Coffee heat rising

El Gobierno Quiere Ayudarte! Thanks, Dear Government, but…

So this morning city and neighborhood organizers threw a donuts-and-press party to kick off the first of the heavy-duty locking gates they intend to install across the alleys in Richistan and Lower Richistan. These will be grand — in theory — for the folks who can afford to live in those areas. The intent is to fence the local drug-addicted bums away from people’s backyards, theoretically cutting crime and, as a practical matter, much enhancing aesthetics.

When I first heard about this scheme — it was proposed a couple years ago — I was all for it. It sounded like it would cut the risk of crime and get at least some of the two-legged vermin out of our hair. But now I’ve had time to think it over. And what do I think?

Bad idea.

This is a scheme that on the surface sounds great but that is fraught with unintended consequences.

Its biggest drawback? The plan doesn’t address the underlying problem: hordes of drug-addicted transients. Until the matter of homeless mentally ill and drug addicts is resolved, no stop-gap program like gates across the alleys is going to stop bums from roaming our neighborhoods and burgling our homes and cars.

While our City Parents talk on one side of their collective mouth in claiming they want to help our neighborhood fend off the present onslaught of drug-addicted vagrants, many of whom are merely thieving but a few of whom have committed acts of violence and sexual molestation, on the other side they blithely import the undesirable residents by allowing them to ride the Blightrail for free, dumping them at the end of the line, the intersection of Gangbanger’s Way and Conduit of Blight, and providing a 24-hour meth clinic for their convenience. We have a homeless camp right next to a middle-school playground. Over the neighbors’ vociferous objections, they allowed a hugely profitable fundamentalist television church to buy a private home in the ’hood, pave over the yard, convert the property to a “church,” and use it to dispense free food handouts to the bums. This, when the City specifically requests churches not to give out food to the homeless, because government and charitable agencies already do so and also provide needed social services.

Blocking the wandering drug addicts from sleeping in the alleys and using the alleys as their toilets will not make the drug addicts go away. It will not provide shelter for the homeless. It will not provide effective drug treatment or healthcare for them. It will not provide jobs for them. It will just keep them out from behind the yards of our more affluent neighbors.

When the bums can’t get into the alleys, where will they go?

Well, I’ll tellya where they’ll go. I know from experience, because I spent 15 years in the historic Encanto District, where the homeless drug-addict presence makes ours look, by comparison, as nothing.

Into the locals’ front yards. That’s where they’ll go. Into the side yards. Into any car that is not parked inside a locked garage. Into any garage or workshed that is not locked.

Our house had a flange wall that extended from the front elevation, spanning the distance from the east side of the house to the lot line. From the street, this wall looked like part of the structure’s living space. It had a solid wood-plank door that fit into its arched opening, just like the house’s solid wood-plank front door. Being young and careless (not to say “dumb as posts”), we never locked this door. We could have installed a padlock on the back side of the thing, but that would have involved having to hire a craftsman to do it, which would have entailed not only installing hardware on a door that wasn’t intended for such a thing, but also installing said hardware on a solid masonry wall, unlike any wall that has ever been built in the 21st century.

So not being the brightest rhinestones on the cowboy vest, we just let it be.

The bums found it. They quietly slipped in, closed the door behind them, and made themselves to home. A couple of transients set up camp in our side yard. How long they resided there, I do not know. They were quiet, and besides, our television was on the other side of the house, and so we never heard them moving around out there. It wasn’t until I went out there to do some damnfool thing — probably clean up weeds — that I discovered their gear. They apparently had been there for awhile.

One our neighbors bounced out to her car early one morning, jumped in, turned on the ignition, and started to back out of the driveway on her way to work. That was when she noticed the guy sleeping in the back seat.

He was really pissed at her husband for waking him up and demanding that he get out of the car.

If our son and our neighbor’s son were to play outdoors at all, either I or our neighbor’s full-time housekeeper had to stand there and watch them every minute that they were outside. It was unsafe to let them play outdoors at all, especially in our front yards.

One of our neighbors was making cookies for her family while they watched the television one evening. She would put a pan of cookies into the oven, trot out to the family room and watch the TV for 10 or 15 minutes, and then when that batch was done would walk back into the kitchen and put in a new batch. (In those old houses, kitchens were separate rooms, not an extension of a secondary living-room.)

