Just before the end of the world year ends

I’m a disgrace. I never write

The drama continues

Although, actually, I think I have to start by calling a cease-fire on myself for having an opinion on my life (or lack thereof) and refrain from viewing it as drama, self-pity, or other negative appellations.

So, where to start.  I’m 50 years old and acting like I’m 150.  I do have some legit health issues, but it’s almost as if I’ve decided to just wallow in them instead of trying to improve the situation.  I have been waiting to die for years, since my father passed away.  It’s almost as though I think I owe it to them (both parents) to join them.  And it’s not as if we were a close, loving family.

This is going to be muddled beyond belief.  There is so much…stuff…bottled up.  Only the safe notion that no one will ever read this and marvel over my blatherings keeps me writing.

I also have to stop editing myself as I write.  My inner-wanna-be-author keeps trying to make this readable and comprehensible to the non-existent readers.

So, anyway, why do I STILL feel the need to protect a pair of alcoholics who should never have had a kid in the first place?  My mother said to me, flat out, that she never wanted kids.  And why does it feel like a betrayal to say these things even now?

My surrogate dad and friend, Ed, has been writing an opus about his life for years.  I suspect some of it could be considered tattling and sensitive revelations on past and present friends, but since I haven’t been privileged to read said opus, I’ll never know.  Where was I going with this? Oh.  I was thinking perhaps I should write my own opus.  It wouldn’t be nearly as interesting but, again, I rely on my non-existent readers to let me be free to say those all those things that still feel like betrayal.

Apologizing for Living

This is a notion I’ve been working on for awhile. I believe I’ve been destroying myself as some kind of bizarre apology or atonement to my deceased parents.

Time to get a grip.

A new year’s resolution

…to actually write in this blog, notably book reviews.  I would, and have, posted on Amazon, but generally reviews get swallowed by the effusions of the omnipresent Harriet Klausner and a few others like her.  There has been enough said about her (really) in places like Bloggasm that I won’t let my peeve with this woman off its leash. 

But here’s a peeve I will let loose.  I’ve read little bits and pieces here and there about people who don’t care for books written in first-person and wish reviewers would note that.  I think that’s a grand idea.  I happen to like books written in first person, but I can appreciate people disliking it and wanting to know if a book is written that way before they buy it.  Particularly important in this day of online purchasing when the buyer doesn’t actually handle the book.  (Amazon’s “look inside!” feature has been a blessing there, when it’s available.)

Here’s my peeve, though.  I wish reviewers would also note when a book is written in first-person present tense.  I personally hate that style and can’t get myself past it to find out if I would have enjoyed the book otherwise.  Some say first-person present tense is the strongest storytelling mode, but it’s definitely not to my taste.

Annoying commercials

I know I’m not the only one out there who is perplexed and irritated by the Cialis commericals with the bathtubs.  I know this because I Googled Cialis bathtubs.  No one has come up with a satisfactory answer to, first of all, wtf is the viewer to understand from these bathtubs, how did they get out in the middle of a field, and how did the tubs get filled?  And what does any of it have to do with limp dicks Erectile Dysfunction?  As unemployment rates skyrocket and the housing market continues to go ass up, these are important questions to ponder. 

Is anyone else mildly freaked out by seeing the Billy Mays commercials continue to air?  I understand the the companies who bought the commercial don’t want to lose all that money merely because the guy is dead, but it seems somehow ghoulish and greedy.  Someone should at least cgi some angel wings on his back or something…

There is a series of commercials from a local car dealer that I hate.  Hate.  Hate.  I wouldn’t buy a car from this guy if he were the only dealer left on the planet.  All I will say is “Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuug-ah!”  Anyone in the Albany, NY area knows whereof I speak.

Feh.

And so

Not sure what I am going to do with this blog…there’s a certain freedom here since it’s very unlikely anyone will be reading it.  Hmm.

Like so many people in the world, I am an aspiring writer.  I thought of using this forum to force myself to write something…anything.   The problem (the excuse) is that I am so busy reading that I never get to writing.   And I always want to write the type of book I’m reading, which isn’t helpful.  I seesaw between fantasy and urban fantasy most of the time, and just when I think I’m settled in one genre, I accidentally go to Borders.  I mean to go to PetSmart, but the stores are near each other.  Sort of…just one shopping plaza apart…with a Dunkin’ Donuts across the street. 

I also have an ellipses problem, as you can see.  ::sigh::  Well, at least I won’t be posting pics of my cute cat.  I promise.

Knackatory: a little of this…a little of that

In Chelsea, a little coffee house named Don Saltero’s became known across London not only for its coffee but also for its weird and wonderful museum, or ‘Knackatory’. Its creator was James Salter, an Irish barber who called himself Don Saltero and had formerly served in the household of Sir Hans Sloane, founder of the British Museum.
The coffee-house museum became known as the ‘Knackatory’ due to its bizarre collection of exhibits, including a piece of Solomon’s temple, a curious piece of metal found in the ruins of Troy, an unusual flea-trap, a piece of Queen Catherine’s skin and manna from Canaan!

Salter opened his business in around 1695 near to today’s Lawrence Street, and by 1717 had permanently established his coffee house at 18 Cheyne Walk. The coffee house is recorded as early as 1705 and survived in a number of different guises for another 150 years. ~The Nation’s Memory Bank