I felt it was time to go back, and [...]]]> So, last week I started in studying taijiquan again, after a hiatus of years. I went back to Lotus Dragon Authentic Chinese Tai Chi, where I started studying almost exactly ten years ago with Sifu Dug Corpolongo (although the school was called something else back in 2002.)

I felt it was time to go back, and it was. Sifu Dug’s a great guy, and his students and instructors are lovely people. Very congenial place – and I had forgotten just how excellent a teacher Dug is.

And … nothing says thanks for taking me back as a starting over student like disrupting class and making a complete dork of myself.

It was, at the very least, inadvertent. I didn’t fall through the mirror or make inappropriate jokes (or too many.)

Tonight I wore some suave new sweatpants to class for the first time, since my cargo pants with suspenders, while excellent in their own right, did not a salubrious martial arts practice outfit make. Since I was planning on going somewhere immediately after class (SPOILER ALERT: I didn’t make it) I brought a bag with my street clothes rolled inside. Including of course my cargo pants (with suspenders.)

Right before Laoshir (instructor) Ken started us on warm-ups I realized I still had my keys in my pocket – these sweats are so suave they actually have pockets. So I took them out and stuck ‘em in my moccasins, where I also stashed my wallet and asthma inhaler.

After class, as the advanced class was starting, I bade everyone good night and went off to change in the bathroom.

And I could not find my keys.

I started looking everywhere, with increasing franticosity*. No keys. Checked the cubby where I’d stashed my stuff. Checked the cubbies under it. Checked the bathrooms I’d used to change in – the latter to wash my hands in, since the sink in the one I actually changed in had a little Ganesha statue in it, on top of what I can only describe as … apparent colorful Asian stone dildos, and it seemed disrespectful, not to mention possibly unwise, to wash my hands on top of them.)

During the course of this searching frenzy naturally some of the senior students wondered what was wrong. I told them. They asked if I thought to check the multifarious pockets of the aforementioned cargo pants. Three times. They asked if I had searched the equally many pockets of the soft-sided briefcase I was using in lieu of a gym bag. Indeed: three times. They asked if I might have left them in the car. I said I could swear I had noticed I had them in my pocket and stuck them in my shoe. Had I checked my shoes? they asked. I said yes, when I’d retrieved my wallet and inhaler. And the keys weren’t subtle; surely I’d feel them if I had left them in the shoes with my damn feet.

I checked with the hairdresser who worked at the place that hosts the kuan – which I’d be happy to name and give a free plug to, had  I only been able to resist the “Asian dildo” crack up there – and the lady she was working on, who were highly sympathetic and understanding but no, hadn’t found any keys.

Just to make sure, I went out to the car. It was cold. Did I mention I’d wisely decided to leave my coat in the car, so as not to have to stuff it in a cubbyhole as well? That.

It was cold.

Also, no car keys. Shining my pocket flashlight (yes, I’m a nerd; this surprises you?) inside I was unable to see them still in the ignition, say, or lying on the floor.

Went back inside, where I was by now pretty sure my keys weren’t, but where it was warm. To find that Sifu Dug aand the students had been searching – all through the … whatever you call a whole thing like a bookcase that’s filled with cubbyholes. And also behind … that thing. They had found no keys either.

So at this point I was about profoundly screwed. I couldn’t make it home without my keys. Nor to the place I was going to go afterwards (yeah, you already know I didn’t make it.) Also I’d left my regular bag with my netbook locked safely in the trunk. Where I couldn’t retrieve it, without my keys.

But that wasn’t the real problem. I could get a ride. If only I could, you know. Get in my house.

And aside from the sleeping in the street thing – I could probably cadge a place to stay, too; I have wonderful friends, as I think you’ve gathered, and possibly are one – there was the Emma Dog issue. Emma of the large but not infinite bladder capacity. Emma who was expecting Daddy to come feed her eventually.

One of the students (possibly a senior student) named Bill asked if it would help if I could get in the car. yes, I said; aside from the distant chance I had left them inside and they were out of easy sight, I could at least get my damn coat. So he kindly called AAA to come and open the puppy up.

Fortunately, some of my friends retain spare keys to my house. Fortunately Kathy and Steve Kubica, who are such friends, were home when I called. Yes, they would come and get me and let me into my house if I couldn’t find my keys.

So I went and sat quietly by the … cubbyhole thing … and tried not to broadcast too many negative waves, screw up everybody’s qi.  Anyway, since Kathy had agreed to get me and let me in, that was a huge load off my mind.

I decided to check all those God-damned pockets all over again. Still no keys. So I decided I might as well check the shoes. I mean, I knew the keys couldn’t possibly be inside them still. But still – they were the last place I was fairly sure they’d been.

