Pseudo-intellectual Wit

I haven't written anything here of any real substance for a while since I've been spending all my time writing on other blogs that concentrate on writing and books. Bad Fixnwrtr. I have also spent a fair amount of time on Facebook, although not for the games and apps, the way some people do. I have had a good time reconnecting with family and friends and even friends from high school, which is where the problem obviously begins.

I posted my wedding pictures because some of the old gang from West High were in the photos and we had a good time swapping stories and reminiscing. There were some interesting comments and some very surprising ones, especially from an old friend who was at the wedding and reminded me of an incident that nearly made the reason for getting married null and void. Long story. I may write about it some other time.

What I didn't know what that one of my cousins, the only one older than I on Mom's side of the family, took offense at me posting the pictures. Why? Because I am no longer married to the man (boy at that time). I guess I should have checked with her first.

It all started today with a comment on Facebook to take a look at a video her son, my second cousin Matt, posted on his page about his father, her ex-husband, the man after over twenty years she still refers to as a**hole. I was on the work computer, which does not allow me to view videos, and only had time for a quick message. Why do you let it get to you? I unknowingly unleashed an avalanche of venom and name calling (from her) with my simple question.

Laura's ex-husband, Mike Vanderboegh, is heavily involved in the Alabama State Militia and has been written up in newspapers and magazines (the glossy national kind) for years. He's also been on TV quite a few times because of his far right stance on gun control and politics. He's a**hole. It doesn't bother me that he's so well known in some circles. It's his life and he can live it however he chooses. It's interesting (barely) and I know him, so there is a connection, but not a strong one. I think the Icelandic volcanoes blowing their tops is more interesting, but that's just me.

At any rate, the name calling rained down like volcanic ash. Good thing I don't sweat the small stuff, and this was small stuff. I've been called names by a lot of people and they did a much better job. What they didn't do was upset me. Laura didn't upset me either. I never get upset when someone's true colors and deepest thoughts come hurling to the surface and out of their mouths -- or keyboards. It's just words, and not very important words.

So, to make Laura happy, I've decided to share the video. This is Laura's ex-husband Mike Vanderboegh talking about open carrying of weapons, the same man she cuckolded with her present husband . . . and he's the a**hole.



The pseudo-intellectual not wit would be me, according to cousin Laura.

That is all. Disperse.

News and Reviews

Bread was in the oven and filling the house with the aroma of yeast and goodness when I got the word. The review of Past Imperfect has been posted at Authorlink and it was worth waiting for.


Diana Palmer is a woman with a plan. Fixing up her plane in the hangar, wearing her grease-stained overalls, a voice comes from behind her; a voice that still, after all these years, gives her goose bumps and releases the butterflies in her stomach. Turning around, she meets Adrian Cahill’s familiar gaze. This is the moment Diana has waited for and, immediately, she goes into her “act” with the man she once loved with all her heart.

Adrian Cahill lost his soul mate a long time ago. Lynn was the woman who inspired him and intrigued him, but he’d made the ultimate mistake when he told her that she simply wasn’t the “one.” Upon his heart-breaking declaration, Lynn had raced out of his life and into a fatal-car accident. Adrian has never forgiven himself for the words he spoke to Lynn all those years ago, but upon meeting Diana in the hangar, the feeling of the “one” comes over him in a rush. Perhaps he’d been right all those years ago, because Diana Palmer, in her grease-stained overalls, with her strong no-nonsense attitude makes his heart beat out of his chest.

What Adrian doesn’t know is that the woman he shunned years before is, in fact, the goddess who stands before him. Lynn has changed her appearance - needing reconstructive surgery after her horrible accident. While recuperating, Lynn had bought a cabin in Pennsylvania where a local handyman by the name of John Logan came into her life and brought his friendship into her otherwise empty world. Over time, Lynn became Diana, taking on the identity that would give her the ability to re-connect with Adrian Cahill, and get the marriage proposal that she richly deserves.

With wit, drama, and just the right amount of mystery, Diana/Lynn reconciles with Adrian and takes him on the ride of his life. The author not only delivers the “game” with precision and humor, but also offers a twist at the end that no reader will be expecting.

Fun, sassy, and mysterious…this is one of those books that you won’t put down until you find out exactly who is playing who.

Reviewer: Amy Lignor

To clone or not to clone

Yesterday the subject of cloning came up in a conversation with my mother. To understand the context, a little background is necessary.

My mother is one of those people who have had so many health problems, she should be dead. She isn't. Even her brother and sister-in-law said they were sure she'd die before Dad. She didn't. She's still here. It's probably my fault because I've always said that when the bomb is dropped and humanity is eradicated all that will be left will be cockroaches, moths and Mom. That's where the cloning discussion comes in.

If humanity were reduced to one individual, then the rise of humanity can only come from cloning -- if, of course, the human in question has the techniques and the skills to clone herself. She'd have to use ova from another source since her reproductive system was cleared out decades ago, but it is possible there would be some fertility clinic or sperm and ova bank still standing with the requisite genetic material available for use. Then again, with all that raw material, there would be sufficient diverse cellular material to use for test tube babies, with a suitable host. Mom's not good with the technical but, for the sake of argument, let's say she could fashion a mechanical womb to grow the cloned fetuses and thus clone herself.

