sundries

Did my federal taxes last night. I'll get $49.97 back. Which is nice, as I rarely get anything back, but sucks, because I know if I got that little back on federals, I'm going to owe on shitty, shitty New York State taxes because they are really awful as a rule. I'm grumpy, because I really thought this year was going to be different.

Yesterday: mailbox money! Of an even tinier amount, I'm afraid, but hey.

Claudette/Cricket (we're in name limbo) just ate a spider. Patty is not so good with spider-kind, so she'll be pleased.

Ask Morbo.

via ellen_kushner: Saving a NYC candy store.

Death Bear. If you read one link from me today, read this one. Also, if you live in Brooklyn, Death Bear is available to you.

Today's tasks: work hard; go to DWNY thing with Russell Tovey; somewhere between the two send an email even stranger (and a lot more important) than the one I sent to Virgin America about the ants on the plane.

Patty was up in New Haven all day yesterday (like, out the door at 7am, home at midnight) for academic stuff.

Last night I went digging on my harddrive for a story I wanted to finish before tonight (Jack/Alonso) and instead found this depressing Gwen story I'd been working on instead and noodled on that a bit.

Today's arbitrary wish: that I had the sort of brain that could devise television game shows. Someone I know just optioned something that's going to make him rich beyond rich. Seriously, his entire life is going to be different, and if you'd asked me, before I heard this thing come out of his mouth, I'd have said "least likely to anything." Goddamn.

Meanwhile, I have to write two fucking treatments this week and I haven't even decided for what yet. And don't even ask me what the fuck I'm going to bring to the meeting I have mid-month. I've no goddamn idea yet. And it's frustrating, because my pitching is GREAT, I just gotta know what the right here, right now, gonna sell, sell, sell thing is. It is, I'm finding, a bit like playing poker. No matter how good a gambler you are, there are elements that are never going to be within your control; that said, attitude is everything.

Semi-tangentally: this week I need to deal with some possible agent-y stuff for the made of words part of my life.

WWII-era plane crashes off Florida. A lack of specificity in the CNN report led some commenters to ask if it flew out of the Bermuda Triangle, but apparently this was an airshow accident.

The former German naval officer who saved the port of Bordeaux has died.

The no-longer secret co-author of baseball history.

The New York Times covers abuse allegations about Scientology. It's nothing you've not heard before if you follow this sort of thing online, but big papers generally avoid the subject, and this is notable for that. Also: photo essay!

Weirdest internal response I've ever had to RPF: wanting to defend the honor of LAX. And I hate LAX. It's only saving grace is it's generally warm when you get off the fucking plane.

Which reminds me: this week I've got to make an appointment at the retouchers for my headshots and get this stuff done. Oh hey, photo you haven't seen. I don't really like it (my photog does), but I know I don't like it because my main reaction to it is the same level of discomfort I get looking at photos of other people -- I feel like it can see me and thinks poorly of me. We're not well in this business, we're really not. Also, my hair is doing something stupid and the line of my waistcoat leaves a bit to be desired. ( Read more... )

Meanwhile, I've got to start poking at my website, although I can't really do that until I get the retouched photos back.

Finally, I've received two communications in the last week that have sat oddly with me, through no particular fault of the communicators. ( Read more... )