Again. Yes, it’s something I haven’t done a lot of the last few years.
This afternoon I did something I (rather inexplicably) have never done before: stepped out my front door and walked two blocks to Red’s barbershop on North Fourth. It’s in a small storefront in a block of none-too-upscale commercial spaces. (We don’t have a lot of upscale commercial spaces in this part of Albuquerque’s North Valley. That’s part of its charm.)
Red’s is tiny. It’s just a partitioned-off sliver of a different none-too-large business. It doesn’t even have its own discrete entrance. It’s a one-seater operation, with like an old red vinyl sofa and some even older wooden chairs for waiting, and a refrigerator for … not sure what, exactly. Red himself, the barber, is a soft-spoken, slightly gruff but pleasant older Latino gentlemen, who grew up not far from here when this part of the Valley was mostly farmland, and in fact still grows vegetables and fruit trees on his place a ways up north.
And see … this is kinda why I moved here, 25 years ago last month (!). Aside from the proximity to irrigation ditches where I love to walk. And of course the river, and the Rio Grande Nature Center. This part of the North Valley consists largely of weird, clapped-out looking commercial buildings (some of which house pretty good machine shops and auto repair garages, among other things) interspersed with pleasant neighborhoods – and some very rural areas. It’s not sterile. It’s bizarre and disreputable. That’s why I like it.
And Red’s is totally North Valley. It has a stuffed baby alligator on the front window sill and mariachi music softly playing on the radio.
Naturally, I fell in love with the place. I’ll be going back. Didn’t get a bad cut, either.
*But, as you know, I have no power over the desire to link to 1960s-early ’70s rock songs.
So as periodically happens in the Spring, Albuquerque has been overtaken with a Moth Deluge.
Mostly what I object to is the way the cats go into Total Instinct Mode, suppressing all individuality and judgement (such as they even have) and blasting around the house after the moths in frenzy fueled by rage at the cosmic injustice of the fact that moths can fly and cats cannot. Needless to such much that is movable gets forcibly moved, including paintings on the goddam living room wall. And much that is movable is also breakable, and, well….
But what I find I really object to is the way the moths seem to somehow infiltrate the front screen/security door. It’s annoying enough to have them swarm around me in their scores and vile hundreds every time I open the goddam door to go outside – fortunately, I can get the majority of them to fly out.
But what gets to me most is how the little fuckers crap all over me.
No, the Official Editorial Rewrite Notesstill haven’t gotten here. The good news is that there is reason to believe they are about to.
The bad news was I also got what I thought was reason to suspect the editor was going to ask me to make fundamental changes to the story I’m telling – which would mean, functionally, across the entire trilogy. And, short form: no.
The better news is that seems all cleared up now.
Emergency Kitten Blog! (Content unrelated.)
I won’t go into any great detail (given my propensity for Cyclopean posts, this is presumably a relief to all.) Basically, The Editor seemed to be hinting he wanted changes I just wasn’t going to make. Per Super Agent Kay’s excellent advice I straight-up braced him on it.
And he straight-up came back, right promptly, too, and said, no. No changing the story. He meant he wanted a lot of relatively small changes.
So tonight my friend Joe and I had our customary Thursday dinner at Sadie’s, followed as usual by a four-mile walk along the bike path that runs by the Rio Grande Nature Center. During the course of which I laughed so loudly at something he said that I set off a whole pack of coyotes to yipping and barking down by the river.
Afterwards, again per normal, we came back and sat in my living room talking and listening to music. We remarked on how lugubrious one song was – like a lot of Celtic music. I talked about how I really enjoy Celtic fiddle music. Except most of the songs are about horrible things. Which is why I’m partial to Celtic fiddle music.
Sometimes, though, even the melody is depressing. I mentioned one in particular: “The Skye Boat Song,” which while beautiful and poignant is so depressing I was glad I didn’t know what it was about, since I was sure it was incalculably depressing.
So naturally Joe had to tell me the words to the damn song. And guess what? IT WAS ENTIRELY DEPRESSING.
