You guys, I am so sorry. Not only is this post a day late, it's a day late for last week. That's not like me. I'm usually spot-on, at Afrah every Thursday, hammering this sucker out over baba ganouj and pita bread with a lemonade and an occasional cup of gelato. November's brought a host of interesting goings-on, from a stupid back injury to a--common cold. Weird to call anything common that's so darn rare, at least for me. I don't get colds. Oh, I get a sinus infection that warps into double pneumonia, or viral bronchitis that lands me in bed for a week, but a cold? Pshaw. Never happens. Except that, at the moment, I have a cold.
Last Thursday, Joan and I had tickets to a play called MacHomer. Think Macbeth as done by the Simpsons. Macbeth happens to be my favorite play. To see it done as a one-man show by a guy who can convincingly imitate about 20 Simpsons characters is, well, special. We saw it before, several years ago, but the sound quality at the theater was so bad that we missed three-quarters of the jokes. So when we saw it was coming back around--and playing at the Winspear, which is an opera house and which Does Not Have Bad Sound--we got all excited. Thursday night, however, we made the mistake of meeting at home for dinner before the show. Halfway through dinner, we started looking at each other, and finally I said, "This isn't going to happen, is it?" and Joan said, "You mind if we lose the ticket money?" I said, "Of course I mind, but not enough to pile into the car and go down there." Joan said, "I want to have gone, but I don't want to go." Which was pretty much how I felt. So we ended up watching something on the History Channel, and I fell asleep on the couch. I do that. This is how you know you're an old married couple; you start deteriorating at the same speed.
My stupid back is a lot better, no thanks to the Chiropractor We Send All Our Clients To. Actually, there was nothing wrong with the chiropractor; it was her staff that was the problem. The first time I went down there, I was in her office for 2 1/2 hours. Of that time, about 15 minutes amounted to actual treatment. The rest amounted to being shown into this room and that room and long periods of being left unattended for reasons that were never satisfactorily explained. That was my first visit. My second visit only took an hour and a half, but in that time, my treatment plan changed from three to four visits over two weeks to twenty-one visits over three to four months. One of the minions tried to take me back for an X-ray that the doctor had already told me I didn't need, and when I tried to make her life easier by saying, "Look, I'll just refuse it, okay?" she said, "You can't do that."
(Um, I assure you that I can.)
But the topper was when a different minion took me into a treatment room for this electric-stim therapy that's kind of like a TENS unit on acid, I guess. My stupid back injury was kind of below my waist and just above my butt, so to get at it they kind of had to take my pants partway off. This woman hooked me up to this electro-zapper thingy, with my pants partway off, and left me there, again for the requisite 45 minutes. With two big Mexican (male) laborers in the same room. No, I am not kidding. I finally peeled the electrodes off and wriggled myself off the table (not without several muscle spasms) so that I could for Godsake get dressed. I mean, the Mexican laborers were polite and all that, and didn't stare, but for crying out loud, people. That was a little ridiculous. I don't wanna send my clients there anymore. (Chiropractic Doctors Clinic on Belt Line. You're welcome.)
So thus endeth my third bad experience with chiropractic. There will not be a fourth. It's been about a month since I got hurt and I'm mostly back to normal, with a little residual stiffness. My massage therapist, the endlessly talented Kellum, has been filling in for the auspices of modern medicine. I think that did just as well as chiropractic would have done. Probably better, since Kellum doesn't leave me lying places with my pants off. Bless his heart.
Okay, so I couldn't swim for about three weeks. Swimming made my back worse (probably the cold water; I'd just tense right up) but walking made it better, so I did a lot of walking. Result: Legs and lower back got stronger, but lost lots of muscle tone in my arms and shoulders. I'm back in the pool now and I get sore, people. It's a little embarrassing to crawl out of the pool after an hour and be barely able to lift my frick'n swim bag. I start lifting weights again on Sunday. Seriously, this needs to be fixed.
