Tag: winter

I Care

How is it only Wednesday? It feels like it should be at least Friday by now, doesn’t it?This has been the longest week, seriously. It’s cold again this morning–in the forties–and the rain has stopped. The bipolarity of winter in New Orleans is something I don’t think I’ll ever get used to, no matter how long I live here. I don’t feel tired this morning, but the cold does make me want to get back in bed again and burrow beneath the covers. I was all kinds of warm and comfortable under my blankets this morning when the alarm went off, and by the second beep Sparky was up, trying to get my attention to get up and feed him. I don’t feel worn out, but I don’t think I’ll make it through the afternoon without my energy flagging. Ah, well.

I even left work early yesterday for my podiatrist appointment, and the good news is the toe has healed perfectly and he was most pleased with not only how quickly it healed but how properly as well. His absolute delight when he looked at was very clear. (Apparently, I am some kind of medical marvel of healing; Paul heals pretty fast, too–how many people are discharged the same day they get a hip replaced?) But that’s a good thing, and there was some callus where he’d cut the nail and the scab had been, so he got rid of that with an exacto knife (it didn’t hurt at all) and then I was done and walking out to head home. I wasn’t even super-tired when I got home, but I worked for a while and that wore me out enough to finally put it all aside and relax for the rest of the evening. I hate that I am not catching up as quickly as I would like to, but that’s life, you know?

I also keep forgetting the Super Bowl is here in February, which will make getting around the city so much easier. Yay. And of course, there’s a massive facelift (or at least temporary patchwork) being done to New Orleans to get ready for it, so you never know what detours lie in your future.

I also watched Matt Baume’s documentary about Lance Loud, the gay son of the first reality TV show, An American Family, from the early 1970s on PBS. we didn’t watch it, but everyone was talking about it, and I remember hearing about the gay oldest son, and how the marriage ended in a divorce. I think my parents thought being filmed for a television show was exploitative and kind of gross? My mother certainly wasn’t one to get into reality shows–she even stopped watching soaps about twenty years ago. I was never really sure why, but Dad has told me over and over again about how deeply conservative she was (trust me, I knew but it still came as a surprise–I always thought it was Dad and she was just trying to make him happy. Ah, the things we are led to believe as children but never really give much thought to…Dad became more conservative because she was so conservative), so I have to assume the soap thing (I used to watch them with her when I was still in school) might have had something to do with that? I know my sister stopped watching them because they encouraged you to root for adulterers. My grandmother also used to watch them when I was a kid (I actually think she was the one who got me and my sister started on Dark Shadows), but also stopped. Anyway, it was an interesting documentary, and I learned a lot more about Lance Loud than I’d ever really known before, other than he was the gay son on that show.

The tale of Robin Hoody keeps getting more and more interesting the more information that comes out about him, and I keep being more and more amused at the way the country has almost completely united (see what I did there?) behind him. That really should tell everyone about the mood of the country, shouldn’t it? I keep being amused at how the story is being reported, and how much resources the NYPD expended on searching for this person while no one is even talking about the immigrant stabbed to death by racists on the same day in the same city, and certainly the NYPD isn’t making that a top priority. I’d love to see the price tag for justice for a health insurance executive, and why the NYPD and the media made this into such an insane priority. Yes, by all means, do tell me about how everyone is equal in the eyes of the law! And of course, the more information that comes out about both shooter and victim, the more noble the shooter sounds and the more awful the victim was. The media was certainly unprepared for the way people reacted, and the fact that the media so completely misread the mood of the country makes you wonder, again, just how shitty they are at their jobs; and the right-wing grifters attempt to frame this as a right-left issue blew up their faces…as some angry Americans slowly began to realize the media they consume manipulates them to make money, and people saw it as more of a class war kind of thing that apparently everyone has just been waiting for to happen.

And that’s what has the elites and their puppet media terrified. They cannot allow the country’s division to heal and anyone who is not an elite must be persuaded to fight a culture war when the real problem is and has always been the class war the billionaires have been waging against everyone else since Ronald Reagan was sworn into office in 1981. I also think a lot of the angry people are recognizing that they voted in the rule of an oligarchy and are not very happy about that, either. For the record, I don’t have any sympathy for those who voted for this and now have regrets. Too little, too late, too bad, so sad. You voted to make people suffer, and sadly, you’re also one of those. I can’t even begin to tell you how horrible those people were before the election, and how they absolutely refused to listen to anything anyone had to say.

And the newspaper coverage and most editorial commentary has shown how deeply out of touch they actually are from everyday citizens, and how they prop up the elites at every possible turn. Imagine if the media hadn’t gotten sucked into the cult of Trump in the 1980s and started turning him into a celebrity for no good reason. Seeing them trying to lead ‘the resistance’ after doing everything they could to reelect him (so much for that “liberal media bias,” right, Richard Nixon?) is not only craven, but disgusting and people are starting to see very clearly what our “news media” actually has become: completely incompetent and not good at their jobs. The news shouldn’t be a for-profit business, just like health care should not be.

