Wasted Russkis Salute James Cameron

There's nothing to add. Vodka, perhaps, for those who indulge.


h/t: RiggsFilm

New Desk Fever

designboom

I must sit down at my desk again, with surface of particle board,

And all I ask is a working Mac with power strip and cord,

And pencil drawer and file drawer with drafts aligned and waiting,

And a picture, you see, of my wife and me, both smiling, neither faking. 

I must sit down at my desk again, and scribble, feeling swell,

Waxing bold, if it must be told, because of the new desk smell,

And all I ask is a cup of joe and a YouTube playlist long,

And a run of words, no culls or turds; woven prose like merry song,

I must sit down at my desk again, to a solitary author's life,

To pages of mold, soon to be gold, once slashed with my editor's knife,

And all I ask is a sale or two, upon my journey's end,

And as I wait, in financial straits, I'll start to write again. 

(With apologies to John Masefield.)

Yes, I do have a new desk.

Mystery Author Salutes Hallow Mass

(Where the psychopaths grow.)

Under the Florida sun, Barbara Goodheart taps out her eclectic writing, penning thrillers such as The Wild Place, as well as medical books—co-authored with her scientist husband—dealing with diabetes control.

And now Barbara opines most delightfully on my Lovecraftian horror novel, Hallow Mass:

"Devotees of this type of book will . . . find . . . wonderful writing you

 don't typically [see] in this genre.

'. . . unkempt children who watch you like coyotes from trash-littered yards . . . '

'. . . the campus dozed like a drunk in a hammock . . . '

'As the stars rose above, a young prisoner kneeling between Frye and Hutchins commenced to shake like a dog passing a coconut.'

And many other examples of great writing that are too long to include in a brief review . . . "

Scroll down and read Barbara's Amazon review in its entirety, then peek at a few pages. 

In softcover and durable ebook.

It's Saturday. Indulge. 

Poem to a Noisy Neighbor

Bossip

Shut up on this good night,

Pearl Jam thunders into day,

Raves with strangers liquored-up tight.

Balcony pot smoke dims sight.

Your duh-huh laugh is pretty gay,

Please take Ambien this good night.

Requests for quiet—go fly a kite,

Cops summoned June to May,

Feckless mother flounces away on another flight.

Ah, but you're young and light,

A teenage dunce with brains of hay,

Cotton in my ears at the coming of the night.

(Apologies to Dylan Thomas.)

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