Took off the left moccasin and shook it. Nada. Took off the right one and shook it.

The keys dropped right into my damn hand.

Apparently I made some kind of noise. Everybody stopped doing the form and looked at me. Sheepishly, I held up my keys.

“Sorry?”

So after I apologized like a kajillion more times, and thanked everybody almost as much, I decided to come straight home. I was done. I’d had a full day already. Which was a good thing, up until our story began. And it turns out that screwing up takes way more energy than many more obviously energetic forms of not screwing up.

So … what did you do that made you feel like a complete halfwit today?

*”Franticosity” is not actually a word. I just made it up. I am a professional. Do not try this at home. Or if you do, at least please try to come up with a better word than “franticosity.” .

A Very TJ Christmas

Merry Christmas Eve, everybody! And also Christmas.

So my Wild-Caught Christmas Tree is all up and decorated and everything. You can see what TJ Cat thought of it (Emma Dog stayed dubious about it for rather longer. Squeak Kitty was like, “Whatever.”) [...]]]> Yes, it’s my favorite day of the year! And it’s here.

A Very TJ Christmas

Merry Christmas Eve, everybody! And also Christmas.

So my Wild-Caught Christmas Tree is all up and decorated and everything. You can see what TJ Cat thought of it (Emma Dog stayed dubious about it for rather longer. Squeak Kitty was like, “Whatever.”) To see the whole before-and-after saga, please visit my Flickr set on the subject.

Also shown in the set: new bird ornaments! Since I was a kid I’ve had a family tradition of getting a new bird ornament for Christmas each year. Since I missed a few years recently – and in honor of my Wild-Caught Christmas Tree – I got two.

The one on the left (a little hard to make out; sorry) represents the birder’s nightmare: the bird you’re trying to photograph perching on your camera.

On an unrelated subject, you can view a set from an amusing incident from yesterday’s trip to walk with Emma by the Rio Grande Nature Center. As usual I parked on a little side street to the east of the Center proper, along the south side of what I think is actually called the Candelaria Farms Wildfowl Preserve, which is attached to the RGNC. As I got out of the car, a bunch of Sandhill cranes promptly came walking toward us. Apparently they thought I was going to throw them treats.

Sadly, they were disappointed. I had no corn.

As I put my camera away a gaggle of Canada geese came waddling up. I prudently withdrew before they all turned into an angry, feathered mob. So for your viewing pleasure (and a bonus holiday treat) I present The Optimistic Cranes.

So:   tree achieved. Gifts wrapped (and some even distributed!) Now to savor my favor day,

Got a mess of baking today for tomorrow – want to try my low-sugar pumpkin pie recipe with a new starch-free crust, and a brand-new attempt to adapt an eggnog cheesecake recipe, using my old standby crushed-pecan crust! Also I’m going to use my new (and somewhat pricey) coconut flour to try making biscuits. Finally, I think I’ll roast some pumpkin seeds, some with green chile and garlic powder, and maybe do some with curry.

Also some writing (of course!) And maybe some video games.

Then an early Christmas Eve dinner, and off for my annual Old Town walking light tour with my best friend Joe!

So, busy. Best get that way!

Merry Christmas to all.  And as always – thanks for reading!

And I’ve finished my shopping! And have most of the presents on hand.  Now all I have to do is gift-wrap ‘em.

Thanks to the kindness of my friends Dan and Ruth Blair, [...]]]> Christmas season, it’s hardly any secret, is my favorite time of the year. And Christmas Eve is my favorite day of all.

And I’ve finished my shopping! And have most of the presents on hand.  Now all I have to do is gift-wrap ‘em.

Thanks to the kindness of my friends Dan and Ruth Blair, down Mexico way, I even have a package of my own! It comes wrapped in a festive blue sack, with a major golden ribbon. Impressive.

Soon I’ll even have a tree to put it under – my very first wild-caught one. Thanks to Harriet Engle, whose answer to my Christmas tree dilemma I decided to follow, and Tom Sittler.

So it all comes together. I even got in a bit of a Christmas-light cruise tonight. I hope to do many more – although it freaks me out a little bit how little time is left until actual Christmas.

Well, I plan to make the most of it. Hope you do too.

Socializing with my friends is a big part of the season’s joy for me. I have a fair amount of that lined up. And I hope to get in plenty more.

While I don’t expect Christmas presents, I admit I much enjoy receiving as well as giving. Which applies to other things as well, which since this is a family-friendly blog (kinda, sorta) we’ll gloss right over….  So, anyway, should you feel inclined to get me something, you can find my Amazon Wish List here.

