WTF moment of the week...

My boy brought home a box of Belgian chocolates yesterday. All the pieces in it were named after locales. One of the two foil-wrapped pieces in the box was called... "leper."

...

Until I finally made the connection with Ypres, I was sort of apprehensive about unwrapping it.

Blogger keyword of the day: foeppswy. Sounds like a Yiddish curse: may all our foes get leprosy.

Sitting at work, looking out the window... hey, snow is falling upwards! And sideways. Anyways but down like it should.

Actual forecast for tonight: "thundersnow."

I bet it's much nicer in Finland right now.

Edit: you know you're in a proper snowstorm when by the time you make it indoors, your pockets are full of snow.

Your inner pockets.

It figures. The first promising House episode since bugger knows when, and my TiVo records only half of it. Fuck you, SuperBowl.

I'm feeling kinda lazy, so instead of a concert write-up about my trip to see and hear DDT live on jan 25th., I'll just direct your attentions to this discussion in progress. It should cover the basics of the experience at least.

I have a new hero: a fellow with too much time on his hands called Dean Opperman.

Vista Sucks

I suspect that he is in fact one of the striking writers of the Writers' Guild of America slowly going crazy from boredom.

I recline now on my puke-green couch, sipping flat champagne and pondering where the day has gone.

I accomplished little since getting up this morning: a load of dishes, two loads of laundry, and a shitload of new critiques and polemics out on CritiqueCircle.com, where I play Simon Cowell to delusional wanna-be auteurs. How does it happen that someone will post for review just about the worst prose I've seen in weeks, and then when I begin raising grammar, syntax and word use objections at a rate of three to a sentence, I get deluged with weepy emails along the lines of, "But I've already got an agent for it! Is it really that bad? Should I not send it out? Should I quit writing altogether? Should I retire to a monastery in Ethiopia and live as a goat?"

How the fuck should I know? What am I supposed to say? All evidence to the contrary aside, I've still got a smidgen of tact left in me. I can't bloody well come out an say, "Look, if you found an agent for that drivel, then you found a bigger fool than yourself, so milk her for all she's worth." No, no... too well-brought up for that. I have to start on about how it's just my opinion, and there must be something to it if everyone else likes it, and how finding an agent is a splendid thing, and certainly more than I'll probably manage to accomplish once I finish my manuscript. All the while gritting my teeth into dust.

*sigh*