17did

Health and Happiness by The Wallflowers

noreply@blogger.com (Thea Slatton) — Wed, 12 Oct 2011 18:56:00 +0000

Some days this can just say it all:

Maybe it's not

That I don't care anymore
Maybe I just never did
You can't say
That I have ever lied
Because I keep the truth well hid
Tell me what's wrong
Is something wrong?
You can't be sad
When something you have never had
Suddenly feels gone

I wish you health
I wish you happiness
But absolutely nothing else

I'm not here to keep an eye on you
I think you misunderstood
I could make things easy for you
I won't
But I could
Does that make you sad?
Cause' you look sad
You should be glad
For what you've had
And don't feel bad
I could wish less for you

I wish you health
I wish you happiness
But absolutely nothing else

There is no distance here
To get across
There's nothing to grip

Or get a hold
The emptiness you feel
Is nothing at all
Now nobody broke any bones
It could be worse
Yeah it can get worse
You've got your strength
And you have got your health
You should be worried bout'
Somebody else

I wish you health
I wish you happiness
But absolutely nothing else

Stupid commercials and worse things

noreply@blogger.com (Thea Slatton) — Sun, 09 Oct 2011 01:03:00 +0000

I hate stupid commercials. Not humorous commercials, mind, you know the ones that are intended to be funny or to make you smile. Those are cool; we need more reasons to smile and some of them are quite clever.

No, I just hate the stupid ones. The ones that are meant to be taken seriously, like all those commercials advertising products that will help you crack an egg better or help you hold the screwdriver correctly -- things the human animal have been doing for centuries, if not millennia, quite well without the help of some gadget that sells for $19.99 (but wait there's more!). The purveyors of all this crap find the most inept folks available to testify to the average person's need for these devices: the grown woman who can't use a strainer to pour the water off the pasta without dropping the entire pot in the sink, or the guy who can't use a regular butter knife to slice through a brick, cause, you know, we all must do that at some point...

Here lately one stupid commercial has gotten my teeth on edge. Its a simple commercial for a web-based service that provides postage over the internet. It sounds like a grand idea and I've no real issue with the commercial itself -- despite it being way louder than the program it accompanies, but all commercials are like that these days. That's why God created the mute button. No, the one fault I find is in the very first part of the commercial where they have some yahoo saying "There's nothing worse than going to the post office."

Sounds innocuous enough, I suppose, and honestly, who among us love the idea of going to the post office except for the very young who find pleasure in big pictures of bright-colored stamps their mothers never buy, but the commercial just grates on my nerves. I mean, seriously, the guy is 40 if he's a day and the worse thing he's ever had to endure is going to the post office? Don't get me wrong, I've been to the post office at least a half dozen times and, yes, it sucks. But what kind of charmed, righteously blessed life do you have that you can say that standing in the queue at the post office is the worst event you can imagine?

I mean, at 40-something, surely this guy's been to at least one funeral. Okay, okay, so I had a grandfather who enjoyed going to funerals and read the obits every morning just to plan his day -- if I'm lyin', I'm dyin', no exaggeration -- but I understand that's an old person thing sometimes, especially when you live in a small town like Waco and kicks are hard to come by, so we'll leave him out of this, thank you.

My point is, I can think of worse things (in no particular order):

hearing the Simpsons might be cancelled. (DOH!)
your computer crashing, and actual smoke wafting out the back vent.
being told your sister's health has deteriorated to end-stage disease and she needs to be on oxygen 24-hours-a-day. And she's barely 10 years old.
having five minutes to pack fifteen years of your life from your desk because the company you hoped to retire from just declared bankruptcy and the creditors are there to lock the doors.
finding out your fiance has a secret life and you're 36 and too tired to care anymore.
finding your dad semi-conscious on the floor with a gash bleeding from his forehead. And he has no memory of how he got there.
being there for your friend who drives to the hospital every day, hoping that this time she'll be allowed to at least touch her premature baby before they close the unit for the night.
your much younger co-worker progressively dumping more and more of her work on your desk because she has an in with the boss and she knows you're 50 and desperately need your job and will probably be too scared to say anything.
watching the towers burn. And the pentagon. And the wreckage of flight 93.
watching your parents get older. Watching your big brother get older.
the vet calling to tell you that your dog -- the one that had gotten you through the worst crap of your life so far -- didn't make it. And its your birthday.
being told your friend has cancer.
being told your mother has cancer.
standing at your baby sister's hospital bed, watching her die.
funerals.

