cold day -- if not a Car-girl day, a taxi day
Yes, it's a damn mother-frakin' cold day out there. 25 when I checked weather.com. It's cold in the house, & I don't want to turn on the basement heater as all the dust burning out'll set off the fire alarm, & it might become a source of fear & dread for her. Down in the basement: the downstairs heater on cold winter nights puts out enough heat for the entire building, whereas before, it was all wasted on Blank Frank, who'd get thoroughly descoobied on Mountain Fresh Beer & sing along to insipid country songs. But this was before Biggie went insane, due to the actions of the Skinny Dog.
The upstairs heater won't get turned on until all the hot days are over, i.e., tomorrow is supposed to hit 80 & I don't know if I want the pilot light warming the upstairs part to the point where it'd become unbearably hot. It's done this in the past.
Today, I am fixing pancakes for breakfast. Ever since the surgery, Trish has been stressing out about "taking care" of me. When I saw the doctor yesterday, he said I could even go truckin' to the Drugster.
When I returned from the doctor's office, I worked on my aesthetics paper until Car-girl was ready to drive out to Pizza Hut at 2:00; some other appointment had interfered with our usual time.
Say Bra & Vanessa called me an "otter".
I feel ashamed. I've been playing the role of an insane science fiction author for 30 years now, & although Stanley Schmidt, like neurosurgeons at paranoia's poison door screams for more, it never actually gets published. A few anti-credentials. A University degree idiots who don't know science scoff at. Like the guy who runs that impossibly bad Australian magazine, what's-their-name, who accused me of "truly atrociously bad science" & "reading way too much Robert Anton Wilson," simply because actual knowledge regarding philosophy of mind is not included in the pool of folk science his rocketships & ray-guns come from. If anything, in defending my work, I was too appeasing: I should've really insulted that editor. An editor who insults his contributors should not expect to continue to receive top-quality stories, if not anything at all.
After Trish & I left Pizza Hut with Car-girl, we checked 30 buckadingdongs out of Iron Claw. While Trish & Car-girl picked up groceries at the Invisible 7-11, I walked down the street (I made sure to ask the doctor about that) to Dawn's Drugs for my blood pressure meds -- still measuring high on their automatic cuff. In spite of No-man's recommendation that I may not need it, I need it, simply because I don't know if/when I do need it.
Trish arrived a few minutes after I did, & sorted thru the groceries. She fixed burritos & Spanish rice for supper.
I called Joe up at the TV sound & the dildo who refused to fix it. Joe thought it was simply hilarious, before going to bed.
I'm pulling a Newton -- Sir Isaac N. didn't think of himself as a scientist; he thought he was a historian & Bible scholar. Maybe I've missed my true calling. I'm going to try for the Atrium shopping mall if I can, 'cause it makes me feel like I'm a man to put a painting inside a gallery. Maybe I'll even get that racist Emmy to say a few words to me. Exchange secrets & techniques.
Or not.
I'll need to do a lot more "realistic" stuff before I can even dream of getting my paintings into a gallery.
Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said -- that painting, & a surreal city on wood, were both stolen from the Layout years ago, & I was left to simply mourn 2 blue-children. The police should've been involved. Those 2 were worth 100's of dollars, & only the Scoobies & the janitor could've done it.
Breakfast is soon to arrive: golden brown pancakes. Followed by the coffee-drinking ritual so many of my brothers also indulge in, the sane & insane ones alike.
Once Trish is safely at work, there comes the rewrite of "Galaxies" -- from scratch. & Horatio does not blow his Horn Blower. Changing "the Captain into the hero" (does she blow horns?) is an incredibly bad idea. & I suppose I'll have to drop the psi, but -- "too many angels"? One is too many? Especially when the symbolism (mercurial) is stated?
There are 2 "rules" for SF which I break & will continue to break, no matter how fiercely Critters reject them: I won't stop writing ambiguous stories, & I won't stop putting metaphysics in them. According to Murrin & Veeder, these are areas of SF that need to be fixed. I may tone it down some, but it's not going to go away. Same thing goes for dumbing my stories down. Explained, maybe, but not at the risk of losing the [technobabble] Baen's Universe accused me of -- there's a big difference between meaningful terms taken out of science & what that comix fan in South Africa accused me of.
