Sense of Adventure

I can’t tell … and if you want some clues, go here.

Click there now and check it out. Seriously. I’ll still be here when you get back.

Y’all know, probably (and if you don’t, hang around a spell and it’ll all become abundantly clear) that I’m more than somewhat slightly skeptical and cynical about conventional Big House publishing and publishers.

That said, Tor Books so far are doing a bang-up job promoting our spanky-brand-new Wild Cards offering, Inside Straight. They’re actually putting some effort into it. And the just-launched American Hero site is a wonderful step.

I’m basically in love with the site. Along with a very fine-looking logo we have brilliant headshots of all the contestant aces (I love Toadie’s big ol’ eye just staring at you) taken from the big group pictures done by artist Mike S. Miller. Farther down, past the first of what will be a continuing series of “confessionals” by the contestants, and a description of the reality-television series which drives the plot for much of the book, we see the group portraits themselves, along with rosters. Fortunately you can click on the group shots for larger versions, which is a good thing, because they’re freakin’ gorgeous.

They’re also, according to the characters’ creators - I’m not one, incidentally - pretty accurate, allowing for a wisp of artistic license. Frankly, from what I’ve read, they’re far, far closer to the characters as described than most illustrations I’ve seen. Indeed, I wish I’d had these pix to refer to when I was writing my sequences for the (ahem!) next volume, Busted Flush. Since some of the characters pictured play prominent roles in my contributions.

Ah, well. I’ll have ‘em for Book Three. Provided I’m in the volume … which, I have to say at the risk of tempting Fate, is fairly likely … they’ll be great to draw upon.

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Yes, as I was walking today on the path along the east side of the clear ditch north of the Río Grande Nature Center about half a mile south of Montaño, at 4:53 PM I saw a bald eagle fly in front of me, maybe 50-100 feet up and perhaps 100 yards off. Big dark bird, white tail, white head - only one bird of I know in North America looks like that. And I just confirmed the identification with the suave Kaufman Field Guide to Birds of North America which Santa brought me for Christmas (which is to say, I foresightfully bought myself and put under the tree late Christmas Eve.)

Now, this may be No Big Deal for those in some parts of the country -

moar funny pictures

- but that’s just the second time in my life I’ve knowingly seen a bald eagle in the wild. The first was several years ago, in roughly the same area.

A bald eagle. Now that is condensed awesomeness!

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Every night after I give Emma her dinner I bring her in and play with her with her Hideous Toy, then sit with her as she chews her rawhide bone. If she’s occupying herself I read, or write, or watch TV, or get online - as I’m doing now, in fact. Squeak almost always joins in - she can’t bear to have anything going on that she’s not part of. Right this moment, as I sit on the sofa writing this, Emma lies next to me with her head by my left leg and Squeak sits on the sofa arm to my right.

TJ usually turns up as well (no sign of him yet tonight) to just hang. He mostly keeps his distance from Emma; he appears to fear that if he consents to play with her, as she’s always importuning him to do, she might squash him accidentally. Which is not a particularly ill-grounded fear.

On the whole, it’s very pleasant Quality Time with the Family.

Last night after Emma finished her with her bone I went into the bedroom for a bit. When I emerged Emma was standing between the table at the end of the sofa that runs along the living room wall and the end of the other sofa that forms a sort of informal demarcation between living room and kitchen. She looked at me hopefully.

Usually that’s a sign she wants to go outside. But she didn’t. I checked to see if she wanted to play any more. She did not - which was good, since I was tired and needed to go to bed. Nor was she out of water.

Then she went over and sat on the floor toward the other end of the sofa and stared at me imploringly. I mean, really stared. I’ve never seen her stare so intently before.

She badly wanted me to do something. Indeed, it was apparent that she was trying to psychically will me into doing … something.

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When I’ve blogged about my animals it’s mostly been about Emma. I’m not sure why. Much as I love her, the cats and I are bonded much closer. We’ve got a lot more history.

Maybe that’s part of it. Tales about TJ and Squeak have tails, that reach back a dozen years. Emma’s been with us just going on four. Her stories are simpler.

Anyway, I was just sitting and going through my morning ritual of trying to get my brain to come on, always a significant undertaking. Currently it consists of doing some joint-mobilization moves and exercises, which I’d done, and then sitting on the couch drinking cocoa and reading Terry Pratchett Discworld novels.

Squeak, whose real name is Mia Antoinette, Red for Short (that’s all her name; no one’s ever called her “Red” for any reason whatsoever. See what I mean about backstory?) appeared on the back of the sofa at my left shoulder. She’s a gleaming black cat with auburn undercoat and a few stray white hairs which she’s always had, and eyes that range from amber to baleful yellow-green. She’s also a bit porky. She’s basically a black Siamese.

Anyway, she started dabbing tentatively at my left shoulder. This means she wants to lie on my chest and be cuddled. The problem was she couldn’t find an angle she liked to get into that position. Fortunately she’s not inclined to just launch herself and hope things settle out, which would almost certainly end in my getting numerous thin cuts sliced down my chest and belly by her claws.