Cloning herself would be necessary since no other human in recorded history, other than my father whose genetic material is now ash, has been able to tolerate Mom for long. A world population comprised of my mother would be a self-limiting species since they would only exist to shop and eat junk food. Once the food stocks are gone, the junk food stocks, the Virginia Annabelle population would be forced to either evolve or die. Without junk food and massive quantities of preservatives to keep them alive, they would die, probably along the lines of the half life of a cesium atom or something similar.

On a more realistic note, it would be possible to rejuvenate the human race, given time and sufficient genetic material, by cloning and thus further advances in that area are necessary -- only in case of nuclear holocaust and the imminent demise of mankind. How do you think we got here in the first place? It's a time-honored tradition that brought us unicorns, centaurs, naiads, nymphs, mermaids/mermen, and assorted half-man, half-animal species.

Is cloning a good idea? It depends on the human being to be cloned. Ira Levin used a cloned Hitler as the basis of The Boys from Brazil and look how that turned out. I think I have shown that, while giving humanity another try, cloning my mother would be a bad idea. However, cloning as a viable option for preservation of species, Jurassic Park notwithstanding, is a good idea and should be pursued. The science is more complicated and less successful than Dolly the sheep seems to illustrate. More information is needed and to get more information, more work must be done. It's doubtful we'd end up with a sociopathic killing machine the likes of Embryo, but when has being wrong ever mattered when it comes down to where the rubber hits the road?

That is all. Disperse.

Just relax

Nothing like spending the morning cataloguing my published works for The Red Room. It's another way to market my novel and my work and there can not be enough of those. The fact that authors like Salman Rushdie and Maya Angelou are members doesn't hurt either. I might even get noticed and sell books and ... well, it's best not to look too far into the future. Focus on the now and leave the later for ... well, later.

Since I'm supposed to relax, I probably shouldn't read the news, especially when it keeps pointing up that all the fear mongering about global warming and melting glaciers is more about winning Nobel Prizes and stealing grant money from charitable organizations. Doesn't hurt that it puts more money in millionaires' pockets and perpetuates more lies like that reported in The Daily Mail in the U.K. It's not a big surprise that the report still hasn't shown up in the U.S., not with the current administration and their ties to the global warming lies. Glaciergate isn't just for Americans now since Indian and Pakistani scientists are getting in the game. Money, money, money. It doesn't take a rocket scientist, or a climatologist, to figure out what's going on. It's one of the first rules of mystery fiction: follow the money. It's an easy trail to follow.

In my quest for relaxation and continuing lack of muscle spasms, I put pencils and pastels to paper and drew my first portrait in years. It turned out pretty well, but I need to work on my pastel chalk technique. My hands got very dirty from shading and holding the chalk; I need a holder. I also need smaller pieces of chalk instead of the big rectangles. I always did like broken pieces of chalk better than the brand new ones. I can't wait for the paints and colored pencils to get here. I have more control with them. In the meantime, I'll work on technique and practice with sketching. The skills and techniques are coming back quickly, so that means I haven't lost everything, and I'm more comfortable with experimentation than I was. With nothing to lose, anything and everything is worth attempting.

I'm actually looking forward to getting back to work tomorrow and catching up on all the correspondence, but I know I need to make time to relax, time when I stretch my creative muscles and do something other than surf the Internet and watch movies. That's not relaxing. Cooking, baking, drawing, sketching, painting and even taking a walk are relaxing, as long as the walking has no goal other than breathing and stretching the legs. When there's a goal, walking isn't quite so relaxing. Walking takes me to the mailbox and the trash container and shopping and the post office and those are chores. Chores are a lot like work and thus not relaxing even when singing is involved. The singing and music just help move things along quicker so there's time to relax. Relaxing is soaking in a garden tub (something I don't have here, hence the vacation to a B&B next month for my birthday) with a cup of hot cocoa or a glass of wine, a good book, some soothing music and plenty of bubbles (the bath salt kind not the methane kind). Wood fires and room service are relaxing. Scenic views and long drives, conversations with friends and kneading dough for crumpets and scones for afternoon tea, those are relaxing. And just breathing in long, slow, deep breaths are relaxing. It's an art and one that I've not practiced nearly enough and the one thing on my new year's resolution list.

I don't do resolutions; they're too much like rules and diets -- made to be broken and left in the dust -- and I'm out of super glue.

Interview with Toni Quest

In case you didn't get a chance to hear my interview last night, 12/07/09, here's a second chance.

Go to ScreamingWoman.com and down on the right side at the top of the list on Toni's audio links, click on J.M. Cornwell. That would be me.

That is all disperse.

Self-serving promotion

A little while ago I received another review of Past Imperfect from Night Owl Romance and it's a good one.

Here's the money shot:

One thing about Diana is that she is one determined lady and no matter what the problem is she prevails. These are three people with so many obstacles yet one chance for one of them to find their true love. I just loved it.

