I spent way too much time today putting images with captions in to the episode Floating Down the Vltava. Getting the captions to line up right turned into a big pain in the ass. (The missing element: margin:auto.) The pictures now mostly behave well. I’ll be adding pics to other episodes in the near future, so keep your eye in the “what’s new” section above.
Enjoy!
I’m just coming out of a self-imposed Internet blackout that was intended to let me get things done. Let’s go to the scorecard and see how I did:
The contents of my refrigerator as I write this are: 2 bottles of water, soy sauce, mustard, whipped cream, an open packet of paprika, and a plastic lemon filled with juice. If there’s anything in the freezer, I don’t want to know about it. Last night the cabinets surrendered the last solid food – a box of slovenské halušky mix. I was expecting something that made the meal you get in restaurants when you order slovenské halušky, but this was just the base dumpling part. My results did not match the picture on the box at all. Breakfast this morning was leftover slovenské halušky. I thought of putting soy sauce on it, but decided against it.
On the plus side, I think I’ve reached the point where I must do something or I will starve to death.
Yes, you read that right. I have a new laptop. It is substantially faster than my old one, the screen is in much better condition, and the keys glow gently in the low light of the Little Café Near Home. Also the battery doesn’t last nearly as long and it set me back three month’s rent.
The mini is now in the shop for repairs. Hooray! Before you know it I’ll be up and running again, doubly mac’d and ready to rumble. I have quite a backlog of things to ramble about, as well as a bit of fiction to share with you. Who knows what might happen tonight!
Thanks, all of you, for your support and for sticking with the Muddleverse during my down time. Let us all send up a prayer to the gods of technology that I get as many miles out of this Powerbook as I did from the last.
Over the next few days I’ll keep this message at the top of the blog, but there will be lots of scrumptious episodes appearing below. Tune in often!
I got a very nice message today from Allison, who runs a podcast over at PodFeet. Tomorrow Jer’s Novel Writer will be mentioned on her show. She wrote me to say that she loved the Read Me file so much she wanted to post links to help people find my novels.
(Note to all the literary agents lurking on the blog — and I know you’re out there. Three words: Pent-up demand.)
Gah! No novels to which she can link. I did send back links to a couple of my favorites in the Piker Archives, and talked a little bit about my Read Me philosophy. It’s a good read me. It has style, passion, and useful information. It is a writer’s read me, and it is perhaps Jer’s Novel Writer’s primary asset. It says a lot of stuff, but what you hear is that “this is going to be fun!”
Really, JersNW will not make writing fun for you if it wasn’t fun already. And if you’re not having fun writing, then there is no reason to continue. You can sweat blood and curse and invent new ways to torture yourself when it’s not coming out right, but at the end of the day, when the words happen and you sit back and smile and wonder how some dork like you could make something so cool, when the crazy string of symbols you built actually means something, and it’s interesting, you gotta smile.
The words returned tonight, once I gave them the chance. Tonight’s effort was more problem-solving than rambling, but when you add a short scene that ties some of the loose bits together and establishes a core moment in the evolution of your character, then it’s time for an internal high-five. You have to celebrate that stuff, ’cause it’s all you have. Luckily, it’s all you want. You’re a writer.
This love, it feels so easy to me, that I assume it is the natural human condition. I have to wonder what we do to people to make writing a chore. Somewhere around the point we teach our kids that they can’t draw we also turn writing into a universe of artists, technicians, and other, swiftly relegate most folks (artists among them) into ‘other’, and spend the rest of their education trying to turn them into technicians. I’ve got nothing against technique (in fact, I’m probably tighter-assed than most) but I will forgive any technical transgression in the name of style. Personal style. “This is me” on the page. There is no grammatical rule that takes precedence over that.
You write to write. You publish so you can let go (doesn’t always work). You make a word processor because there’s an idea burning in your head. You publish the word processor to make money. Still trying to figure out that last bit.
Well, at long last I’ve been paid for my rousing Soap-Selling adventure. I got the message from my agent yesterday that they had my money, and bickety-bam I was down at the office to pick up my sweet lucre. Even after a chunk of it was withheld to keep the Czech government running in top form [Insert image of Indiana Jones here… Jones: “What form?” Official: “Top. Form.”] There was still a tidy little sum for two day’s “work”. Athena wrote me a check.
A check! I’d not seen one in this country, except the one I had to mail back to the US to deposit. They just don’t do checks here. Then Athena explained to me that I have to go to the right branch of the right bank, and take along plenty of identification, and expect to wait a while. That will be my adventure for today. It’s a good day for it, seeing as rent’s due.
I haven’t done any extra-ing since then, unfortunately. This must be what people in the biz call a “dry spell”. With my acting career in the dumper, I don’t have a safety net anymore. Better get writing.
Quite a lot of the traffic to this site is thanks to Google and the other search engines. I imagine that most of those drawn here with the promise of a match on their phrase take one look, say “Well that wasn’t what I was looking for,” and leave again post-haste. Nevertheless, I like to browse through the search phrases that brought people here from time to time, just to get a feel for the odd things people want to find. Some of the things I list below are there for entertainment, while others are there because the link back to episodes I like. Think of this as an index to my site compiled by a dyslexic teenager with raging hormones.
