"I'm spinning. How quick the sun can drop away."
So, here's Pride in Providence, and it's also Bloomsday, and it's doubtful I'll be celebrating either. Which is bullshit, but there you go. Regardless, downtown Providence is awash with queers, police cars, blocked-off streets, and the Irish pubs are already filling up. I only know these things because I had to go back to the optometrist today at the unholy hour of 12:40 p.m., because the first prescription was so completely wrong. In part, this was because they failed to discover that my one good eye is presbyopic, and because I fucked up and chose polycarbonate lenses and wound up with a significant degree of chromatic aberration.. Which means I now have to get non-polycarbonate plastic lenses and two pairs of glasses, raising the cost by $100.
Somehow, that paragraph violates several laws of English grammar. This one likely will, as well. Anyway, we ducked into the Westminster location of Symposium Books. This is what a bookshop ought to be. A great selection of art books, highly technical science volumes, and a huge selection of underground graphic novels and collected volumes of vintage comics strips. On the damaged books table, we found seven volumes of The Complete Peanuts, each marked down to $5.00 from $28.99, which meant we could get $202.93 worth of books for a mere $35 (!!!). Sure there some damage to the dust jackets and very minor spine damage, but fuck it. There was also a Love and Rockets hardback I don't have, drastically marked down because of severe damage to the binding, but the damage was so bad I passed. And, too, we found a Fahrenheit 451 T-shirt. I wouldn't have gotten any of these things. Indeed, I almost didn't. But Spooky insisted, as a) there wasn't much in the way of birthday present money back on the 26th of May, and b) a long delayed cheque from Penguin finally arrived a couple of days ago. So, Happy Literate and Belated Birthday to me.
Now, kittens, there's the issue of Spooky's birthday, should you wish to help out. Here's her wishlist at Amazon.
---
Anyway, I lost Friday, which I could not afford to do. Right now - from now until at least November, every day is a workday. Hey, welcome to the life of goddam freelancer. Had I not fucked off the first two weeks (anger, spite, and depression) of June, things might be a little better. But only a fucking smidge, mind you. Here is what must be done this month:
1) Art supervision on Alabaster: Wolves #5 (due out in August).
2) The line edits to my typescript of Blood Oranges, a HUGE undertaking, which I promised my editor I'd have to her by Monday. Now, maybe Monday. No, let's say Tuesday. Spooky is helping out, handling all the simple stuff (word choice, punctuation, missing words, etc.), but I have to take care of the more serious problems.
3) Writing and producing Sirenia Digest #79.
4) Writing chapters One and Two of Fay Grimmer (the sequel to Blood Oranges).
5) Reading two or three books I've agreed to maybe blurb or write introductions for. Oh, and short story reprints I should, in theory, read for copyeditor "corrections" I can uncorrect (STET) before publication. There are two or three of those, all with tight deadlines.
And that's minus all the unforeseen bullshit. For example, the cover of Blood Oranges, which I'm already locked in a battle over, because Penguin flubbed it horrendously. We are hoping for a much more appropriate final cover. But the shitty one will be in the catalog that goes out to bookstore buyers. It looks like some generic-ass horror novel, which means the art department clearly did not even glance at the contents. The novel is a spoof, you stupid motherfuckers.
---
A good Kid Night last night (though, recently, we seem to have abandoned traditional Kindernacht movies for grimmer fare). Last night, we watched a so-so thriller, Jim Sheridan's Dream House (2011). More than anything, I felt a superb cast was wasted: Daniel Craig, Naomi Watts, and Rachel Weisz. The second feature was a genuinely superb and horrific film, Marina de Van's In My Skin (2002, French/Belgian; Dans ma peau). Oh, and by the fuck, this is not a film about "cutting," and anyone who thinks so is a moron, or, at the very least, hasn't seen the film. I highly recommend this film. Except to pussies. It's not a film for pussies.
---
How do you get a hipster. Simple. Cross a hippie with a douchebag. You can quote me. Also, new favourite profanity: "ass douche."
Profane to the Extreme (But Sincerely, Never for Shock Value),
Aunt Beast
Somehow, that paragraph violates several laws of English grammar. This one likely will, as well. Anyway, we ducked into the Westminster location of Symposium Books. This is what a bookshop ought to be. A great selection of art books, highly technical science volumes, and a huge selection of underground graphic novels and collected volumes of vintage comics strips. On the damaged books table, we found seven volumes of The Complete Peanuts, each marked down to $5.00 from $28.99, which meant we could get $202.93 worth of books for a mere $35 (!!!). Sure there some damage to the dust jackets and very minor spine damage, but fuck it. There was also a Love and Rockets hardback I don't have, drastically marked down because of severe damage to the binding, but the damage was so bad I passed. And, too, we found a Fahrenheit 451 T-shirt. I wouldn't have gotten any of these things. Indeed, I almost didn't. But Spooky insisted, as a) there wasn't much in the way of birthday present money back on the 26th of May, and b) a long delayed cheque from Penguin finally arrived a couple of days ago. So, Happy Literate and Belated Birthday to me.
Now, kittens, there's the issue of Spooky's birthday, should you wish to help out. Here's her wishlist at Amazon.
---
Anyway, I lost Friday, which I could not afford to do. Right now - from now until at least November, every day is a workday. Hey, welcome to the life of goddam freelancer. Had I not fucked off the first two weeks (anger, spite, and depression) of June, things might be a little better. But only a fucking smidge, mind you. Here is what must be done this month:
1) Art supervision on Alabaster: Wolves #5 (due out in August).
2) The line edits to my typescript of Blood Oranges, a HUGE undertaking, which I promised my editor I'd have to her by Monday. Now, maybe Monday. No, let's say Tuesday. Spooky is helping out, handling all the simple stuff (word choice, punctuation, missing words, etc.), but I have to take care of the more serious problems.
3) Writing and producing Sirenia Digest #79.
4) Writing chapters One and Two of Fay Grimmer (the sequel to Blood Oranges).
5) Reading two or three books I've agreed to maybe blurb or write introductions for. Oh, and short story reprints I should, in theory, read for copyeditor "corrections" I can uncorrect (STET) before publication. There are two or three of those, all with tight deadlines.
And that's minus all the unforeseen bullshit. For example, the cover of Blood Oranges, which I'm already locked in a battle over, because Penguin flubbed it horrendously. We are hoping for a much more appropriate final cover. But the shitty one will be in the catalog that goes out to bookstore buyers. It looks like some generic-ass horror novel, which means the art department clearly did not even glance at the contents. The novel is a spoof, you stupid motherfuckers.
---
A good Kid Night last night (though, recently, we seem to have abandoned traditional Kindernacht movies for grimmer fare). Last night, we watched a so-so thriller, Jim Sheridan's Dream House (2011). More than anything, I felt a superb cast was wasted: Daniel Craig, Naomi Watts, and Rachel Weisz. The second feature was a genuinely superb and horrific film, Marina de Van's In My Skin (2002, French/Belgian; Dans ma peau). Oh, and by the fuck, this is not a film about "cutting," and anyone who thinks so is a moron, or, at the very least, hasn't seen the film. I highly recommend this film. Except to pussies. It's not a film for pussies.
---
How do you get a hipster. Simple. Cross a hippie with a douchebag. You can quote me. Also, new favourite profanity: "ass douche."
Profane to the Extreme (But Sincerely, Never for Shock Value),
Aunt Beast