That's 4.5 out of 5 stars. I can live with that.

That is all. Disperse.

The week in review and reviews

This morning's email contained a notice that my interview with Lisa Haselton will go live on Wednesday, November 11th, otherwise known as Veteran's Day and my best friend Chili Bob's birthday. Lisa called my answers fantastic. That remains to be seen. I was, as always, just being myself, but I'd be interested in what you all think, especially you, , because your name came up.

Wow. The sky outside my window looks like a layered blue and white parfait with a mile of whipped cream on the top. Probably means snow, although I haven't checked the forecast in a few days. I've been buried in work and Alzheimer's disease of the early onset variety.

Did you know that there are specific tests available to detect Alzheimer's in utero and by a simple blood test? There are. It's only for the early onset Alzheimer's disease (EOAD) because that is as a result of faulty genes that are passed on. Offspring have a 50% chance of getting EOAD. They say drowning is pleasant when you quit struggling and from what I read in Lisa Genova's Still Alice Alzheimer's is very much like drowning. Sad, haunting, devastating and touching, although I don't care for Alice's husband who loves his work more than he loves his wife. I suppose life must go on even when one's partner is there and not there.

Finally got a box of books out to Aunt Anne and right this moment she is giving Jaye her autographed copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul: All in the Family. Jaye will be "over the moon" according to Aunt Anne because a contributing author sent her a signed copy. At least she is easy to please. Timmy will give my fan his copy of the book this weekend, but I sure hope he reads On Esther Time because in the future it may well be him.

Aunt Anne told me as soon as she opened the box and took out the book she had to read it and she loved the story, and the signed copy of Past Imperfect I sent, which she will not loan out to Jaye. That one stays in Aunt Anne's possession.

I just finished Ted Dekker's new book, and the final book of a four-book cycle, Green. It's really good and I have to get the other three books, Black, Red, and White. This is strange fare but it's also fascinating. The characters and world created are amazing and although there is a strong good and evil element to the book, it's not overwhelming. The story takes precedence over the religious themes. If the other three books are as good as this one, I may have to check out more of Dekker's writing. I haven't been that engrossed in a very long time.

Well, breakfast is almost over and I need to get back to the work of editing and laundry, so arrivaderci, au revoir, bye-bye.

That is all. Disperse.

Segue to promoting grammar

There's snow on the roofs this morning, as there was yesterday morning. It's cozy in here, but that's only because I keep under the covers and wear clothes for a change. The snow is no more than a light dusting of sugary crystals, blue grey in the dawn's light, matching the color of the sky. The green leaves of the leggy weed outside my bedroom window haven't yet realized they are not long for this earth and cling stubbornly and strongly to the branches. Only some wandering ivy has gone crimson as it weaves in an out of the lilac bushes leaves, obscuring the sign that says the parking space next to the cottage is exclusively for my use.

The honeysuckle has gone to berries, dark purple berries, drops of thick heart's blood on the slender tendrils of brown and green that are all that remain of the honeysuckle's perfumed and petaled glory of the summer past. It is truly autumn and yet feels more like the stirrings of a long and cold winter. The hoary, craggy head of Pikes Peak stands proud against the blue-grey sky, a monolith to immortality that will one day be worn down by the constant freezing and thawing that cracks the very foundations and will some century bring the mountain peaks low. But not today. Today it is strong and tall and immortal, visible from every point of the city and far across the eastern plains. Even on the other side of the pass, Pikes Peak dominates the eastern horizon.

Books lay littered across the bed, inching toward the crevice between mattress and wall, my constant companions. They wait silently and patiently for me to notice and pick them up once again when work and responsibilities are finished and put away, and they are the resources for much of my mental gymnastics and pyrotechnics, offering new ideas for old.

An old idea given a new form is up at Suite 101 after long and tiring labor, finally birthed and waiting to be read, all about the use of quotation marks in direct quotes.

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The quality of literature is strained

So that was fairly painful. I've never had to revise an article so many times and all to include keywords and links and keyword phrases. How do I avoid using the same phrases too many times when the article is about punctuation and quotation marks. It's not like I can use a euphemism or marks of quotations to make my point and avoid being snuffed by the web-bots that grade key word and phrases. This whole Suite 101 idea may not be a good one. I can't be personal and I can't use the words you, I, we, they, them or your, so all my cute titles are out the door. Definitely need to rethink this. All I wanted was a wider forum and not a job writing keywords and phrases. And I have to search out and upload clip art for each article. Yeah, that's really possible for punctuation and grammar. Could it get more complex? Wait. Forget I asked because as sure as I ask, it will get more complicated.

I finished my urban alien story and submitted it for the Apex Halloween Contest. I've considered sending it in for the annual Writer's Digest short shorts fiction contest, but I have to cut about 400 words first. I have time since I don't have to submit the story to WD until December and the Apex contest will be decided before then.

There are a few more stories kicking around in my head begging to be let out to run and play amongst the other fiction floating out in cyberspace and in print and I at last feel like I have a fairly good handle on the fiction for a change. I do believe I've broken the fiction barrier that kept my work from being published. My romance novel helped, but having two more lining up to be published made me feel a lot better about writing fiction.