Of course, there are the perennial favorites – Egg friers and those looking for lyrics to theme songs for very silly anime. Several people have come looking for suggestions about what to write in yearbooks, while others are attracted to descriptions of particular bars. In the last two days, there has been a surge in people searching for Suicide Squirrels, which makes me think it’s time to review the threat level meter.
I get a few hits from image searches as well. The picture titled Rain in San Angelo gets a surprising number of hits. Go figure.
What does this all mean? Are the search engines providing a cross-section of modern thought? I hope not.
To the best of my (limited) knowledge, there were no stretchers brought out onto the field for last night’s world cup game. This is what happens when a media empire starts naming names, calling supposedly grown men to task for being babies. Let us all hope the Zero Baby Tolerance policy continues. Italy’s playing in the final, though, so that’s asking a lot. They are, by my reckoning, the third most shameless team of the world cup. And that’s saying a lot.
An offhand comment elsewhere about another topic altogether made me realize today that (provided I’m not lying on the cutting-room floor) now I, too, can claim connectedness with Kevin Bacon. But how many degrees separate us?
In my case the cutting-room floor outcome is pretty likely (I can imagine the dispute. “The scene’s timing is off; this part has to go.” “You can’t do that. We have to keep the guy looking at the thing.” “Scene’s too long. It’s an action movie. Gotta make it snappier.” “But the guy — the thing…” “Besides, look at him. The way he looks at the thing. Nobody’s even going to notice the action, they’ll all be watching him.” “Yeah, you’re right. Maybe I’ll do a documentary next, about people looking at things.”), so I thought it best not to wait for the movie before playing this little game.
Although, actually, I probably won’t be very good at it. I don’t watch that many movies, and even when I do I forget who was in the cast, so I’m pretty much out of luck here. I’m not even sure who’s in the cast of Casino Royale (for all I know Kevin bacon is in it).
I suppose, since I won’t be in the movie credits (those would be long credits before “1st guy looking at thing when the dude came down the stairs” was included), this is not in the spirit of the “real” game, but screw that. From Jerry Seeger in Casino Royale to Kevin Bacon in the fewest steps. Anyone want to take a shot?
Just so you know, I use a bit of strong language in this episode. If the use of the word ‘pussy’ to denote ‘someone lacking the personal fortitude to participate in a physical contest of sport’ offends you, well, uh… too late, but maybe you should stop now. I’m going to use it again.
It’s halftime in the game between Norway and Argentina, and I care not at all who wins. But it’s on the TV here in the Little Café Near Home, and I am watching the game because the box with moving colors and sound controls me with substantially more power than it seems to have over other people. I decided as this match started, though, that I would put on my journalist hat and cover this game for you from my own personal angle.
I mentioned in a previous episode that Argentina was a bunch of ankle-grabbing, whining wimps. Tonight I decided to keep score.
Minute 12: The first Argentina player went down. Oh! The agony! Judging by the pain etched into his face, I thought we were facing a career-ending tragedy. Such promise! Such talent! Wasted, years of productive ball-kicking cruelly wrested from this young lion by a horrible injury to… well, that wasn’t exactly clear. While he gasped in pain, the team captain went over to consult with the coach, discussing strategy, I assume. The stretcher came out (more on that later), and after more delay (not sure, but I think he eschewed the stretcher so he could walk to the sidelines much more slowly than the stretcher would have done) he was on the sidelines, standing, while a trainer sprayed chilly stuff on his knee. Oh, man, the knee. That’s the absolute last place you would want to have an injury like that.
Thirty seconds of playing time later, he was back in the match.
Minute uh, let’s call it 15: Another terrifically painful injury, this time to an Argentine wrist, maybe. Not sure, but too horrible to allow the poor guy to stand, at least for a bit. No stretcher was required; play resumed eventually.
Minute 18: Argentine player Rodriguez was tackled hard but cleanly. He went down and rolled over, holding his ankle. No whistle. He looked around and hopped back up to his feet. Whew! Another horrible injury narrowly averted. (As I edit this at minute 55 the exact same thing happened again.)
And so it went. Twice a Netherlands player took all of five seconds to get up after a rough tackle. There were more Argentine-on-the-grass incidents as the half progressed, but in documenting the first ones I managed to forget the rest I had carefully catalogued in my sieve-like brain. It doesn’t matter; you get the idea.
Argentina may be the best team in this tournament, but they are also the perfect example of why this game will not work in the US as it’s currently played. For the Argentines, being a little pussy and rolling on the grass, crying to the ref for redress, is good strategy. For Americans, it’s just acting like a pussy. In hockey, you don’t have stretchers coming out just so players can’t delay the game as much by grabbing a body part and crying like babies. In hockey, the harder someone hits you, the more important it is to get up and skate like nothing happened. I haven’t watched that many games this cup, but I’ve only seen one player bleeding. He kept playing, got stitches at the half, and came right back out. He was on the US team. (In hockey, they do the sutures on the bench, between shifts.)