And keep watching the skies, or at least this blog, for some hot dinosaur-related updates. The Big Rewrite of The Dinosaur Lords proceeds; I’m itching to get this done so I can start writing the next one!

Have a wonderful holiday season, everybody!

And as always – thanks for reading!

Discuss, please. Here in the Comments, or on Facebook or Twitter.

One way I try to accomplish getting out of my own way – which is working, [...]]]> I am toying with the notion that my most important, and hardest, job as a writer (and perhaps in life as a whole) is getting out of my own way.

Discuss, please. Here in the Comments, or on Facebook or Twitter.

One way I try to accomplish getting out of my own way – which is working, though gradually, as like any habit it takes time to instill – is breaking down the necessities of a good, effective, pleasurable, and full life (to me, different aspects of the same thing) into Five Elements:

1. Making.
2. Play.
3. Socializing
4. Exercise.
5. Maintenance.

Yeah, I like numbered lists. And the number five appeals to me. Because it does.

I consider these elements as actions I can take. They are, as I said, necessary for a full – therefore good – day.

I also am working hard to instill the habit of only allowing myself to do things that fall into one or more of those categories.

There are other ways I use to phrase the same elements to myself, when I remind myself of them. Making can also come out as Creating or, yes, as Work – since the work I get paid for is those other things. Play is also Pleasure, or even Fun. And Exercise encompasses both physical exercise, such as walking with the beloved Emma Dog on the ditch, and meditation – spiritual and mental exercise. As most delightfully and effectively accomplished, I find, walking with the beloved Emma Dog on the ditch.

My main ground rule about the Five Elements is not to get wrapped around the axle – or more appropriately: not get in my own way! – about definitions. Or about what belongs where.

For a long time – largely because I was trained in that along with many self-negating habits, and because it’s the easy, obvious explanation – I thought I had trouble performing up to my potential because I was lazy. But eventually it struck me that lazy people don’t write – and sell, and publish – 100 novels. Which, más o menos, I have.

(And yes, my above-linked Bibliography sorely wants updating. I just have higher priorities; sorries.)

Eventually I discovered the truth: I’m a perfectionist. And if I let myself, I will talk myself out of doing … well, almost anything I need/want to do.  Because I convince myself I can never possibly do it well enough.

Yes, I know it’s irrational. It’s a habit.

A habit that has a particularly pernicious application to my trying to categorize or organize anything. Again if I allow myself, I’ll get so involved in ever-descending minuteness of detail, and so obsessed with trying to fit every damn quantum into its right and proper pigeonhole, that eventually I break down in frustration because I, well, can’t.

No one can. Because perfection, while a laudable longest-term goal – pursuit of which I joyously anticipate will keep me fresh in my craft as long as I’m able to do it – is not actually attainable in the real world.

So what I do when trying to figure out which of the Five Elements a given activity falls into … I punt. I remind myself: who cares? Most important; why should I?

Writing – which is my day job (you knew that, yes?) – is, no shit, Work. Yet when I do it right – when I Let Go, Let Leo – get out of my own way – it gives me the most pleasure of anything I do. It is, palpably, Play. And also, because what’s entailed in the Letting Go, Letting Leo thing, a definite spiritual Exercise. And since, of course, if I don’t do it, I don’t get paid, and neither do the dog-food merchants nor the mortgage company nor the power companies, it’s manifest Maintenance.

I could no doubt gyrate it into Socializing, somehow. If I had more time and energy than I do to devote to this (unpaid*) piece. I’m flexible, that way. But you get the point, yes?

Which is: that’s all fine. I refuse to try to stick any activity into a given pigeonhole. Nor try to define the Elements in exclusive terms, so that an activity must and can belong to only one.

The key things are: I must do something – possibly many things – from each category each and every day. And I must only allow myself to do things that sensibly fall into one or more category. Which is, of course, the hard part.

As always, when I toss these tidbits out, I’m telling you what works or has worked for me – and when, and to the extent, I follow the Five Elements, I indeed lead a fuller, more productive, hence more joyous life – in hopes that they might work for you. I cannot promise you they will work for you – because the Second Iron Law of Writing is that One Size Never Fits All. They won’t likely cost you much – as in, nothing – and I doubt they’ll do you any harm to try. (Though no warranties: proceed at own risk!)

I will mention that I know the aforementioned Five Words and Let Go, Let Leo work and have worked for other people, and not just in writing but in other areas of life, because people have told me they do. They, as well as others they have passed the tools along to – for that’s what concepts and techniques like these are – have tried them and found them useful.

