Daybook

Descriptions of what I did recently; what most people think of when they imagine a “diary entry.”

Fingerpainting with a Spoon

I surfaced yesterday after several days immersed in copyedits, which are done and returned now through chapter 8, of 12. (Another batch will fly out from NY on Monday, if I understand the sked correctly.) My publisher surprised me last night by sending me a first draft of the book’s catalog copy, which was so unspeakably horrible that I immediately volunteered to rewrite it from scratch. I used to do that a lot at Coriolis and I’m good at it, and I think my editor knows me well enough to know that I’m good at it. She might have just asked me to do it (I certainly would have) but I’ll admit that seeing what other people would say about my 200,000 words if I did not added some urgency to the task.

Done in a trice. So I woke up this morning with no more work to do than I generally have, and that’s a feeling I haven’t felt in some time. Over breakfast I let my mind wander, and when I got down to the bottom of my bowl of yogurt, I had an idea, an idea born out of irritation: There is no way to get the last of the yogurt out of the bowl. I mean, you can scrape with the spoon until you’re purple in the face (which can happen, with blueberries in the mix) but that’s just fingerpainting with the spoon and you’re always going to leave a little. This yogurt is peculiarly good, too: Greek Gods full-fat pomegranite, just half a notch thinner than cream cheese and capable of keeping me cranking most of the morning. (A scrambled egg, its partner-in-breakfast, takes care of the rest.) I am loath to leave any, even for the dogs…and besides, having a pure-white dog lick purple yogurt out of a bowl has consequences.

Then it struck me: All-metal spoons are just so third-century. Why are we still eating Greek yogurt with the same implements the ancient Greeks used? Is this not 2009? And so I sketched out what I wanted: Spoons with metal handles but bowls molded from heatproof silicone rubber, formulated to be a little stiffer than a kitchen spatula, but sufficiently flexible under a little force to conform to the curve of the bowl and get enough of the yogurt out so that leaving what remains wouldn’t bother me.

I looked online for such a thing this morning and came up empty. The basic concept is feasible: We have a silicone-rubber serving spoon in the drawer, but it’s far too big to fit in my mouth. Could it be that nobody else has ever thought of this? Or could it be that we just don’t like our food enough to want to finish all of it?

Souls in Silicon on Amazon at Cover

Jun 6th, 2009

by Jeff Duntemann.

2 comments

Boy, I sure wasn’t expecting this: An email this morning from Lulu informed me that my SF story collection Souls in Silicon was now being offered through Amazon Marketplace at its $11.97 cover price–not cover plus 30%, as I reported in my May 29, 2009 Odd Lots entry. It’s evidently a test program of some kind, and not all Lulu books are included; in fact, of the eight Copperwood Press titles, Souls in Silcon is the only one in the program. Somebody’s giving up significant margin here, and odds are it’s not Amazon.

But this is an awesomely good thing. I have a hunch that Lulu heard that POD publishers like me were going with other systems (like Amazon’s own BookSurge) to get into the Amazon database somehow and started to worry. Hey, I’d worry too. All Copperwood books would probably be on another system (probably BookSurge) by now had the assembly book project not taken over my life last November. I would not have pulled them off Lulu, but everybody knows that Amazon is the first place people go looking for books online.

I want this program to continue and go mainstream, not just for me but for everybody, so I’m going to make a slightly weird request: If my writeups on the book piqued your interest and you figured you might order Souls in Silicon someday, now is the time to do it–if you do it through Amazon. I’m about to order a few here, and if I could scare up a couple more orders from elsewhere it could support the test and convince them that the decision could pay off for them, by generating higher unit sales even at obviously lower margins.

Here’s the Amazon sales link. (The same link is on the cover image above.) And if you know any other Lulu books in the same program, consider buying them as well. If Lulu’s going to survive it has to be able to get its products into the Amazon database. This may be their best shot, at least until they allow me to use ISBNs from my own set.

UPDATE: I just discovered that within the past hour, all the rest of my Copperwood Press titles were updated on Amazon to their Lulu cover prices. Dare we hope that the test program succeeded?

UPDATE: Chris Gerrib wrote to tell me that his Lulu SF novel The Mars Run is also in the program, which in fact includes the top 100,000 Lulu titles by sales rank. Even my slowest seller, The Pope and the Council, is at #37,303, which makes me wonder how many copies the bottom two million Lulu titles have sold…

Notes on the Journey

Jun 1st, 2009

by Jeff Duntemann.