But hey, that's just my life, YMMV and may be far, far worse, God help you. But it kinda puts going to the post office back in perspective, huh? All those tough things in your life you think you'll never get through? You know you've been through worse. And if not, you probably will some day. Just don't wimp out and, for pity's sake, don't whine about it. You don't want to be one of those annoying people you despise for being... well, whiny.

And just for kicks don't be afraid to use the mute button on your TV remote, especially during commercials. Or better yet, use the off button a little more often.

You can thank me later.

Oscar's Interpretation Services open for business

noreply@blogger.com (Thea Slatton) — Tue, 10 May 2011 12:59:00 +0000

We’ve only had Charlie a couple of months, so although he’s settled in quite well, we still have the occasional misunderstanding. Yesterday evening Charlie began barking at me. I’d just taken them out for their early evening business, so I wasn’t sure what was up, although Charlie was more interested in playing footsie with the neighbor’s cat than getting down to business. He normally only barks when he can’t get Oscar to play with him – but he barks at Oscar about it, not me. I asked him what he wanted – another walk? play?- and never seemed to hit on it. He finally gave up and ran off to get Oscar. They had a brief conference nose to nose then they came over and sat down in front of me. Charlie barked once. I started the list again and when I said "poo" Oscar wagged his tail. Charlie looked over at him and tried to wag the same way, looking at me like “Finally. Duh!” Back out we went again, and sure enough… How sweet that Oscar agreed to be interpreter and how smart Charlie was to ask. I’m going to have to stop calling him a natural blonde…

Angles and Other Stories by Orson Scott Card

noreply@blogger.com (Thea Slatton) — Sun, 27 Feb 2011 13:48:00 +0000

An excellent collection of short stories by the prolific and talented Mr. Card. Stories include tales detailing the following:

God becomes complicit with St Nick to make a heaven of hell
Nixon finds forgiveness
The horrific birth of a starship
Juvenile stupidity gets its just reward
A suicide who writes his final note AFTER committing the dread deed
Humanity as virus
The best of wishes (among my favorites)
Parenting aspiring authors
Life and death and death and death in the United Soviet Socialist Republic of America
The angels at the end of the world

Meet Charlie, aka His Dudeness

noreply@blogger.com (Thea Slatton) — Sun, 13 Feb 2011 19:07:00 +0000

This is Charlie (formerly Charleston, formerly ???). We got him from the marvelous Homeless Pet Placement League yesterday via the Petsmart location in Webster. He's a Lhasa Apso mix (probably with some Shih Tzu). A more gentle-hearted, laid back individual you'll never meet. In fact, he spends a good bit of time almost comatose, just collapsing, all fours akimbo, in the floor with a sigh of relief and a gently wiggle of his bushy tail. I call him "His Dudeness." He doesn't like to walk very far, but just lays down when you stop and gets up again when you resume. Verrrry laid back. His Dudeness, indeed.

He loves to be brushed and we even gave him a little grooming (just a little "off the top") and a little trim around the eyes. He loves belly rubs and has already chosen one toy as his own. He's taken to all of us.

He and Oscar (our Shih Tzu) are still adjusting. He's at least three times Oscar's size, but it's mostly fur. He and Oscar had a little dust-up this morning and each grabbed a bite of hair, but no fur flew and they just as quickly stepped back to allow the Alpha pack members (us!) to clear the air. Five minutes later, they were touring the front yard together like old war buddies swapping tall tails (ah...) tales. Charlie has a lot to adjust to: three people, a new house, front and back yards, and another young male dog. Considering how well they are handling it after even one day and night, I think things are going to be just fine in no time. We have a large, very open-barred kennel, and had Charlie sleep in it last night just to ensure him some downtime while we slept. His new pal Oscar slept just outside the door, giving Charlie a little wag of his tail each time we heard him stirring. Incidentally, this photo is not of Charlie and Oscar but Charlie and a toy.