Like all tools, they don’t suit every person, nor every purpose. They’re meant to be tried, and used as one finds helpful. And if that includes simply discarding them – well, that’s cool too. It’s part of the plan.

So I submit the concept of the Five Elements for your consideration. As well as the Elements (Work, Pleasure, Socializing, Exercise, Maintenance) themselves. Feel free to mix’n'match, or define your own Elements: what actions are necessary to live what you define as a good day.

May they bring you joy and success, however you define those things.

And if they don’t serve you, forget ‘em! Or stick them back in the toolbox for a later time at which they might merit another try.

I want everyone to be happy and rich so they are fun to be around and can buy my stuff. That’s how I define my selfishness.

And by everyone I especially mean you – my beloved friends, fans, and readers.

And as always – thanks for reading!

*Pop quiz time: Writing blog posts such as this falls obviously, to me, into at least two of the Elements, maybe more. Can you spot them? Remember, if there’s a plausible argument why an action should fit, it does!

Yes, I’m actually considering buying a fake tree. This year. Now, más s o menos. (Which as every schoolchild knows is Spanish for, for sufficiently large values of ‘now.’) And you can [...]]]> So my whole life I’ve spurned fake trees and insisted on getting real ones. And now I am … tempted by the Dark Side.

Yes, I’m actually considering buying a fake tree. This year. Now, más s o menos. (Which as every schoolchild knows is Spanish for, for sufficiently large values of ‘now.’) And you can help me decide!

(And there! I did what we’re supposed to do with a blog post: start off with the punchline. That oughta be good for boosting my site views into actual double digits!)

Moving on … I’ve been thinking about making the switch for a while. All my life I got real trees. When I got them at all – after I was on my own I don’t remember getting a tree until I had a live-in partner. Much as I love Christmas, it just seemed … disproportionate.

Then since things caved in on my head back in 2000 (since which, coincidentally, I’ve lived alone except for the four-legged family members) I’ve gone with not just real but live trees. Little ones, like a foot tall or so – usually Afghan pines. They’re pretty and smell nice. They’re also manageable.

But they’re a tad pricey: little buggers run about $25. And each year I tell myself I’m gonna nurse them through the holidays (which to me last at least until January 6th … if not Super Bowl Sunday), and then plant ‘em somewhere on the property. And then each year, one way or another I reliably kill the poor things.

Since I seem to’ve kind of established a pattern here, I’m kinda veering away from the little potted trees. I’m honestly not sure where I’d plant one, anyway; they’d overwhelm my front yard, and the places I’d put one (much less a young forest, if I actually, you know, succeeded more than once) are either occupied or would block too much sunlight during wintertime.

Also, truth to tell, I kind of miss ornaments. Oh, I have a metric boatload of Christmas ornaments. And lights, too. But there aren’t too many ornaments that, you know, fit on a foot tall micro-tree. They look all sweet and Christmas-y and heartwarming with their winding of red LED lights and the little gold tinsel star up top. But … they still lack something. By which I mean ornaments.

Of course I could go back to real, real-life-sized trees. But there’s the whole “tree corpse” issue. Not that I scruple about putting flower corpses in vases on my mantel for decorative purposes. And also not as if all the poor live trees I’ve previously bought haven’t wound up as (little, pathetic) tree corpses. In red foil-wrapped pots.

There’s also the whole maintenance issue: watering, needle loss, fire risk. Those things all pertain with the bitty trees, of course. But they swell proportionately with the full-sized trees. Especially since, being cut and all, they’re trickier to keep damn the needles stuck on.

Thus my dilemma: stay natural, or go fake?

Yesterday I saw a pretty, pre-lit fake tree at Costco. Which tempted me. Until I took a gander at the price tag: $250. Ouch! So if I go the fake route, I’ll shop around for a more affordable model. As I said, it’s not as if I don’t have my own lights.

Therefore, my beloved friends, fans, and readers (all several dozen of you): what do you think I should do?

(About the Christmas tree issue, I mean. Not that I’d try to stifle your creativity in making unrelated suggestions as to what I can do. Also, not that it’d work.)

On other subjects … my Bogus Automotive Adventure had a most triumphant ending, thanks to the auto-mechanical wizardry of my friend and fellow ASFSan Tom Sittler. In that the car now starts, and what’s better, actually runs. Thanks to a new alternator and a new voltage regulator.

Of course, now I have to have him come back to fix the car’s dead heater fan. Which I suspect is a late casualty of the protracted electrical-system faux pas that I hope has been at last resolved. Because heat is good when the temperature’s dropping to neglibily above zero the way it’s been at night.

He’s a good guy and a handy lad, is Tom. If you need something done around the house or car, you could do worse than give him a call.

