Weird News Roundup


Meet Nick and Nora, resident buzzards. They're now roosting in my backyard. I hope they weren't led here by anticipation of a good meal...


This image popped up as I snapping away trying to get a good shot of Nick and Nora in flight. Yes, it's blurred, and the exposure and shutter settings are all wrong -- but look at the tree trunk on the right side. Doesn't that look like a monstrous spectral eye, looking back at you?

It isn't, of course. That trunk belongs to the cherry tree not 30 feet from where I sit. It's not haunted, or hexed, or even spooky. It's just a bad photo, which produced a weird image.

Scouring Google Earth and the like for bizarre images is a hobby for many. Not for me, because I'm too lazy to sift through tens of thousands of entries hoping to find that one picture that is truly unusual, but thankfully not everyone is as slothful as I. Case in point -- the so-called 'Antarctic Nessie' video you can see for yourself below:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YkwwJ3QepiM&feature=youtu.be

I'm not saying it is a frozen sea creature. Without any indication of scale, it could be fifty feet long or five thousand; we just don't know. But it is interesting, in a 'hey look at that guy he's really too exhausted to blog today' way.

Next up, there's a sea serpent video you may or may not have seen. It's relatively clear, as these things go, and it honestly does look like the creature's head emerges ahead of the body. But see for yourself!

http://dsc.discovery.com/tv-shows/other-shows/videos/alaskan-monster-hunt-sea-monster-witness.htm

Here's some decent underwater video of a Swedish lake monster, with English translation, because without the translation most of us won't have any idea what the Swedish lake monster is saying (it's singing the old ABBA tune Waterloo,fiy).

http://www.cryptomundo.com/cryptozoo-news/blobbogey-vide/

Sea monsters aside, this Bigfoot video answers the age-old question of whether Bigfoot prefers boots or sandals.  Watch the feet as they leave the water. Seriously, people, if you're going to fake a video TAKE OFF YOUR FREAKING GALOSHES.

http://www.cryptomundo.com/bigfoot-report/mount-beacon-bigfoot/

And now to UFOs. This story is out of Quincy, Massachusetts, and it's ongoing. An unidentified aircraft has been doing low-and-slow flyovers of the city for days now, and while the FAA admits it's there and they know it's there they won't say who is flying it or why. The FAA was quick to point out it wasn't a drone, though. Because having a spy plane filled with actual spies is a lot less scary than a robot drone?

Here's the full story:

http://www.realufos.net/

Ghosts? You bet! Here's a new ghost video that's caused some stir. Story with video...

http://metro.co.uk/2013/02/19/ghost-caught-on-cctv-at-haunted-community-centre-in-south-ruislip-3503584/

Scariest ghost images of 2013? Meh. Most seem to me to be explainable. Judge for yourself.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=hfeRCEFchqo#!

Okay, this is a prank and it doesn't pretend to be real -- but it is funny. Done by a Brazilian TV show, about a little girl ghost in a malfunctioning elevator...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7N5OhNplEd4

Finally, the best sketch from SNL's Kristin Wiig host gig last night. Mom's a Korean Water Ghost!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D_ssWzqc62g

Have a good week, people!



Our Stupid Bodies: Frank's Tips on Wellness and Healthy Living

It's been a bad week.

I sat in front of this bloody monitor for hours today, trying to be funny, to be informative, to be sarcastic or caustic or anything but angry or maudlin. But the empty spot on the floor where Thor ought to be isn't going away, and the only words I'm inclined to write are words best left unpublished.

So, tonight we're going to do a rerun. Here's my (in)famous blog on wellness and general good health. Enjoy. I'll be back soon with new material.

(From 05/2013)

Your body is either a wondrous living engine powered by a spark of the divine or a ludicrous assemblage of evolutionary short-cuts, depending on your point of view.

Having seen myself naked (police video enhancement techniques have shown a marked improvement in recent months), I know where I stand on the whole wondrous construction / meat-based Rube Goldberg contraption controversy.

An injury to my back last week left me thinking about the fleeting and fragile notion of health. Since the injury also left me in a crumpled heap on the floor, I had plenty of time to ponder my attitudes toward wellness in between bouts of cursing and attempts to raise myself by climbing a nearby window-frame.

So, with a renewed appreciation for the simple things I took for granted -- walking, standing, crouching to hide from store detectives, lifting liquor bottles or barrels filled with deep-fried hamburgers -- I'd like to offer a few thoughts on our bodies, and how to keep them healthy.

Your body is a biological machine, powered by food and air, which will give you many years of trouble-free use if you perform regular maintenance, especially routine oil changes. Wait. I got my body mixed up with my riding lawn mower. Let me start over.

Your body is a wildly inefficient hodge-podge of finicky, unreliable chemical processes and damage-prone tissue structures. Even with the best of luck, it's going to start failing faster than a Russian-built sports car after forty years, and probably well before that.

Let's take a look at the major structures and systems that make up the human body:

Might as well pick out a plot....
1) THE SKELETAL SYSTEM. Beneath your skin is an appalling volume of gooey wet stuff.  Hidden inside this gelatinous mass of goo are your bones. Each bone connects to another via muscles, tendons, ligaments, and cleverly-hidden wires. This complex arrangement of jointed bones and opposing muscles allows you to wave awkwardly at strangers who you thought waved to you, but were in fact waving at their friend behind you. Too, whereas the lowly ant can only lift a mass fifty times its own body weight, your skeletal system grants you the ability to beg for help opening a jar of mayonnaise. Maybe that stranger has a stronger grip than you do, from all that bloody waving.

The most common skeletal problem is that of having to endure a skeleton in the first place. Face it, used  skeletons wind up wired in humorous poses by bored medical students or spend decades popping out of doors in carnival spook-houses, and even then the things are prone to make a lot of clattering noises and require frequent repairs. Many commercial and medical establishments have switched to sturdy plastic skeletons these days, which is a move you should check into as well.

The human brain.
2) THE NERVOUS SYSTEM. Your nervous system conveys the brain's instructions to your muscles via a series of nerves. Given the poorly thought-out nature of most of your brain's instructions, this crude and error-prone delivery system is probably a blessing in disguise, since it gives you time to reconsider flipping off the burly, tattooed Neanderthal who just bumped you in a checkout line.

Humans share virtually all of their nervous system chemistry and neurobiology with the graceful soaring hawk and the surefooted mountain goat, but you'd never suspect that after watching the average person put on a drunken rendition of the 'Mashed Potato' dance at a karaoke bar. Honestly, half the population is likely to suffer minor injury just playing 'Rock, Paper, Scissors' and the other half couldn't walk across a foot-wide plank without falling if their lives depended on it.

Nerves are composed of neurons, glial cells, and quite a number of other microscopic structures which are wasting their time and effort on a species that still hasn't quite mastered the rhythmic finger-snap.

3) THE DIGESTIVE SYSTEM. Your body requires proper nutrition to function at its best. A quick appraisal of your body's so-called 'best' clearly explains the shelves lined with Cheetos and the presence of a McDonalds drive-thru every sixty feet in the developed West.

You can spend forty years nibbling on nothing but free-ranch kelp and gluten-free naturally-occurring whole-grain tofu and still wind up diagnosed with the exact same terminal diseases as the 400-pound trucker who has eaten nothing but tobacco-soaked gas station burritos since 1987.

Still, you might improve your odds a tiny bit if you maintain a body that conforms to the following simple formula:

Height > Maximum girth.

Thus, if your waist measurement is six feet, remember to maintain a height of AT LEAST six feet. Seven would be better. Eight is just showing off.

Choose a height and stick with it. Your digestive system will seek to undermine your efforts at every turn, but  if you can ignore the aching constant hunger and nearly-irresistible urges to consume the entire Sarah Lee display in a single sitting, you can at least maintain a healthy weight. This ensures your last words can be smug ones.

A healthy heart is a bloated misshapen heart!
4) THE CARDIOPULMONARY SYSTEM. Your heart and lungs comprise your cardiopulmonary system. The hearts pumps the blood, which passes through the lungs. In the lungs, the blood releases carbon dioxide, absorbs oxygen, and craves tobacco just like it's done day after tiresome day since Prince released his breakout '1999' album.

Much ado is made by physicians and the media concerning blood pressure and the importance of keeping one's blood pressure within certain clear limits.

Regardless of your age, general health, or activity level, doctors have determined that your blood pressure is well beyond both the upper and lower safe limits and you will soon expire unless you:
  • Switch to a healthy diet by removing all food from your diet.
  • Pester harried waiters with demands that your tablecloth and silverware be certified gluten-free.
  • Lecture everyone you know about the benefits of a Vegan lifestyle.
  • Reduce your body mass by no less than 67% between now and the next celebration of Earth Day.
  • Stop using bacon as both dental floss and chewing gum.
By taking care of your heart, you will ensure that Cyborg Dick Cheney has a steady supply of cardiac tissue for at least the next half-century.

Fig. 3, the anterior brachiostatic excretory array. Eww.
5) THE BRACHIOSTATIC - ARTERIOPEDIOTIC SYSTEM. All the squishy things not covered by topics 1 through 4 above. Feet, nose hair follicles, ear wax glands, etc. Basically, all the squirming bits of this and ropy parts of that which ancient Egyptian mummy-makers hurriedly sealed up in jars. Because, yuck.

If something goes wrong here -- and it will -- odds are you'll first learn of it in that brief moment between floating above your motionless body and being pulled into The Light. Early symptoms of a sudden demise from brachiostatic complications include itching, sneezing, feelings of calm or well-being, anxiety, hunger, thirst, any sensations of fullness, sounds or vocalizations from the mouth, blinking, yawning, skin, or regular bouts with sleep.

There is a way to keep your complex brachiostatic system in perfect function by consuming a half teaspoon of a certain Greek plant pollen per day, but this same pollen causes rapid, irreversible heart failure. Who says Nature doesn't have a sense of humor?

