Sorry—a little distracted this week, but that just makes for a more eclectic mix of random, right?
Bragging on my kids’ artwork has become so much easier now that their art teacher signed her students up at Artsonia‘s online gallery.
Naturally, tote bags and mugs and tee-shirts and all sorts of whatnot emblazoned with one’s kids’ deathless art are available through Artsonia, which seems a bit opportunistic, until you realize you’re set for grandparent gifts until they both graduate.
Plus, there’s actually free space on the fridge now, which is always a plus.
Here’s one Janie did—she’s heavily into cross-sections now, showing what people bugs are doing in the privacy of their own rooms cotton balls:
For her summer project, she did a huge city scape at Christmas, with at last twenty rooms of people living their lives—she even added in one that showed people holding their ears because the upstairs neighbor was jumping on the bed. Awesome stuff.
I’m pretty sure she’s going to draw comic books someday—maybe she’ll let me write them for her . . .
And here’s one Sunny did after her class examined the art of Charley Harper:
Sunny’s backgrounds are always full of abstract color—you can say this about the paintings of most five-year olds, I’m sure, but this is my five-year old and her placement of each block clearly shows a precocious grasp of composition and the blending of shades.
Or something—my talents don’t lie in the visual arts, but I know who what I like.
Best Dog Video Ever
Yeah, that’s a subjective statement, and this may actually be the only dog video I’ve seen since the advent of YouTube, but once you see it—or one of this dog’s other videos—I guarantee it’s going in your personal top five:
Watson: “Three seconds in, and that dog has already done more chores than your kids do in a week”
Janie: “Hey! That’s not—oh, wait, is that Jesse? Yeah, she’s right.”
The idea is to locate the word ‘look’ in whatever manuscript you have lying around (I may be paraphrasing here) and post the few previous and following paragraphs and then invite other authors to do the same.
Since I’m feeling a little protective of Pigeon and Wendy is most familiar with Full Metal Librarian (aka, the Drawer Novel That Won’t Die) anyway, I thought I’d post from the latter.
In this scene, Clyota, the narrator, has just been released on bail through the extra-legal machinations of a member of the cyborg Press Corps, who has attached himself to her in order, he claims, to investigate the truth behind her space-pilot mother’s posthumous conviction for mass murder. Cristina is her best friend and a paralegal, which is proving convenient:
“Do you know what the ALA is going to do to you for hacking our systems?” Damn—I had to get to a terminal and report to Sys Admin as soon as possible.
“What,” he said, “will the revocation of your bail do to you?”
Okay, so maybe an anonymous tip through my hard-wired Library Secure connection . . . which apparently wasn’t secure now, except physically—my terminal was locked up in my house under a Crime Scene Field.
I stomped my feet once or twice, more out of anger than to clean my boots of leftover slush, and got into the passenger side. The Pressman got into the back seat.
“What the hell just happened?” said Christina. “I didn’t think you’d get out tonight, not without counsel at your arraignment. I got Samantha Rhys-Hargaty to take your case.” From her tone, I’d won the legal eagle lottery. “She was heading out here when the trial hit the docket, so she wants to set up a meeting instead to discuss strategy and some quote, “amazing evidence,” unquote. What’s that about?”
I leaned back into the heated seat and let my shivers settle. “Someone hacked my Door and falsified the reports to make it look like I ordered the kill shot. He,” I hitched a thumb behind me, “showed the judge a recording of what really happened. Oh, and they can’t find the . . .” I yawned hard enough to crack my jaw, “da . . . the ambulance that took the Lieutenant. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. I’m tired. And hungry.”
“I’ll take you home. My home—you can’t go back to yours yet, it’s still sealed. Plus you’re missing a front door.” Christina glanced in the rearview mirror. “Where can I drop you?” she asked the Pressman, her tone conveying that doing so from a great height would pose no problem.
“Wherever,” he said, “she goeth.”
“The hell you will—”
“Oh, let him stay,” I said. “If nothing else, I owe him for getting me out of there tonight on bail. Actually, I owe him the credit, too.”
“One credit? Which judge did you pull?”
“Uh . . .” My mind was full of fuzz.
“Edward Rapton-Fitzgerald,” said a voice from behind me.
Christina’s mouth dropped open. ” Holy—do you know what they call him?”
A litany started up from the backseat. “Judge Death, the Executioner, the Ice Man, the Organ Grinder, the Harvester—”
“That’s nothing compared to what defense lawyers call him,” said Christina. “One freaking credit from the guy who once set bail at a kidney and half a liver. I’m actually impressed. Still,” she added, “I don’t want him,” she glared in the rearview mirror, “around my kids.”
I knew that Thomas and Sadie had been sent to their grandma’s for Chick Nite, but I was too tired to argue. “I understand. Take us to the Plaza Hotel.”
“No.” She gripped the wheel and took a deep breath. “No, fine, whatever. He can use the spare room.” We exchanged small smiles; the spare room is in the basement, and is a graveyard for sprung, lumpy furniture, dead exercise equipment, and tasteless gifts from relatives.
If you’re confused-and-or-interested—the story begins, in six sentence increments, here.
And now it’s time to tag some writer/bloggers in return—and if you think that this is my sneaky way of seeing more of their work, you would be right:
Jalisa Blackman (Countdown or Nation, please!)
You don’t have to play along, guys—you can just send me your stuff directly!
There was a review of this movie in our local paper this morning. I’d never heard of it, but I immediately checked out the trailer.
You guys . . .
Wow. Just . . . Wow.