Nonfiction has always come easily, as evidenced by the hundreds of thousands of words that I've regurgitated onto these cyberpages over the past seven or eight years, but fiction was more difficult. I don't know if it's because I tried to hard or because I spent too much time getting into the characters' ways by being literary. From what I've read recently, it's not an uncommon problem and one that has the science fiction community in an uproar.

Margaret Atwood, author of The Handmaiden's Tale and Oryx and Crake, undoubtedly science fiction novels by everyone but Ms. Atwood, says that science fiction is "fiction in which things happen that are not possible today". Ursula K. LeGuin calls the definition "...arbitrarily restrictive definition . . .designed to protect [Atwood's] novels from being relegated to a genre still shunned by hidebound readers, reviewers and prize-awarders. In short, if it looks like science fiction, acts like science fiction, and happens to be good, it's not science fiction, but something higher and more elevated. It must be Literature.

Before having thoroughly alienated and tweaked the noses of the science fiction community, Atwood said science fiction is needed, although she called it speculative fiction. Of course that was in 2005 and this is four years later when the term science fiction is guaranteed to keep good literature from being awarded prizes and lauded, and that is the point -- getting awards.

By the current definition, H. G. Wells and Jules Verne were not a writers of science fiction. In their day it was called scientific romance, but words change and so do the meanings. Invaders from Mars and submarines powered by atomic energy are not science fiction, at least in modern day terminology.

According to Princeton's web site, science fiction is literary fantasy involving the imagined impact of science on society.. Notice the use of the word literary, as in literature.

I was taught, and most publishers agree, that a story in which the science does not play an integral part is not science fiction. For instance, take the atomic sub out of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and everything falls apart, and the same happens to beings that turn blue when they are sexually aroused, as in Oryx and Crake, not to mention the whole genetic engineering that lies at the very heart of the story and makes it all possible. Take away Victor Frankenstein's experimentation with electricity and animating dead flesh and there is no story. Even in The Handmaiden's Tale, a dystopian story that is definitely science fiction, if there had been no nuclear war, there would be no need for the handmaidens, and thus the whole story falls apart. No, it's not science fiction, it's Literature.

What myopic idiots people have become, throwing away perfectly wonderful books and refusing to acknowledge them because they belong to that niche called popular and commercial fiction. Anyone who has read Stephen King's The Stand can immediately bring to mind the images of the "sweet treat" and Larry's personality like "biting tin foil." That, my friends, is literature, not because it's popular or sells millions of books, because it's unforgettable.

Literature doesn't have to be tortured prose stylings and stories that have no easily understandable context or meaning. Literature can be enjoyable and clear. Literature doesn't need to feature convoluted plots that jump forward and backward and sideways until the reader's not sure exactly what happens when. Literature can simply be good. That's what makes it popular.

I've enjoyed Margaret Atwood's stories, but sometimes come away with a feeling of having been through a mental ringer. Given a choice, I'd rather read Andre Norton or Brian Aldiss or Frank Herbert or Ursula K. LeGuin or Robert A. Heinlein. Give me a great story with memorable characters and good writing and to me that is Literature, and the judges who give out awards be damned. Come to that, give me any writer in any genre (even romance) who does all that, and that is Literature.

As a reviewer, I have had to review Booker and Pulitzer prize winners and I have to say I wasn't always impressed. If I didn't have to read the whole book to review it, I would've stopped after the first chapter or two. It's a good thing I didn't have to eat it as well or I'd have been sick for a few days. That's not to say I haven't enjoyed some award winning authors, like Salman Rushdie, who has a thing for the movie The Wizard of Oz; rainbow imagery and sometimes the movie feature in several of his books. He tells a good tale and I admire the way he writes.

When it comes right down to it, according to the definition in Wikipedia, which goes on at some length, In broad terms, literary fiction focuses more on style, psychological depth, and character, whereas mainstream commercial fiction (the page-turner) focuses more on narrative and plot. ...The term literary fiction is considered hard to define very precisely but is commonly associated with the criteria used in literary awards and marketing of certain kinds of novels, since literary prizes usually concern themselves with literary fiction, and their short lists can give a working definition.

In short, the term literary novel is not a concrete term because there are numerous books of commercial fiction that focus just as much on "style, psychological depth, and character" as the award winners. You don't get much more descriptive, stylistic or deep than a person who is like "biting tin foil" or the loneliness of a girl far from home who eases the loneliness by writing poems on leaves and casting them to the winds (Andre Norton, Imperial lady. We need a better term, but I doubt it will come from the literary novel judges who hand out awards, so it must come from the people. You know, the people who actually buy the books and read them, not buy them and stick them on a shelf to impress friends and visitors. A good book is one that is read and reread and, like the velveteen rabbit, loved to pieces.

That is all. Disperse.

Quick flash news

Because I obviously don't have enough to do and too much free time, I have decided to move my weekly grammar column to Suite 101. I'll post a notice when a new column is up and running, just in case you'd like to follow me and read the latest rehash of the grammar you learned in school and have forgotten. The idea is to attract a wider audience and maybe make a little money on the side.