Really, the best you can do is keep those toenails trimmed so the morgue attendants won't snicker and post awful pics on Instagram.

HEALTH CONCERNS: AGING

From the moment you are born, your body begins to renew itself.

Sadly, your body is no better at this renewal business than it is at regenerating limbs or developing acute night vision. Now, if you cut a starfish in two pieces, each piece will heal and become a really pissed-off starfish, and no one will ever leave you alone with their pets or small children.

But cut off the tip of your pinky finger, and aside from profuse bleeding all that happens is a rapid realization that your Blue Cross insurance coverage is woefully inadequate.

Aging is merely a slow-motion fatal car crash into a rather solid stone wall. You are placed in the doomed car at birth, the doors are locked tight, and the steering wheel and brakes don't work. But take heart; each year, advances in medical science bring us closer to a truly lifelike embalming process.

We really, REALLY mean it this year.
HEALTH CONCERNS: DISEASE PREVENTION

Not a flu season passes without dire warnings from the CDC that the current strain of bird flu will wipe all of humanity from the tortured face of the soon-to-be-barren Earth. We are bombarded with media instructions to get flu shots, wear breath masks, and refrain from huffing the missing CDC canisters of experimental bird flu viruses.

This year will be no different, and the outcome will be the same. The worldwide death toll from the latest incurable superflu will be dwarfed by the sum total of all Nerf-related injury deaths suffered while riding atop a rhinoceros at noon on Arbor Day. If this is pointed out, CDC spokesmen will mutter under their breath and hint that next year the Great Unwashed are really gonna get trashed.

The only way to prevent disease is by avoiding childbirth, especially your own. Once you're here, disease is both inevitable and a vital component of our thriving Health Care and Mortuary industries.

You've got to really *feel* the burn.
HEALTH CONCERNS: EXERCISE

Use it or lose it, they say. They also say five times five is thirty-six and London is the capital of China, so listening to them is a complete waste of time.

Another complete waste of time is exercise. You can run, you can lift weights, you can practice Yoga every hour of every day for your entire life, but your body will still direct its energies toward devising ways to undermine your efforts. If you run, you will ruin your knees. If you lift weights, you will tear things with cryptic names such as the 'ACLU' or the 'Isles of Langerhams.'

You may forestall this inevitable decay by injecting steroids directly into your muscles, which will make you  stronger, faster, and easily capable of swinging that blood-soaked claw hammer for hours on end while a SWAT team peppers you with rubber bullets.

An alternative to this is low impact aerobic exercise, which consists of rapid-fire channel surfing while seated at an athletic and unyielding 46 degree angle. Additional motion may be added to the workout session by incorporating the chip-dip arm action, or by walking briskly to the refrigerator at regular intervals for another Coors Lite.

Marathons, triathlons, paragons, pentagons, and the Running of the Bulls are best left to the obsessive-compulsive, the rabidly insane, and the Spanish.

Grab your ankles, sailor.

HEALTH CONCERNS: YOUR DOCTOR - PATIENT RELATIONSHIP

Finding a competent, caring physician is an important step in maintaining wellness and a healthy lifestyle. However, you could achieve the same results by engaging in a quest for solid physical evidence of Bigfoot. In fact, that's altogether the better idea.

The modern physician left medical school only to find him or her self buried under a veritable mountain of debt. The only way to ever hope to pay it off is to run patients through their practices at speeds normally reserved for slaughterhouse cattle-chutes. Pharmaceutical reps help out by pushing thousands of pills and saving the poor beleaguered doctor the time of actually listening to his patients, who are by nature a whiny complaining lot anyway.

The modern doctor-patient relationship works like this -- you, the patient, are presented with a bill. You pay the bill. If the bleeding resumes return for another rapid-fire office visit, receive another bill, and this time, a blue pill.

Repeat until wellness or a body temperature equaling that of the ambient air is achieved.

It's just not that hard, people.

The spiders tell me to dance!
HEALTH CONCERNS: MENTAL AND SPIRITUAL HEALTH

Many mental health care providers recommend quiet introspection and frequent self-examination as part of a health-conscious lifestyle. These health care providers recommend these practices because that BMW 328i with the 36 speaker Bose sound system and the heated leather seats isn't going to pay for itself, and the usual reaction to any interval of honest self-appraisal is panic followed by weekends in Vegas spent mainlining pure grain alcohol.

An important first step to achieving true mental health is learning to distinguish between the voices of friends and family, the voice of Grolog, Dark Lord of the Underworld, and the voice of Mark, who will be your server for this evening. Honestly, if you can refuse to loan your cousin Theo money, ignore Grolog's suggestions that you emulate the dietary practices of Hannibal Lecter, and convey to Mark your wishes for iced tea, the turkey club, and a side of spicy fries, then you're already in better shape than 75% of the other diners in Chili's.

Spiritual health is best achieved by waiting to become a disembodied spirit yourself, and if you keep ordering the spicy fries, you won't be waiting long, Mr. Unchecked Hypertension.

I intended to end this section on health and wellness with an audio recording of the noises my back now makes when I stand, but the FCC stepped in and I'll either have to skip that altogether or move to and post from Singapore, where the rules are more relaxed.

BIG NEWS

BIG NEWS

BIG NEWS

Aside from a brief mention by Robert Stack in a 1988 episode of Unsolved Mysteries, I don't get a lot of media attention. Writers usually don't, since we spend most of our time scowling at monitors or staring off into space until our tires skid off the pavement.

Nevertheless, the University of Mississippi Department of Media and Documentary Projects just released a short (18 minutes and change) film which chronicles my writing and my brief stint as a costumed crime-fighter. Most of the costumed crime-fighter bits were removed, because the FCC also had concerns about me appearing in Spandex after mass suicides among the first test audience, but the writing parts are pretty cool. You get to see my underground lair, my ferocious pack of mutant wolverines, and of course sharks with frickin' lasers in their heads.

The film is free, there are no logins or signons, and popcorn is provided by the ghost of Orville Redenbacher himself. Sure, it's ghost popcorn, but give it a try!

So settle back into your chair, click the link below, and prepare to mock my outrageous Southern accent.

I Have To Write

I'd like to offer a big thanks to Media and Documentary Projects, and of course to the film's creator, director, editor, and all-around architect, Karen Tuttle.

That's it for this week, folks. Take care of yourselves, eat a few vegetables, and remember not to age.


In Which I Do Terrible Things to My Back

I suppose everyone has that one nook or hidden cranny (hey, get your mind out of the gutter, I'm talking about spaces within one's home) which they use as what I shall charitably call an unorganized free-form storage space.

I had one. Here in my study. The study is an A-frame cabin style structure, which my Dad and I built by hand back in the early 1990s. The loft area, which is sized for Hobbits, has three-foot knee walls, and in the southwest corner there is a tiny closet.

In this diminutive closet, chaos reigned. I must confess I simply stacked things in it, usually with my eyes closed and always before hurrying away. It was a mess.

But no longer! I went in today, armed with three stalwart Sherpas, a vintage 1944 Sherman tank, two flamethrowers, the USS Strident, and a towel.

We lost the Strident in a pitched battle with a stack of old Writer's Market books, and one of the Sherpas fled after witnessing a dust bunny achieve sentience, but at the end of the day, the space was cleared.

The bad news is that I did something awful to my lower back. There was a prehistoric Sony CRT, you see, and there were stairs. I won't go into the details any more than that. The CRT, which still works and occupies a volume slightly less than a Buick, is now at the end of our driveway bearing a sign which reads WORKS, FREE. I'm hoping someone out there takes it home because frankly I can't bend over anymore.

The good news is that I unearthed my valiant Smith-Corona PWP 5.


I'm not entirely sure when I bought this machine. I believe it was 1984. I do know that I bought it because PCs were, at that time, both enormously expensive and basically incapable of doing anything other that waiting for the late 1990s to arrive. Seriously, a computer capable of doing even rudimentary word processing in 1984 was the approximate size of a dorm refrigerator, and almost as effective as a dorm refrigerator at doing word processing. What? You want to <gasp> cut and paste? Move a sentence?

Wait a few years, future boy. In the meantime, dial into AOL and enjoy some 8-bit graphics.

I couldn't afford a PC anyway. So I went with the Smith Corona PWP-5 instead, and that's when I started writing in earnest.

Marvel at the PWP's awe-inspiring seven-line LCD display! It could do global word replace. It could print -- one sheet at a time, fed and removed by hand. It could store manuscripts on disc. One disc could hold nearly 100 pages of double-spaced text!

Man, I was in technological heaven.

I wrote a lot of stories on that tough old machine. Wrote them, printed them out one page at a time, and then mailed them via the United States Postal Service, because this 'e-mail' of which you speak hadn't even hit Star Trek yet.

There is an old homily which states that every writer has a million bad words they must write before they get to the good ones inside them.

If that is true, then this poor machine endured my million bad words.

Speaking of bad words, on top of the PWP-5 there was a box.

Inside this box, dwelt horror.

I speak of the last surviving manuscript of my first complete novel. I thought I'd burned all the copies, but this one survived.


DO NOT LOOK TOO CLOSELY UPON IT. You know that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark when the Nazis open the Ark? Remember that guy's face melting?

This manuscript was in the Ark. 

Yeah. It's that bad. All 314 unrelentingly bad pages of it. Each of which was printed out over the course of a weekend in 1985, page by appalling page.

Thinking back to that weekend, I realize now a small part of me knew just how bad this book (its title may not be spoken aloud, nor may its cover page be shown) was.

I was young. Young and inexperienced. I sent this thing out, thus exposing unsuspecting tens of slush readers to near-certain doom.

I apologize to any survivors.

I'm going to keep the PWP downstairs now, to remind me how easy I have it now with my monstrous 4-core dual-monitor rig and my snazzy Word 2010.