The HPPL are a great organization of caring folks. Charlie came bathed, neutered, dewormed, vaccinated, and micro-chipped. The staff told me a great deal of his history and personality and is was obvious their care for each of their fuzzy charges is genuine. If you need a new furry friend, or just want to help, please visit their website at http://www.hppl.org/. Any number of great dogs and cats will appreciate it.

Squeaky toys and gentle reminders

noreply@blogger.com (Thea Slatton) — Mon, 07 Feb 2011 19:05:00 +0000

We've been blessed with a Shih Tzu named Oscar for about two years now. I was bringing him in from his walk early this morning, had gotten us into the studio and was leaning over to unhook the leash from his harness. My ear was near the door into the living room and I distinctly heard Oscar's little fuzzy donut toy squeak three times rapidly. I assumed Mom or Dad was up, had heard us at the door and was encouraging Oscar to come in.

I opened the door quickly since Oscar was jumping to play with the toy as soon as he heard it. We saw the toy lying where it had been when we left out: in front of the piano, next to his bed, about four feet from the door. The room was still and dark, with no one standing anywhere. Oscar danced in, looking for Mom or Dad, stared at the toy without touching it and ran to the hall. He was disappointed to find their door shut and no lights on.

He stepped back into the living room, eyeing the toy and then me, then the toy, warily. He's smart enough to know that the thing couldn't squeak itself! I told him it was okay. Maybe Kissie Bear was keeping it company for him while he went on his walk. Kissie is my dear little Maltese who died back in June. The toy had originally been hers, but she had graciously surrendered it to him on his first day with us and it has remained his favorite.

I think, maybe, Kissie was letting us know she's still thinking about us. Sweet baby. I think of her every day and probably always will. She taught me a lot of precious things I never want to forget.

World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War by Max Brooks

noreply@blogger.com (Thea Slatton) — Thu, 11 Nov 2010 16:46:00 +0000

Seriously, I can't recall why I bought this book. Zombies, and horror generally, just aren't my thing. Everytime it came up on my To Be Read list, I shoved it back down. Maybe the fact that this is Mel Brooks' son, kept it on the list to begin with. Recently, however, I caught the premiere of The Walking Dead and was quite impressed. Lo, a few weeks later, Brooks' book popped back to the top of the TBR list and I thought, what the hey. Much to my surprise, it is an excellent read. A zombie plague may not be -- thank God! -- a probability, but this book certainly will have you acknowledging it could be a possibility. The politics, policies and plot ring true, making it as much a tale of human nature as it is a fantasy about a horrific invasion of our own dearly dead. This one stays on my To Be Re-read shelf. Recommended.

Happy Birthday, Denis Leary

noreply@blogger.com (Thea Slatton) — Wed, 18 Aug 2010 09:03:00 +0000

Happy birthday to my favorite standup comedian and dramatic actor, Denis Leary, born August 18, 1957. If you haven't seen The Job or The Ref, or a dozen other great films/TV he's starred in, all I can ask is:

1. what rock have you been hiding under?

2. what are you waiting for? An engraved invitation?

Well then. Consider the invitation served.

Whoopin' hoopties big whoopy hoopty doo

noreply@blogger.com (Thea Slatton) — Wed, 30 Jun 2010 10:48:00 +0000

::engaging rant mode:: What is up with the grown people (usually ::cough:: men) who drive through my neighborhood with their bass-enhanced stereos so loud my windows rattle and their lug nuts are vibrating loose? Is it possible they're just trying to fill up that empty space inside their head with the sonic boom?

Hum. Must be an X-File. Oh, Mulder!!!!!