And on that note, I am bundling up and heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Wednesday, Constant Reader, and here’s hoping the rest of this week flies by.

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Keep the Fire Burnin’

Monday morning and back to the office, with parades starting this weekend and how did it get to be parade season so damned fast? I slept decently last night, but it’s cold (not as cold as it’s been though) again this morning and the heater ran all night so downstairs doesn’t feel chippy the way it was when it was ultra cold. I have PT tonight after I get off work, too, which is going to be challenging again as I suspect my weights will go up. I don’t know about the kettlebell exercise; how well will I do with it today? Balance has never been one of my strengths. after all, and that was the primary problem I had with the kettlebell thing the other day. I am not client-facing today, either, which is nice. I didn’t get nearly enough done this weekend as I would have liked–what else is new, really–and so I am facing down yet another week of work in the office with parades on the horizon and next weekend being even a wilder weekend of parades and so forth.

We did watch the figure skating yesterday to see Ilia Malinin take his second US title; Paul mentioned this was probably the first time he could remember all four winners in all four disciplines not skating a clean final program. He may be right–its unusual for ice dancers to make major and noticeable mistakes–but I can’t remember who has won national titles over the years anymore. I used to remember, but I don’t anymore. I am comforting myself with this particular lack of memory being explained away as “well, you’re older and thus have more to remember than you used to”, which is a bit of a comfort. I also kept track of the football games without watching; happy for Taylor and the Chiefs as well as a little disappointed that the Lions didn’t make their first ever super bowl; remembering that magic year when the Saints went to and won their first always makes me hope that some other city and fan-base gets to experience that magical delirium the way we did all those years ago. (I inevitably always will root for the underdog; it’s just how I’ve always been.) But congratulations to both the Chiefs and the 49ers for making the Super Bowl. One fanbase is going to be really happy in a couple of weeks. So does that mean the Super Bowl is also on Bacchus Sunday? Guess I won’t be watching–not that I would have in the first place, not being a fan of either team…but it is fun watching Taylor Swift trigger the MAGAts.

I didn’t read much this weekend either. I didn’t write or read much, but I did put a lot of thought into writing–you know, the writing-in-your-head thing that we all do and absolutely it counts as writing, thank you very much. I had kind of gotten lost in the story currently under construction, and then of course while watching something this weekend it occurred to me that I needed a different opening and then it hit me how to finish the story, and how the end needed to be threaded throughout the story…so I decided that I am, indeed, going to start rewriting it from the beginning and hopefully that will give me the impetus to get the story’s first draft finished so I can move on to the next one whose ending I’ve also solved in my head already before moving on to one that I already know the ending of but don’t know the middle. Heavy heaving sigh–it’s always something, isn’t it?

(I did start reading the novelization of The Last of Sheila, which will be discussed at greater length once I finish it.)

And now January is almost finished. I cannot believe this Thursday is the 1st–yay, all the bills are coming due again–but that’s cool. I think I am going to just take Lundi Gras off so I can have a four day weekend and won’t have to mess with trying to get to work or dealing with getting home that day. PT is also going to be a major bitch to try to figure out along the way as well. This week isn’t so bad, I have it scheduled for Friday morning and I have another appointment that morning as well, but next week? Monday should be fine, and if I can schedule it for Friday morning that should be perfect. I can also go on Lundi Gras in the morning, and then we will have made it through parade season. I also have an appointment with my surgeon later in February, so I can find out how much more PT I have to endure before I am considered healed again.

It’s kind of weird that I’ve been dealing with this for over a year now, isn’t it?

And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines to get my day going. Have a lovely Monday wherever you are, Constant Reader, and I’ll check in with you again later.

The Only Way Out

Tuesday and back to the office. It’s only twenty-nine degrees outside, which of course means it feels abominably cold at my desk between the windows–but the apartment is bearable overall. The shower is going to be difficult this morning, as will getting outside to walk to the car and then into the building once I get to work, which means walking very fast. The bed felt incredibly comfy and warm and snug this morning, too. Ah, well, it’s a short work week and we should be out of this insane cold snap (for New Orleans) by the weekend.

Yesterday I started the strength PT, which was tiring and exhausting but felt good at the same time, in the way that using your muscles feels good after a long period of inertia. I thought I might be a bit sore this morning, but I’m not. It is amazing also how tiring the light weights I am now using are, but it’s done and it’s not something I need to fear. I didn’t have anxiety about it, either, which is a lovely outcome. I did spend a lot more time yesterday thinking about this year and what I want to get done, writing-wise, so yesterday was also productive in that way. I also mapped out some other projects that are in progress, and then treated Paul to pizza from the new place that has replaced Slice, U Pizza. It was good, but not as good as Midway on Freret–but much more convenient, since I can just walk there to pick it up. It’s lovely being able to eat pizza again.

