Why isn't G. Gordon Liddy washing dishes in a diner somewhere? That's what convicted felons do in the movies. Not only is he an insult to the entire human race, but he's terrible on the radio. Say what you will about Rush Limbaugh's politics (which I abhor), but at least the guy understands his medium. Liddy has a voice made for silent movies.
As far as I'm concerned, Jay Leno has always been an interloper, a temporary replacement until Johnny Carson's undead self came back to take its rightful place at the Tonight Show desk.
Last night's closing was good, though (I only caught the last 15 minutes of the show--which means that with the Obama appearance, and this, I've watched more of it this year than I have in the last 15 or so). I liked ending with the children born to Tonight Show staff--it was original and fun.
But I'm still not fond of the idea of giving him an hour of prime time every weeknight. More and more, hour-long dramatic programming is winding up on cable, and I guess I'll be spending more time on cable too. Even if it's, y'know, satellite here, not cable at all...
A website called Romance Divas is holding a workshop on writing paranormal YA this week, Thurs-Sat. I'm one of the participants, along with Christopher Golden, Rachel Caine, Lucienne Diver, Cassandra Clare, Alyson Noel and Rosemary Clement-Moore. You have to register for the RD Forum to take part, but it's free and easy. I'm not at all sure what the format will be, but will be checking in periodically over the three days. Should be interesting.
That was the mantra of Tim (The Tool Man) Taylor on Home Improvement, the sitcom that made a star of Tim Allen, a sex symbol of Pam Anderson, and a game show host of Richard Karn.
Since moving out here to the ranch, I've fought a fairly constant battle against possible fire, cutting a fire break all around the house a couple of times a year. The first time I did it with a shovel and a hoe, which nearly killed me. Since then I've used a succession of ever-more-powerful weed whackers, or line trimmers, in professional jargon. But I hate those finicky little 2-stroke engines, and they hate me back.
So for an early Father's Day gift this year, I picked up a Craftsman 22" High-Wheel Line Trimmer. This sucker has a 4-stroke Briggs & Stratton engine, nice big wheels, and a much wider cutting swath than any weed whacker. I fired it up for the first time today and did about three mornings' worth of cutting in one morning. Now I'm tired and I have massive blisters on the insides of both thumbs, but there's a big chunk of work done. It will take days to finish, instead of weeks. Definitely a good investment for the Flying M's fleet.
Writers work with words, arranging them into sentences, and sentences into paragraphs that, we hope, carry some sort of emotional weight. Individual sentences are designed to perform various tasks, from appealing to the senses to describing action to illuminating character--and sometimes, when we're on our game, all at once.
Then sometimes sentences are just a delight to the mind. I like to think I've accomplished this a few times over the course of many books. Pat Conroy, however, does it all the time, which is why he's Pat Conroy and the rest of us are not.
His books are thick and sometimes a little sudsy, very Southern, full of asides and stories within stories. I'm currently reading an advance copy of South of Broad, which comes out in mid-September from Doubleday. On page 154, I found this sentence, which begs to be shared--but not out loud:
Recently, my mother threw a drink in my face while we were arguing the place of colons in an English sentence: Mother thought of them as elegant pauses and an artful way to let a sentence breathe; I thought of them as ostentatious.
I'm convinced he sat chuckling over the keyboard as he composed it. It would be lost in a third-person narrative, but since the words and composition are those of the first-person narrator, it's a small gem.