As for things here in Casa Cornwell, it has been quiet this weekend, except for the voices in my head. It's okay. I'm not schizophrenic or about to go postal and I don't get radio stations in my fillings; characters are invading my dreams and my mind when I'm working and that makes for very erratic sleep, and a cranky fixnwrtr.

I had the chance to read 's short story, Silence is Moldy, once again and enjoyed it very much. I don't care much for zombie stories, too boring, but her story is wonderful: short, full of background and detail and pithy, very pithy. She assured me, and all of those watching on Facebook that she was going to submit this one and I know it will find a home, preferably a paying home so that she can finally join the ranks of the underpaid and talented writers that haunt the cyberworld. It's just one more step to publishing her novel, and I can hardly wait for that day.

Since I received a notice about a Halloween themed anthology and contest, , I decided to join you and submit a story that has been kicking around in the back room for a while. Urban myth and aliens. Who knew I actually had a story that might fit with a few minor revisions? I hope you don't mind too much.

The dishes are all clean, except for the ones that held my dinner and the laundry is about to be caught up and put away. It will be strange not living with dishes piled in the sink and the basket overflowing with laundry. I guess that means the next thing on the list is getting rid of boxes and vacuuming. It could be worse. I don't know how, but I'm sure it could be.

Beanie, I'm finally caught up with Fringe and now I want more. It's not fair that I have to wait a whole week for an episode when I've had three or six or even twelve episodes to watch whenever I wanted. Oh, well, back in the real world.

Beanie kept telling me that I'd like Fringe, but I said I didn't have the time and didn't want to add another show to my very short list of seasonal shows. I finally broke down and ordered season one from Netflix and watched the first episode. I was immediately hooked. It wasn't just the science aspect of the show, a much more modern and less alien infested version of X-Files, which I thoroughly enjoyed watching, but the characters, especially Dr. Walter Bishop, played by John Noble. Walter has been institutionalized for 17 years because he had a mental breakdown after his assistant was killed in a laboratory accident and Walter's a bit weird. He's a mixture of genius, childlike curiosity and innocence with a hint of regret and confusion. Walter's frank delight over the possibility of bodies to examine is infectious and is mind, which works on an oblique circuit to the rest of humanity, is fascinating.

Walter's son Peter is a con-man and nearly as brilliant as his father, but has lots of shady ties to the underworld that he doesn't hesitate to offer whenever FBI agent Olivia Dunham needs something tracked down. Peter always knows "a guy" that can help. The cast is wonderful and the shows brilliant in their diversity. They are mining completely new territory in the fringe sciences and hitting pay dirt every week. I don't think Fringe will end up as lame as Heroes did when I quit watching it.

The rest of my list includes Merlin, Dexter, Castle and Sanctuary, although I'm still waiting for the new Doctor Who and Lost to surface. I've given up on finding anything new for Torchwood. I think it's pretty much done and over. The promised several movies turned out to be just one and nothing new is slated now that Jack has beamed up to his ship and out into the Universe to become the Face of Bo.

I guess that's it for now. The voices in my head are clamoring for attention and I have a short story to write tonight before I can sleep without intruders.

That is all. Disperse.

Life as a political whore

In yet another unprecedented move, the president is taking over the chair at the U.N. Is there nothing this media whore won't do to be popular and attract attention? How about standing in a sealed room with 100 bee hives? How about sitting in the Oval Office and doing your job instead of jetting all over the country and the world with your entourage? You know, work. Do your job. This president has taken more vacations in the past seven months than most presidents took during their terms in office. When will the country wake up and start asking some hard questions instead of being all twitterpated and goggle-eyed because The President is going to be on Leno or Letterman or Oprah or coming to a town hall near you? Less talk. More action. Do the job you are being overpaid to do instead of playing superstar.

No, I'm not cranky, or I wasn't when I woke up this morning, but I'm tired of seeing this scene chewing ham and his teleprompter crew everywhere I look. His smirking mug is even on the magazines that come into my house. Thank goodness he's not on Writer's Digest or The Writer. When he is, I'll cancel my subscription to those, too.

Well, three days of critiques, work and writing have not cured me of my desire to dive back into writing, but I must earn a living so that I have the electricity and resources to do my job to continue writing, although I have done pretty well in the past with few resources and I'd rather support myself than have the county, city or state support me. It's just a quirk, but one I hope I never get over.

The good news about my sale of a story yesterday made me feel so good I decided to write something new. I've been kicking it around in my head for a while and decided it was time to set it free. Oops, that reminds me. I have a critique to send out, so I'll keep this short.

The message to stay in school and work/study hard is a good one, but the message should be read. Read everything you can get your hands on and keep reading. Don't stop. Don't ever stop. If you read, you will have in your hands a ticket to anywhere and everywhere, even to the stars. Don't just read fiction, read nonfiction. Read newspapers. Read books on science, math, art, history and everything in between. Read things you don't think you'll like and read things you do. Read when you're bored. Read when it's raining and you can't go outside. Read before bed and when you're sitting on a bus, riding in the car with someone else driving or waiting in line. Reading is the best education you will ever get.