::disengaging rant mode::

My Requiem Mass

noreply@blogger.com (Thea Slatton) — Mon, 21 Jun 2010 14:41:00 +0000

The Requiem or Requiem Mass is a liturgical service of various Christian churches. It is commonly called the "mass for the departed." Generally it is a musical rendition of prayers for the souls of the departed. It is used at burial services and sometimes during memorials. Many of the more famous requiems were written to commemorate the national dead such as Berlioz' Grande Messe des Morts. Mozart's Requiem Mass in D Minor is a masterpiece, which would go without saying except when you realize that Mozart died well before it's completion. The mass was completed by Mozart's student, Franz Xaver Süssmayr, and yet it remains a breath-taking piece of music. I'd say he graduated with honors.

I'm not referring though, to such masterworks. I'm talking today about the "poor man's requiem," which is basically those songs that, as my mother says, "I love so much, they can play them at my funeral." So far, Mom's requiem includes James Blunt's "Beautiful" and Bill Doggett's "Honkey Tonk" (nope, she doesn't drink, she just really likes the song). I haven't asked Mom about any other songs. I don't want her getting any ideas about kicking off.

I've found that I've developed a rather lengthy requiem of my own through the years. It's hard to define some of my choices. Sometimes my favorite songs simply evoke a time or a place, like Fleetwood Mac's "Don't Stop" which takes me back to high school in the late '70's when life was terrifying with hope and anticipation. That song, however, falls more in the category of a favorite rather than a requiem-worthy piece. To be requiem-worthy, the song must do more than evoke a feeling or bring a smile. It must evoke a longing. The longing may be simply a nostalgia for someone or someplace gone or missed. Better, it should be a longing for something I'm returning to: something, someplace, some One who remains in some indefinable "place" my soul recognizes as Home. When a song reminds me of that, it gets put on the requiem list.

Here then, in no particular order, and with no further explanation, is my Requiem Mass:

"God Only Knows" - The Beach Boys

"Sleepless Night" - Fernando Ortega

"The Long and Winding Road" - The Beatles

"The Swan" - Jean Sibelius

"Hamburg Song" - Keane

"God is Not Sleeping" - Mavis Staples

"I Am a Pilgrim" - Duncan Sheik

"The Whole of the Moon" - The Waterboys

"Wonderful World" - Louie Armstrong

"Shame" - Fernando Ortega

"Joshua Fit the Battle" - Elvis Presley

"The Letter" - Macy Gray

"Give Me Jesus" - Fernando Ortega

"Away Down the River" - Alison Krauss

"Isn't It Love" - Andrew Peterson

"But as for me, I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shalt stand at the latter day upon the earth. And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God: whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not another." -Job 19:25

Dads. Real and Otherwise

noreply@blogger.com (Thea Slatton) — Mon, 21 Jun 2010 14:37:00 +0000

My mom was raised by a Marine.

Bob wasn't her "real" dad, but he was as real a dad as my Mom could hope for. Her biological father had abandoned her before she was born; she would not meet him until she was grown with children of her own. As a child, she remembers a man coming to take her older brother to the movies and to the amusement park, a man her brother called their dad although this man never looked at her twice, never brought her gifts, or even spoke to her. She thought he looked a lot like "Slipper McGee" in the movies, Or maybe Jimmy Cagney. But he was as aloof a figure to her as the actors he resembled.

Mom's "step" dad arrived in her life when she was three. Three months later, he had shipped off with the Marines to Europe.

Like many during the years of WWII, my mom and her mom were movie-goers. Back then, pre-TV, radio was king and movies offered short reels of news, sports and celebrity highlights before showing their feature films. For a nickle or a dime, you could spend an entire day in air-conditioned comfort, watching the stars of Hollywood. My mom recalls once when she and her mom watched one of these newsreels. This one showed the storming of the beaches at Normandy during Operation Overlord. Her mother explained that her dad was one of those men jumping from the boats and running toward the bombs and bullets. He was a soldier. He had a helmet and a rifle and he was winning a war.