So when Emma Dog and I hit Bear’s Ditch, our favorite place to walk, the first thing she does is go in the water to drink and cool off. This afternoon after she’d waded around for a while she started to shake herself. As in, dry. Then she visibly caught herself and got this look like, “Oh.”
We play a little game. Or rather, Emma plays a game that I perforce have to play along with. When she gets out of the ditch she tries to shake water on me. If she does, she wins. (It’s not a sophisticated game. Emma is a straightforward kind of girl.)
I have few doubts that she does it deliberately as a game. For one thing, she knows perfectly well it bugs me: it makes me hop around and cuss. Which she obviously thinks is funny.
So, having finally got my Exercise/Anti-Goathead Mat last weekend, I finally assayed the Turkish Getup in my backyard.
Actually, to start with, I did what Pavel calls the “Half Getup,” which means after you hoist the weight you push yourself up on one elbow. Thus:
Only you stop halfway.
Even the Half Getup turned out to be … not so easy as it looks. And if you don’t think that looks particularly easy … still, less easy.
And that’s with a kettlebell smaller than the one the young lady is using in the video. Who is just over half my weight. (I link to that particular video because even if I knew what the Hell I was doing, she’d look way better than me doing it.)
It turned out not bad. By which I mean, I did one half-getup from either side, more or less, without incurring any apparent structural damage. The Getup actually seems less risky to me in ways than my faithful swing, since you really have to be careful at all times swinging a kettlebell not to blow out a knee or your lower back.
Then again, if you’re not careful doing the Turkish Getup, there is a chance of dropping a 35-pound (or more) kettlebell on your face. Which Pavel suggests might be a Bad Thing. And who am I to question the Master?
Or at least part of it – the part of the world called Paradise where all the action in The Dinosaur Lords takes place: the Empire of Nuevaropa, which occupies the body of land called the Tyrant’s Head.
Visit scenic Nuevaropa!
I told you I was working on the map! See how wrong you were to doubt me?
It is, as promised, a glimpse and no more.
In fact the map is actually much larger and, hence, clearer. But since I haven’t yet labeled anything, there doesn’t seem much point. That said, this version does show the major features, plus several minor sites which figure prominently in the text. If you’ve read the swell free online sample chapters (and if you haven’t, why not?) or have read the Whole Damn Thing (if so, thanks!), you may well be able to pick them out. They’re Mirkgrad in the Misty March, where our protagonist Karyl hails from; Terraroja (called Tierra Roja in the online draft); and Providence Town, seat of County Providence, where coincidentally the book opens.
So I’ve been taking off the last few days. I hadn’t really intended to. But there you have it.
So one thing I’ve been doing is playing around with … guess.
Just your average, everyday Thalassodromeus. If by "everyday," you mean, "108 million years ago. In Brazil."*
Yeah, so if I can’t play with dinosaurs (and their fellow Mesozoic beasties) why the Hell am I writing an epic fantasy novel called The Dinosaur Lords?
Or actually, rewriting.
And right now … I’m not even doing that. It’s what I find myself taking enforced time off from.
So my American Tolkien* recliner chair is broken. And as intrinsically not-very-important hassles go, this is a Big Deal.
But before I get to serious whingeing, enjoy this obscene song about a Pterodactyl, as animated by The Oatmeal guy.
Feel better now? I know I do. Also, anyone who rolls with Plateosaurus is a player. I’m just saying. (Thanks, I think, to Oliver Mellors, who posted the link over on the Facebook.)
So yeah. The recliner that serves as my current Chair of Command is jammed. The foot rest will not retract. The axle or bolt that connects the hinge mechanisms on both sides has apparently sheared through. And I can’t figure out if it’s going to even be possible to repair shy of replacing the whole assembly. Which I know would suck.
And this is a substantial pain in the ass. For one thing, this means it sticks way the hell out in the middle of my living room floor, which has no great overabundance of free space to begin with. I can manage that to a degree by angling it back out of the way when it’s not in use.
Also, it makes it kind of gymnastic getting in and out of it.
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