Some guy was watching her from the alley and noticed that she was going in and out with some regularity. He also noticed she’d set her purse on the kitchen counter. So while she was in with her family watching the boob tube, he crossed the back yard, came on into the kitchen, grabbed her purse, and strolled off with it.

Got that? You could not leave a door unlocked even if five people were in the house and moving around! The cops found her purse in a garbage can, but they never did find her cash or her credit cards.

That was Encanto. It’s not that bad here. Yet. I will admit, the child molester who vaulted the family’s back wall and had a little fun with their two small girls was a bit…heh…beyond the pale. But at this point that is still an extraordinary event, not something that happens on a routine basis. In Encanto, this kind of shit happened once or twice a week. It was a constant thing.

We had alleys, too. We had cozy oleander hedges lining those alleys. And we had lots of drug addicts, alcoholics (remember those?), and neglected mentally ill sleeping in them. But we also had them sleeping in our front yards, our side yards, and our vehicles. And I figure that’s what we’ll get when we lock the bums out of our alleys.

Same for the coyotes. See that pipe-like thing at the top of the gate? That’s a coyote barrier: it spins when the animal tries to climb over it.

The coyotes, which are madly being evicted from the horse properties now being converted into farms of ticky-tacky McMansionettes, den in the alleys. If they can’t get into the alleys, they will nest in the hedges and decorative brush in people’s front yards.

How obvious is this?

For city slickers, not very. Evidently.

The hilarious thing is, the flatland touristers who have invaded these parts live in as much terror of coyotes as they do of bums. They are stupidly, brainlessly afraid of coyotes! Which is about as inane as it gets. Tell them that a coyote will not eat your child. They don’t believe you. Suggest to them that if they don’t want their damn stray cat to get eaten, they should keep it inside: they don’t believe you. Plus of course they think they have a God-given right to let their damn cat run loose. Tell them that they shouldn’t leave their dog out in the backyard alone all the time anyway, and they get miffed. Letting their dog howl at the moon, the sun, and every passing sparrow is another of their God-given rights. Point out that the coyotes kill roof rats, moles, and gophers, and they just look at you blankly.

So…you get the picture of why they haven’t thought about whatever unintended consequences might devolve from this project.

Then we have the fact that at the outset the city is going to install these gates only in Lower and Upper Richistan. This, of course, is not just because the squeaky wheel gets the grease but that the palms that have the grease know which other palms to grease…

The Richistans are just to the east of the ’hood, where the Funny Farm resides. The ’hood forms a transitional zone between Lower Richistan and Conduit of Blight Boulevard. Lower Richistan itself is a kind of transitional zone — between the very wealthy, old-money Old Phoenix Upper Richistan and us…folks.

Think about that. Yes.

What will happen when they shut off the alleys in the Richistans is that the bums will flow into our part of the neighborhood. Of course. This means we will get twice as many bums as we already have. Which is as many as we need, thankyouverymuch.

They plan to install gates in Sunnyslope, too, an adjacent low-rent area that has an even worse transient problem than we do. This, of course, is ridiculous: there, the bums are already breaking into vacant houses and commercial properties (of which there are a-plenty) and squatting there. Sunnyslope is overrun with transients, some of them true drug addicts and some just people who are down on their luck or mentally ill and unable to care for themselves.

The situation will not get better very soon. As we speak, there’s a five-year wait for Section 8 housing in Phoenix. So you understand: we have a lot of poor people sleeping on the streets. And Sunnyslope is one of several local epicenters for this phenomenon.

Locking the bums out of the alleys in Sunnyslope will push them down into our area. So our part of the ’hood will get those folks as well as the ones evicted from the Richistans.

When asked about this, a City spokesman said they were planning to do a “study” of the “metrics” resulting from this experiment. Right. Like they studied what would happen when they installed a lightrail boondoggle and let people get on without having to pay a fare. Right.

Glad I installed my own gate! This, you may recall, I had to put in after some of the locals decided the old garbage-can niche in the back wall made a great public loo. It works really well and adds an extra layer of security along the alleyway. Prowlers can’t reach the gate into the yard. And since it’s not easy to climb that swimming-pool gate, passing bums can’t walk up to the wall and peer into the yard.

It’ll be at least two years but more likely something like 6 or 8 years before the city gets around to installing gates over here. By then I’ll be 80 years old and probably won’t care much.