And he had his picture in her pocket.

Somewhere in my mother's young mind, her new dad became confused with the leading actor in the featured movie that followed the newsreel. She recalls being a bit amazed that her mother showed no spark of jealousy when he kissed the lead actress in the film. You can't blame her. Even today we can find ourselves confused by an on-screen reality that looms somehow larger than our own lives.

Bob returned home from the war in 1945. He was a steady provider and a constant presence in her life, unlike her "real" dad. Life wasn't perfect for Mom. There was illness and alcohol and hard work, as there so often is even in the best families. But she knew that she was loved and she knew that she mattered. And she knew her dad was proud of her.

Because on that day, far away at a beach at Normandy, my mother's dad really did have her picture in his pocket.

The image attached is my grandfather, Bob Baker, looking out over an historic Houston from a balcony of the Lamar Hotel where he worked for many years.

Murder is Easy - Agatha Christie

noreply@blogger.com (Thea Slatton) — Mon, 21 Jun 2010 14:37:00 +0000

Murder is apparently so easy some people make a career of it. What DO the people in Christie's books do for a living? They're all, apparently, independently wealthy and none the better for it. I'd tried to read this one years before but had to return it to the library before finishing it. It was worth the wait. A frighteningly high body count, though, wasn't it? At least for Christie? Seems like this should have been some kind of record for an English "cozy." Caught the TV version the other night and thought they did a pretty good job of it.

Groucho Marx, Master Detective - Ron Goulart

noreply@blogger.com (Thea Slatton) — Mon, 21 Jun 2010 14:34:00 +0000

"Let's see you be funny with THESE boys," said the Herald Examiner reporter disdainfully.

"If you want to see that, you'll have to buy a ticket," said Groucho.

This is enjoyable little tale by Ron Goulart stars Groucho as himself, most of the time, barring a few side runs as his cigar wraggling alter-ego and even a brief stint, in full regalia, as his brother Harpo. For his crime-fighting efforts solving the murder of a Hollywood starlet, Groucho enlists a radio-show hack and a cartoonist. With his determined side-kicks, Groucho takes on crooked cops and movie moguls and manages to not make it all read like some bad cliche. We get only very brief historical references, placing us in the reality of the time without reading like a travelogue. There is some name-dropping, period style, and we get little run-ins with the likes of John Garfield, but nothing is over-done and it all manages to keep the story rolling along without stretching credulity. Of course, there are smatterings of Groucho's comedic patter, although there is never enough of that to satisfy my Groucho-fixation, but what there is is very welcome and quite in character:

"Is this the face that launched a thousand ships? Not to mention three dirigibles, a tuna barge and a garbage scow?" Groucho stroked his chin. "Next time, I'll tell them to use a champagne bottle."

As an avid movie-buff, I enjoyed the book enough to give it four stars. It's the first in a very short series and I hope to stumble across the rest of the series during my book scroungings.

Thank You for the Flowers - Scott Nicholson

noreply@blogger.com (Thea Slatton) — Mon, 21 Jun 2010 14:31:00 +0000

I'm not a horror fan, per se. Sure, I've read my share of Stephen King but then I'm not altogether sure that most of his bibliography actually qualifies as horror. But that's a subject for another post. Anyhoo. I've not read Scott Nicholson's other books, but I'll definitely keep an eye out for them. This one is a collection of short stories and a very satisfying read. The stories are quiet and unassuming on the surface but they sink behind your eyelids and deftly work their way into your imagination. And stick there.

There's no artifice or manipulation in the writing and when you read as much as I do, that's my idea of high praise for an author. The tales are off the beaten track: a Little League team with a vampire shortstop; a serial killer who keeps a late-night deejay on her speed dial; a drought ended by a young girl's tears; a high school girl who has a crush on her best friend's guy -- and so does her best friend's ghost.

The stories will not cause a rift in the tectonic plates, but the characters will make themselves at home in your memory and keep you in good company for a while. And isn't that what good characters are supposed to do?