Otherwise, the critters and I are all doing fine. I’m behind in my real writing. (Again.) Life continues. Which as I know too well is no given.

So I’d, uh, better wrap up here….

Then again, any day you can walk away from is a good day. And I quite thankfully have.

It started on less than four hours’ sleep and a trip to an 8 AM doctor’s appointment. To discover the doctor wasn’t in, but was off having knee surgery (understandable, granted.) And [...]]]> So yesterday sure went in the tank.

Then again, any day you can walk away from is a good day. And I quite thankfully have.

It started on less than four hours’ sleep and a trip to an 8 AM doctor’s appointment. To discover the doctor wasn’t in, but was off having knee surgery (understandable, granted.) And despite what the receptionists claimed, of course no one called me. I did get a new appointment, which for a miracle wasn’t in the early (to me) morning. But still: a waste, and left me tired and on my back foot all day.

Out buying supplies at Wally World after a nap, my Dollar Store reading glasses, which made me look like Gordon Freeman, busted right across the nose-piece. At least these actually cost $1 – the last pair I got at a “dollar” store set me back $6, so adjust your BS meter on those “stupid customers asking the price at the dollar store” stories accordingly. Fortunately this was easily remedied: I went straightaway and found an $8 pair in a style I like better. Then again, the $1 pair, aside from causing me to look like a wannabe hipster – that may be one of the saddest phrases I’ve ever written – lasted like 3 weeks. So, not that bad a price.

As I got ready  to leave the Costco lot  later I noticed the battery light was on in the car.  Which is weird since I don’t recall seeing it before – even when the old battery was, you know, dying in July.  Shrugged it off, and anyway it went out when I drove home.

I came back out pretty promptly to take Emma Dog for a walk – didn’t want to decide I was too tired and snivel – and the car balked on starting.  This time the low-battery light stayed on a spell.  I suspected I might have trouble starting the car for the trip home.

Correctly, as it happened.

To my great credit, I did not obsess about as we walked – or even think about it much, much less worry.  Which is a huge change for me and represents an uptick in progress, I think.  Now, whether I should’ve thought of saying fuck it, leaving the car home, and walking Emma in the neighborhood … different issue.

It was a lovely late afternoon for a walk.  Must’ve been something really interesting pass through there last night:  not only did Emma spend an inordinate amount of time smelling certain spots, and was unusually avid to sniff (even for her), but two other dog owners made humorous remarks about how much their dogs were sniffing.

Saw the usual cranes and geese.  Oh my.

So, got back to the car, a bit after sunset, and … yep.  Dead.  Clearly low battery.  WTF? thought I. It’s a new damn battery.

But well and truly stuck were we, regardless. And in need of rescue. Kathy Kubica didn’t answer her phone.  Larry Hays did but was heading to aikido class and in no position to come help – fair enough, especially inasmuch as he’s helped me plenty already, many times.

James Wilson didn’t answer either.  But called me right back.  Oh, and did I mention my cell phone battery was low, too?

Anyway he agreed to come help.  He was at work, it turned out.  I told him where to find me, then to help him do so went and sat down on Candelaria and Greenwood (which is the street we turn down to go walk on Bear’s Ditch.)

He turned up, gave me a jump.  And while he did so I went for the trifecta:  my pocket LED flashlight totally died as I was illuminating our activities.  Off he went.  Off I went.

For … a while.  Then shit started going south in a hurry.

I noticed the battery light kept coming on.  When stopped at the light at Rio Grande Boulevard I put it in neutral and gunned the engine in hopes of charging the battery.

Then going north on RGB I noticed the dashboard lights were going dim.  So, I realized, were the headlights (and inferentially, the taillights.) By the time I turned on Griegos I was running completely dark.

It was dark; people kept helpfully flashing me to turn on my lights.  People, they were on.

And then, a few hundred yards short of the 12^th Street light, the fucker just died.  I coasted to a stop.  Tried pushing, but found that, while I could move the car, I couldn’t do that and steer. Problem.

Called James again.  Fortunately, he kindly agreed to turn around and come jump the car again.  I gave him directions.

Waited.  Waited.  Some power came back, which helped – enough to run the emergency flashers and lower the chance some escaped doorknob would rear-end us.  I sat in the car with Emma and eventually called again.  Yup, my (necessarily cursory) directions had got him lost.  But he claimed he was on Griegos by 6^th heading west.  Even claimed, after a moment, to see the traffic light at 12^th.

Apparently he did, because in fact he did arrive promptly.  Jumped me again.  Left the cars hooked for a bit to recharge the battery.  He explained the alternator must be shot and the car was running purely on battery power. Joy.