Work Avoidance: A Salable Skill?

😀 If Work Avoidance is a salable skill, I should be able to make a pretty good living at it. I am becoming very accomplished at it.

So far I have managed NOT to…

…dork around with attaching the expensive new external hard drive to the Macbook; and therefore not to…
…back up the Macbook to Time Machine…
…clean the pool…
…clean the bathrooms…
…call the vet about racking up yet another fat bill to check both dogs for UTIs…
…sneak out the door with Ruby and walk her for the requisite mile…
…clean the mud up off the floor…
…write a single word of Ella’s Story…
…repair the bathroom rug that fell apart…
…paint the chipped area on the archway between the living room and the hallway

I have, however, spent a great deal of time and labor cleaning up dog piss. Just threw down a new dog pee mat, purchased this ayem at Walmart. Within five minutes, Cassie missed it. So once again had to get down on hands and knees, scrub up the mess, and scald the skin on my hands with disinfectant. Wheee!

Yes. By way of acquiring another bag of 30 pee-pads, it was off to the local Walmart this morning, up on Gangbanger’s Way, oddly enough the only grocery store in the ’hood where I feel safe walking across the parking lot. This, thanks to the flamboyant presence of a crew of security guards. One of them actually said good morning to me today, albeit whilst eying me suspiciously. He was busy snapping photos of some worthy’s car on his cell phone. Hm.

Walmart. The home of My Kinda People. Got in line behind a Latina woman who was straight out of a Diego Rivera painting. She was truly beautiful, with her long, loosely braided and radiantly black hair and her sturdy working-class air. And she had the single cutest baby you’ve ever seen in your life, perched in the shopping cart’s child seat. He was a sleepy little kid — must have been his nap-time — yet unsmilingly patient. And quietly interested in the passers-by, some of whom would catch his attention and, for reasons unknowable, induce him to track them across the store with his eyes.

To my great delight, Walmart had boxes of Constant Comment tea bags.

How did I know? 😀 Let me count the ways…

My mother was very fond of Constant Comment, which she loved using to make Arizona tea (known in cooler climes as “sun tea”). And, objectively speaking, the stuff really is superior for that purpose.

On a wet and rainy day, too — the sort of wet, muddy, rainy days we’ve been having this week — Constant Comment served hot makes a great cuppa.

So, how did I know Walmart surely must carry Constant Comment, when more noble venues such as the local Safeway/Albertson’s, Sprouts, Fry’s Richistan, and waypoints more upscale most certainly do not?

Combat experience in the class wars.

After I married into the striving Young Professional class — this would be the Junior League and the Phoenix Country Club set — I was surprised to learn (by way of a sharp rebuke) that Constant Comment is considered deeply déclassé.

Yes. The stuff is regarded by the wealthy and the would-be wealthy as swill for the lower classes. We do not drink that, dear. We do not even recognize its presence on the grocery store shelf, if we are ever unfortunate enough to find ourselves in a grocery store that carries such a thing.

No kidding. Some society wives actually instructed me, peering down their patrician noses, on the low-brow aspects of my favorite exotically flavored tea.

Ohhh well. Now that I’m old and poor again, I guess I can drink any damn tea I like.

She feeds you tea and oranges…

Frustration → Redemption

Yesterday was one of the most frustrating days I can remember in a long time. Maybe even in forever. Yet, weirdly enough, hours of frustration and annoyance ended up saving me money.

Started out needing a couple gallons of pool acid, a tank of gasoline, and a few minor things at Costco.

Normally I would buy gas at the midtown Costco, which is cheaper than just about anyplace else in town. It’s not a very pleasant place to shop, though, because the store is located in an area infested with drug-addicted transients. Though security patrols the shopping lot and a hulking attendant lurks by the gas pumps, it’s still depressing to have to drive past a park that hosts a campground full of homeless folks, most of them spaced-out druggies or untreated mentally ill. Plus the Costco in Richistan, because it caters to a more affluent buyer, offers a broader and better range of products.

