm. I think utopian communities are interesting, but I tend to have mixed emotions about those based on religious beliefs.

For some reason this particular project bothers me, probably because I think some of the best conversations going on right now are between the orthodox of various monothistic religions—in particular, within the various strains of Christianity (including Roman Catholicism) and between Christianity and Judaism. No interaction means no healthy exchange of ideas.

Via Laurence, who suggests that "more good than bad will come of it." I'm still ambivalent, of course. And, naturally, I would never live in such a place.

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One Definition of a "Good Aunt"

One who's seen 4-5 acts over the past 25 years at L.A.'s Wiltern Theatre, and can help you figure out which seats will be the best when you go there for a rock concert this spring.

Yeah. I got niece points. They're good to have.

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