We spent Thanksgiving with good friends Tammy and Tracy and some other friends at their place in Oak Cliff. Everybody brought something so it was a pretty eclectic mix of food. Joan made Texas caviar, which is kind of a bean salad thingy with onions and Italian dressing, and cranberry sauce. (Not together.) The sweet potatoes were first rate, the stuffing was great, there were two kinds of bread pudding (I had a sliver of each, mainly as an excuse to put spray whipped cream on them--I love spray whipped cream) and, oh yeah, a turkey. I gave a slice of breast meat some courtesy nibbles. I have never been fond of turkey. I know this makes me a Philistine, but I'll survive somehow. We spent the evening telling silly animal stories (since most of their friends are zookeepers!) and being harassed by their three cats and a visiting dog. It was a great way to spend a holiday.
So now we're in the middle of the North Texas Mensa Regional Gathering, where we hang with the smart people and learn cool stuff about computer vision and Civil War diaries and play card games until three in the morning and other strange things. The programming is great, but the hotel--People, this hotel needed to be torn down two years ago. It's like the Dallas Shining. The towels are frayed, the air conditioner covers are cracked, there are mirrors missing in the washrooms and they've been replaced with boards, there are ceiling stains--it's pathetic, really. The whole place speaks of serious neglect, bad management and we-didn't-bother-to-do-a-site-inspection-before-we-signed-the-contract. I'd be embarrassed to book anyone there. I'm almost embarrassed to walk in there. (Night Hotel Dallas at 635 just past Josey Lane. You're welcome.)
And my NaNo novel? Oh, let's not talk about that. Suffice to say it kind of crashed and burned on me 16,000 words in. But that's actually okay, because I got an idea to do something else, and it's going to be fun. (As Lawrence of Arabia) The trick is not to mind that it hurts.
So, anyway, that's where things stand. I'm about to crawl into bed, soon to leap back up and go flying out to the Dallas Shining for Day 3 of the RG. We'll see how long I last before the murdered twin girls pop out of the hallway walls and say they want me to stay and play with them forever and ever and ever. Cheers, all.
Showing posts with label Tammy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tammy. Show all posts
Friday, November 23, 2012
Sunday, July 13, 2008
The Funerary Belly Plate Scene
Playing in the background: "Tougher in Alaska" on the History Channel
Meters swum today: None. See below re: overslept.
Kilometers swum in July, Swim for Distance Month: 7.7 of 40.2
Good news, everybody. Despite my failure to find a malleable female with an available belly for sugar cube counting, I've finished the scene with the Egyptian funerary belly plate that caused such chaos and disruption earlier. Here's the relevant snippet from Spellbinder.
...
He picks up the briefcase, which is small but oddly heavy for its size. It’s a good thing he hasn’t ordered breakfast because there’s barely room on the table to perch the thing on the edge. He expects it to be locked but it opens on the first try. Inside, the case is lined with black velvet, a drape over the center portion. He pulls back the drape and raises his eyebrows. A square plate of what looks to be solid gold, about the size of a hardback book and covered with Egyptian hieroglyphs, glints in the dim light. “I didn’t think you collected Egyptian stuff.”
“I don’t. I’m Greek, Minoan and a little Chinese. But I, ah, happened onto this one piece, you might say.”
“You might say,” he agrees, tapping the plate with an experimental finger. Definitely gold, and a high purity from the softness. “What is it?”
“It’s the funerary plaque from the tomb of Princess Ankhneferaten,” she says. “Amarna dynasty. She was King Tut’s great-aunt.”
Don Cristobal lets out an appreciative whistle. “Looks like she had a few bucks. What’s it for?”
“They stuck it over the incision, on the stomach, where they took out the guts. When they were making the mummies.”
He pulls his hand back. “I hope it’s been cleaned since then.”
She smiles, though it’s not a friendly smile. “It’s three thousand years old. I imagine it’s been cleaned a few times.”
He looks back into the briefcase. The eye of Horus winks up at him. “I guess you could melt it down,” he says. “Sell it for the gold.”
Iliana does a pretty good job of suppressing a shudder at the idea of somebody melting down a piece of Egyptian art. “I wouldn’t. It’s pretty rare. There’s only six in the world.”