We also started watching Lupin last night, which we both are really enjoying. I know the character is basing what he does and how he does it on the book adventures of Arsene Lupin, but it also reminds me a lot of an old Sidney Sheldon book in which a young woman was framed for something, her father was ruined, and she went to jail–only to get out and become a master international criminal after getting revenge on the people who killed her dad and framed her–I want to say it was If Tomorrow Comes and my spotty memory is telling me her name was Tracy Whitney; and if you know anything about me you know how much I love a good get-even revenge story, so that was one of my favorite Sheldon books (revenge was always a motivating factor in Sheldon novels, although remembering some things about The Other Side of Midnight has me questioning my love and appreciation of Sheldon; and yes, I do remember reading that as a teenager and not liking the way it turned out, although I recognized that final act of the book was necessary and really subscribed to Sheldon’s overarching theme that life sucks for women, even if he showed it in a misogynist way). I don’t have the time or the bandwidth to revisit any Sidney Sheldon novels and I would imagine they wouldn’t hold up to modern scrutiny, and probably shouldn’t have back in the day, either.

So, today I am going to make some to-do lists; one for the week, one for the month, and one for the first quarter of the year, bearing in mind for me that things are always subject to change. After work tonight I am going to swing by uptown to get the mail, dependent on how insane driving in the city is during this cold snap and hard freeze warning. People here are the shittiest drivers bar none of anywhere I’ve ever lived, primarily because driving here isn’t like driving anywhere else, and so you can imagine what they are like in cold weather, when there may be ice on the road or if it’s, God forbid, snowing outside. New Orleans comes to a screeching halt when it snows here, and it’s been a while since the last time we had cold weather. I had the Honda the last time; I remember because I had to give a co-worker a ride to work and I took pictures of my car in the snow, maybe even video? So it was either the winter of 2017 or 2018; but we’d just moved into the new building in December 2018 so it must have been 2017. I’ve not seen any snow forecast for this hard freeze warning, which won’t be lifted until ten a.m. tomorrow morning. Le sigh.

But it means I will sleep really well tonight.

So I am dressing in layers to go outside to get to the car–T-shirt, sweater, jacket, but no tights under my pants since the problem with layers is you still have to spend a lot of time inside, so you eventually get too hot and have to remove some of the layers, which would be a pain at work with removing tights, so I am skipping that. I am about to brave the cold, Constant Reader, so wish me luck and I will maybe see you later. Have a lovely warm Tuesday, wherever you are.

Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!

I despise snow.

Oh, sure, it’s pretty and all, but there’s nothing worse in my opinion than being wet and cold–and that’s a definite result of snow. Although some of my favorite horror novels/films/TV shows are set in the cold and snow (Ghost Story, Stranded, The Terror) and I do have that Christopher Golden novel about the cold and snow in my TBR pile (Snowblind, I think is its name?).

I woke up late this morning with a definite sore throat, as opposed to the tickle I’ve been fighting all week, which isn’t a good thing. I shall liberally dose myself with NyQuil this day as I write and edit and do things around the house. Yesterday I accomplished little to nothing, quite frankly. I did start inputting the edits in “Don’t Look Down,” but stopped after a couple of pages. It was terribly easy for me to get distracted yesterday, partly because I felt so tired all day. We went to a Christmas party last night, which was quite lovely, actually–I drank too much champagne (which has nothing to do with my sore throat, thank you very much) and we took Lyft there and back. It was a very fun evening, with lots of laughter–my sides and abs ache a bit this morning from laughing so hard last night–but today I simply must get things done. I have a stack of paper sitting on my desk to the right of me, and I absolutely must work my way through that entire stack of edits today, or else.

I also have some laundry to do–two loads I started yet didn’t finish yesterday–and the kitchen is still a mess (I told you, I didn’t do much of anything yesterday), and I’d also like to get some reading done today. I am making shrimp and grits for dinner (first time in a very long time I’ve done this) and I also am going to try to make some food for the week, to make things easier on me (broiling chicken breasts, for example). This is, of course, the last full work week I have before the holidays, which reminded me that I actually need to put in a full eight hour day this Friday, as well as next Thursday and Friday. (Note to self: remember that or you’re going to get screwed with your hours)

I also need to make sure I am on track with everything I need to be on track with; which means administrative work–which as I am sure you can imagine how much I love doing that. It’s a heavy plate for a Sunday, but what can I do? It all has to be done, and I need to get this all done before the holiday weekends. I kind of just want to get some writing on Bury Me in Satin done, as well as these edits, then start tackling the Royal Street Reveillon problems over the two four-day weekends.