The Manuscript Which Cannot Be Named will be sealed in a lead box, encased in concrete, and put in a deep underground vault which is quickly filled with tons of molten lava. A stainless steel placard on the surface will warn the people of the far future away from the site with prominent displays of dangling participles and graphic examples of adverb overuse.

I'm still amazed my valiant PWP-5 didn't just run away about the time MTV first aired.

A few more random pics, and we'll dispense with history.


Meet Big Blue. Big Blue is my ten-inch Dobsonian reflector telescope. I mention her because she weights a combined 90 pounds (scope and stand) and it appears I will never lift that kind of weight again.

I built Big Blue six or eight years ago in a fit of telescope mania. It took months, because even a Dobs needs to be a precision instrument and that takes time.

Does she work?

Yep. The first thing we saw with her was the Orion Nebula, and it was beautiful.

That was years ago, and I haven't hauled her outside since. Why?

I'm lazy.

Last pic!


A couple of cool things unearthed in the Great Closet Assault of 2013 wound up on my shelf. Specifically, the dowsing rods around the central steampunk gun.

They're cool rods, solid copper, hand-made by an expert dowser. I myself have absolutely no talent for dowsing (if in fact there is even such a thing). But they're well-made and I'm glad they're down where they can be appreciated.

If you're like me, and let's hope you're not, the first thing you asked yourself this morning was 'Self, where can I obtain and/or purchase a Mug-themed coffee mug, or other items or apparel related to the book All the Paths of Shadow?'

If you did make that query, well, as usual I'm here to help.

Drumroll, please, as I announce the grand opening of.....

Meralda's Magical Merchandise!




Want a Mug mug? We can hook you up! Prefer a tee shirt? Got that too!


Mousepads, posters, nightshirts, adult tees -- check out the store. If there's something you want that isn't there, let me know, and I'll ask Meralda to whip something up.

That's all for this week! I'm going to go lie down flat and hope the stabbing pains subside.

Stay safe out there, people!




This Week in Pictures

Welcome back!

I thought after the horrors of this week you might enjoy seeing something pretty. So let's begin with some photos I just took, out on the porch, of the azalea bushes we planted around our porch several years ago.


These azalea bushes have proven to be utterly indestructible. We do water them through the hot dry months of August and September, but other than that, they require no care. They bloomed out Tuesday or Wednesday, mostly white, although there are a few red flowers.


Here's what the whole east end bed looks like. I guess the red plants decided to bloom white:


While I was taking the pics, I noticed a bumblebee busily buzzing (see what I did there?) about, and I managed to coax him into posing:


He's probably still out there, bumbling away. I've always liked bumblebees. They've never tried to sting me, and I admire their work ethic. I don't share it, but I do admire it.


Next up, my current steampunk gun project. This one isn't quite finished, but here's what I have so far.


And the other side:


This is actually a cheap water gun, some PVC water pipe, a few odds and ends of wire, a couple of springs, three washers, and a bit of old hose.




A lot of you have probably seen this next item. It's one of my wands. Specifically, it's from Meralda's Royal Laboratory, marked 'Wand 116, Type II Non-Linear Discharge, Do Not Store Next To Type IV or Type VII.'



The image immediately above isn't blurry because I was too lazy to unfold the camera tripod. No. It's just impossible to take a clear photograph of a charged Lysson module without an aether compositor filter, and I lost mine in Moria.

It's springtime here in Mississippi, which means the snakes are shuffling off their winter coats and the frogs are getting the band back together. I was struck with how early the critters have emerged from their winter quarters this year, so when I found myself out on the patio while Fletcher took a midnight bathroom break I made a recording of the night sounds here. My Zoom H1 mic did a marvelous job of capturing the midnight cacaphony, and I'm pleased to share the recording with you now. It's short -- only a minute -- and best heard if you crank up the volume a bit. No, I didn't stick any loud noises at the end to scare you, because that's an old tired trick by now.

Give it a listen, it sounds like the jungle!

Midnight on the Patio

One night I hope to capture the local coyote pack in full-on howl mode. It will lift the hairs on the back of your neck, I promise you!

In writing news, well, I've been writing. The Five Faces is galloping along without a hitch, and at this rate I'll be done with it and deep into the new Meralda and Mug book All the Turns of Light very soon. Well before that, you'll see a short story penned by Mug himself right here in the blog; he's already pestering me to get it posted, as he's convinced Hollywood will trip over itself in its haste to make a movie of his 'undiscovered genius.'

I warned Meralda about getting Mug a Netflix subscription, but...

By the way, anyone interested in communicating directly with Meralda or Mug can do so on Facebook. All the Paths of Shadow has its own FB page, and both Mug and Meralda post there. So drop by and say hello -- Mug is always happy to talk. And talk. And talk...

I'll leave you tonight with a brief excerpt from The Five Faces.


 Darla met me at our door. She had flour on the tip of her nose and a revolver in her right hand.

“Welcome home,” she said, smiling. “I’ve baked us a pie!”

“Did you shoot it before or after you rolled the crust?” I kissed her. It happens sometimes.

“Before, silly,” she said. She wrinkled her nose. “You’ve been somewhere unsavory.”

“Duty demanded that I carouse and cavort on the docks,” I said. We made our way to the kitchen, where supper lay waiting on the stove and a peach pie baked in the oven. “This is the earthy aroma of the noble working man.”

“I can’t picture you cavorting,” she said. “Do you start off with your left foot, or your right?”

Tiny feet scampered across our roof.

The neighbors have squirrels. We have a banshee.

Darla’s smile died. “She’s been up there since dark.” She opened the oven and pulled out a tray of cookies. “I’ve been trying to coax her inside, but she won’t come.”

Buttercup, our resident banshee, is the size and shape of a pre-teen girl who hasn’t enjoyed many good meals. Darla’s fresh-baked sugar cookies are her favorite, and the mere scent of them usually brings her inside in a hurry.

I hugged Darla. Having a banshee walk the roof when your spouse is out working a case can’t be the best way to pass an evening at home.

“She’s probably just playing with her head-bone,” I said. “Anyway, look, I’m here, and all in one piece.”

The scampering on the roof stopped. Tiny bare feet ran into the kitchen, and skinny arms hugged my waist.

Banshees don’t bother with doors.

“Hello, Buttercup,” I said, tousling her ragged mop of golden hair. “Darla made you cookies.”

Buttercup squealed and leaped. Cookies began vanishing in a veritable hail of crumbs.

“That’s hot, honey,” said Darla. Buttercup snatched up another one and crammed it in her already-full mouth, grinning.

There might be things out there capable of injuring Buttercup.  Old magics. Powerful sorcerers. Eldritch spells. Hot cookies, though, aren’t on the list.

Darla began uncovering pans. I helped by getting in the way and received a playful slap on my hand when I dared grab one of Buttercup’s cookies.

Finally, we sat and ate. Darla fries a mean pork chop. We had corn and green beans and a big fat potato each. Buttercup finished off the cookies and then amused herself by playing peek-a-boo with the whispering skull she carries.

“Gertriss came by earlier,” said Darla, as she put down her fork.

You live with a woman long enough, you learn to recognize the subtle difference between a casual conversation and a conversation that only sounds casual but can veer off into the significant at any word.

“Let me guess.”

Darla laced her fingers together and rested her chin on them. “She said you left this morning looking for an awful man named Hurry-up Pete and returned in the employ of a pair of street kids who’ve lost their dog.”

“I believe in maintaining a diverse range of clientele.”

“So this wasn’t some elaborate prank you played on Mama Hog?”

“Nope. A man in a wide-brimmed hat who spoke with a strange accent cut the leash a little blind girl named Saffy was holding. The man took her dog Cornbread, and Saffy’s brother is going to work off the debt working in our yard this summer.”

Darla smiled. “And Hurry-up Pete?”

“I’ll tell the clients what I know. Refund half their advance. They’ll either find Hurry-up, or they won’t, but I’ll not be a part of it. Not this time. Not anymore.”

Silence, save for Buttercup’s unintelligible murmurings and her skull’s equally cryptic whispered replies.

“That’s why I love you,” said Darla, at last. She rose and came and kissed me.

Later, we ate that pie. Best damned pie I ever had.





Sidekick Sunday

Greetings, gentle readers!

Today sees the start of a new feature here on the blog. I'm going to call it Sidekick Sunday, so when you see those words in the title you should know you'll be treated to a new, original short story told from the point-of-view of one of the  supporting characters in one of my two main series.

Today you get The Swindled Jenny, an original short (4000 words or so) told by none other than Mama Hog herself. Links to the story in various formats will follow; I've got a Web version, a plain Word document, a PDF file, and a Kindle ebook ready for download and sideload, at your convenience.

But first, a few other bits of news.



Anyone wanting a printed copy of All the Paths of Shadow is in luck, because the new print version is up for sale on Amazon! Click here for the new print version, or here for the Kindle edition.

All the Paths of Shadow has seen a sudden surge in popularity. It sold nearly 500 Kindle copies in a single night, last month. I mean sold, too. No freebie special, no free borrowing, we're talking straight-up sales here, in the wee hours, with no omens preceding. Which is a great event, and I'm thrilled -- I just wish I knew what triggered the surge, because I'd like to bottle it for later use.

Anyway, if you've been looking for a print copy, look no further! All the Paths of Shadow is once again available in print, and all you have to do is click.



Brown River Queen is also for sale, if you're looking for more Markhat. Not in print yet, but it's coming. I'll let you know when it hits the stands.

On a side note, I'm now trying to juggle work on the new Markhat, The Five Faces, with work on the new Meralda and Mug, called All the Turns of Light. Writing two books at once is something I've never tried, mainly because I'm not a conjoined set of twins, but it's going better than I expected. Sure I sometimes forget and put Mug on Markhat's desk and write Mama Hog into Meralda's laboratory, but that's what I get for staying up extra late to catch up on The Daily Show.