“Yeah? Why’s that? Curses? Ancient magic?”
“No, because it’s made of gold. And it’s small. And portable. Tomb robbers couldn't resist them.”
Don Cristobal grunts. “Well, it’s awful nice of you, ma’am,” he says in a bad John Wayne, “but I don’t reckon I know what I’d do with–”
“You’d take it to Morocco,” Iliana says, tossing a business card on the table. “And you’d call that guy.”
“Fariq Al-Saud, Dealer in Antiquities,” he reads. “Ten Charles de Gaulle Way, Marrakesh.” He looks up. “Why him?”
“Because that’s who I stole it from,” she says, shaking her head at his denseness. “And he’ll be very happy to see it again. I’m sure he’ll make you an acceptable offer.”
“Well, it’s nice,” he admits, “but I’m kind of not in the market for an Egyptian funerary belly plate at the moment, so–”
“I’m not selling it,” she retorts. “I’m giving it to you.”
He frowns. "What are you doing that for?”
“I asked you to leave the kid alone,” Iliana says, and smiles sweetly. “This is just my way of saying pretty please.”
...
Thanks, again, Tammy, for making me sound like I know what I'm talking about -- always a challenge in this business.
Meters swum today: None. See below re: overslept.
Kilometers swum in July, Swim for Distance Month: 7.7 of 40.2
Good news, everybody. Despite my failure to find a malleable female with an available belly for sugar cube counting, I've finished the scene with the Egyptian funerary belly plate that caused such chaos and disruption earlier. Here's the relevant snippet from Spellbinder.
...
He picks up the briefcase, which is small but oddly heavy for its size. It’s a good thing he hasn’t ordered breakfast because there’s barely room on the table to perch the thing on the edge. He expects it to be locked but it opens on the first try. Inside, the case is lined with black velvet, a drape over the center portion. He pulls back the drape and raises his eyebrows. A square plate of what looks to be solid gold, about the size of a hardback book and covered with Egyptian hieroglyphs, glints in the dim light. “I didn’t think you collected Egyptian stuff.”
“I don’t. I’m Greek, Minoan and a little Chinese. But I, ah, happened onto this one piece, you might say.”
“You might say,” he agrees, tapping the plate with an experimental finger. Definitely gold, and a high purity from the softness. “What is it?”
“It’s the funerary plaque from the tomb of Princess Ankhneferaten,” she says. “Amarna dynasty. She was King Tut’s great-aunt.”
Don Cristobal lets out an appreciative whistle. “Looks like she had a few bucks. What’s it for?”
“They stuck it over the incision, on the stomach, where they took out the guts. When they were making the mummies.”
He pulls his hand back. “I hope it’s been cleaned since then.”
She smiles, though it’s not a friendly smile. “It’s three thousand years old. I imagine it’s been cleaned a few times.”
He looks back into the briefcase. The eye of Horus winks up at him. “I guess you could melt it down,” he says. “Sell it for the gold.”
Iliana does a pretty good job of suppressing a shudder at the idea of somebody melting down a piece of Egyptian art. “I wouldn’t. It’s pretty rare. There’s only six in the world.”
“Yeah? Why’s that? Curses? Ancient magic?”
“No, because it’s made of gold. And it’s small. And portable. Tomb robbers couldn't resist them.”
Don Cristobal grunts. “Well, it’s awful nice of you, ma’am,” he says in a bad John Wayne, “but I don’t reckon I know what I’d do with–”
“You’d take it to Morocco,” Iliana says, tossing a business card on the table. “And you’d call that guy.”
“Fariq Al-Saud, Dealer in Antiquities,” he reads. “Ten Charles de Gaulle Way, Marrakesh.” He looks up. “Why him?”
“Because that’s who I stole it from,” she says, shaking her head at his denseness. “And he’ll be very happy to see it again. I’m sure he’ll make you an acceptable offer.”