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Lashing out

She is dressed in ruffled and flowing white, the gown falling off pale white shoulders glistening with sweat. Her hair, now flaccid damp curls and strings, is no longer hidden by the powdered wig that towered over and framed the virginal blush of her cheeks and the dark fringe modestly concealing the brilliant green of her eyes with fashionable curls flourishes. Fragile and softly rounded arms are corded with strain, her arms pinioned to two columns. Chains clank as she moves with each searing bite of the blood-slimed whip that whistles through the air before it cuts into the crimson-ribboned curve of her back, bare above the waist. She bites her lip and smiles in ecstasy, caught in the grip of la petite mort, the little death. She gasps softy and sighs, riding the ebb and flow of smoldering passion, meeting each thrust with an eager, welcoming embrace.

This is the scene in a forgettable, and forgotten movie, Waxwork and Deborah Foreman is the formidable actress who elevated this campy 1988 flick from pedestrian to something very special. Not even the performances of John Rhys-Davies, David Warner, Patrick McNee, the male half of The Avengers, or the sexy and handsome Miles O'Keeffe could elevate this beyond second rate C movie fare. It is Deborah Foreman's performance at the end of the Marquis de Sade's whip that makes Waxwork special.

Even if you're not a fan of sadomasochism and don't get a dark thrill from seeing a girl dangling between strong supports while she's whipped, this is something you should not miss. The other scenes in the waxworks that come to life -- Dracula's castle, the werewolf's cabin in the woods or the pharaoh's tomb -- don't have the sensual and riveting quality of the Marquis de Sade's dungeon. Check it out and let me know if you agree. I'll understand if you don't.

That is all. Disperse.

Unquiet and insistent history

This has been a strange weekend, but that happens sometimes. I watched all of the Friday the 13th, the series, I received (Netflix skipped over the last disc) and One Night with the King with Luke Goss and Tiffany Dupont (excellent movie) and had to download the theme song, which I've been singing since last night. This morning I woke up at the usually early plumber's crack of dawn, checked email and then dove into Secrets of the Dead: Amazon Warrior Women and was instantly intrigued. I even quit multi-tasking. It's a great archaeological find and one that everyone with an interest in history, science and archaeology should see.

I just don't get the myopic misanthropes that have populated the sciences for generations (can't say centuries because this seems to be peculiarly modern in nature). Historians and scientists look at the past from a lofty pinnacle without ever once considering that what they call mythology and fiction are nothing less than the truth. Didn't Heinrich Schliemann burst that bubble when he used Homer's Iliad to find Troy? Evidently, the scientific and historic communities don't read their memos.

What arrogance to think that man has reached the zenith of human development and achievement with their technological marvels without considering what was written millennia ago -- a lot of millennia ago. The Sumerians knew more about the makeup of our solar system over 7000 years ago than NASA and its predecessors have discovered in the past fifty years. Although no one has been able to identify who Homer actually was or whether he was a construct, his stories have been handed down intact for thousands of years and everything he wrote appears to be true. And now the stories about the Amazons (Homer wrote about an Amazon warrior in the Iliad) are proving to be true and there is DNA evidence to show that their descendants continue to live a nomadic life. Guess Herodotus told more than fairy tales and confabulated facts after all. What's next? Is it possible Plato got it right when he wrote about Atlantis and the scientists tagged the wrong place in choose Thera for Atlantis by scaling everything down? Arrogance, plain and simple!

Historians and scientists discount anything that seems like a fairy tale and call it mythology when it may well be historical fact handed down, the names changes to fit the dialects and countries where the stories were carried. There are griots, living genealogies, throughout Africa who carry the names and wars and places of generations of history in oral tradition, and they're not just names, but the deeds and lives that connect to modern people. Alex Haley found that out for himself when he went looking for the origins of Kunta Kinte's tales of bolongs, family and a gold hunt that made it possible for his mother to wear a cow on her head. We may well find that the stories we call mythology are not prehistoric men creating tales out of the world around them to tell around the campfire in the night, but based in fact.

Modern men may have reached a zenith, but not the zenith. Civilizations and risen and succumbed to the weight of their own arrogance and decadence over and over throughout the history of this planet and just because we cannot find proof of their existence, doesn't mean they didn't exist. It could well be we are looking in the wrong place or these people lived such green lives that their remains are shrouded in the very makeup of this world.

One thing that intrigues me most about the PBS special is that no one mentioned the Siberian Ice Maiden. Her clothing and grave goods point to a women of wealth and position. She had a high peaked hat and was buried with six horses. Her clothing and her soft leather boots are very similar to those worn by the Amazons found in kurgans throughout the steppes in Eurasia. The fierce warrior women written about by Homer and Herodotus and ascribed to myth by historians did exist and the DNA and their own bodies and grave goods prove they were much taller than the norm 2500 years ago. What else might we find if we open our eyes and take off the academic blinders to embrace mythology and legends as truth?