So after a brief alarum when I accidentally (and unnoticedly) disconnected the battery cable along with the jumpers, so that we had to go through the whole rigamarole again, we got going once more.  James had agreed to follow me home.  (I had long since promised to buy him dinner.)

Good he did follow.  Had to stop at the light at 12^th, where I revved the engine again, just in hopes – the low-battery light did go out.  For what that was worth.

Which was apparently nothing.  Guess where the car died on me again?

Yep:  at the light at motherfucking 4^th Street.

Now at least it was no longer rush hour.  That was the good news.  But it was still busy. Less good.

James offered to push and let me steer.  Fine.  I did have to dissuade him from going ahead and pushing me out into cross-traffic against a red light, which would have been … exciting.

So we got across.  Dumped it a few car lengths down, before the Bank of the Week there’s drive-through exit.  He went back and brought his car – while morons zipping around the corner from 4^th without looking almost plowed into me.  While we were thus happily engaged Kathy got back to me – her ringer had been off. Thanked her and told her I couldn’t talk right then. James finished jumping me for the third time, then backed into the car wash as I bolted for home.

Turned down 3^rd to get the fuck off Griegos at all costs.  Car started seriously dying before I reached Bellrose.  But I ran the stop sign there and at Jupiter (after looking first both times, just on the roll) and fucking went for it.  Tried gunning the engine just before I got home – wanted to park on the street; cars there – and got one last rumble of response.

Pulled into the fucking driveway and stopped just as the fucking car died again.  And threw up both arms in the touchdown sign!  Score!

James offered to take me with him to Twin Peaks for Victoria’s Secret Lingerie Night.  Tempted* – coulda bought him his well-earned dinner then – but too tired.  As I told Larry I was when he offered to pick me up around 10 for dinner (I let Kathy know I was fine; he texted me after aikido) after he had a preliminary dance class at Arthur Murray.  Which I’m glad I didn’t also sign up for.

So, well, fuck.  Marshall A Willis on FB said alternators were fairly easy to fix and I could probably find a friend to do it.  And I even have a friend in mind.

The alternative, as it were: I’ve been intending to buy a new (used) car soon, inasmuch as the Taurus is not really reliable.  Even before this.  Thus I am torn between repairing it or just pulling the trigger and going for the new car.  Which would however be a mighty pain – on a crash basis and without a, you know.  Car to drive around and look.  We shall see what turns up.

Whine, snivel, moan.

So, yeah, yesterday got away from me. Big time. It was a setback. But as setbacks go, no more than a pain in the ass, however large a one.

And anyway … nothing broke. (Well, other than my FREAKING CAR.) My friends came through for me once more, as my friends always do, and I try to do for them (thanks again, James!) Emma comported herself nobly, sitting calmly throughout the whole fandango, which was just what I needed her to do. I’m well. We’re all well.

As I reminded myself:  discouragement sucks and is counterproductive. And overall, Life is Good. Very good indeed.

Speaking of good – Emma conducted herself nobly throughout the whole adventure.  Granted, that consisted pretty wholly of sitting calmly and looking noble, at which she excels (though not the level of TJ Cat.) But still – better than hopping around and being a pain.  Emma is a Very Good Dog, indeed.

*That is, of course, the only reason I’d be tempted to go to anything called Victoria’s Secret Lingerie Night at a place called Twin Peaks.

HAHAHAHA! You’ve met me, right? As my friend Adam Brown likes to say.

But first: your too-long deferred fix of Emma Dog. Because we all know she’s really the draw here to the blog. I just need to face facts.

Emma looks absurdly [...]]]> So, since my most recently recounted (and most triumphant!) adventure, I had a very busy week. Too busy to take time off and, you know, blog.

But first: your too-long deferred fix of Emma Dog. Because we all know she’s really the draw here to the blog. I just need to face facts.

Emma looks absurdly happy about her heating pad (concealed under the fleece. Also the dog.)

Every winter Emma has a problem with her right rear hip. It seems that cold causes it to hurt. Walking warms her up, but she often feels sore afterward.

So I bought her a doggy-bed heating pad. And, now that she finally seems to be realizing that the unnatural hot spot on her sofa (pictured above) won’t actually disintegrate her, and to actually lie on it some, it seems to be doing her some good.

Yay! (Also hit the above pic, or indeed here, for a Flickr album of shots of Emma on her couch, taken just a few minutes ago.)

Otherwise I’ve been busy with the usual occupations (writing, walking aforesaid Emma) as well as socializing.

Lots and lots of socializing.