To get the acid at a reasonable price would require a trip to Home Depot on Cave Creek, which is halfway to the Richistan Costco in Paradise Valley, and directly on the way. The HD, however, is way out of the way of the midtown Costco; to avoid having to drive way north and then turn around and drive back south, I’d have to buy the acid at Leslie’s, where it’s massively overpriced. Soooo…. I decided to make the trek north to the Depot, then head directly east to Costco Richistan. This makes for a longish drive but presents a better likelihood of getting the goods I needed at the cheapest price. Except for the gas.

First stop: Home Depot.

Trot into the garden department, where they normally house the pool supplies.

Nope. No acid. No chlorine. No pool stuff. They’ve moved this junk from its usual niche and replaced it with Christmas junk.

I can’t find it in its old place in the garden department. Can’t find it anyplace outside. They’re supposed to store this stuff outside because the combination of acid and chlorine is explosive, and they keep it outside to minimize the potential for catastrophe, should a leak or a moment of stupidity occur.

After much traipsing around, I finally find an employee. “Where’s the pool stuff?”

“It’s up aisle 16. Go all the way to the end and turn right.”

Trudge up aisle 16 to the far north end of the store. Search, search, search, and search some more. No pool supplies.

Fuck it, I think. Costco has a pool section. They may have the stuff.

So I climb back in my car, annoyed, and proceed to the western border of Richistan, whereon lies the upscale Costco.

A few things are needed, notably another bathmat, this one to serve as a nest for the ailing corgi, who had taken to laying on the icy tiles next to the bed. And a package of meat.

While I’m there, I realize that eating steak is now a thing of the past. At $12  a pound for ribeye (not even the prime version! just choice!), a package of beefsteak goes for $50 to $80 and up. Sooo…forget that.

A package of scallops — wild, not farmed — which used to be an extravagance, is “only” $20, but because I only eat four or at the outside five per serving, it will last for weeks. Pick that up.

One of the snack ladies is peddling some smoked salmon treats. These are very tasty, and with the $2 off come-on a package is only $6. Impulse buy: grab.

A rack of lamb is also a decent buy for me, because I cut it into enough pieces to feed me for four meals. $25.

The bath mat is reasonably priced, comparatively speaking: $13.

I spot a red casual sweater, exactly the thing I’ve been looking for the past several weeks. $18.99. Impulse buy: grab.

The checkout lines are endless. The Richerati…I swear, those people are such sh!theads. I guess the way you get to be rich is to cultivate an attitude that lends to, among many charming habits, cutting people off in line. Every jerk in the store has to slam in ahead of me, so I stand there and stand there and stand there and stand there and finally get to the cash register.

The checkout lady racks up all these purchases. I hand over my cash card. She informs me I owe more.

Huh? There’s $180 left on that card. This stuff cannot possibly add up to that much.

“Okay,” say I. “Take off that and that and that,” pointing to the bath mat and the impulse buys.

She doesn’t know how to deduct a purchase. She has to call a manager. He refunds the amounts she’s charged up, about $35 or $40. They inform me that my purchases still exceed the card’s balance.

People are lined up behind me, tapping their toes impatiently, all the way back to the meat department. By now I am SO exasperated, I say, “Fine. Just keep it. Delete the entire purchase and leave the money on my cash card.”

This is still beyond the cashier’s skill level, but the manager has no problem figuring it out.

Furious, I stalk out of the store and drive across the street to the Target. There I buy a bath rug for the dog to nest on but cannot find a pool department. Nor can I find an employee to ask. When I ask the cashier, she doesn’t know what a pool department is, so I figure it’s safe to assume Target doesn’t sell pool acid. 😀

I trudge back into the central city, where I pay way too much for two gallons of pool acid at Leslie’s.

Continue down to the Pore Folks’ Costco, where I get gasoline for 40 cents a gallon (!!!) less than I paid at the QT for enough to get down to the church and back.

Into said down-at-the-heels Costco, whereinat to purchase the things I needed. By now I am truly furious.

On the way down there, it occurs to me that if the two clerks at the Richistan Costco couldn’t figure out how to refund two items, they might not have succeeded in deleting the entire order.

So as soon as I get inside the store, — which fortunately, because no one else enjoys having to brave a parade of drug-addicted bums, either, is almost empty —  I line up at the customer service stand. There I’m told no problem! Yes, there’s $181 remaining on the card.

Now I run around the store and buy the main things I need, less the sweater and the meat and the bath mat and plus a now much-needed $8 bottle of wine. These items came to a grand total of $71. And that left $111 on the cash card, for future purchases.