Oscar's Sunday

noreply@blogger.com (Thea Slatton) — Mon, 21 Jun 2010 12:40:00 +0000

Oscar's been quieter than usual. He's still missing his dear friend Kissie and has been as lost without her as we have. But he did seem to enjoy his first Father's Day with us. Number One Son came by for a visit and brought lots of fresh farm goodies for the humans and lots of belly rubs for Oscar. Oscar has met Number One Son several times and really likes him. Hey, what's not to like? He's my brother!

Before Number One Son arrived, Oscar decided we needed goodies to serve, so he donned his special seat belt harness and ordered me to drive straight to the donut shop. He rides in the back because the car has airbags in the front, but he doesn't mind. We went through the drive-thru because the stores are prejudiced against four-legged folk (bad store people!) and it is just too hot to leave him in the car for even a minute, God knows. Anyway, when he was satisfied the donut lady had filled our order correctly, he tipped her with a wag of his tail, (what a gent!) and then away we went back to the house.

Once Harry, aka Number One Son, had left, Oscar then found himself in the bathtub. He was not happy about that, but patiently bore with me until he was shampooed, conditioned, re-conditioned, blow-dried and brushed back to his usual state of Joe Cool good looks. This is a picture of him after his re-release into the wild, sulking on his favorite rug. He didn't sulk long, though. Just enough to remind us that he should have more say in these matters. Then it was off for a romp with Number One Dad and his squeaky orange orangutan toy...

Mapquesting the Garden Path

noreply@blogger.com (Thea Slatton) — Fri, 18 Jun 2010 14:06:00 +0000

I have a little program on my Droid that is a combination of word, quote and joke of the day kind of thing. This morning's quote was from Oprah Winfrey: "The whole point of being alive is to evolve into the complete person you were intended to be." I thought, yep, sounds good and moved on with my work. But the theology buff in me, just wouldn't let it be and so here I am getting a nit pick off my chest.

Bottom line, I agree with the quote, but with a BIG caveat: the Westminster Catechism declares that man's chief end (Ms. O's "whole point of being alive") is to glorify God, and to enjoy Him for ever. Being the staunch Protestant that I am, I agree with the Westminster Assembly of 1647's statement because it is fully backed by scripture: Ps 86:9; Isa 60:21; Rom 11:36; I Cor 6:20; 10:31; Rev 4:11, Ps 16:5-11; 144:15; Isa 12:2; Luke 2:10; Phil 4:4; Rev 21:3-4.

So, yes, Ms. Winfrey, I agree, as long as you agree that this completion entails glorifying and enjoying God forever.

Sorry to nit pick, and ::gasp!:: appear to disagree with the O. But it's just one of those little theological points that irritates me from time to time. I refuse swallow sound bites hook line and sinker any more. I've had a gut full of them lately and before I get lead down any more garden paths, I intend to Google and Mapquest those puppies. Yesterday I heard Bette Midler's song "From a Distance" again and had a similar reaction. Despite the pretty lyrics and all the violins, God ISN'T watching us from a distance. He's closer than our next breath. And considering what mankind looks like some days from ANY distance, I'm glad God is close at hand...

I love you, Kissie Bear

noreply@blogger.com (Thea Slatton) — Mon, 14 Jun 2010 15:43:00 +0000

My little dog died today after 14 loving years of friendship. She filled an enormous void in our lives and leaves a great gaping hole now that she is gone. I had originally named her Champagne because of her color, but my Dad named her for my sister's teddy bear. She looked a great deal like that little bear when she was a wee puppy and so the name felt just right. Like my sister, Kissie was never quite well, having knee problems and frequent stomach problems, but she tried hard to keep up, she loved us and was a comfort to us through good times and bad. She had an independent streak a mile wide, but always included us in her days. She will be greatly missed now that she's returned to the God who loaned her to us. Thank you, Father. Please tell her we love her still.