A couple of people have emailed asking about Fletcher, our diabetic doggie. I'm happy to report that he's doing fine, and is happy, and is coping with his loss of most of his vision quite well. His hair has grown back, and he's resumed all of his old habits, including 'talking' to us with grunts and marking the arrival of mealtimes with spirited barking and dancing.

Now, it's time for the first installment of Sidekick Sunday!

Tonight features The Swindled Jenny, a Mama Hog story which I hope you'll enjoy.

For anyone unfamiliar with the series, Mama Hog is the protagonist Markhat's neighbor. Mama claims to be a hundred and twenty five years old, and she makes her living telling fortunes and dispensing advice from her ramshackle card and potion shop in the heart of Rannit.

In this story, Mama does much more than merely dispense advice. No, her client has been wronged, and Mama takes offense, and -- well, choose your format, and see for yourself. Click the link, and you should see a list of files. The first is a mobi file, which can be downloaded and then put on your Kindle device. The next is a PDF version -- just click and download. The next is a plain Web file, which you should be able to read just by clicking. Finally, there is a Word document, which should download with a click.

I hope you enjoy it!

List of Story Formats for THE SWINDLED JENNY

That's all for today. Take care, people! See you all around the bookstore!



A Bad Case of Vietnamese Swamp Stomach

Ugh.

This week's blog entry will be brief. I'll spare you the details, but a lot of staring into the bottom of a toilet bowl is involved.

More you don't want to know.

I had planned to feature a new, never-before-published short story narrated by none other than Mama Hog herself today. But I don't trust my ability to arrange words competently. For instance, the preceding sentence originally read 'Mama hog story narrates colon, frees the threadbare geese', so finishing and editing anything more complicated than this blog entry that will have to wait until next week.

The Mama Hog story, which is nearly complete, is entitled "The Swindled Jenny," and I think you'll enjoy Mama's version of just desserts.

After that, Mug will have his turn, in a regular feature of the blog called 'Sidekick Sundays.'

But for now, I'm going to slink back downstairs and rest.

The only silver lining to all this, I suppose, is that I actually put on and zipped a leather jacket I bought around 1984. Yes, that's correct, 1984. The last time I tried it on, I couldn't bring the front within eight inches of closing, much less of zipping.

And now I'll be wearing it as my retro motorcycle jacket. It'll also come in handy if I turn into a zombie and need to take part in a Michael Jackson zombie 'Thriller' dance, because baby this jacket ROCKS the 80s.

Let me close with a shameless plea -- if you've had a chance to finish the new Markhat, Brown River Queen, and you liked it, please drop me a review on Amazon. I'd really appreciate it.








Bonus Tuesday Blog: New Release by Maria Schneider!


I don't often blog on Tuesday, but when I do, I blog about Maria Schneider's Witch Moon series.

And this particular Tuesday is special because the new Witch Moon book is out!



Entitled Under Witch Curse, this is the third book in the With Moon series. The first two books are:

Under Witch Moon

Under Witch Aura

I love these books. The heroine, Adriel, is well-drawn and engaging, the plots are snappy and fluid, and the writing is top-notch. Too, for a Mississippi boy, the modern-day Santa Fe setting is exotic enough to make the series truly memorable.

So check out the series, and if you already know it, the new one is out!




More From my Muse

As you know -- primarily because I haven't shut up about it -- my new Markhat book Brown River Queen  was released last Tuesday.

Response so far has been wonderful. I've gotten a number of emails from readers who liked the book. Sales are brisk. BRQ is poised to emerge as the most popular entry in the series thus far.

Still, I was surprised when my Muse, the plain-spoken Visavarevagsitaga (Ancient Mesopotamian goddess of pointed sticks, argumentative hedgehogs, and minor waterways) added her own missive to the congratulatory emails.

I've posted her letter below.

Date:  Sat, 30 Mar 2013 10:51:23 -0600 [12:51:23 PM EST]
From:  Visavarevagsitaga <Visavarevagsitaga@ancientwritingmuses.org>
To:  franktuttle@franktuttle.com
Subject:  REQUIRED CONGRATULATORY STATEMENT

Dear Whatsyourname,

In accordance with the Statutes, Policies, and Best Practices of the Amalgamated League of Muses, I am sending you this official Letter of Congratulations on the publication of your new novel/play/epic poem/other fictional work (select one), which is entitled (insert title of Work here). 

We wish you every success in this artistic endeavor BLAH BLAH BLAH, we hope our contributions to the creative process were BLAH BLAH BLAH.

There are another two paragraphs of like-minded claptrap but oops I deleted them both.

I did you a favor and picked up a copy of the book (Frown River Cake or whatever it is) but my copy must be defective because nowhere on the cover or in the dedication is the Holy Sacred name of Visavarevagsitaga mentioned as co-author. 

Even more inexplicable is the delay in my first royalty check, which I am QUITE SURE is on the way, because IF IT ISN'T some very agitated Egyptian Nile toads are going to be turning up in some UNEXPECTED PLACES. Hint hint, monkey boy. Need a I send a plague of biting flies to spell it all out?

Just to be clear, I expect no less than 20% of the cover and half of any foreign language sales and half of any future merchandising, praise be to My name and when I say 'biting flies' I mean 'flies easily capable of biting off both ears.' 

So, now that we're friends again -- we ARE friends again, aren't we? -- I have a few comments (three specific observations are required by the Statutes, Policies, and Best Practices of the Amalgamated League of Muses) concerning your work, Drown Shiver Mean.

1) It is a book, written in modern English. Yay you for making that bold stylistic choice. One mandated observation down.
2) The book features dark letters on a light page. Again, way to push the envelope. Moron.
3) Individual chapters are denoted by chapter breaks. That's three. Somebody get me a latte.

This concludes my mandated congratulatory communication. I see you are already working on a new book. If I can talk you out of continuing let me know, otherwise please toil in silent obscurity.

Best,

Her High Holiness and Exalted Divinity Visavarevagsitaga, Blessed of All, Goddess of Time and Space, 34th Level Muse (Extended Associate), Amalgamated League of Muses.

PS Stop calling Mama Hog's hair 'wild,' find a thesaurus and use it, idiot.
________________________________________________________________


Judging by her past emails, I take it my Muse is both in an unusually good mood and is warming up to me.

At least I haven't had any frogs show up in my coffee this week.

For any new readers of the Markhat series, let me take a moment here and suggest an order in which the books can be read.

First of all, you've got your early adventures, which are all standalone tales in which order doesn't really make any difference at all. These are:

The Mister Trophy

The Cadaver Client

Dead Man's Rain

All of which were combined in the print-only anthology The Markhat Files.



After the first three, I suggest you read as follows:

Hold the Dark

The Banshee's Walk

The Broken Bell

And finally, the new one, which is of course Brown River Queen.



If you want print versions of Hold the Dark, The Banshee's Walk, or The Broken Bell, no problem, click on the links in this sentence!




Bonus Tuesday Blog: BROWN RIVER QUEEN Release party!


It's Tuesday, March 26, and that can mean only one thing....

Yes, okay, it is time to renew my truck tag. So make that two things, with the most important being this:

BROWN RIVER QUEEN is now on sale!

You can get it from Amazon here, or from Barnes & Noble here, or from direct from the publisher in any format you please by going to Samhain Publishing.

I'd like to take a moment to thank Holly, my editor at Samhain, for all her hard work and enthusiasm on the project. Heck, thanks to everyone at Samhain, who are always a pleasure to work with!

I really hope you enjoy the book, which is the latest installment in the Markhat series. There are gamblers and vampires and guns and ghouls, all on a riverboat steaming toward certain doom.

I'm off to a signing at Barnes & Noble in Oxford. So from Mama Hog, Markhat, Darla, Evis, Gertriss, and of course Buttercup the banshee, safe sailing!




Live From MidSouthCon 31: Update #4, the Darrell Awards

I'm not often left speechless, no matter how many people fervently wish for that singular event.

The outcome of this year's Darrell Awards did manage to silence me completely for a brief but indeterminate time.

I was nominated for two pieces -- Saving the Sammi for best short story, and The Broken Bell for best novel.

Before I go any further, let me talk about the competition. I say competetion only in the broadest sense of the word, because none of us has any desire to 'beat' the other guy (or gal). We're all authors, slugging it out in the trenches I believe we all want the best for each other.

So, to my friends Jimmy GillentineSteve Bradshaw, and Aaron Drown (also known as the inimitable A.christopher Drown), I was honored to be in your company.

You should read these guys. Here are their works:

Bluff City Butcher, by Steve Bradshaw. Steve was a CSI investigator in Texas for many years, and his stories of mayhem and murder will curl your hair. His book is not be missed!

Night at Death's Door by Jimmy Gillentine. There are some dicey night clubs in Memphis -- but none dicier than the one the vampires favor! Check it out -- but be prepared to pay a very special cover at the door.

A Game of None Magic By A.Christopher Drown. Epic fantasy with a Southern accent! First of series, with the rest soon to come.

I really enjoyed meeting you guys or catching up. Steve's tales of high-speed impacts and down-home stabbings were especially enjoyable, because I'm a seriously weird guy.

Being included amid such a talented bunch made the presentation of the Darrell Awards for Saving the Sammi and The Broken Bell a truly humbling event.

My thanks to the Darrell Awards jury, for their consideration and efforts during the year!

Now, because I can't resist, the Awards themselves...



Thanks again folks!

Live From Midsouthcon 31: Update #3


Con are full of surprises, in that you never know who you'll meet.

MidSouthCon 31 was no exception. Among the attendees was the crew from Expedition Unknown, a paranormal investigations group based in the Midsouth.