Say what? Seventy-one bucks? Really? The Costco up in Richistan just told me that those items plus two packages of meat plus a bath mat and a sweater, hold the wine thank you, came to a total in excess of $181.

Whaaa?

Well, I pay the bill and run.

On the way home, I think…that can’t be right!

Either the guy in the slums keyboarded the purchases in wrong, or the lady at the Richistan store did.

When I got home, I entered that $71 in an Excel file and added the things that I did NOT buy at the mid-town Costco but had tried to buy during the aborted trip to the Richistani Costco…and got this:

I don’t think I’m forgetting anything. In other words, the Costco in a fancier part of town tried to charge me something in excess of $181 for $155 worth of goods. Less than that, actually: I didn’t try to buy a bottle of wine at the first Costco. That’s 8 bucks plus tax. Eight dollars from $155 is only $147.

The prices are the same, by and large, from store to store. So the only explanation is that one of the cashiers — probably the one in Richistan — made a mistake.

It was 3:00 by the time I got home. I’d been on the road since before noon, with no lunch and precious little breakfast. And rather little, we might add, to show for all that frustrating, maddening batting around in the nasty traffic.

So. Even though shopping in a more upscale part of town is a slightly less unpleasant experience, I guess I’ll stick to my kind after this…

In the Dog (and Doc) Dept: Trust Your Gut…

Remember how I was wondering whether a possible misdiagnosis of Valley fever by MarvelVet might be what’s killing my dog? Well…yeah. Just talked to NewVet: the results of the second Valley fever test are back. And no.

No. She does not have and never has had Valley fever.

So basically: we have destroyed this dog’s health and very probably killed her by giving her fluconozale on top of prednisone. Or prednisone on top of fluconozale, however you wish to look at it.

That is not a benign combination. What can it cause? Adrenal gland dysfunction.

And yeah, again. That is exactly what has happened. It destroyed Cassie the Corgi. Her health is permanently ruined, and really, if I had a backbone I’d put her down now.

This has happened under the watch of the Great Skeptic. Remember, I am the one who keeps carping away that one should QUESTION AUTHORITY. Don’t take what your doctor (or a vet) says without looking it up yourself, understanding what ails you, and understanding what the proposed treatments will do for you and to you. Sometimes the treatment is worse than the disease.

That certainly is the case here. We basically killed this dog by putting her on a cough suppressant with prednisone plus an antifungal in the absence of no empirical evidence that a fungal infection was what ailed her. Instead, what ailed her was what was obvious: a bronchial infection that was going around the city at the time and that, probably thanks to the dog’s old age, advanced to pneumonia. She should have been treated with an antibiotic. In fact, when NewVet put her on doxycycline for a UTI, her cough cleared right up.

Shit.

Trust no one. Believe nothing.

 

Computer Spoofed…we think…

So I got an email, apparently mailed to my Mac inbox from one of my Gmail addresses, from some jerk claiming he’d seeded my computer with ransomware and demanding a fistful of bitcoins.

Heh. Apparently hadn’t noticed what’s happened to bitcoins. Oh well.

The reason I spend top dollar to buy Apple hardware is Apple’s customer support. So it was on the phone again to Apple, this time to seek advice. James, the guy who answered the phone this time, said he thought it was spam nonsense. However, we changed everything in sight and then some, deleting stuff I’d never heard of and updating others. And of course I had to change my gmail password, another PITA.

We never had to do this stuff with an IBM Selectric… 😉

DropBox supposedly provides some protection against ransomware. Unclear exactly how reliable or thorough that is…but it’s better than nothing. It doesn’t back up your programs, though it’ll hold most or all of your data and images. However, Time Machine does copy your programs.

So anyway, James didn’t believe the threat was real, but even if it was, we apparently addressed it.

Yet another tedious techno-time-waste.

In that department, I’ve made a couple of moves to cut some of the endless time suck.

Earlier this week, I dropped a particularly active Facebook group. That was too bad in a way, because I kind of enjoy that group. But as a practical matter, I diddle away altogether too much time on Facebook, and the various “notifications” the site sends out create huge logjams in my email inbox, even though I set the thing as best as I can to divert incoming FB messages to “Junk” or “Trash.” All that does, really, is simplify the opportunity to kill even more time deleting literally hundreds of pieces of email detritus. The other day when I cleaned out the email I had to delete well over 600 useless, redundant messages.