3 comments

We rolled back into Colorado Springs at 4:30 PM this afternoon, right into the thick of a whompin’ thunderstorm that was rapidly flooding streets on the west side of town. When we left, there was snow on the daffodils. Now summer is in full roar. I wonder sometimes where spring went. No matter; we’re back in our own house, and tonight I can sleep in my own bed. In the meantime, a few notes on the trip that admittedly may be a bare half-notch above sock-drawer reports:

Trucks were not speeding on I-80. In fact, they were often going 5-8 MPH below the posted limit in states where speed limits apply identically to all vehicles. (This has not been our experience in past trips.) One wonders if trucking companies are strapped enough by the flagging economy to tell their drivers to back off on the lead foot a little and save on Diesel.
There were an appalling number of deer lying dead on the side of the road in central Iowa. In fact, I’m guessing that the nation’s deer held their village idiots’ convention just east of Des Moines this year. We saw twenty-five or thirty in a fifty-mile span of Interstate.
Near Lincoln, Nebraska we saw a convoy of six or seven black SUVs marked “National Severe Storms Laboratory” with a rack of the damndest geegaws on top of them, and a mobile radar unit bringing up the rear. I took some notes, and found out once I got home that this was part of the Vortex2 project, which has been getting much coverage on the Weather Channel. The vehicles in question were part of a “mobile mesonet,” which gathers data on winds out where tornadoes happen. Even the weirdest Texas Bugcatcher never had anything on those!
I must be getting really old. Faced with paying $9.95 for one night’s Internet access at the Sheraton Iowa City on Saturday night, I said “no thanks” and went to bed.
And you know what? Nothing of value was lost.
Lake McConaughy was higher than we’ve ever seen it. In fact, the lake is starting to put feelers back into the upper reaches of Martin Bay, where the less-than-half-full lake hasn’t been in over eight years. The dogs romped in shallow bath-warm water between low dunes, and we ran them along the beach until they dried out. The flies haven’t come out yet, and a wonderful time was had by all.

There’s much to be done this week, as there always is after five weeks away–and we’ve got the Colorado Springs dog show next weekend. Quite a few bichons are entered, enough so that the show will be what they call a “major.” Aero needs a second major win to get his championship, and this may be the one, if we can spiff him up sufficiently and get him to behave in the ring.

And I have a book to finish. But “finish” at this point really means putting the icing on. The cake itself is done.

INC Whew

May 28th, 2009

by Jeff Duntemann.

4 comments

Well. A few minutes ago I found myself staring at the last line of the last page of the last chapter of Assembly Language Step By Step, Third Edition. I’m sure it’s a feeling a little like that described by some of my friends who took their time getting through college, and one morning at the end of a term found themselves thinking, “Hey! I have enough credit hours now! I can graduate!”

It took so long that I wasn’t quite ready when I realized that it was finally over.

I celebrated by playing the MP3 of David Buskin‘s “Flying Child” and singing along. Loudly. That felt so good that I played Dean Friedman‘s “Ariel” and sang along louder still. Rather than make myself a little too nuts by singing Danny Hutton‘s manic cover of “Funny How Love Can Be” I poured myself a Diet Green River and ate too many Cape Cod Robust Russet potato chips before collapsing in my comfy chair.

Ten minutes later, Carol got back from Crystal Lake after a two-day sojourn wrapping up our trip and (not coincidentally) leaving me free to work here in Des Plaines. That was a piece of timing, but Carol’s good like that. We understand one another in a quantum-entanglement sort of way that is the very best part of loving a woman for forty years.

In truth, I’m not quite finished. Chapter 12 is still first draft and needs a polish pass. I have to write a new introduction and bibliography, and add two pages to the instruction reference. After that, of course, comes proofs and so on, but it’s starting to look like I’ll have real books sometime this fall, probably by November and perhaps as early as October. It ran a little long (187,000 words instead of 175,000) but not long enough to fuss about. It soaked up almost all of my creative time and energy since last December. I learned a lot doing it, and as often as I found myself feeling ragged and annoyed at the scale or the pace of the project, I’m still glad I did it. The book has been in print now for 21 years across three editions (the first from a now-defunct publisher under another title) and could well be in print for another ten or fifteen. It paid off my mortgage. In fact, it’s made me more money than all my other paid writing projects put together, in all of the 35 years that I’ve been writing for money. It’s gotten to be kind of an institution around here, and I’ll rewrite it again if I have to.

But not this week. Please.

The Sugar Bowl Is Back!

May 24th, 2009

by Jeff Duntemann.

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While going over to get my shirts back from the cleaners last week, I noticed with delight that the Sugar Bowl has reopened under new ownership, having been closed since early 2007. The Sugar Bowl is a venerable restaurant in downtown Des Plaines, a little to the east of the even more venerable Des Plaines Theater, which has been a Bollywood cheaps house for about ten years now. My cousin Maggie McGuire worked at the Sugar Bowl for 17 years until a very peculiar incident forced it to close. It was sold and reopened for a few years in the early oughties, then closed again and sat empty for more than two years.