From left to right, Expedition Unknown is Andy Brisendine, Stephen Guenther, and Tanya Vandesteeg. Andy acts as tech manager, photographer, and videographer. Stephen, Lead Investigator, is an experienced paranormal sleuth whose investigations have taken him to such far-flung sites as Stonehenge. Lead Investigator Tanya does extensive site research and debunking, among many other duties. You can catch Tanya's podcast "Live From the Multiverse" each Thursday at 8:00 PM at http://www.tmvcafe.com/.

We sat in on three panels hosted by Expedition Unknown, and each was a blast. Andy and I use the same microphone (a Zoom H1) and we all share a fascination with EVP phenomena. Plus, they're all friendly smart cool people with a genuine interest in local cryptids and other paranormal happenings.

If you're in this area and you ever encounter bumps in the night that you believe warrant a visit from the professionals, I recommend the Expedition Unknown crew!

They also offer classes and live field investigations. You can see and hear their evidence on their YouTube channel, and I cannot wait to slap on my headphones and dive into that myself.

Again, their website is Expedition Unknown. It is well worth a thorough look!



Live From MidSouthCon 31 Update #2


The Con is still underway here in Memphis, and everyone is having a blast.

So far I've met a number of talented authors, amazing artists, and equally amazing fans. I've been on a ghost hunt with the crew from Expedition Unknown, been on a panel, watched in awe as the Drunkest Fanboy in the World struggled to maintain a rough approximation of bipedalism, and won not one but two Darrell Awards. 

The Expedition Unknown crew and the Darrell Awards get their own posts, to follow shortly. 

Now, though, let's see some pictures!

No SF/fantasy con is complete without a Klingon or two. This year, I spied a Klingon with a familiar face beneath the brow-ridges. I even put up his picture a couple of years ago, when he was a roving but cordial zombie:


This year, he shed his shamble for the more menacing look of a Klingon warrior.


Despite only knowing a single word of Klingon (graak, which means 'You wouldn't hit a guy with glasses, would you?) I asked the mighty Klingon for an interview.


Meeting people such as Frank is what makes the Con scene so much fun. I know the media loves to poke fun at us in their minute-and-a-half segments between Sports and Weather, but there are some genuinely fascinating and articulate people behind the masks. 

Speaking of masks, here are a few more of the many cosplayers at this year's Con!


I love the way this Tusken raider is being photo-bombed by an Old Republic stormtrooper. 


They're serious about pedicures on Altair VI.


This is how I see all clowns.


Stormtroopers!


Stormtroopers after one too many Pan Galactic Gargles Blasters at the Mos Eisley spaceport bar.


Steampunk Lives!


Old Republic Stormtroopers, and friend.


The Black Widow!


Breathless Mahoney


The Hilton at midnight

More to come!



Live From MidSouthCon 31 Update #1


MidSouthCon 31 is underway here in Memphis, Tennessee, and your roving reporter is right in the middle of it.

This year's Con is hosting the biggest crowd I remember seeing. The guest list is pretty impressive this year, and I'm sure that's a big part of the draw.

After arriving at the Con, getting checked in, and finding the nearest bar, I began my series of in-depth interviews with Con attendees. Being a bold soul, I simply turned to the first pretty woman I saw and asked for an interview. She not only agreed, but later accompanied me to my hotel room. Her picture and interview is below:



One of the great things about any Con is the Dealer Room. There you can find just about anything -- SF and fantasy prop art, books, comics, and of course art. 

We picked up an piece of original art by Levi White. Levi uses spray paint to create some really stunning and unusual pieces, such as ours, shown below:




In keeping with my newfound habit of sticking a Zoom H1 microphone in the faces of strangers, I begged Levi for an interview, and you can listen to it by clicking the link:


Levi can (and should) be reached via email at artbylevi@hotmail.com. He does everything from superheroes to Star Trek to Dr. Who, and his prices are so affordable starving authors can afford them!

Artist Levi White and muse
When you think of cons, you might not also think of music. But MidSouthCon has a house band, and they are Order of Tyr!



Here they are in the Dealer's Room, many hours before their first Friday evening show. I picked up their new album, Tearing Reality Asunder, and they were also kind enough to speak to me after I made it clear I was fully capable of rolling on the floor and screaming if my request for an interview was denied. 


The Order plays a powerful, straight-ahead blend of heavy metal, hard rock, electronic, and prog-rock, all blended with fantasy themes and lyrics. You can check them out further by hitting their webpage, VideoGameMetal!

Costumes and cosplayers. I know that's what you want to see, so let's open with the best of the Con so far. I give you <drumroll please> The Black Widow!



Regular Con-goers will recognize Alex as the 'Catwoman Cosplayer,' who graces MidSouthCon and several othyers with her beautiful costumes every year. This year, she's at MidSouthCon as The Black Widow, and she was kind enough to grant me an interview:


You can find Alex on Facebook here. Stop by her page and give her a like!

And now, for a more or less random series of Con images:



That was just yesterday afternoon. More to come!


Frank's Handy Guide to KindleGen. And Suicide. Because You'll Need Both.

It all looked so simple. So easy.

As many of you know, I teach a couple of writing classes. I've been teaching them for a while now, and I finally put most of the material together into a short book.

It's nothing fancy. No tables, no graphs, no interior trickery at all. Thus I thought to myself, 'Self, why don't we package the whole works as a Kindle book, and maybe make enough extra money from it to buy a single burrito, come next May?'

Fool that I am, I agreed, even though my track record of Cunning Plans tends toward catastrophe and head injuries of mild to moderate severity.

But this is an e-book. Surely, I decided, I can safely create and publish a single short Amazon e-book all on my own without involving paramedics or morticians.

I've done it before. Wistril Compleat, On the Road, The Far Corners -- all are short story anthologies composed of stories I sold to print magazines back in the 90s. I put all those titles out myself, mainly for fun. So why shouldn't I be able to do so again?

After all, Amazon now provides free formatting and previewing software. Back in the old days, I had to do all the formatting by hand! Not so now, with the amazing Kindlegen!

Like I said, it all looked so easy.

First, I downloaded the free Amazon formatting program, Kindlegen.

Then I downloaded the free Amazon previewer, Kindle Previewer.

The advantage to using these two items, I am told, is that you are absolutely assured a Kindle-compatible product. No weirdness in formatting. No glitches. You can see how your ebook looks on each and every Kindle model, and fix any problems before you take the book to market.

Sounds ideal!

I used a free HTML editor called HTML-Kit to create my HTML ebook file. This part of the process is one I know. There's nothing at all hard about it. You only need know a dozen or so HTML commands.  Most of the code is self-explanatory.

That's how I created the other ebooks. Turn the book into an HTML file. Zip that file and the interior cover image together. Upload them to KDP. Yes, I know Amazon now claims you can use Word to create your ebook, and then save that as a Web page file, and upload directly to KDP, thus skipping all the HTML hand-coding.

And you can. You can also dance with a goat. As with goat-dancing, though, the results are usually messy and often completely unacceptable. You'll find weird spaces inserted at random, odd indents, big gaps in the text -- no. Just no.

Here's how I understood Kindlegen to work:

  1. Create your HTML file.
  2. Use Kindlegen to convert this HTML file into a perfect .mobi file.
  3. Use the Previewer to check your file for accuracy.
  4. Upload your cover image and your new .mobi file to Amazon.
  5. Become rich, buy your own tropical island, crush your enemies beneath your merciless feet.
I got as far as step 4 and thought myself a clever lad. I followed Amazon's documentation (I wince just using the words 'Amazon' and 'documentation' in such close proximity) and was pleased with the results.

I uploaded the new ebook and prepared my feet to begin the crushing of enemies like grapes.

What I didn't understand was that I'd skipped a step. Do you see step 3.5 above?

No?

Neither did I.

Step 3.5 is displayed in invisible letters, you see. And what is says is this:

3.5 HAHAHAHAHA. We forgot to mention that for your interior cover image to display, you'll need to create an ncx file, and opf file, an xyz file, solve Fermat's Last Theorem, calculate the value of pi out to eleventy billion characters, comb Nessie's hair, teach Bigfoot to scuba dive, and finally provide us with a singing albino sea otter who can also drive a cab.

Here's what the Kindlegen README file should state, in towering letters of blood and fire:

ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER

Because by firing up Kindlegen you just entered Hell.

I was confused and a bit embarrassed at having released a Kindle book into the wild with an error. So I quickly grabbed my HTML code, gutted the portion of it that should have resulted in the cover being shown inside the book as well as outside, and replaced the interior cover with the title of the book in big letters instead. At least it doesn't look goofy, and I was sure I could resolve the missing interior cover problem in just a few minutes.

Ha ha ha. 

The documentation provided with the Kindlegen file never bloody mentioned ANYTHING about an ncx file, or an opc file. But Googling the problem quickly pointed out that both these files were required before Kindlegen could create the final file for upload.

Look, I'm no hacker, but I know enough to code and maintain my own website. I'd never heard of ncx or opf filetypes. I had no idea what they were, what they did, or how to find them.

The Amazon documentation?

I might as well go back to goat-dancing. Never a single word was spoken of these files, their purpose, their origin, or their content. 

The references I did find via Google all seemed to assume that the files simply sprang into existence from the heavenly aether. Seriously, I've never seen such an obtuse and uninformative collection of technobabble. What does ncx stand for? Nonexistent Carnivorous Xenophobe? What about opf? Obnoxious Probe Fatality? Ornithopter Pressure Frame?

Do I create the these elusive entities? Does Kindlegen? Are they files at all, or some kind of meat? Pets? Aircraft?