So this will help save some time on two fronts.

Meanwhile, another diffuse time-suck went away when I decided to post the rest of The Complete Writer chapters waiting to go up at Plain & Simple Press and set WordPress to schedule them for publication into the future. Then did the same with enough If You’d Asked Me squibs to last until the end of 2019, publishing one chapter or squib per bookoid every three weeks. This, then, creates three weeks in which to write Ella’s Story chapters, rather than trying (unsuccessfully, of late) to crank out one a week.

This will provide at least a shot at making some progress on Ella.

But of course having to dork around with protecting my computing empire from a real or spurious threat creates still more time suck: Every-goddamn-where I go on the Internet, I have to sign back in with passwords I can’t remember and so have to look up, or with passwords that no longer work and so have to be reinvented. GOD, how I hate this stuff! Like there isn’t enough to waste your time on…

Deleting all the cookies on both computers kindly caused the Washington Post to forget me on my two favorite time-wasting online games. I was aiming for 100,000 points and had just reached 95,000. So that’s discouraging enough to bring a stop to diddling away more time on that stuff.

And this will free up some more time for another 2019 goal: to send the “Drugging of America” proposal around to a bunch of publishers. Or an agent…really, you don’t need an agent to sell nonfiction. I had no trouble selling the three books I have in print through real publishers. But times have changed. Unfortunately, my agent passed away some time back, and my editor at Columbia UP disappeared awhile back. But…the woman who was senior editor when I was holding forth is still there, only as a much higher muckity-muck. She just sent a request for a donation (university presses are de jure if not de facto nonprofits). So I may send her a reminder of my existence and see if she or one of her underlings will agree to see a proposal.

Meanwhile, word just came down that Quora has given up some 100 million users’ data. Went there to try to change my password. I can’t find the original PW, so I must have failed to write it into the 20 goddamn pages of single-spaced passwords that resides, coded within code, on my hard drive. Godlmighty. Another time suck. Unless, o’course, I decide to just let that one go, too.

Done In and Dogged Out

LOL! If it’s not one dawg it’s another.

Well, that’s not funny, given how sick poor old Cassie has been.

Actually, Cassie is presently somewhat better, other than having come completely unhouse-trained. She now poops and pees wherever and whenever she pleases. Fortunately, it’s usually on the pee pads I put in her favorite locales — something that’s getting pretty pricey, since I have to pick up and replace four to six of them a day. But sometimes it’s on the bathroom or bedroom rugs. Yay. At any rate, she doesn’t appear to be feeling as bad as she did.

Which is not to say she appears to be feeling well. I’d guess she’s running at about 80%…maybe 90% on a really good day. Whatever happened to her doesn’t appear to be about to go away.

Meanwhile…hoooboy!

Last night Ruby started barfing spectacularly. She apparently ate something that made her good and sick. It soon became apparent that this was not a life-threatening thing…but by “soon” we mean sometime after midnight.

Ruby and Cassie both are in the habit of “harvesting” mummified oranges that fall off the trees and dry up, often after having been chewed out by the roof rats. They bring these crispy treats into the house, hide them in the bathroom, and crunch them up into crumbs. What a mess to clean up!

Well, they’ve never made either dog sick before, but apparently this time one of them did.

The real concern, though, when a dog starts barfing, is that we have some nut cases around here — apparently among the drug-addled vagrant population — who have been known to throw poison treats over people’s fences, thereby killing their dogs. It’s a strategy used by burglars, but neighbors have reported having small, harmless dogs targeted. So given both dogs’ corgi-esque love of yapping, of course an unexpected, apparently reasonless barfing attack causes some worry.

By 2 or 3 in the morning, though, her stomach calmed down and she seemed OK. Come the light of dawn, she was fine. Fed her hamburger (cooked) and rice this morning and again this evening: she seems to have recovered.

I, however, have yet to recover from the three-hour night. 😀

Today I managed to get a new chapter of Ella’s Story on-line. Not quite by the self-imposed deadline…but only a day late. Since no dollars are concerned, we need not add the dollah-short part.

