I'm lollygagging

...whatever lollygagging means. What I'm actually doing, is spending so much freakin' time stalking perusing other peoples blogs and not doing any actual blogging MYSELF.

So lets rant talk about what's on everybody's mind, the 10 billion dollar atom smasher in Switzerland and the potential for black-hole suckage.

I mean - if nuclear physicists are a mite concerned, do they really think this is still a good idea? How do you even prepare for the possibility of a black hole - canned goods, bottled water, and every episode of Star Trek on DVD? (Just in case Geordie once encountered such a speedbump, and might have a brilliant technobabble solution). Do we put on the storm windows and name them 'Black Hole Robert' and 'Black Hole Rowena' as the atom smasher churns them out?

Oh, wait, right. We won't BE HERE.

Or maybe we'll be in the second universe that this 'fake Big Bang' creates, that someone will take home in a jar, and we'll just all be a lot smaller. (Newsflash: Physicists Create Smurf Village. No word on Gargamel's whereabouts).

With all that brain power, can't they realize that NOBODY CARES BUT THEM? Really, nuclear physicist guys and gals, unless there is some kind of military application for black holes (which there might be, if we were at war with aliens, which would mean aliens would actually have to think we're worth their time) or the creation of universes-in-a-jar will somehow make porn on the internet better, WE DON'T CARE.

Now go cure cancer, or figure out how to get reality tv banned, or something useful.

Mere decades away from being Johnny Mnemonic - totally can't wait.

So I hooked up with Twitter last night. Because I am a total nerd whore. Facebook, I still love ya, but you just can't do what this new guy does for me. I mean, at 3am when I want to strangle my child, I can tell a bunch of people who could give two shits all about it. From my phone. Because I am also a lazy whore.

But it started me thinking about what things like Facebook and Twitter are doing to the actual, face-to-face conversations we still have (if, indeed, we ever leave the house and HAVE any). You don't really have to ask, "How have you been?". Or, "What have you been up to?". Because you've been getting updates, in real time, and probably more insight into your friends' heads than you've ever had. Sometimes TOO much, actually. So you end up having really creepy conversations that don't even pay lip service to the niceties, but instead jump right to things like, "Oh, hey, I have a bunch of rhubarb to go in that pie you wanted to make.". Meanwhile you're thinking, um, wtf? I haven't seen this person in 6 weeks and they know about my baking habits??

Oh, right. Facebook.

I was at an outdoor gathering a few months ago, one of those things where it seems like every single person you've ever met makes an appearance, and the tagline for the day was: "Except on Facebook.". As in, "How is Brian's new baby?". "Oh, I haven't seen her....except on Facebook.". "How is Ruth doing after her surgery?". "Oh, I haven't talked to her...except on Facebook.". It seemed a little surreal, but nobody else seemed to think it was odd that two years ago, none of them had even heard of Facebook. I mean - what the hell did we do back then? Actually gossip?

And in two years it will probably be, I mean - what the hell did we do back then? Just use Facebook??

This weeks superheroine

Hasn't someone ever said something totally snarky and demeaning to you in front of, like, 20 people? And haven't you wanted to explode and melt their face off with your radioactive omega beams?

But you don't, even though they totally deserve it, because you're a fucking super hero.

The breakup was mutual. Honest.

I decided to walk downtown yesterday in an effort to counteract the half a chocolate cake I had for breakfast (yes! you read that right. Now shut up). I can't just Go For A Walk, I have to have a destination. Which is silly, because I can just Go For A Run (although clearly, not often enough). I have to Walk Around The Lake, or Walk To The Library, or Walk To Dairy Queen.

Which is a bit counterproductive, but at least I'm getting out of the house. Right? Right?

Anyway. Yesterday I Walked Downtown, to take a look at an outside art exhibition that was going on. It was a one-day thing; a city block had been cordoned off, and all the artists had taken a parking space and turned it into an installation. You got a little booklet with 'parking tickets' that described each artwork, and the artist was on hand to 'validate' your parking with their own stamp. It was pretty clever. But on the way there I started thinking...I found out about this exhibit from some friends who are not artists. There was an invitation on Facebook, and I was not invited. Hello? I used to be an art student. I know people who are actually still artists. How did I not know about this??

Art World, why have you forsaken me??

Okay, so I don't come round as often as I should. And for quite a while there I was busy with a much younger man. And frankly, Art World, sometimes you're just full of shit. I became disenchanted.

But to totally reject me like this...

I know, I know, it's a two-way street. I have to put in some effort too. And I know you find it hard to live in this town. But, c'mon! You couldn't even send me a Facebook invite?? How much effort would that have cost you?

I don't know if we can heal this. To be honest I feel like I'm a better matchup with your younger brother, Craft Community. I know, he's not as 'wordly', but at least he's honest about who he is.

Maybe we should take a time-out. That's more or less what we've been doing anyway. But, y'know...I'll call you.

I'll get the jet fuel, gonna need a bigger bonfire

So I have this novel.

I know, right? Everyone has a novel. And now you're thinking, oh, great, another wannabe writer. Well, duh. I wouldn't be here if I didn't wannabe a writer. But I also wannabe an artist, and a dog trainer, and an anthropologist, and a biologist, and a homeopathic healer. And a translator for the UN and a seamstress, and Charlize Theron. I'm pretty sure at some point I've harboured a secret desire to be an astronaut cowboy millionaire.

The difference between most of those things and the writing is that my novel is actually finished. It's just sitting there. It's a little short. Okay, well, quite a bit short. More like a novella. But the point is it's got a beginning, and some semblance of a plot, and some semi-likeable characters, and a conclusion. There are a few things that I know are wrong with it that I could fix, but it would require some major hackage and a lot of rewriting. After that I think it would be marketable. I'm just busy
letting it simmer
too fucking lazy.

The local writers guild offers a service wherein you can submit your script and a professional writer will review & critique it. The fee for my size of manuscript would be $80. It doesn't seem like a lot, but we're kind of broke since I've been on mat leave and that money might be better spent on, oh, say...diapers. Or gas. Or FOOD.

My dilemma is that I'm pretty sure the professional (and they don't exactly go into what the 'professional writers' have for credentials, either. Are they novelists? TV script writers? People who work in the classifieds department at the newspaper?) is just going to tell me what I already know. But then there's the possibility that they might not. That person might see some way to fix it that is WAY EASIER. Or, even if they tell me exactly what I was expecting to hear, it might be the incentive I need to get off my lazy butt and do what I've known I should do for months.

Hm, know thyself. Light that fire under thyself's ass.