Lorene

noreply@blogger.com (Thea Slatton) — Wed, 10 Feb 2010 15:43:00 +0000

My Aunt Lorene has been diagnosed with Alzheimers and her daughter is her primary caregiver. Recently, her daughter wanted to attend a family party, and I had the wonderful opportunity to stay with Lorene for the evening. Although she has always been one of my favorite aunts, I hadn't seen Lorene in quite a while and I was afraid she wouldn't remember me. I don't believe she did remember me at first, although I could tell she was trying. Later in the evening though, she looked me straight in the eye and said quite clearly: "I remember you. I do. I remember your laugh."

Lorene has been my favorite aunt since childhood because she invariably made me feel good about myself. She and Uncle Frank always treated me like I could be anyone and do anything I wanted. And that I should dream big. My parents tried to teach me the same things, but I grew up in a house filled with illness and my parents had literal hell and an hourly fight on their hands to keep my sister alive, let alone thriving, let alone keeping the household, myself and my brother running like a fine clock. And, honestly, sometimes you just have to hear things like "you're wonderful" from people other than your parents for it to finally reach you. I mean, you kinda figure that your parents HAVE to lie to you like that, right? Anyway, my Aunt Lorene and Uncle Frank were my parents' Greek chorus: repeating the message my parents tried to send us kids in between therapy and medications and mowing the lawn.

The fact that my aunt remembers, of all things, my laugh, humbles me. And says, I believe much more about the depths of wisdom in her heart than much else could.

Take that, Alzheimers.

Favorite Lyric: Rusty Cage by Chris Cornell

noreply@blogger.com (Thea Slatton) — Sun, 24 Jan 2010 18:26:00 +0000

Great song from Soundgarden, covered by Johnny Cash, among others:

You wired me awake
And hit me with a hand of broken nails
You tied my lead and pulled my chain
To watch my blood begin to boil

But I'm gonna break
I'm gonna break my
I'm gonna break my rusty cage and run

Too cold to start a fire
I'm burning diesel, burning dinosaur bones
I'll take the river down to still water
And ride a pack of dogs

I'm gonna break
I'm gonna break my
I'm gonna break my rusty cage and run

Hits like a Phillips head Into my brain
It's gonna be too dark
To sleep again Cutting my teeth on bars
And rusty chains,
I'm gonna break my Rusty cage and run

When the forest burns
Along the road Like God's eyes In my headlights
When the dogs are looking
For their bones
And it's raining icepicks
On your steel shore

I'm gonna break
I'm gonna break my
I'm gonna break my rusty cage and run

The Read-'Em-If-You've-Got-'Em Reading Challenge: The Who Version

noreply@blogger.com (Thea Slatton) — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 03:17:00 +0000

I'm not a bibliophile, although you wouldn't know it from my shelves. I'm a reader, and one of the results is I have lots of books. I've been gradually making the transition to electronic books, but it's slow-going when you've accumulated the number of physical books I have. Of course, when you have a lot of books, you tend to get creative with the storage: storing books behind books, stuffing end-tables, the reader's version of feathering the nest, as it were. Anyway, I took a restock of my hide-away bookshelves and realized that, through the course of a decade, I have accumulated some 144 Doctor Who novels. Well, to be exact, 144 hard-back and paper-back novels -- otherwise known as Dead Tree (aka DT) books. I bought these things, even paying outrageous shipping costs to have a good number of them airlifted from Britain, because I sincerely wanted to read them.

Reality check: I've read exactly five of these novels in the past five years.

How sad. I still want to read them. I'm a fan in good standing for several decades -- the Who franchise, after all, is almost as old as I am. I was two when the series first aired and even though it took a while for PBS to air it in the states, Who hit the US during my so-called formative years and I feel the good Doctor and I have grown up together. It's a kind of comfort food for the mind, I suppose. And now, the powers-that-be in the BBC are releasing the New Who series of books for the Kindle -- no shipping fees! -- and I'm anxious to read them, too.