But this was accomplished, I’m afraid, not by actually finishing the chapter as conceived, but simply by spotting a natural pause and cutting it off there. Between the sick dogs and my natural laziness and a general feeling of overwhelmed-itude, the truth is I’m not applying myself to this project for the enough hours a day to make the required progress. One of the things it illustrates, though, is how amazing those late 19th-century and early 20th-century writers were, in their ability to produce novels on the installment plan. Dickens, for example…and Poe, I believe, among many others, would write segments of novels for periodicals. And of course, they had deadlines, just like a journalist does.

Having amused myself as a magazine journalist for a good 15 years, I can assure you that a journalistic deadline is one helluva lot easier to meet than one that requires you to make stuff up and then turn your imaginings into something believable. Or at least more or less readable. A workaday magazine or newspaper article pretty much writes itself, growing like crabgrass out of your interviews and research online and in print sources. A piece of fiction? Not so much…

To my intense annoyance, I discovered that somehow WordPress had disappeared Chapter 11. I know I put it online, because I remember the images I posted with it, and because those images still lurk in the “Media Library.” So I had to reconstruct that, yet another time-killer.

One advantage Poe and Twain and Dickens and all those had over us wretches in the Digital Age is that all they had to do was write the damn stuff. They didn’t have to publish it, too. They had…oh, does anyone remember them?…publishers who edited and typeset and designed and laid out and illustrated and proofread and printed and distributed their work. Today those who imagine they will find great fame in self-publishing have to do all that themselves. And none of us is qualified to do all those things well.

Not by a long shot. Nor does having to devote half to three-quarters of your time to jobs you don’t want to do and aren’t really trained to do leave enough hours for you to do what you do want to do and what maybe you’re good at: to write. I am so very tired of spending hour after hour after hour in digital ditz! Just to create a table of contents for the 33 chapters I’ve put online in Ella’s Story required me to do 297 mind-numbing, repetitive, tedious computer operations today. That’s not counting the typos, which in having to be redone probably expanded that number by about 10 percent.

I un-friended the FB writer’s group I’ve belonged to for the past two years or so. That was too bad, because each week they give you a chance to publish some magnum opus…which has conveniently allowed me to publicize my emittances with some regularity. Haven’t noticed any increase in sales, though.

What I have noticed, however, is this 7th-grade mean girl they’ve picked up. She’s very, very nasty. Today she took aim at me. My response to that is simple enough: fuckyouverymuch. I don’t hang around where I’m not wanted, so off I went. That, we might add, will be one fewer electronic time-suck. I don’t know whether organizers of those groups try to moderate them, or if they even can — this one is quite large. But evidently someone needs to.

And now for something completely different… Did you know that you can still read books?

No, I mean real books, the things shaped like boxes with this hinge-like strip along one edge to which pieces of paper are attached.

The Brothers Grimm

Couple months ago, I’m at the Costco and I happen to spot this old-fashioned-looking hardback with an embossed cover and gold-leaf print: Grimm’s Complete Fairy Tales.

WTF!?! Last time I saw that book, it was at my great-grandmother’s house in Berkeley, back in another century when normal people could afford to live in Berkeley. It is a beautiful little production, published by some outfit called Canterbury Classics, out of San Diego. Gosh.

So for old time’s sake, I bought the thing. Stuck it on the nightstand and went off and forgot it.

One evening I started browsing through it and was reminded of what a hoot the original Grimm’s tales were. This is great stuff! And perfect bedside reading, when you’re so tired you can barely lift the dogs onto the sack. They’re very short, pretty light (in a strange and sometimes not-so-light way), and none of them require a sustained attention span.

So the other day I’m back at Costco and what do I find but a whole SLEW of these Canterbury Classics! Hot diggety! How can I leave them alone?

Yes, I know: Impulse Buy Hell. But hey: how often do you get to buy embossed hard-cover books with gold-leaf print all over them?

Grab Bulfinch’s Mythology and, by god, the original Thomas Burton’s Arabian Nights.

This stuff is too, too good. It is going to keep me amused for weeks. Maybe even months.

And so, to bed…

Images

Ruby the Corgi Pup. © 2014 The Copyecditor’s Desk, Inc.

The Brothers Grim: Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=165364

Frontispiece to Burton’s Arabian Knights. By Adolphe Lalauze (1838-1906) – A plain and literal translation of the Arabian nights entertainments, now entitled The book of the thousand nights and a night Vol. 1, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=11033095