Of Clowns and Ninjas

It occurred to me that if a group of ninjas came upon a group of clowns there would be no fight because, like the ninjas, the clowns follow a code of honor. However, if the ninjas came across a group of pirates, much blood would be shed.

Also, contrary to popular belief, should a group of pirates come across a group of clowns, they would, in fact, fight because pirates will fight with anyone. It would be an epic battle. However, the clowns would be victorious because they fight dirty.

Why We Need Science

Because this transcends awesome. (Via Boing Boing)

Five Years Old

Save the Cheerleader, Save the World,
originally uploaded by scifitwin.

Happy Birthday to my little girl. Hard to believe it's been five years. It's gone fast. Next thing I know my little shadow will be dating and causing me ulcers.

In the meantime it's stories with funny voices, chocolate milk in shot glasses (a game we call "Hit me up barkeep" . . . maybe that's not healthy . . . it's a cowboy game I played as a kid) and princess parties.

Sigh. I wish I could bottle little Gert and keep her forever. She's one of those kids who has something different deep inside of her. She's funny, vivacious, smart and compassionate. Very compassionate for a little kid.

Sins of My Father

I have visual and audio proof of my young daughter's Tom Waits impression.

Scene:
Mom and dad were getting eyes checked. Gert and Matilda were looking for things to do. Matilda sat playing her Game Boy. Gert had no such device, so she looked to Daddy. Daddy sent her off with his phone cam to take pictures of weird things and he'd guess what they were. That was fun. For a few minutes. But she needed more. She we started making phone cam videos.

"Hey Gert," I said, "sing 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' in your Tom Waits voice."

So she did.

I know what you're thinking. How could we allow a nearly five-year-old to listen to Tom Waits? Well, it's not like I let her listen to "I'm Your Late Evening Prostitute" or "Pasties and a G-String." There are plenty fantastic Tom Waits songs she loves to listen to. Hell, Matilda has a song I don't even have on a soundtrack to a movie. So there.

But mostly she likes to sing like Tom Waits.

Notice Matilda in the background completely oblivious to all the strange things we were doing.

What's Cute?

"Hey Gert, sing a lullaby as Tom Waits."

"Croak Rockabye croak Baby croak In croak The croak Tree croak Top . . ."

"Ha!"

Bonus points for syrup dribbling down her chin.

The Truth About My Novel

Okay, so I am doing National Novel Writing Month with my wife and daughter because it's a fun way for the family to spend time together and not talk. Dinner time now sounds like this:

clackyclackyclackyclackyclackyclackyclackytaptaptapclackyclackyclackyclacky

"What's another word for anemic bastard?"

Worse, there's a strange competition going on in our house now. My wife and I now measure our worth by word count (so kicking her ass, which means I don't have to make dinner until she earns the literary right to take the night off--that means none of my famous balsalmic chicken or stir fry until that day) and my normally sweet eleven-year-old daughter has acquired some sort of arrogance and wit that has turned her into Mrs. Parker and the Vicious circle. I really wish she'd stop asking to spend time at the Algonquin.

I'm learning some things about myself. For example, I'm a supremely lazy writer. My use of grammar is, shall we say, slovenly. It's not that I don't respect the rules of our language. It's that I really don't feel like using them most of the time. Am I capable? Yes. Do I do it? Frequently. Will I ever correct myself? I suppose. Do I care? Not a bit.

So for all you grammar cops out there I have one thing to say: Bite the big one. I'm essentially free writing. When it's time to edit--strike that--IF it's ever time to edit it, then we'll discuss Strunk and White. Okay? Now take your blood pressure medicine and go focus on your own comma splices.

So, you can see my progress here. I'm not posting the little badge on my site because, ultimately, I'm too lazy. You can also read an excerpt there.

Note on the site: It's slow, uses clunky flash and makes my brain hurt. But it looks pretty.

Note on my story: You won't care about it. But you can still read the excerpt. Odds are you'll never see any more of it. For the most part, it's literary masturbation.

But here's the premise of my original idea: Floyd Landis is sitting in an Alpine bar, tossing back a few Amstel Lites with his buddies when, suddenly, his ratio of Testosterone to Epitestosterone goes completely out of whack. His skin turns yellow and he grows to be, something like, 6 feet tall and 200 pounds (Hey, he's a cyclist. For them that's Hulk size.) Then, he goes on a rampage through France searching for something that can only be described as "(s)". No one understands what he's talking about because he's speaking in incomprehensible bursts like, "The 30ng/ml limit is not the threshold for a positive but is the reasonable limit for detection the lab must demonstrate (like the 2ng/mL for [T] or [E])."

Then, just as Floyd is about to eat the Eiffel Tower, a guy in a lab coat comes up and tells him that he accidentally spilled white out all over his lab documents and it turns out that there was nothing wrong with his T/E ratio, but some jerk from the drug testing lab had written a lewd comment about Floyd's wife with similar letters and that this whole thing was a mistake.

"My bad," says the lab dude. Then Floyd shrinks back down to normal size, takes a shot of Jack Daniels and says, "Hey no problem." And he goes on to win every race that ASO sponsors for the next five years. Including the Tour de l'Avenir, which causes a whole new controversy.

I thought this was a good idea. Turns out, I was wrong. There's a website out there that's telling a much better story and, apparently, it's all true. Damn it.

Oh well, back to the sophomoric drivel I'm writing.

The Butler Did It

Somehow, my lovely wife convinced me to participate in National Novel Writing Month. I hemmed. I hawed. Then I complained, refused to start and whined about how I had no workable ideas.

Then I saw an elderly couple cuddling on a park bench during one of my bike rides. Proverbial inspiration struck. So I agreed.

But I didn't stop complaining.

So, yesterday it started. I made myself a playlist of music that fit the mood, and worked all day with the knowledge that if I want to hit the 50,000 word goal by the end of the month I'd have to really crank through and not give up.

By lunch, without a word written, I had quit twice. But, thanks to the playlist, had fallen in love with two Tom Waits songs I had ignored.

The wife came home and told me she'd make dinner while I wrote. So I did. I finished work and sat down. An hour and a half later I was 2500 words into what might actually be a novel.

Go figure.

Enjoy this, though. Odds are you'll never see a word that I've written. Okay, okay. That does seem mean. Here, I'll give you this:

Virginity.

I wrote that word in the novel. Only 47,500 words to go!