Monday, June 15, 2015

This and That Tuesday...

Jane Austen attempts to publish her historic book, Pride and Prejudice… in the TWENTY FIRST CENTURY!!

(A) E-mail from Jane Austen, sent to publishers:
“Hello, my name is Jane Austen, and I have written a romance novel.  The main story concerns a gentleman who is very rich, but insufferable.  He falls in love with a poor young woman who is not as pretty as her sister, but has a quick wit about her.  Initially he proposes marriage to her while at the same time insulting her family.  He also convinces his best friend that her sister is not good enough for the man... for some reason I haven’t quite worked out yet.  Anyway, the young woman he loves gives him the old heave ho then travels to his home, sees how beautiful it is, and decides he’s the one for her.  The world length is 123,880.

(B) Reply from publishers:
“We do not accept inquiries thru the internet.”
“We thank you for your inquiry; however, we are not accepting new writers.”
“There is no way in hell for you to get a book published so why should we bother replying to you.”
“Unless your brother is a mass murdering pedophile, please do not bother us again.”

Finally, a glimmer of hope:
“Please submit the first twenty chapters of your novel, in duplicate, in print, on yellow lined paper, no staples, two-inch margins, triple-spaced.  Also, provide us with the demographic you wish to attract, a sample of your marketing plan, six forms of ID, and, no we still will not publish you, under any circumstance.  Unless you are a reality star.  Or, there’s really hot sex.  With bondage.  And cut it down to 95,000 words.”

(C) E-mail from Jane Austen to publisher in response:
“I can put sex in it.  Just one question, what is sex?  This is 1810, I am thirty-five years old and I live with my father, a former minister.  Give me a break.”


Can we all admit to a healthy fear of Mesothelioma and move on already...


Benedict Cumberbatch is a papa now.  Names generated on twitter include the following:

Cabbage Patch Cumberbatch
Sherlock Stephen Alan Khan Cumberbatch


You know what I really love are those commercials where there is an older woman, slender, dressed in some shimmery thing.  She has long, long, white hair that she peeks out at you from while she smirks, as the voiceover  talks about the super medication she's on for some reason, probably bladder control, and she's all "look at me...don't I look good for a woman in her fifties?" (because fifties are a near death experience for the young puppies who now run marketing programs)

And then the announcer tells of the side effects:
"If you experience swelling of the hands or gums, vaginal bleeding, hemorrhoids, dry mouth, vomiting, temporary blindness, heart palpitations, incontinence, momentary amnesia, tingling in your shoulder or elbow, loss of a limb..."
Meanwhile the old bat is grinning and writhing around on a sofa like she has back itch.
Yeah. Love that commercial.


Is swearing mandatory now on cable shows?  I have a few shows I like to watch - Silicon Valley, Episodes, Veep - and in all of them without exception the word fuck is shouted out at least twice in each sentence.  Also, vagina is really big (no pun intended). Also dickwad, prick, asswipe, cocksucker - do people actually talk like that in the real world?  I wander around freely when my restraints are removed and I have never heard people shrieking these things out
(unless I'm at Walmart - duh)

When did humor sink so low?  We still watch Seinfeld and laugh our heads off, and not once did someone grab their crotch and yell, 'eat me, MF', not even Kramer.
And they were funny.  Really funny.
But I digress...

We saw "Spy" with my favorite Melissa McCarthy and it was the same thing.  F***, MF, shithead... it went on and on.  Is the shock value supposed to be supplying the laughs?

Of course, I did really, really enjoy it when Colin Firth did it... duh.

Saturday, June 6, 2015

THIS AND THAT SUNDAY, and Oliver Cromwell

Haven't been here for a very long while.  I was very busy writing my third book, and then I was very busy pimping it anywhere and everywhere I could.  So, here I am back again, several years older and not much wiser, but with something earth shattering to tell you, something life altering.

Nah, not really...

I conclude that trains are possibly the most uncomfortable way to travel - outside of, I imagine, ox carts with mismatched wheels, or covered wagons (I was too little to really notice when the folks headed west).  It was in July that we took our Amtrak journey from Orlando to New York city.  In my opinion, after experiencing a ride that felt as if we'd been into a barrel and thrown into Niagara Falls, I am amazed that a train ever stays on the track at all.

Here's another thing - where the hell did I get the idea that a train food car had curtains on the windows and tablecloths and waiters in tailcoats serving you by candlelight, bowing as they hand over the menu.


European Train Waiters

American Train Waiters

Our food car consisted of about eight hard industrial tables which you clung to for dear life as the train careened along - and, you're packed in there, sitting cheek to jowl with really creepy characters who look like they have issues with opiates!  And dental hygiene!  And then our ankles were all shackled together! - no, wait  That was that other time...

Don't even ask about the sleeping car - ok, ok, go ahead and ask.  They call it a roomette.  More like a broomclosetette.  I had the top bunk since Richie's hip was already hurting him, and there's a toilet right there in the broom closet with you, right beside you. No walls around it; no privacy at all. I had my Kindle Fire sitting on the closed lid while it charged.  The Kindle, not the toilet.  Ever try to pee while your husband is asking you if you closed the garage door? Anyway, to get up to the top bunk I had to stand on the toilet and hoist myself up - no ladders.  And, at my age, I had to climb down about six times during the night to pee.  Richie kept thinking we were home and the sprinklers were going off.

I hate Amtrak.  Extremely unfortunate about the accident though.  Especially since we're taking it again in September.


Yes, we are returning once again to the land of scones and honey, to that most blessed Isle, to England.  And, since we don't fly, we are again sailing for seven days there and back on the QM2.  Did you know that on the Queen Mary women are not allowed to wear shorts after a certain hour, and neither are men, nor flip flops.  "Gymnasium" attire is frowned upon when walking around and if you're not going to the 'Formal Nights' dinners (there are 3 on a 7 day crossing), nor to the two Balls that are thrown (the Black and White Ball, and the Ascot Ball, or something like that) one is not encouraged to linger around where those dressed up people may see one. They have Ye Olde Rack on the Lido deck.

Richie and I managed to miss every single formal night and both balls.  We buffeted our way across the Atlantic and sat back and watched the beautiful people stroll by in their sequined gowns and black tuxedos.  The men were dressed nice too.

The Brochure

The Reality

Our immediate impression was that ALL men - old, young, fat, skinny - look great in a tux, but there are precious few women over fifty who look any good dressed up.  I really mean it.  Well, look, most of us are pudgy, if not downright fat, and the hair is 'not what it was'...  Make up is always heavy and scary looking for evening.  It takes a real lot of money to look good when you're a certain age, and there isn't enough money circulating in the free world for me to get into heels again.


You know what really bothers me about this? It hasn't a thing to do with religion, or being an abomination to the lord, or 'a great athlete's tragic emasculation'.  No.  It's that she looks twenty years younger.  If I was transgender I would look like a real old John Denver.  


Again with England - We have tickets to see Mark Rylance (he plays Cromwell in Wolf Hall) perform in Finnegan and the Lamb Chop (that's not the real title but I am too lazy to look it up).  I really wanted to see Byzantine Crumberpants in Hamlet, however those tickets sold out before the ink was even dry, and now there is a lottery for one hundred fans to be superglued to the ceiling for a performance.  I'll take it.  Except... we have only four days in London.  What are the chances that I will (1) get chosen for a pair of tickets at all, or (2) that the date will be one of only three days left while we're in the city.  I keep telling Richie we should just move to London already.

Maybe not...