And then, of course, Carnival begins. Heavy heaving sigh. It’s just non-stop around here.

And now tis back to the spice mines.

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Alone Again, Naturally

Saturday! Tonight LSU takes on Ole Miss in yet another crucial game for the Tigers. Heavy sigh. I have a lot to do today–cleaning, errands–around football games, and I am going to start reading another book while editing some short stories and–hopefully–working on the revision of Bourbon Street Blues.

But yesterday, I finally had the time to devote to Bracken MacLeod’s amazing Stranded.

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The void churned and swelled, reaching up to pull them down into frigid darkness, clamoring to embrace them, every one. A cold womb inviting them to return to the lightless source of all life, and die, each man alone in its black silence.

The sea battered the ship, waves crashing against the hull as the ship’s master tried to quarter–turning the vessel into the waves to lessen their impact. While he struggled at the helm, the crew scrambled to get into their gear. The men grabbed sledgehammers and baseball bats, rushing to the aid of their fellow deckhands like a medieval army mustering to stand against the cavalry that would break them, line and bone. Noah wrestled with his waterproof gear, trying to pull on his pants and jacket, jamming hands into clumsy gloves that would combat frostbite for only so long. The ship pitched and Noah lurched in the passageway, trying not to lose his footing, trying not to be thrown to the deck before he was even out in the storm. He shoved his foot into a boot, staggering away from his locker as gravity and momentum conspired to bash his skull against the bulkhead. He careened into the wall, feeling a pop and a blossom of pain in his shoulder. He gritted his teeth and shoved himself away; he had to get on the cargo deck with the others. He couldn’t be defeated before he even got outside.

The key to writing excellent horror, to quote Stephen King yet again, is to write about what scares you. Conversely, I think the most effective horror fiction is written about what scares and unsettles the reader. The opening to this exceptionally fine novel is a perfect example of why I will never board a ship and have absolutely no desire to ever go on a cruise. Is there anything more unsettling than not having solid ground beneath you? Every earthquake I experienced in California was horrific for that reason–when you can’t trust the floor beneath your feet not to move….shudder.

I’m not necessarily as afraid of cold as I dislike it intensely. I grew up in Chicago, spent my teens in Kansas, and as an adult, one horrible winter in Minneapolis (I love Minneapolis; just can’t handle the winters; it didn’t help that the particular winter I spent there was one of the worst in years). The rest of my life has been spent for the most part in warm-weather climates; I’ve only visited the cold on trips. I don’t like being cold, really. So, of course, books set where it’s cold always affect me (Peter Straub’s Ghost Story is one example–I still shiver not only from the scares in that book but from the images of the snowbound town; there was one by I think a British writer set in a ski lodge that was also horrifying but I can’t remember the name of the writer–he was recommended by a friend; Christopher Golden’s Snowblind, which I haven’t gotten to yet; and so many others….)

So, Stranded takes place on a freighter, in the winter, in the Arctic Sea, bringing supplies to an oil rig. The main character, Noah Cabot, is kind of the scapegoat on the ship, the Arctic Promise; no one seems to like him very much and the ship’s heirarchy really hate him, yet at the same time he is enormously likable to the reader. There’s some deep pain inside of him, this son of a family of long-time Maine fisherman, who went away to college in Seattle, but MacLeod plays his cards about Noah’s backstory perfectly, like a card shark reeling his victim in, card by card. And before you know it, the ship is beset; frozen in by the ice, trapped, with all of its communications not working. There is a weird fog, and everyone on the ship seems to be coming down with some kind of ailment. Out in the distance they can see the shape of something…maybe it’s the oil rig… and Noah, as one of the only men on board not affected by the strange sickness, is selected to help lead a team of men across the ice to whatever that shape is out in the distance.

And then the real fun begins.

The premise of the story is really enough to keep the reader intrigued enough to keep turning the pages–these are some serious stakes here–but MacLeod is a master at pacing, and knowing when to drop in those precious moments of backstory so that the reader becomes even more vested in the characters he is reading about. I kept trying to guess what was going on–I did figure one thing out–but I was almost always wrong, which is gratifying as a reader. The atmosphere is gothic and spooky, and the way MacLeod uses the freezing weather to amp up the tension is spectacular; not to mention his way of making the individual characters unique enough to be distinctive–not an easy task when you have as many minor characters populating a short novel like this.

I had read and deeply enjoyed MacLeod’s Mountain Home after I had met him at World Horror Con here in New Orleans whenever that was; I am really looking forward to reading his other novel, White Knight. His transition from noir to horror was seamless and exceptional; a mark of a truly gifted writer.

BUY THIS BOOK.

And more, please.

And now, back to the spice mines.