The more I read, the more confused I became.  In fact, after scouring half a dozen tutorials and discussion boards, this is how I've determined one must actually use Kindlegen to create a Kindle ebook:

FRANK'S HANDY DANDY GUIDE TO USING KINDLEGEN 
  • Don't. Seriously, just wave money at someone until they agree to format your book for you. If they need a kidney give them that as well, you have two.
  • Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you.
  • Download Kindlegen and Kindle Previewer.
  • While you wait, drive to the liquor store, and head right for the rotgut whiskey because YOU WILL NEED IT. 
  • Create your HTML file. Now look at it. Look at it HARD. 
  • Do you see ncx and opf and half a dozen other previously unknown file formats appear?
  • Take a swig of whiskey (first of many, I assure you) and stare harder.
  • Run Kindlegen. Run around your living room. Both activities are equally likely to result in the creation of a fully-functional e-book.
  • Use the Kindle Previewer to assure yourself you have failed.
  • Look under the couch. Maybe that's where opf files wind up. No one seems to know. But there might be loose change under there, so check anyway.
  • Man, the bottom half of this Old Overcoat whiskey is really smooth.
  • Still no ncx files? Plenty of whiskey left. Maybe they only come out at night.
  • Really, who needs a lousy interior cover image anyway?
  • Leprechauns. That has to be it. Wait for a leprechaun to appear. Trick him into playing a game of riddles, and win by asking 'Where do ncx files come from?' 
  • Give up and decide to patch the roof instead.
  • Be careful on the ladder, because dude, you are hammered.

If you're at all interested in the writing guide, and you believe you can live without an interior cover illustration, click here. 

And if you ever decide to self-publish using Kindlegen, take my advice and get two bottles of Old Overcoat.






Ahoy MidSouthCon 31!

It's almost time!

I speak not of my next colonoscopy, but of my attendance at MidSouthCon 31.

If MidSouthCon is not known to you, it is the premiere SF/fantasy con in this part of the country. Held in Memphis, MidSouthCon is large enough to attract big names (Cherie Priest, Steve Jackson, John Picacio) and small enough to feel intimate and relaxed.

I'm even on a panel this year. If you're going to be at the Con, stop by the Grand Ballroom at 3:00 PM Saturday, where I'll be joining other Darrell Awards winners and nominees to talk writing.

I enjoy the panels. You can find everything from nuts-and-bolts author sessions to ghost hunting techniques. There truly is something for everyone.

Of course the press will concentrate solely on the cosplayers (i.e., people dressed up as fantasy/SF characters). Which is understandable, since the cosplayers are a dedicated and imaginative bunch. I've seen some truly awe-inspiring outfits at MidSouthCon, which always has a strong steampunk showing. Last year's girl with articulated wings was one of my favorites.


The Storm Troopers are always in attendance as well. They're a nice friendly helpful bunch, although they are a bit sensitive about mentions of unshielded thermal exhaust ports.


And what Con would be complete without zombies? We get all kinds. Zombie storm troopers. Zombie Alices. Zombie cheerleaders. Zombie tax preparers...

Itemize....

And, of course, steampunk Catwoman. Because -- who needs a freakin' reason?



This year I'm going to try something different at the Con. Along with the usual photos, I hope to post some short audio interviews (and possibly even video segments) with any of the more interesting cosplayers and attendees I can corner -- er, invite to take part in my blog. I've spent a lot of time tweaking my ancient Dell netbook, getting it up to snuff, and I'll be taking my microphones as well as my camera.

So, with any luck, next week's blog will feature an extensive Con report, with pictures.

March 26 is of course the release date for Brown River Queen. To celebrate, I'll be at the Barnes & Noble bookstore on the University of Mississippi campus in Oxford, where I'll be grabbing the ankles of passers-by and begging them to buy a copy until the University Police Department tazes me into unconsciousness. You don't want to miss that, so if you're in Oxford on Tuesday the 26th, please stop by the B & N at noon. I'll also be signing copies of The Broken Bell, so even if you don't have a Kindle or a Nook you can buy a print book.

Did you know that authors who fail to sell all the books at a signing are ritually shaven and then held underwater for eight minutes by the infuriated bookstore manager? It's true. I mention that not to entice you to buy a book, but just to pass the time. I'm pretty sure I can hold my breath for three of the eight minutes, and let's face it, another five minutes of brain damage probably won't have a significant effect on my cognitive skills.

I'm kidding. Signings are a lot of fun, and the people at Barnes & Noble have been most gracious and kind. There WILL BE SNACKS. I am willing to share.

To recap -- noon on Tuesday the 26th at the Barnes & Noble on the Ole Miss campus. Stop by and say hello!

One final word: progress on the new Markhat went very well last week. Looks like I might make my goal of writing two novels this year after all.

Of course it's one thing to write the books, and another to sell them. But unless I've completely lost my ability to tell good from bad, this new book is a good one.

Speaking of which, it's time to get back to work.

See you at MidSouthCon 31!





Movie Review and More!


That's your Mystery Picture for this week. What is it? Where did it come from? What if any significance does it hold?

I'm not telling.

But I will tell plenty about my new favorite movie, Oz the Great and Powerful.

By now, you may have seen some lukewarm Oz reviews. The New York Times is disenchanted, calling it an 'extravagant misfire' after babbling on about how much better movies were in the 1930s. The LA Times claims the movie is a 'rough slog' down the Yellow Brick Road.

I claim both reviewers watched the movie with their heads up their asses.

Oz the Great and Powerful is not a remake of The Wizard of Oz. It doesn't try to be. There is no Dorothy, no Toto, no Tin Man. Also, and noted with much relief on my part, there is no singing.

But there are visuals which make critically-acclaimed films such as Life of Pi and Avatar seem like cheap Saturday morning cartoons by comparison. And the new characters are just as engaging as any of Dorothy's face-painted retinue.

I dare anyone to tell me China Girl alone wasn't worth the price of admission. Go ahead, tell me that, and I will knock you down. I mean it. And Zach Braff's Finley, the flying monkey in the bellhop outfit?

Magical. And hilarious.

Without giving anything away, I can also say I loved the witches. Glinda the Good was spot on perfect, as the beleaguered defender of the peaceful folk of Oz. And James Franco's con-artist carnival magician turned makeshift wizard is unfailingly endearing.

This will sound of heresy to some, but I'll say it anyway -- Oz the Great and Powerful is a better movie than The Hobbit: an Unexpected Journey.

Oz the Great and Powerful has everything -- visual feasts, engaging characters, suspense, humor, and heart. Ignore the bleating critics. See the movie. You'll be glad you did, or I'll eat a hot-air balloon.


The above is another piece of Markhat fan-art, created by Raevyn Tws (his Facebook page is here).  Some say Markhat is pointing out the guilty party, but I maintain he is indicating to a bartender which beer he wants next.

Speaking of Markhat (see what I did there?), the new Markhat novel Brown River Queen is still available for pre-sale. It goes live on March 26!

I've blathered on and on about the book for weeks. I know that. But it's a good book, and I can hardly wait until people can dive into it.

The new Markhat book is underway, of course. I'm calling it The Five Faces. I've also toyed with the idea of a book narrated entirely by Mama Hog, who has no end of things to say about any subject you might care to name. If may wind up entitled Mama On the Town. But that is by no means a promise; just keeping the Markhat books written is about all I have time to do these days.


Brown River Queen cover, just because.

Just for the heck of it, here's a brief excerpt from The Five Faces, featuring an unusually vengeful Markhat:


FROM THE FIVE FACES:

Voices, from the top of the stair.

A match scratched and flared.  The lantern bobbed off its hook. The door swung open.

Boots clambered down the stairs. A man laughed. Another cussed.

I divided feet by two and came up with three.

Three men, who didn’t know a damned thing about fighting in the dark. They held the lantern close to their faces. They took the stairs before their eyes had time to adjust. They swapped a bottle as they walked.

They never saw me coming.

Two went down before the third finished swigging at the bottle. I hit him in the gut with the butt-end of the stout club I’d found amid the trash. When he doubled over, I hit him in the mouth.

Down he went. I kicked him as he fell.

None of the three managed to stand by the time I joined them at the bottom of the stairs.

One did groan and make a half-assed attempt to rise to his elbows. I rewarded his determination with a sharp blow to the back of his head. He went down and went still.

The lantern rolled down, trailing small pools of burning oil. I snatched it up before it sparked a real fire.

“You’re going to give me a name,” I said. A pair of faint groans answered. “You’re going to give me a name, or I’ll kill every damned one of you, and enjoy doing it.”

More groans. Somebody spat teeth. I felt myself smile.

“Someone paid you to watch this place,” I said. “Who?”

Silence.

The light still illuminated the pile of dead dogs not thirty feet distant.

I issued a dozen heartfelt kicks.

“Stop it, stop it,” muttered one of my supine friends. “Chuckles. Chuckles pays us. We don’t know nothin’, mister. We just got paid to watch the door.”

I dropped to my haunches.

“Chuckles,” I said.  I waved the lantern near my talkative friend’s face.

He was maybe fifty. Whatever teeth he’d worked so hard to keep were scattered on the floor beneath him. I wasn’t sorry.

“Now, where can I find this Chuckles?”

A knife-blade glinted in the lamp-light. I brought down my lumber. Wet cracking sounds and a scream echoed in the dark.

Again, I wasn’t sorry.

“You were saying?”

“Everybody knows Chuckles. Keeps a table. Down at the Bastion.” He cut his eyes to his fellows “What the Hell’s the matter with you? We just watch the door. I don’t think Mort is breathing.”

“Worry less about Mort and more about yourself. This Chuckles. He run this place?”

“Hell if I know, mister, he just pays us to—”

“Watch the door. I heard. Tell you what. I’m going to pay this Mr. Chuckles a visit. But before I do, you’re going to give him a message. How’s your memory, pal? Think you can repeat what I’m about to say, word for word?”

He spat blood and glared hate.

“I’ll take that as a yes. My message is this – the dog fights end. Or I end you. Simple enough. Got it?”

He spat again. “You got a name?”

I don’t remember much from the days when Mom dragged all us Markhats to Church. But a line of Scripture came to mind.