So I'll start working on that today. Mostly 'cause I'm rather informal in my blog it might not show up, but my writing has improved significantly since I stopped Seroquel. I think maybe I was simply over-sedated. Zyprexa did the same thing, so perhaps I should once more sail my U-boat in stormy seas.
Legalize it!
The upstairs heater won't get turned on until all the hot days are over, i.e., tomorrow is supposed to hit 80 & I don't know if I want the pilot light warming the upstairs part to the point where it'd become unbearably hot. It's done this in the past.
Today, I am fixing pancakes for breakfast. Ever since the surgery, Trish has been stressing out about "taking care" of me. When I saw the doctor yesterday, he said I could even go truckin' to the Drugster.
When I returned from the doctor's office, I worked on my aesthetics paper until Car-girl was ready to drive out to Pizza Hut at 2:00; some other appointment had interfered with our usual time.
Say Bra & Vanessa called me an "otter".
I feel ashamed. I've been playing the role of an insane science fiction author for 30 years now, & although Stanley Schmidt, like neurosurgeons at paranoia's poison door screams for more, it never actually gets published. A few anti-credentials. A University degree idiots who don't know science scoff at. Like the guy who runs that impossibly bad Australian magazine, what's-their-name, who accused me of "truly atrociously bad science" & "reading way too much Robert Anton Wilson," simply because actual knowledge regarding philosophy of mind is not included in the pool of folk science his rocketships & ray-guns come from. If anything, in defending my work, I was too appeasing: I should've really insulted that editor. An editor who insults his contributors should not expect to continue to receive top-quality stories, if not anything at all.
After Trish & I left Pizza Hut with Car-girl, we checked 30 buckadingdongs out of Iron Claw. While Trish & Car-girl picked up groceries at the Invisible 7-11, I walked down the street (I made sure to ask the doctor about that) to Dawn's Drugs for my blood pressure meds -- still measuring high on their automatic cuff. In spite of No-man's recommendation that I may not need it, I need it, simply because I don't know if/when I do need it.
Trish arrived a few minutes after I did, & sorted thru the groceries. She fixed burritos & Spanish rice for supper.
I called Joe up at the TV sound & the dildo who refused to fix it. Joe thought it was simply hilarious, before going to bed.
I'm pulling a Newton -- Sir Isaac N. didn't think of himself as a scientist; he thought he was a historian & Bible scholar. Maybe I've missed my true calling. I'm going to try for the Atrium shopping mall if I can, 'cause it makes me feel like I'm a man to put a painting inside a gallery. Maybe I'll even get that racist Emmy to say a few words to me. Exchange secrets & techniques.
Or not.
I'll need to do a lot more "realistic" stuff before I can even dream of getting my paintings into a gallery.
Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said -- that painting, & a surreal city on wood, were both stolen from the Layout years ago, & I was left to simply mourn 2 blue-children. The police should've been involved. Those 2 were worth 100's of dollars, & only the Scoobies & the janitor could've done it.
Breakfast is soon to arrive: golden brown pancakes. Followed by the coffee-drinking ritual so many of my brothers also indulge in, the sane & insane ones alike.
Once Trish is safely at work, there comes the rewrite of "Galaxies" -- from scratch. & Horatio does not blow his Horn Blower. Changing "the Captain into the hero" (does she blow horns?) is an incredibly bad idea. & I suppose I'll have to drop the psi, but -- "too many angels"? One is too many? Especially when the symbolism (mercurial) is stated?
There are 2 "rules" for SF which I break & will continue to break, no matter how fiercely Critters reject them: I won't stop writing ambiguous stories, & I won't stop putting metaphysics in them. According to Murrin & Veeder, these are areas of SF that need to be fixed. I may tone it down some, but it's not going to go away. Same thing goes for dumbing my stories down. Explained, maybe, but not at the risk of losing the [technobabble] Baen's Universe accused me of -- there's a big difference between meaningful terms taken out of science & what that comix fan in South Africa accused me of.
So I'll start working on that today. Mostly 'cause I'm rather informal in my blog it might not show up, but my writing has improved significantly since I stopped Seroquel. I think maybe I was simply over-sedated. Zyprexa did the same thing, so perhaps I should once more sail my U-boat in stormy seas.
Legalize it!
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