“Well, it’s nice,” he admits, “but I’m kind of not in the market for an Egyptian funerary belly plate at the moment, so–”
“I’m not selling it,” she retorts. “I’m giving it to you.”
He frowns. "What are you doing that for?”
“I asked you to leave the kid alone,” Iliana says, and smiles sweetly. “This is just my way of saying pretty please.”
...
Thanks, again, Tammy, for making me sound like I know what I'm talking about -- always a challenge in this business.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Hello, Goddess, My Old Friend
Playing on the iPod: Something slow-moving with lots of flutes (that narrows it down...)Meters swum yesterday: 1800
I was getting ready to write a post about how mopey and depressed I'd been lately when my old friend the Goddess of Fertility plowed into me like a tsunami. That's her on the left, preggers, nursing and surrounded by All Things Spring. And while it's grand to be staying up until all hours, writing my little heart out, flying along on not much sleep and dodging males for fear of quickening if I get too close, I gotta wonder if there's maybe something wrong with me. Don't normal writers just type about an hour a day and then forget about it? Or, by definition, is there no such thing as a normal writer? I dunno. To be sure, though, sometimes I'm cranking it out full tilt, sometimes I'm not not doing sh*t and sometimes (on a rare day) I do the type an hour and go to bed early thing. Honestly, though, not very bloody often.
In case you're wondering, I'm not bipolar. I've been tested. I have been depressed, and I may be depressed now, but damned if I can tell. As soon as the moon passes last quarter we may find out (tonight, 12:20 U.T.), but for the moment I'm just surfing away. Back in the old days I'd start snarfing sugar and caffiene right about now, to keep that high goin' as long as possible. Alas, I can't do that anymore. Maturity sucks.
The very wise Tammy told me that the reason Tolkein ended The Fellowship of the Ring in such a lousy spot was that the guy, being smart and all that, wrote the whole thing all at once. All 1800 pages or whatever the hell. The publisher had to arbitrarily decide where to chop it up, and that was just where the axe fell. So it's not like he chose to end it there. That's just what happened. Contractual obligations are ugly things sometimes. So here's my new plan; don't end Spellbinder. Well, sort of end it, but just keep goin', start Part the Third and let the publisher decide. This presumes I'm gonna find a publisher. Well, let's be optimistic about this thing.
Meantime, I'm taking suggestions about what to call the third one. Spellbinder got named by accident. Kellum was referring to Mindbender and said Spellbinder by mistake and I said, "Hey, I like that," and thus Part Two had a name. Reminds me of this unbelievably awful trio of vampire romance novels (unbelievably awful and vampire romance novels in one sentence; yep, that's redundant all right) called Confession, Possession and Obsession. My first thought was Mindbender, Spellbinder and Pathfinder, but there's not much about pathfinding in the third one (unless you count stumbling around lost, some of which will in fact happen) and let's face it, that calls to mind the unbelievably awful 2007 remake (unbelievably awful and remake in the same sentence; there I go again) of the 1988 Finnish stunner, Ofelas (Pathfinder). (Star Wars on skis. Find it. Rent it. Fall in love. )
So, seriously, I've been bouncing around titles for part three. Pretender. Left Fender. Return To Sender. My favorite so far is And the Nobel Prize Goes To...
Monday, June 23, 2008
The Things I Do For Science
Playing on the iPod: Something by the Tannahill Weavers
Meters swum today: 1700
Don't ask me how this happened, but it seems that some of the characters in Spellbinder will be fawning over an ancient artifact that, by most accounts, probably doesn't exist. It's a funerary breastplate, or maybe belly plate, that covers an Egyptian mummy over the place where the embalmers made the incision to pull out the, um, guts. There were once lots of them, or so the documents tell us, especially in the Amarna dynasty. However, as these things were made of solid gold, they tended to fall prey to tomb robbers, meddling adventurer archaeologists, embezzling Egyptian bureaucrats and the like. Here's a visual:
But anyway, I'm resurrecting one of 'em and sticking it in the book. Does the book have anything to do with ancient Egypt? Uh, no. Does the funerary plate form any great linchpin for the plot, or anything like that? Uh, no. I just happened to mention to my geologist time-traveling neocraftsperson friend Tammy that I was in need of an artifact of a certain size, that weighed a certain amount, that could be valued at a certain price, and this was what she came up with. So I said what the hell, and now I'm trying to figure out some of the technical details. Namely, how valuable is this thing anyway? Okay, it's made of gold and gold has some value, but how does one weigh an ancient, nonexistent funerary breastplate, er, excuse me, belly plate, in the terms of modern commerce?