“I am Death. You shall not know my name until I speak it in thine ear. Dread my name, and fear its revelation, for it shall be thy undoing, amen.”

“Crazy bastard.”

I hit him again. He rolled over and howled, and I rose. I cast my club down beside him.

The other two lay still. If they breathed, I couldn’t see their chests rise or fall.

“I am Death,” I said. “Dread my name.”

I blew out the lantern and threw it as far as I could.

Then I climbed the thirty-eight steps, whistling all the way.

END EXCERPT

That's it for this week!









Ghost Hunter's Guide: Dead in the Deep South

As both long-time fans of this blog know, I do a little ghost hunting on the side.

Since my private jet is A) in the shop and B) doesn't exist, I do all my ghost hunting locally. Which means I stalk a particular brand of restless spirit -- that of the wily Southern ghost.

I'm a Southerner myself. I was born right here, not in this chair but in Mississippi nonetheless. This grants me a unique insight into the ectoplasmic minds of the local spectres, haunts, haints, will-o-the-wisps, goblins, revenants, poltergeists, apparitions, and of course the Class II free-floating non-repeating vapors that haunt these gently rolling hills.

From what I've seen on television, your northern, eastern, and western ghosts seem to have standardized their behaviors, at least when the cameras are rolling. Here's every ghost hunting show I've ever seen, condensed:

GHOST HUNTER #1: I'm getting a hit on my K2.

GHOST HUNTER #2: I'm being touched!

GHOST HUNTER #3: I saw a shadow!

Play obscure EVP segment during reveal, in which ghostly voice says short phrase:

"I smell the eggs, Bartholomew."

Which is a lot more dramatic when shot in patented Green Night-O-Vision(tm) and accompanied by a sepulchral voice-over and sinister background music.

Southern ghosts, though, often march to a different tune (usually the phantom strains of an old Lynyrd Skynyrd album).  As such, I've decided to offer my own brief primer on the nature of Southern haunts.

Pull your Alabama ball-caps down firmly, and enjoy the ride.

Ghosts of the Haunted South: A Bestiary


1) The Residual Bubba.


A residual Bubba haunting is non-responsive and wholly un-communicative, unless provoked by the playing of NPR anywhere on the property. Residual Bubba situations are rarely dangerous, and in fact often go unnoticed if they peak during football season. 

A residual Bubba haunting is characterized by the following physical phenomena:
  • Repeated auditory phenomena, i.e., the sound of a pickup horn playing 'Dixie,' the reluctant cranking of an un-mufflered diesel engine, source-less WWF wrestling played at high volume, etc.
  • Periodic visual phenomena. Apparitions of bodiless Big Yank overalls, translucent Pabst Blue Ribbon six-packs floating through the double-wide, etc. 
An EVP indicative of a residual Bubba in progress:

2) The Intelligent Dwayne.

An intelligent Dwayne haunting occurs when the spirit of a deceased person remains attached to a property. Often, these spirits don't realize they are dead, and sometimes grow agitated when they mistakenly assume their new state of being is simply some newfangled Yankee holiday that has made their disability checks late.

These intelligent hauntings are characterized by:
  • Menacing physical phenomena, most often in the form of slaps, punches, and repeated butt-kickings.
  • Movement of physical objects, usually of TV remotes and bottle openers.
  • Poorly-spelled Ouija Board warnings, usually of the 'Git out er I will KICK YOR ASS' variety, although some sessions might reveal a decided slant toward debating various NASCAR drivers or the inability of Ole Miss to consistently score in the fourth quarter. 
An EVP indicative of an Intelligent Dwayne haunting:

3) The Saturday Night Phantom.

When a person is taken by death too soon, they often remain Earthbound, tethered by a wistful sense of leaving behind unfinished business.

When a Saturday Night Phantom is taken by death, the process usually includes (but is not limited to) propane, firearms, crude incendiary devices of a homemade nature, copious amounts of easily-affordable alcohol, motorcycles, livestock, heights, wet roads, lack of headlights, amateur rocketry, and ill-timed use of the phrase 'Watch this, y'all.'

A Saturday Night Phantom, known as a poltergeist in other locales, is a mischievous (and possibly still drunk) spirit which reveals its presence through pranks and trickery, such as:

  • Sudden foul odors, usually accompanied by loud raspberry sounds and faint giggling.
  • Crude knock-knock jokes delivered during Ouija Board sessions.
  • Repeated inexplicable toilet flushings.
  • Nocturnal wails and screams, followed by slurred renditions of the Arkansas State football fight song.
An EVP typical of a Saturday Night Phantom:


4) The Old Man Burtrell Ghost.

Every community in the South, no many how tiny or remote, features an Old Man Burtrell by one name or another. In life, these reclusive, hostile souls demand absolute privacy and demonstrate an eager willingness to maintain it by casual discharges of shotguns and cursing. In death, their spirits continue on as they always have, not knowing or caring that their Earthly lives are over.

An Old Man Burtrell haunting is indicated by any of the following:
  • Sounds of a phantom shotgun being chambered.
  • Motion on the part of empty rocking chairs, followed by a spit of phantom chewing tobacco.
  • Spectral gunfire, followed by confused, enraged cursing.
Sample of a typical Old Man Burtrell EVP:


5) The Wilted Rose.

Saddest perhaps of all the Southern haunts, the Wilted Rose is the wandering spirit of the truck-stop diner waitress who, even in death, can find neither rest, peace, nor affordable astral housing on her lousy tips alone. 

The presence of a Wilted Rose is most often indicated by:
  • Coffee cups which fill themselves. Small plastic containers of spoiled creamer often appear beside the cup, alongside a syrup-smeared paper packet of pure cane sugar.
  • Clouds of cigarette smoke which form from nothing.
  • Phantom diner checks decorated with smiley faces drawn on steamed mirrors.
Sample of Wilted Rose EVP:

Wilted Rose EVP

Next Week: On the Trail of the Southern Bigfoot, or, Sasquatch Can't Drive Worth Crap.





Bonus Tuesday Blog



I know, it's not Sunday, but here I am blogging.



I don't always blog on Tuesday, but when I do, I've been drinking Dos Equis. Which isn't true either; I haven't been drinking, but I do want to make a small special effort to let people know they can snag a copy of The Mister Trophy free from Amazon!


If you haven't read any of my Markhat books before, this is a great place to start. It's short, it's fun, it features at least one scene of gratuitous vampire-thumping, and did I mention it's free?

And of course I can't help but cackle with unseemly glee over the upcoming (March 26) release of the new Markhat novel, Brown River Queen. Which you can now pre-order.


The piece of original fan art above shows Markhat encouraging you to pre-order. (Thanks to Raevyn Tws aka Eric Ralphs for the artwork).

So, to recap -- free stuff! New release! Dogs and cats, sleeping together!

See you all Sunday!


Announcing an Announcement!

Hold your metaphorical hats tight on your allegorical heads, gentle readers, for today I am full of....news.

I saw a bunch of you mouthing a very different word from 'news,' and I find that hurtful, but even so my spirits remain undampened, and I'll tell you why.

First of all, the new Markhat title is now available for pre-order at Amazon and Samhain! Barnes & Noble doesn't have pre-order turned on yet, but Samhain offers a Nook version (as well as Kindle, pdf, and every other format imaginable) of the book. So you don't have to wait for B&N, if you'd rather not.

I'm really excited about Brown River Queen.
Sorry, I get this rash when I'm happy. 



There's the right image! The book's cover, because I never get tired of looking at it.

Fans of the series will see the return of all the old familiar faces. Mama Hog will supply her usual homespun charms. Buttercup the banshee is always underfoot. Darla, who finally made a cover (she's been waiting patiently for her spot beside Markhat) is there, and she's reading over my shoulder to make sure I mention that at no point does she require rescuing. Quite the opposite, in fact, but you'll need to read the book to find out what I'm talking about.

I've tried to bring some new influences into the Markhat series. There's always been a touch of steampunk about Markhat's world, where magic and heavy industry rub shoulders in unexpected ways. The Banshee's Walk was set in a private artist's retreat. Hold the Dark explored Rannit's churches. The Broken Bell saw the introduction of gunpowder, cannon, and the outbreak of civil war.

I set Brown River Queen on a lavish gambling steamboat right out of the Mississippi River post US Civil War. There are gamblers and ne'er-do-wells. Plots and subterfuges. Vampires and worse. Intrigue and Blues singers. It was a blast to write, and I think you guys are in for a treat when it goes on sale March 26.

To those of you who've already pre-ordered, my thanks! Few things are more gratifying that seeing one's book show an Amazon ranking before it actually goes on sale. That's rare good fun. I may well have cackled maniacally. No, I'm sure of it.

Next, I've been nominated as a Finalist for the 2013 Darrell Award! The winners will be announced at the annual awards banquet, which takes place at the always-amazing MidSouthCon. 

I'm looking forward to the Con this year, because  -- well, look at the Guest List. Cherie Priest, Steve Jackson, John Picacio, Ross Lockhart? I know these names, and others! And being nominated for a Darrell Award is a genuine honor.

 It's going to be a blast.


That's my blaster, not a blast, but you get the idea.

Since it's a long time until March 26, I'm posting a brief excerpt from BROWN RIVER QUEEN below, to whet your appetite. There aren't any spoilers, so read without fear.

From BROWN RIVER QUEEN:


A meaty fist struck my door. “Open for the Watch!” shouted my new friend Captain Holder. “Open or we’ll break it down.”

Evis stubbed out his cigar and folded back into the shadows. I rose and unlocked my door, then opened it wide before stepping back out of yanking distance.

Captain Holder marched in, hand on his sword hilt, face beet red around eyes already going teary from the cigar smoke.

“What brings you here, Captain?” Carelessly, I puffed smoke directly into his face. “Care for a Lowland Sweet?”