There are several cults of warrior women throughout history, women who defied tradition and took up arms and fought against and side by side with men. They are not myth nor are they some feminine longing for control over one's life and the freedom to be more than chattel and property. They were real and now they are fact.

As for me, I am off on another bug hunt. I feel stories deep down bubbling toward the surface. They are a bare glimmer, but it won't be long before they step fully armed and realized into the light not like Athena from Zeus who had swallowed her pregnant Titan mother in order to prevent her birth because it was prophesied that any child born of Metis, Athena's Titan mother, would be greater than her father Zeus.

On the links

Beanie called yesterday for a good long gossip and she mentioned, yet again, that she is getting 20 baby guineas at the end of the month just after they hatch. She tried to hatch 20 of her own guinea eggs, but Peeps didn't live long enough, or was obviously smart enough, to fertilize them before something got him and carried him away. His mate kept looking for him and crying piteously, but I'm not sure I want to know how a guinea fowl howls.

I don't get Beanie's obsession with guineas. She won't eat the eggs. "Gander loves the eggs," she told me after explaining that they were probably no good since the hen had been setting on them for quite a while. I guess Gander, the dog love of her life, doesn't mind a little rotten with his eggs. Yuck! I think guineas are ugly. They look like a cross between a dodo and a lizard with hints of vulture.



While I was looking for a picture I noticed that there are uses for guinea fowl, as in roast guinea, and the feathers are lovely. I don't think Beanie would ever kill and cook her guineas. To her, they are simply pets. I just don't get it. Horses as pets, I can see. You can at least ride a horse or use the horse to pull carts, wagons, plows, etc., but you can't ride a guinea. They are too small and get lost under the saddle. Pets like dogs, cats, birds, fish I get. They provide companionship and fish provide an interesting and relaxing show as they swim in their confined kingdoms. Guineas are not companionable and they would drown in the aquarium.

I suppose watching a flock of guineas chasing bugs and hunting for worms and grubs could be interesting and even soothing, but I doubt a flock of guineas would go unnoticed in Beanie's quiet rural bedroom neighborhood. Although their feathers are quite pretty, they don't have the spectacular and breathtaking color of, say, a flock of pink flamingos or a dazzling peacock.



As far as I can see, there is no real use for guineas, except that Beanie loves them for some odd reason. She is like Dad that way, except that Dad's chickens laid eggs he ate and provided many chicken dinners. The roosters provided quite a bit of slapstick fun, especially when he got out the blue bucket. That was a sign for the roosters to stop fighting and run for their lives before the flying blue bucket hit them in the head. I can still remember Dad chasing the recalcitrant roosters around the yard with a switch because they wouldn't stop fighting. He would have made a lousy cock fight wrangler. He didn't let them fight and they didn't dare spur him. He'd have had them for dinner.

Oh, well, everyone has some little quirk, like my quirk of posting news and links to the blurb for my new novel. One more link in the publishing chain that will end with the book's debut -- soon, I hope.

With that, I shall leave you with an amazing performance of Toto's hit, Africa, done by a Slovenian Acappella choir.

The whirling dervish of spin

The Washington Times posted an interesting op-ed piece on the B.O.'s record and asks, if he is the first Muslim president.

Dick Morris has quite a bit to say about the mortgage rescue plan, health care rationing and Obamanomics.

That is all. Disperse.

Your Freudian slip is showing

According to B.O. who claims there are 57 states in the Union, now the U.S. is one of the largest Muslim countries in the world.

According to the statistics, Indonesia: 200 million Muslims. India: 156 million Muslims. Pakistan: 150 million Muslims. United States: 2.3 million Muslims (according to the Pew Research Center). The U.S. is about 40 on the list.

Maybe B.O. shouldn't work without a teleprompter.

That is all. Disperse.

Portrait of a mensch

There is something about being rich that is tantalizing and oh so seductive. After all, who doesn't need more money than they can spend in a lifetime? There's nothing like having so much money that it's like one hundred Chinese lining up and jumping off a cliff. They would never all die because the birth rate would keep the line going forever. It's the same when you have a certain amount of money, like $300 million. The daily interest alone would keep even my mother in junk food, shoes and clothes for the next 500 years or so.

Numbers like that really don't compute, but for some people that kind of money is a reality. Men like Aaron Feuerstein have that kind of money. He's not as rich as Bill Gates who comes in at a cool $200 billion net worth, but it's nothing to sneeze at. Strangely, not all rich men need PR professionals to tell them they need to clean up their act and do some very visible charity work, like Bill Gates, because they're too busy taking care of the people who helped make them rich.

If you think you know what I'm talking about, check out Malden Mills and the man who should be President of the U.S. He knows how to run a business, make money and protect the people. He is the kind of man all multi-millionaires and multi-billionaires should be and aren't, and he doesn't owe his money to the mob or foreign oil interests.

That is all. Disperse.

Feet in the fire

Looks like President BO is going to have to do a fast shuffle on this one and Eric Holder's feet are in the fire.

It just keeps getting better and better.

That is all. Disperse.

Entourage

Dale McFeatters, reporter for Scripps Howard, had this to say about the BO entourage for the G-20 Summit. The final lines sum up the theme perfectly.