I've failed in my attempts to Google "Value of Egyptian Amarna funerary belly plate" for some reason, but I did learn that one troy ounce of gold (whatever the hell that means) is approximately the same physical size as a sugar cube. Said sugar cube size piece of gold, circa 1998 when the tale is set, would have been worth an average of $291 (gold set an all time record low that year, dipping down to $250 before creeping back up again.) So, then, how many sugar cubes make a funerary belly plate?
I propose the following experiment:
Ingredients
1. Calculator
2. Sugar cubes (lots)
3. Small, malleable female willing to subject her belly to science. She can keep her clothes on.
Procedure
1. Have the young lady lie down in the Osiris pose.
1A. Better buy her dinner first.
2. Cover her belly with sugar cubes. No tickling.
3. Gather up the sugar cubes and count them. Bonus points if none of them fall apart.
4. Take the number of sugar cubes, multiply it by $291, and that should be your average figure.
Now, if we used my belly, we'd get some ridiculous stratospheric figure. I've got a calculator and I've added sugar cubes to this week's shopping list (thanks, Joan!) Now all I need is a small, malleable female.
Any volunteers? Dinner's on me...
Meters swum today: 1700
Don't ask me how this happened, but it seems that some of the characters in Spellbinder will be fawning over an ancient artifact that, by most accounts, probably doesn't exist. It's a funerary breastplate, or maybe belly plate, that covers an Egyptian mummy over the place where the embalmers made the incision to pull out the, um, guts. There were once lots of them, or so the documents tell us, especially in the Amarna dynasty. However, as these things were made of solid gold, they tended to fall prey to tomb robbers, meddling adventurer archaeologists, embezzling Egyptian bureaucrats and the like. Here's a visual:
But anyway, I'm resurrecting one of 'em and sticking it in the book. Does the book have anything to do with ancient Egypt? Uh, no. Does the funerary plate form any great linchpin for the plot, or anything like that? Uh, no. I just happened to mention to my geologist time-traveling neocraftsperson friend Tammy that I was in need of an artifact of a certain size, that weighed a certain amount, that could be valued at a certain price, and this was what she came up with. So I said what the hell, and now I'm trying to figure out some of the technical details. Namely, how valuable is this thing anyway? Okay, it's made of gold and gold has some value, but how does one weigh an ancient, nonexistent funerary breastplate, er, excuse me, belly plate, in the terms of modern commerce?
I've failed in my attempts to Google "Value of Egyptian Amarna funerary belly plate" for some reason, but I did learn that one troy ounce of gold (whatever the hell that means) is approximately the same physical size as a sugar cube. Said sugar cube size piece of gold, circa 1998 when the tale is set, would have been worth an average of $291 (gold set an all time record low that year, dipping down to $250 before creeping back up again.) So, then, how many sugar cubes make a funerary belly plate?
I propose the following experiment:
Ingredients
1. Calculator
2. Sugar cubes (lots)
3. Small, malleable female willing to subject her belly to science. She can keep her clothes on.
Procedure
1. Have the young lady lie down in the Osiris pose.
1A. Better buy her dinner first.
2. Cover her belly with sugar cubes. No tickling.
3. Gather up the sugar cubes and count them. Bonus points if none of them fall apart.
4. Take the number of sugar cubes, multiply it by $291, and that should be your average figure.
Now, if we used my belly, we'd get some ridiculous stratospheric figure. I've got a calculator and I've added sugar cubes to this week's shopping list (thanks, Joan!) Now all I need is a small, malleable female.
Any volunteers? Dinner's on me...
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