That’s when Captain Holder, an officer of the law and a high-ranking Watchman, dared lay hands on me—a law-abiding citizen who did nothing but exhibit a generous nature concerning his excellent tobacco.

Evis moved, a silent shadow leaving brief wakes in the smoke.

Slam went my door, plunging my office in shadows.

Snick went the Captain’s Watch-issue shortsword as it was snatched from its scabbard.

Thunk went the blade as Evis buried the tip of it in my desk before returning to his seat and once again wrapping himself in silk and shadow.

The Captain gaped, his sword hand closing on air. “I have half a dozen men right outside.”

“Only half a dozen?” I sniffed and looked down my nose. “I’d have thought a desperate criminal such as myself would have demanded a full dozen, at least.”

He wasn’t listening. Instead, he backed toward my door, his eyes on Evis, and then he yanked it open and bellowed through it.

“Your men were called to attend pressing matters elsewhere, Captain Holder,” said Evis from the dark.
“Close the door. You are in no danger. But we do need to have a chat.”

I would have bet even money on the Captain bolting. But after a moment of staring out into the empty street, he straightened, uttered a single brief curse word, turned to face us, and closed the door.

“You’ve had a bad morning, Captain,” I said. I strolled around my desk and pointed to the empty client’s chair. “But it doesn’t need to get any worse. Have a seat. Let’s talk this out like gentlemen.”

He glared but yanked the chair back and sat.

“You dumped a bucket of shit on a Watchman,” he said, his voice still rough with rage. “I know all about you, Markhat. You’ve been running roughshod over the Watch for years. I’m here to tell you you’ve gone too far this time. I’m charging you with assault on an officer of the law.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Charging me? With assault? Good thing my legal counsel is present, then. Captain Holder, meet Mr. Evis Prestley, of House Avalante. I believe you’ve heard the name.”

“I know it.”

I leaned back and laced my fingers together behind my head. “Assault, you say? Mr. Prestley. Have I, to your knowledge, assaulted any Watchmen recently?”

“Why no, Mr. Markhat, I don’t believe you have.”

The good Captain repeated his curse word. “You dumped a bucket of shit on my man outside. I can’t hang you for that but I can damned well throw you in the Old Ruth for a week or three.” He made as if to rise.
Evis appeared by my side, his dead-pale face just touched by the sun.

“And you can prove my client was involved, can you Captain?”

“It was him. You know it and I know it.”

Evis shook his head and made tsk-tsk noises. “At what time did this alleged assault by excrement occur, Captain? As you have noted the complainant is a Watchman, I assume he was able to provide such details in his official report?”

“Ten of noon,” growled the Captain, his beefy right hand clutching his Watch-issue handcuffs. “You’re wasting your time. He’s coming with me.”

“Ten of noon,” said Evis. “Well. I can produce no fewer than two dozen prominent citizens of Rannit who will gladly swear they were dining with Mr. Markhat at the Brickworks between eleven and half-past one, Captain Holder. Remind me of the names, Mr. Markhat.”

“Certainly. Tavis Green, of the Tavis Greens, was there. We enjoyed a bottle of Fitch together. Oh, and Markum Sate, and Corliss Poole, and that nephew of the Regent’s chief of staff, Malcom Slater.” I trailed off and watched a vein in Holder’s forehead bulge and pulse.

“You spoke of a waste of time, Captain. Indeed, that is what incarcerating my client will yield you. Time and trouble. I assure you, Avalante will take an immediate and active interest in the matter.”

“Might as well put the bracelets away,” I said. “Maybe one day I’ll slip up and you can clap them on me. But that isn’t today, Captain, and you know it.”

Ten breaths. That’s what it took for Holder to work out the truth behind my words. But work it out he did, and the cuffs went back in his pocket.

“I won’t forget this,” he said after a time. “Nobody dumps chamber-pots on my Watch officers. Nobody.”

I shrugged. “Good for you. Now then. Being completely unaware you had a man watching my door, I find myself suddenly compelled to ask why you’d do such a thing. So. Why?”

“Because a woman is dead and you killed her, that’s why.”

Evis waggled a taloned finger at the Captain’s nose. “My client acted in self-defense during an unprovoked attack by a deranged stranger,” he said. “Even the Watch concurs.”

“I think your client knows exactly who the dead woman was and why she ended up cut in half by a beer-wagon.”

“If I knew who she was, Captain, I’d tell you. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because, as usual, you’re mixed up in something,” said the Captain. “Think you’re above the law, don’t you, Markhat?”

“We don’t see enough law in this part of town to think ourselves above it.” I put my hands on my desk and leaned close. The Captain needed a bath. “Look. I’m not lying. I don’t know who she was or why she came at me. There wasn’t time to ask. But why do you care? The dead wagons haul bodies out of alleys every morning. Nobody asks. What makes this woman so special the Watch is pestering me about her?”

“You’re telling me you don’t know her.”

“I’m telling you I don’t.”

“What happens if I stand up and try to walk out of here, Markhat? You going to turn your vampire loose on me?”

I stood. “Beat it,” I said. “Get out and stay out until you calm down enough to talk sense. Try and snag me again and you can explain yourself to the Corpsemaster. That clear enough for you?”

“Corpsemaster is dead.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Why don’t you piss me off again and we’ll see?”

He stood. Evis watched but didn’t move.

“We’re not done here.”

“I beg to differ. Get out.”

He did, slamming my door behind him.

Evis glided back into the shadows, chuckling.

“Markhat. Did you really arrange for a Watchman to be bathed in excrement?”

“The Arwheats don’t much care for the Watch. I almost had to force their pay upon them.”

Evis shook his head. “They’ll not forget that. Not for a long time.”

“Good.” I put my hands back behind my head. “Something about that dead woman has the Watch nervous.”

“Indeed. Have you learned anything new about her?”

“Nothing. I was heading to the hotels downtown today to see if anyone fitting her description skipped a bill. Maybe she left something in her room with her name on it, along with a note detailing her dastardly plans.”

Evis nodded. “Still. A bucket of shit?” He shook his head. “As your attorney, I must admonish you against future use of night soil as a deterrent for loiterers.”

“As you say, counselor.”

Evis chuckled and produced fresh cigars.


End of Excerpt

The rest will have to wait until March 26.








This is Your Brain on Benadryl

Brain chemistry is a tricky bag of worms.

Or is it cat of bags?

You see my problem today.

Many people must resort to LSD or mushrooms or a quart jar of mecsaline to achieve what clinicians term an altered state of consciousness.

All I need to do is swallow a single Benadryl.  Which is what I did, early this morning, in a desperate attempt to rid myself of the concrete which somehow found its way into my overly large and pointlessly aggravating nasal passages.

The Benadryl worked. I can now breathe, but I cannot think. Honest. I have the attention span of a pole-axed gnat, and I keep having to look back at what I've typed because I keep re-typing portions of the same sentence.

In short, I've been rendered temporarily idiotic.

Hey, I see you out there, you with that 'Why is that different from any other day?' grin. Grin. Other day.

What was I saying? Something about cats?

Sunday is a bad day for me to drop 200 IQ points. I always do my blog entries on Sunday. This is the last day to check the ARC of BROWN RIVER QUEEN over for errors. I need to work on my writing class material for Thursday evening.

I still have to do all these things, but now I have to do them while commanding the mental acuity of a shoe.

I decided to finish my blog entry first. I correctly surmised I'm in no shape to write, so I decided to make another short stop motion movie instead. That's mostly physical, and extremely repetitive, so I thought I could handle it.

Wrong. I checked the camera, found it needed fresh batteries. Went downstairs to get the fresh set out of the charger. Forgot the dead batteries. Came back upstairs, got the dead batteries, left the good ones down there. Back downstairs, forgot camera. Back upstairs, have camera, good batteries forgotten again. Charged back downstairs to load good batteries in camera. Left camera upstairs. Went back upstairs. Missing one battery. Came back down. Found missing battery. Forgot camera.

All I needed was the Benny Hill chase music in the background.

Undaunted, I tried to compose a story for my hapless stop-motion skeleton. Wound up with a hopeless mishmash of disjointed and unfilmable scenes involving a mailbox in a tree and a sack of bone meal. While toying with the skeleton, his head fell off, probably in protest at the doomed film project's story line.

Nix that idea. I'd probably still be chasing batteries across the entire property. Or I'd get stuck in the tree and require a rescue from the Lafayette County Sheriff's Office.

Next, I settled on the idea of blogging about something mysterious and creepy. That's not a bad idea, really, but it needs refinement, i.e., a specific instance of mysterious and creepy.

Okay, so, um, Bigfoot. Hairy dude, nine feet tall, camera shy.

That's all I've got.

Ghosts? Right! I've got a lot to say about ghosts. They're insubstantial, filmy, and share Bigfoot's reluctance to be photographed. Boo?

EVPs! I'm loaded with EVP recording gear. I fired up a white noise generator and conducted an EVP session right here at my desk, hoping for something -- anything -- anomalous to happen, because frankly I'm exhausted from chasing cameras and batteries up and down the stairs.

The spirits, as usual, showed no mercy. I did record a faint disembodied yawn, followed quickly by a ghostly voice saying 'Change the bleeding channel, he's really off his game today,' but otherwise, just white noise. Oh, and in the process of recording, I somehow bit the end off a black magic marker, so now I resemble an overfed Marilyn Manson after a bad blond dye job.

Is any of this breaking exciting new ground in the realm of paranormal investigation?

Yeesh. Not really.

In closing, let me assure you I'll be back in fine fettle next week, because I might clear my sinuses with modest amounts of gunpowder or a masonry bit on my hammer drill, but I will NOT take another Benadryl on a Sunday.

And now, without further ado, Frank Tuttle and the Seven Dog Choir present Beethoven's Ode To Joy, arranged for canine and primate:

Ode to Joy by the Seven Dog Choir

Finis.