Synaptic Misfires™

Looks like my last post caused some consternation to a certain rocker or one of his rabid fans (I'm still a fan, but a bit less rabid). I'm betting it was the rocker. Anyway, the inimitable Dan O'Shea - the man who can write a novel in fifteen minutes - has issued this flash fiction challenge in honor of our Anonymous poster, humorously titled "The Spiderman-PJ-wearing, Mommy’s-basement-dwelling, Anime-porn-binging Dweeb Flash Fiction Challenge". Go there. See the creative ways he misspells my name.

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I wrote a blog post about e-books and indulged myself in a little windbaggery. However, Chuck Wendig read my post, took it, deconstructed it, made a fort from the pieces, and then put it all back together in a more intelligent and pointed take on the status of the publishing industry as it relates to e-books and the new electronic frontier. I suggest you go to his site, and read his take on the matter. And see the creative ways he misspells my name.

Plus, he's got a lot of really smart, insightful readers who offer great commentary as well.

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Anonymous brings up the fact that I talk about weight loss and stuff. An Operation Striking Walrus update might be in order - I've lost 20 pounds in 90 days. Lost 2 inches in the waist and 4 in the chest, 4 across the belly, but gained an inch in upper arm. I can do 45 push-ups (though not consecutively, but within a 30 minute period). I know how to do the Downward Dog, the Upward Dog, Plank, Cobra, Crescent, and the Dirty Sanchez.

I am, underneath the remaining 2-inch layer of fat, a ripped fuck-beast.

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I once broke a guys balls over watching TV and writing. I said, then, that if you watch more than three hours of TV a night, you're probably never gonna be a writer, unless you don't have a dayjob.

I'm gonna stand by that. You see, I've discovered Arrested Development, and my current WIP has totally stalled out.

The good news is that there are only three seasons of Arrested Development. The bad news is there are only three seasons of Arrested Development.

I don't know how I'll live without my nightly 3 hours of Michael, George Micheael, G.O.B., Tobias, Lucille (both 1 and 2), Buster, and George Senior.

Plus all the others.

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Fourth of July weekend is here. This means for me, fishing, blackberry picking, sweating buckets, and swimming. Not in that order.

I'll probably have to work in some drinking and fireworks in there as well.

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Meanwhile, Steve Weddle is like a digital blog-based super-spy. He knows where you live, plus your entry and exit pages, your browser and operating system. And don't forget your IP.

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This isn't the face of a douche-bag, is it? I got that tan honestly, through fishing and swimming with my kids.

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I love flame wars. On Tuesday, I'll tell you about one I had with John Rector, author of THE COLD KISS, due to be released on...well...Tuesday, July 6th.

What a great book. He's okay, too. But don't fuck with him.

He'll kill you.

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I'm going to tell you guys a secret. A sushi-secret.

Don't go into a sushi restaurant and order sashimi a la cart. Order Chirashi. It looks like this.
Underneath all that sashimi is a bed of rice covered in scrumptious roe. In my town, you get it for anywhere between $15 and $20. It's the best sushi deal around.

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Supposedly, there's a guy named Don Draper, which reminds me of Tobias Funke's portmanteau of Analyst and Therapist. Analrapist.

Anyway, never heard of him until Anonymous mentioned him and I had to Google him. I've heard of Mad Men but never watched it. The writing thing. The day job thing. Busted balls? Remember?

Anyway, I had heard (and seen pictures of) this woman, who also stars on the show.

Wow. I mean. Wow.