But the reality is, I really need to get a handle on the Dead Tree situation in my house. It's off the chain between the books I've read and love and keep, and the books I've yet to read. So, here's my new challenge and a reading resolution for 2010: read fully half of the DT Who novels I already have. That will be 70 books to be devoured this year, just from the Whovian division. I'll squeeze in some other stuff, of course. I'm a Gemini, after all, and I have to satisfy the other twin, the one that's all serious and stuff. It'll be an interesting challenge and I'm looking forward to it. So, if any Whocentric reviews or notes show up on the blog, you'll be forewarned. Feel free to shake your head and pass on by. I'll be busy reading when/if you get back.

Happy birthday, CJ

noreply@blogger.com (Thea Slatton) — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 22:18:00 +0000

I miss you, doll. Oh, and Happy birthday, Dr. Dan!

Rex Stout: Not Quite Dead Enough and Booby Trap

noreply@blogger.com (Thea Slatton) — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 11:30:00 +0000

Rex Stout: Not Quite Dead Enough and Booby Trap: Two Nero Wolfe Mysteries is, as the title suggests, two short mysteries under one cover. Both feature Archie Goodwin in uniform. ::flutter:: Neither tale was up to Wolfe's usual standards. Both were too short to get a real feel for, but there were some laugh-out-loud moments and I thought each was certainly worth the bit of time it took to read them. Recommended as a quick pick-me-up.

In an unrelated note, I had a customer name come across my desk today: Rex Wolfe. I do believe someone's parental units were fans...

DNF: E X Ferrars: Skeleton in Search of a Closet

noreply@blogger.com (Thea Slatton) — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 11:20:00 +0000

I stumbled across this one and loved the title. I just didn't bother past chapter one, thus the DNF (Did Not Finish). I don't normally review my DNF's, but I just wanted to say that there was nothing wrong with this book really, it's just not my cuppa. About the fourth time I was having to read a description of how someone took off their coat and where it was put and what someone was dressed in -- in detail-- and it apparently had nothing to do with what was going on, I gave up. I mean, hey, I get up in the morning, take my shower, brush my teeth, put on undies, pants, top, my watch, brush my hair... but I don't think anyone should be bored to tears with that kind of detail. I got up and went to work. I assume you understand I did all the usual stuff it takes to get to that point. I have a peeve about that kind of writing. Can't help it. Won't change it. Sorry. If you've got a story to tell, get to it already. Life is short and my TBR (To Be Read) pile is endless.

Shirley Jackson: We Have Always Lived in the Castle

noreply@blogger.com (Thea Slatton) — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 11:06:00 +0000

We Have Always Lived in the Castle has been on my TBR list since I was in my late teens, back when pterodactyl ruled the not-so-friendly skies. If you've not read it, I can only say: do so. It's not a mystery per-se but it sure feels like one. There's not much I can say about it which will not spoil it majorly other than the simple cover story: a family is wiped out by poison, leaving only two daughters, and an uncle who managed to survive the poisoning but only just. After saying that, it may sound strange to say it is a delightful book, but it is. Delightful and disturbing and certainly something that will linger in your head for a long, long time. I really like dear little Merricat when she decries the need to leave her home for "the simple need for books and food" -- in that order. I can so relate to that. WHALINC was worth the wait. I wish I'd gotten hold of it sooner.

Agatha Christie: By the Pricking of My Thumbs

noreply@blogger.com (Thea Slatton) — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 11:01:00 +0000

Wow, another Christie detective duo I'd not been aware of: Tommy and Tuppance. Have I been living on the moon, or what? I like Tommy and Tuppance much better than Frankie and Freddie, but that could have something to do with my age. Tommy and Tuppance just felt as though they had more substance, and certainly they have more life experience. By the Pricking of My Thumbs is quite a bit darker than Why Didn't They Ask Evans? What starts as a suspected elder abduction twists into a cold case of child murder. A case someone wants very much to remain cold. Christie twists the plot into multiple layers and doesn't hold back on the wit or charm to temper the horror. It's quite a good read. I'm looking forward to reading more of Tommy and Tuppance.