Thanksgiving my friends John Jos and Gail Gerstner-Miller kindly drove me up to Santa Fe and back (again!), along with their friend Lynn Kaczor, for a dinner at Steve and Jan Stirling’s house, along with Walter Jon Williams and his wife Kathy Hedges.

(And, sorry, not linking to anybody’s web site or info this time, either. I am tired and need to get this post put to bed, and then me. Google is our friend.)

It was delicious. Also fun. hard to beat the company.

But last night at the very least gave it a run for its money. Saturday my dear friend Melinda Snodgrass threw herself a party for her 60th birthday, and good on her. (Some people, I am given to understand, object to others holding their own birthday parties. Screw those people.)

John and Gail kindly hauled me along with them again. (Again!) And … it was swell. Among those attending were George R. R, Martin and his wife Parris, Ian Tregillis, Sage Walker and Hank Messinger, Rhea Golden, Pati Nagle and Chris Krohn, and Royce “Chip” Wideman. Patricia Rogers and Jayné Franck for English-style high tea, which was what this fandango technically was. (Nobody does dress-up like Pat. Although Jayné …. well, there were no flies on Jayné, either.)

Plus this time we were joined by little-known Colorado SF author Connie Willis, along with her daughter Cordelia and her husband Courtney.  Who are also swell. As were all the other people there, whose full names I never caught, and to whom I apologize for not listing them. Apologies as well to the friends who were there whom I am morally sure have slipped out of my head, and who are consequently plotting my demise for leaving them out.

Melinda insisted on publicly blaming me again, this time. Some people….

And – wait. I just now saw I neglected to mention the last time. It was at the Wild Cards Cocktail Party (read all about it!) thrown last Saturday by Kay McCauley. Toasts were proposed, to Kay for her work on our behalf and for hosting the affair, and also to Melinda, for fighting the good fight against crushing odds until at last she sold the damn Wild Cards rights to Hollywood.

Then Melinda took the floor to offer special thanks to two men. First she thanked George, without whom none of this would have happened. As obvious as it was just. Then she said she wanted to thank … me.

And I naturally said, “What did I do this time?”

I honestly had no idea. Until she mentioned that I was the one who gave George the Superworld role-playing game we all played so obsessively – mostly the campaign game-mastered by GRRM himself – from which the whole weird, wonderful, and long-lived Wild Cards project sprang. Which, while true, was kind of her to mention.

So what did she blame me for yesterday at her party, in front of God, Cthulhu, and everybody?

Telling her she ought to think about giving writing a try. Professionally, that is.

And … yeah. Guilty as charged.

Again.

By the way, Melinda’s actual birthday is today, November 27th. In case you wanted to, you know, wish her a happy one. Yeah, I know it’s late. Deal.

So I hope you all had as fine a Thanksgiving and subsequent weekend as I did. No finer group of friends exists than mine, though I am willing to acknowledge the possibility that equally fine sets exist. (And I would be remiss if I failed to mention I’ve also muchly enjoyed the extra time spent hanging with my best friend Joseph Reichert, who isn’t a part of the SF set and doesn’t much hang with them.)

And yes, now I see Emma lying full-out on her heated fleece on the sofa. Yay! I was going to take a picture of that, because she looked cute, but I let my camera battery run down and it needs recharged. Ah, well!

Be well, folks. Be happy. And as always – thanks for reading!

And you know what? It [...]]]> So last night I got to attend the exclusive “Cocktails with the Wild Cards Chic and Luminaries of the New Mexican League of Authors” party, hosted by our representative, SF and fantasy super-agent Kay McCauley, at the Hotel Santa Fe. (Which, it will surprise you to learn, is in Santa Fe.)

And you know what? It was swell. Even if we did get totally thrown out of the hotel for being rowdy.

Gail Gerstner-Miller and That American Tolkien Guy at dinner afterwards.

It does not suck to be me.

But since you get to share in it after the fact, as beloved friends and fans, it doesn’t suck to be you, either.

The guest list was appropriately stellar: George R. R, Martin and his wife Parris, Melinda M. Snodgrass, Ian Tregillis, James S. A. Corey and his lovely wives, Steven Gould and Laura Mixon, Kat and Daniel Abraham, Ty and Jayné Franck, Jayne’s brother-in-law Dan (I hope I got that right; had trouble hearing), Sage Walker and Hank Messinger, John Jos and Gail Gerstner-Miller, Rhea Golden and her friend Tyler, Pati Nagle and Chris Krohn, Jane Lindskold and Jim Moore. And, well, me.

(I apologize for not linking to the above luminaries’s sites. I need to learn to lavish less time on these damn blog posts. Maybe then I’d, you know, write more of them.)