So I picked her up and put her on my chest. At which, naturally, she put her ears back and bitched me right out. Then she settled down and began to purr happily.

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This hit me literally out of nowhere: the other day a message appeared in my e-box headed, “SCI FI NIGHT AT NM SCORPIONS HOCKEY,” from one Melissa Gomez, who proved to be the Director of Special Events for the New Mexico Scorpions hockey team (I’m presuming I’m not violating any confidence by posting this, since it concerns a public event, indeed a promotion.) At first I took it to be an invite for me to attend; on reading it, it turned out to be asking if I cared to participate.

Indeed do many things come to pass.

So what’s going on is, at 7:15 PM on Saturday, March 1^st 2008, the Scorpions will host a Sci-Fi Night at their game against the Colorado Eagles at the Santa Ana Star Center. For details I’ll just go ahead and quote the post verbatim:

“Mr. George Noory of Coast to Coast AM will be our guest that evening. Fans will have an opportunity to meet and ask questions. We would love to have local authors available to meet our fans and would like to extend an invitation to you to be our guest that evening. You will be able to display your books or upcoming events on the concourse and mingle with fans as they enter the arena at 6:00 pm. Currently local authors Walter Jon Williams, Jerry Weinberg and Jane Lindskold will also be joining us that evening.”

There you have it.

I wrote back to Ms. Gomez and said, basically, “Sure.” It sounds fun. And of course getting a chance to promote NM authors - myself notably included, o’ course - appeals to me. I don’t know exactly how big a draw a passel of SF authors will be at a hockey game, although if a lot of people turn out to see George Noory (Art Bell’s successor as host of the Coast to Coast overnight radio show, which deals with all sorts of weirdness) (as if you didn’t know) who knows? They might just find our high-quality local science fiction and fantasy entertainment product appealing too.

If nothing else, I’ll get to pass a pleasant evening with friends. I’ll go way out on a limb and predict there’ll be more of us there than Walter John, Jerry, Jane, and Your Humble and Disobedient. Not that anything sucks about that lineup…

And it should be a hoot to meet George Noory. Maybe he’ll decide to have some NM SF authors on his show some evening? We’re a fairly entertaining bunch, if I do say so myself as oughtn’t.

So if you’re in the area that night and find yourself at loose ends, fall by. You don’t know less about hockey than I do. It isn’t possible. We might even become fans. Stranger things happen. I’m just sure.

Yesterday (technically, day before now; but I only count it as a new day if I’ve been to sleep) I was awakened by a whump from the front porch, followed by Emma barking furiously.

By the time I found my robe and struggled into it and reeled to the front door I’d figured out, of course, what it likely was. A brand new box o’ Annja!

She has a somewhat new look on the new cover (for a larger image, and one which isn’t an ill-concealed ad, click here.) On some earlier covers her face was, at least to me, markedly reminiscent of Jessica Alba’s. Now, I think Jessica Alba has a nearly angelically beautiful face - too bad the child can’t act a lick. But she ain’t Annja.

This time, aside from those funky lips that seem to verge way too close upon Mick Jagger territory, she looks much more as I envision her, with a longer, less round face. Think more Hillary Swank or Jill Wagner, who played Krista Starr in the awful Blade TV series.

I really love the way her eye and part of her face are reflected in her Mystic Blade. Too bad it doesn’t appear to be sharpened…

Also this version of Annja seems to present her for the first time, at least on one of my covers, as a beautiful, sophisticated young woman who, if she happens to think you need it, will fucking kill you.

On other fronts … no graceful segue here … I’m befuzzled and off-balance. More so than usual. I haven’t been sick much this fall and winter. Until a week and half ago, when I got a scratchy throat, inclining to soreness, and then my chest got socked-in with bronchitis. It’s come and gone and actually was at its worse a couple of days ago: Monday it was all I could do not to sleep all day. Finally it seems to be breaking up some.

It’s been a bit rough. Not because I’ve felt terrible - I haven’t, mostly. Even when I’ve had a sore throat it hasn’t hurt much. But I’ve been short of breath and, along with the aforementioned drowsiness, often had a hard time focusing mentally. That makes it hard to get much done.

Poor Emma’s going stir crazy because we haven’t been out to walk in so long. I intended to go today until the wind came up. The cold cut through me like a scythe. Tomorrow isn’t looking any too promising either…

Ahh, the sweet, sweet sound of water rushing unimpeded through the blown-out stub in my backyard! It fills my heart with joy.

Who knew that would ever happen?

Here’s how it did.

When last we left our hero, his easy-going nature was getting sorely freakin’ tested by his household plumbing.

I woke this morning at around 9 AM and found myself unable to go back to sleep. Visions of plumbing danced in my head (it’ll never replace sugar plums. And what are sugar plums, anyway? Face it, visions of plumbing won’t even replace visions of hippos dancing in tutus.) So I decided that, even though my body cried out for more sleep, I’d go ahead and hook up the new faucet out back and get everything flowing again.

I padded out back with wrench and assembly in hand. Only to find the PVC join I’d cemented onto the stub yesterday completely encased in ice.