Soccer is the ball sport with no balls, at least when Argentina is playing. It’s crazy, because they really might be the most skilled team in the cup. They don’t need to pull this kind of crap. But they do. You know why? It’s who they are.
***
As a coda to this, I have to add that I have seen an increasing tendency in American sport for the players to go begging to the refs for a call. — this just in! Minute 61: Man, I think that guy is done for. He’s in agony! Oh, wait. He’s OK. Back to the diatribe — They don’t pretend to be hurt, it’s more of a big-mouth self-advocacy thing. Still thoroughly distasteful. These little prima donna bitches that play sports for big money seem to think they are entitled to a call, especially in the US — so don’t for a minute think I’m letting the American Whiners off with this assessment of soccer. My heroes are the ones who are a solid bruise the day after the game, but during the contest they gave nothing away. I like the guys who get their uniforms dirty during warmup.
Minute 66: A Nederlander took 15 seconds to rise from the turf. I think his thigh was stepped on, but I’m not sure.
Distasteful. I was disappointed to see players in the world cup (somehow I still associate soccer with class) performing premeditated ceremonies after a goal. Tacky, tacky. tacky. Class players cheer — they have every right to be happy, and I wouldn’t take that from them — they hug the guys who all helped create the opportunity, they thank the fans, and they go back to doing their jobs. Now, doing one’s job in sports has become a marketing opportunity, and you have elementary school kids working on their touchdown dances. Crass, lame, and shameful. My message to the kid wearing pads for the first time is the same as my message to the members of perhaps the best side in soccer. Play the game.
Play the game.
It is quiet in the LIttle Café Near Home right now. Franta has thankfully hung the horn back up on the wall, the music is peaceful, and most of the patrons have gone home. Clouds in the west have hastened twilight, and the weekend streets are quiet. There is a hint of rain in the air, just a little extra something on the breeze that steals in through the open window from time to time. Pretty girls come in, buy cigarettes, and leave again.
Ghana beat the Czechs. The US team is about to play Italy. As you read this, you already know what happened (assuming you care at all). Consider this a message from the past, when things known to you were still mysteries. It is a naive message from an innocent time, a time when we suspected the US team was a joke, but we weren’t completely sure yet.
Ghana beat the Czechs. Italy must be celebrating as they prepare to meet their North American adversaries. If Italy beats the Americans, they advance. The Czechs will play Italy next, but they will play a man short due to a senseless red card in today’s game. If the US loses to both Italy and Ghana, the Czechs could very easily be eliminated, and Ghana would advance to the next round instead. Now the Czechs really, really need the US to win at least one of their games. That may be asking too much of the Americans.
It is game time, but the music plays on.
Before the game, it was generally agreed by the people around me that the Czechs were fielding a better team. There was one ding against the local favorites, however: they don’t play well until their backs are against the wall.
Brief game analysis: The US held the ball much of the time; the Czechs were content to let the Americans dick around at midfield all they wanted. When the US boys actually tried to move the ball forward, that was a different story. A very short story, with an unhappy ending.
It may be that the Czechs tried to play down to the US level, but no! The Unites States had the last laugh. Ha ha! No one was going to reach their level, no siree bob! The US team dove so hard for the depths of suck that even Jaques Cousteau blanched (and he’s dead). The US team was hopeless, ineffective, and just plain lame. They sucked so bad the Czechs around me didn’t even bother to taunt me. I think they even felt a little bad for me.
Any questions?
Don’t worry, kids, I’m not going to give a rundown of all sixty-four games of the tournament. I did watch the first two, however, and the game between Poland and Ecuador held my attention (although by then my laptop battery was dead). Also remember that I don’t know crap about this game. My observations could be so far off base that soccer (they call it fotbal here) fans will laugh uproariously.
The difference in style between the two teams was apparent from the beginning, and is what made the game interesting to me. Poland’s snappy short passes and ball-control philosophy were effective early on in each period, and at first I thought the game was going to be lopsided. Somehow, though, one of the Ecuadorians managed to get back in time to break up the opportunity every time. The Ecuadorians, meanwhile, were playing a flow game, with big, looping passes that their teammates would leg out. The tactics seemed to give the cameramen difficulty as well; many times I could not tell what was happening where the ball was going to land, until at the last inistant a player would come into the frame. Perhaps European-style cameramen are not well-suited for the South American-style game.
As the game progressed, Ecuador looked more and more in control. The difference, I think, was conditioning. Once Ecuador established the open running game Poland couldn’t keep up. Ecuador held off a charge late in the game to win, 2-0.
Poland had the feet, but Ecuador had the legs.
Edited to add impression from day two: Argentina is a bunch of whiny dive artists. Get up and play, you babies!
When the Eiffel Tower was erected in 1889, it was the tallest structure in the world, a title it retained until the Chrysler Building in New York eclipsed it 41 years later. The Chrysler building held the record for about a year, only to be surpassed by the taller but far less attractive Empire State Building.
So, what had been the tallest structure before the Eiffel tower, and for how long did it hold the record?
This isn’t really a quiz since the answer can easily be looked up, but I’m going to let people post answers in the comments just to add that little bit of anticipation.