The president is entitled to all the security, communications and support he feels necessary to do his job but surely, when we're trying to project a more restrained, humble image to the world, the president's huge retinue could be scaled back to something less than the triumphal march from "Aida."

That is all. Disperse.

Endangered species

This morning I received an email full of pictures of strange and sometimes disgusting animals, many of which I already knew and saw up close and personal when I lived in Panama and other countries. Animals like the marmoset, alpaca, sloth, etc. I have handled and, in a couple case, rescued with my father's help. He also loved animals of all kinds. I don't know whether or not these animals are endangered, but one thing I have learned is that many times what we think is gone is not always gone. There are reports of land and marine animals long believed extinct showing up all over the world and this is a very big world with lots of places to hide that we have barely seen, places our eyes in the skies cannot penetrate, even when they can trace ancient and long lost caravan routes through the desert of the Middle East. Much is still hidden from their highly polished and technologically marvelous optics, just as things and the motives of people we think we know are often hidden or obscured even when they seem to be in plain sight.

I engaged someone I thought I knew in a discussion of politics. Nothing new there. He was going on about how we have to hold Obamessiah to account for his actions. I agreed, but asked why it should be any different from holding any other elected representative to account for his or her actions, listing Bush and Clinton and Carter. Then he flamed me. He called me a Neo-Con, homophobe, Bible-beating, gun toting, slack-jawed redneck whose only source of information was Fox News and Sean Hannity. I'm surprised he didn't throw in Rush Limbaugh. And all because I said we should hold ALL elected representatives to account for their actions. Oh, and there was that mention of Obamessiah's decisive response to the Somali pirates by writing them a huge check because the only reason they have turned to piracy is lack of funds, despite having the funds to buy shoulder mounted missile launchers, heavy artillery and high grade munitions and speed boats.

Anyone who has read this journal, or any of my other blogs and articles, whether or not they agree with me, could tell him that none of his descriptions or epithets are in any way accurate. I don't watch commercial television so that lets out Fox News and Sean Hannity and I am far from homophobic or fundamentalist as a pagan. I don't own a gun, but I do have a nifty collection of edged weapons ad the rest of his description is just plain ignorant. But that is what this country and the Left are beginning to do, lump all opposition into very narrow stereotypes. It doesn't matter that he called my just and honest questions based on extensive reading and study as a diatribe and denying me the right to speak freely. It's a sign of the times and freedom of speech is headed for the endangered species list.

The Fairness Doctrine is being bandied about again. Broken down to its basic elements, it says that no radio or television station will air any point of view without giving equal time to the opposing side. It sounds like it supports free speech, but it doesn't. The financial bottom line is that liberal talk programs don't make money and conservative talk programs do, and historically more people listen to people like Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity than they do to anyone the liberals have fielded. So, if radio stations airing Limbaugh cannot find and make viable a talk program with a liberal then they have to take Limbaugh off the air. Does that sound like freedom of speech? It's like saying, if I can't make money having my say then you can't make money having yours. It's a child's raspberry and "nanny nanny boo boo" argument against an opponent from a safe distance behind a teacher or other adult authority. At this rate, I can see Radio Free America being broadcast from bomb shelters and offshore radio studios so Americans can listen to something other than the liberal party line.

Demonizing opponents of the left, stereotyping and denying free speech. What's next? Thought crimes? Oh, right, we already have those and more are coming. Honesty is not tolerated in a world where the President's dog rates front page coverage and is all over the news while his more important policies are either hidden in blurbs or as an aside in reports in liberal newspapers and those who question his policies are flamed and screamed down, like the demonstrators at the Tea Parties that took place on April 15th and have been taking place since February in the wake of the giant pork fest that was the stimulus package.

There was one other thing my detracting fan said about me, that I was one of the people in the rainbow wigs at the Durban II conference in Switzerland when most of the European representatives walked out during Ahmadinejad's speech about Jewish racism. I was right here working, but that also tells me that he supports an extremist terror monger who denies the Holocaust happened and calls for the extermination of all the Jews in the world, and specifically of the complete eradication of Israel in the Middle East with a nuclear bomb. The Iranian president's fiery rhetoric isn't playing at all well back home where his opponents in the upcoming elections are coming out for Israel's right to exist. Looks like we can add Ahmadinejad to the endangered species list. I see it as a portent for the future of this country as well.

Israel should have learned by now that whatever Ahmadinejad touches, turns to dust. He promised to put oil money on the table of every Iranian family. Instead, he took money away through high inflation and irresponsible expenditure policies which have ruined the Iranian economy. Ahmadinejad promised to “cut the hands of the corrupt”, instead they now have longer hands with bigger biceps. He promised to bring justice to Iranian society, instead the gap between rich and poor is growing every day.

I wonder if the liberals will rush to Ahmadinejad's defense now that he's endangered. After all, they do prefer the underdog, which is going to prove quite problematic for them as they continue to marginalize any opposition. Soon those who speak out against the current President will be marginalized and become the underdog. I wonder if it will be as spectacular a logic bomb explosion as when Kirk and Spock faced Nomad.