Oh … dear. Apparently water had seeped out despite my having cut the supply off out on the sidewalk. Which brought to mind the distinctly unpleasant possibility that water standing in the pipes had been driven by freezing pressure. In all of my pipes. Had more of them ruptured over the night?

There’s a happy thought.

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I must’ve been missing more sleep than I thought; wound up unable to stay awake until like eleven hours after I went to sleep. Happens.

But I was awake for a spell around 10 AM. Emma wanted out a bit earlier. It’s cold as a politician’s heart out there; she wanted back in pretty expeditiously. So I padded to the back door to retrieve her.

As I did I became aware of a persistent mechanical sound. After a moment I identified it as a helicopter. They fly over my house all the time. Once or twice a week I see V-22 Ospreys (aka Flying Crematoria) go over.

But this noise wasn’t Dopplering or showing other signs of movement. When I opened the back door I saw a helicopter hovering not very far to the west. A check with binocs confirmed it was the KOAT-TV News bird.

So I went back to bed and clicked on Channel 7. They were showing, I believe, The View, in the right-hand pane of a split window. On the left was live aerial footage of what the crawl bar beneath described as “Albuquerque home in flames.”

Indeed. And indeed it proved to be on Grande near Griegos, a block past 12^th Street. Basically ten or so blocks due west of me - half a mile to a mile away.

I didn’t see much by way of flames coming from the house, not that I particularly wanted to. What really caught my attention was that the street was on fire.

Let me repeat that: The Street. Was On Fire.

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Yes, it’s official: Christmas has knocked me on my kiester. I’ve basically felt like a lump of lead all day.

That’s not so surprising: I’ve been pushing pretty hard the last few days: writing, engaging in intense socializing (which always drains me, although I don’t get enough of it) and not sleeping as much as I should. Even after a protracted, if somewhat sporadic, sleep I felt pretty inert.

What did startle me was how much I ached. I felt, as if I told Joe when he called about 2 this afternoon, as if I’d been beaten with big bats.

(He asked me how big and what kind of a cave they came from. I told him those poodle-sized Philippine fruit bats that P. J. O’Rourke once said resembled lieutenant colonels in the rat air force. And they live in trees, not caves.)

One thing I thought might’ve contributed was having to push a car last night up Melinda’s driveway. Which is a quarter mile long and ends in an Alp. Joe said, “Well, as you know, the best way to push a car is to turn around, rest your butt against it, and push with your legs.” Well, talk about overestimating me; no, I told him, I didn’t know that. Although it’s one of those things that’s totally obvious after it’s been pointed out to you.

Christmas was good to me. Rode up to Melinda’s with my friend Chip, who lives but a few blocks away. She lives on a ridgetop. A somewhat narrow, steep-sided ridgetop. It does give her a stupefying view of what seems like about two-thirds of New Mexico.

The dirt road up from the highway, and of course her driveway, was pretty snow-packed. We were a bit concerned about predictions of later snow. Those proved, thankfully, incorrect. Chip’s concerns about getting back out, not so much.

I had a great time. Melinda’s husband Carl (who actually designed the house – which is incredible) was back from his gig overseeing some kind of gigantic building project in downtown Las Vegas. Various other friends were also in attendance: Wanda June and her daughter Rhea, who’s a very skilled artist; the ever-sardonic Ty Franck and his wife Jayné, who looks like Angelina Jolie; and George RR Martin and Parris.

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Christmas Eve rivals Christmas for my favorite day of the year.

Somebody, presumably the neighborhood association, lined our sidewalks with luminarias this year, as I discovered when I peeked out in late afternoon. I seem to remember they passed around a flyer saying something about it months ago; I spaced it out. They did a fine job, spacing them properly a yard between centers, and with the seams to the rear (why can’t people get that right?) I suspect they didn’t have much clue in advance how labor intensive an undertaking it was going to be.

What with one thing and another I didn’t get out for my traditional early Christmas Eve dinner at Steak & Ale (French onion soup, stuffed mushrooms, the rarest prime rib I can get out of them). Which was okay, especially since last night I got a nice steak at Outback with some of the local crew anyway.

But nothing was going to hold me back from my traditional walk with Joe from his house in the Sawmill District down to Old Town. We must’ve been doing this nigh on twenty years now. His daughter Juana Inez went with us. Joe bought me a hot cocoa at a shop run by a friend of his, we wandered around, gawked at the lights and crowds, visited San Felipe de Neri church and Saints & Martyrs, which is a very cool shop largely featuring old Mexican and Spanish religious relics, the Lady Chapel in its secret little plaza.

Then we walked back and Joe’s family opened presents while we drank some kind of hot fruit punch (non-alcoholic) and Juana Inez’s Chihuahua Tinkerbell generally ran amok. Joe gave me the new Mormon Tabernacle Choir Christmas CD, Spirit of The Season, which plays on the iPod as I write this. It’s lovely - Joe knows I really enjoy Christmas music.

Then I bade them Merry Christmas and took my leave. My evening had just begun. I headed home to collect Emma Dog for another Christmas Eve tradition. Only in the past it hasn’t included her. I’m not sure why.

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