John and Gail kindly drove me up through a lovely evening – it’s a pleasant drive anyway. And thanks to them kindly for hauling my mass up to Santa Fe and back. Not for the last time in this busy week o’ socializing – have I mentioned how much I love the freaking holidays?

The Hotel Santa Fe is a lovely place with an old-timey feel in downtown Santa Fe near the Plaza. Although given Santa Fe isn’t huge, “downtown” and “near the Plaza” are kinda redundant. Also, no matter how self-consciously quaint it is, downtown Santa Fe is darned pretty. Plus some places had Christmas lights up already – which, Grinches notwithstanding, I love. In fact I hope to get to Santa Fe sometime in December to see their Christmas display in full glory. Although not enough to miss Christmas Eve here in Albuquerque, which I love.

So this was the second time I’ve met our hostess Kay in person, and the first since she became my agent and sold The Dinosaur Lords for me. Also the first time she’s seen me since I became … half the man I used to be (and a far better man because of it!) She professed herself favorably impressed with the change. For which I thanked her.

She happened to be hanging with her client Ian when I came in. She bragged on his current novel project, which she termed “brilliant” and unlike anything we’ve seen. I agreed and whined that he hadn’t sent in any more to our writers group. He claimed he would. (And I’m holding you to that, Tregillis, you son of a bearded mountebank*, you!)

She also bragged some on the prospects for The Dinosaur Lords (hint: she thinks highly of them. As do I.) She told me she’s talking to the foreign rights people next week. So please: fingers crossed!

And … a wonderful time was had by all.

Or by me, anyway. And everyone else seemed to be enjoying their danged selves.

I am learning to enjoy as much of my life as possible (short form: I reckon that’s the damned point.) But I enjoyed this fandango as much as I’ve enjoyed anything of late. Including Pat Rogers’ and Scott Denning’s Halloween Party, which is the best thing ever.

The key thing is that, along with being the Science Fiction and Fantasy Capital of the Known Universe, NM boasts a very tight-knit bunch of writers – and not just the Original Wild Cards Mafiosi. For all practical purposes, they, the fans, and a few others constitute my family.

Plus, for some reason, they tend to be … kind of interesting people to talk to.

So we all chatted and drank from the open bar – I hit the ice water and the Diet Coke particularly hard, but then, I wasn’t driving – and the snacks they laid out. Thew few items of which I was able to eat (that low-starch, low-sugar thing) were highly tasty.

So then they had to close up the room. So those of us who remained, which was most of us, wound up gathered in the hallway outside chattering away. Until a hotel functionary politely and firmly threw us out because our rowdiness was disturbing the Native American flute player in the lounge.

At the moment Parris and John were outside chatting. When I came out and gave them the news, Parris triumphantly crowed, “Thirty-five years in fandom and we can still bring it!”

Indeed.

Next, with Parris as our trusty guide – Santa Fe is notoriously difficult to navigate; and since it’s been almost half a century since I lived there, I was no damned help – we went off for dinner, also downtown (hence, near the Plaza.) Our first destination turned out to be closed until March – inconsiderate of them – so we wound up at the San Francisco Street Bar & Grill. Which turned out to be pretty good. Also – which is astonishing for Santa Fe – the prices were reasonable, for pretty substantial portions. While they seemed a bit nonplussed by the sudden onset of a mob of mostly middle-aged SF writers and their friends and significants other, they managed to take us in stride.

They didn’t throw us out, anyway. Although we were still adequately raucous. Because that’s how we roll.

(Click the image up top to check out my modest set of photos commemorating the event on Flickr. Or just click here. The reason there are no pictures of the party proper is that I forgot I had a nifty new camera until Gail and Parris started comparing theirs at dinner.)

We announced ourselves to the waiter as SF writers. He asked who the Trekkers among us were. While none of us would cop to that, John and Gail pointed out that I’d written an Original Trek novel. (Wait! It’s available on Kindle? Why wasn’t I told of this? Also, where are my royalties? Dammit!)

And when Parris told him Melinda had written the Next Generation episode “The Measure of a Man,” he almost died of squee (yes, I can write that; I am a professional), and wasted no time shaking her hand.

Even the wandering Cuban trio managed to come to terms with us. They even bravely assayed the Grateful Dead’s “Friend of the Devil,” after Gail, Parris, and I gave them some help by singing the lyrics. If “help” is what you want to call it.

Then … we all came home, and are presumably all living happily ever after!

Most emphatically not The End. Stay tuned for the continuing adventures of me and my madcap friends!

*When I read that on his website – which, seriously, you should visit; it’s breathtaking – I thought he was being facetious. Then he told me he really is the son of a bearded mountebank. Indeed do many things come to pass.