Carol and I walked over there this morning about 7:30 for breakfast, and I was most pleased. The Sugar Bowl was purchased by two Greeks, who rehabbed it down to the bones and made it sparkle. Around here, nobody does breakfast places like the Greeks, who also operate Kappy’s in Niles about four blocks north of where Carol grew up (along with countless others). Their coffee is strong but not in the least bitter, and probably ideal for the breakfast-out crowd. I had two eggs scrambled with bacon, and Carol their cheese blintzes. The eggs were completely cooked (not always the case in restaurants, and important in this Era of Salmonella) and the bacon done to a perfect crisp. Carol would have liked her blintzes a little bit warmer. We think they’re trying to make an impression by being fast, and they were, but you have to finish the job.

They’re open every day from 6:00 AM until 3:00 PM. It’s great to have a Greek-run breakfast and lunch place within a quick trot of our condo, and while it’s not “fine dining,” it’s still dead-center in the grand Chicago tradition of locally owned one-off family restaurants. Highly recommended.

Bichonicon, Day 3

May 8th, 2009

by Jeff Duntemann.

5 comments

bichonshow2

Things kicked into high gear today at the Bichon Frise National Specialty here in St. Louis. The seminars are over and the judging began bright and early at 8:30 AM. There are quite a few different classes: Puppy dog (and here, “dog” means “male dog”) puppy bitch, junior handler, open dog, and open bitch, among others. Carol showed Aero in the Amateur Owner/Handler class, where he took first place. The class is for people like us, who buy a show-quality puppy and do the show circuit but do not breed dogs. We own Aero and Carol handles him (meaning that she takes him physically to shows and runs him around the ring) but we aren’t doing it for money, hence “amateur.” There are professional breeders and professional handlers, though how much money can be made there is a seriously open question. Just about all of us do it for love, and a few of us (very few) make a buck or two here and there. (Just like fiction writing, no?)

Carol almost got second place in the Winners Dog class; the judge had Carol take Aero around the ring a second time and was clearly considering him, but then someone else got the red ribbon.

Our friends have done well too: Mary Provost (who draws the show logo cartoons) took Reserve Winners Bitch with her new puppy Mona Lisa, and Laura Pfab’s daughter Kirsten won Junior Handlers with their new adult dog Ron Stoppable.

I’d say more, but it’s late and I’m getting cross-eyed here. Everybody had a good time, and although Aero’s blue ribbon did not come with any points, we’ve learned a lot about grooming and showing from the old pros here. Everybody says that Aero almost can’t avoid becoming a champion–he just needs to hit a few more shows and keep his tail up. I think we can do that. We will certainly try.

Tomorrow is our second shot in the ring, and then it’s back home to Chicago up I-55.

Bichonicon, Day 2

May 7th, 2009

by Jeff Duntemann.

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bichonshow1

Last night was the awards banquet and rescue auction for the Bichon Frise National Specialty show here in St. Louis. All the bichon powers from the Denver/Springs axis were gathered at one table, plus a couple of old friends from as far away as Pittsburgh. As that sort of dinner goes, it was exceptional: We had roast tenderloin of beef, with new potatoes, carrots, and string beans. (I gave my string beans to Carol, but the rest of it was spectacular–even the carrots.) The weakest part of the meal was the cheesecake dessert, but that was certainly workmanlike, and we all enjoyed the meal immensely, at least on the merits of the food.

I admit, I was something of an outsider. All but one of our tablemates were women, and most of them had attended a seminar on dog reproductive health and whelping earlier that day. I like puppies a great deal, but I’m not passionately interested in seeing them happen in Technicolor and real time. And of course, the old pros at the table all had their own whelping hax, honed over many years of ushering new puppy life into the world. Much was said about the “stuck puppy” problem, which is about what you think and can be fatal. I was hoisting a nice, medium-rare chunk of tenderloin on my fork when one of the venerable whelpers at the table offered the wisdom that “you can insert your index finger into the bitch’s rectum and re-orient a stuck puppy…”

Some mental images take a minute or two to remove from one’s head. I seized that opportunity to set my fork down and head for the men’s room, hoping that we’d be on to something better by the time I got back.

And we were. The rest of the meal was uneventful, and we nibbled our cheesecake while the raffle prizes were awarded (generally hand-made bichon crafts) and the auction conducted, for the benefit of the national Bichon Frise Rescue group.

This morning was a quiet one for me; Carol wanted to watch the Obedience and Rally events, and I mostly kicked back and read a book, unless one of our friends was in the ring. Obedience is just that: tests to see how well a dog listens and obeys relatively complex commands. Rally is peculiar; it’s basically close-order drill for dogs, with dog and handler working through a course of various commands like 270-degree and 360-degree turns.

I fetched back lunch and snacks as needed, and held QBit down while Carol practiced shaping the hair over his rump. (QBit does not like having his butt fussed with. Maybe he’s heard too much about those whelping seminars.) By midlate afternoon all of our friends had had their turns in the ring, and we went back to our room and napped for an hour. We caught a quick supper outside at Panera (or St. Louis Bread Company, as they call it here) in gorgeous if slightly humid weather. Carol is now bathing Aero, and after she dries him, our more experienced friends will be over to the room here to offer advice on getting him brushed and scissored into championship form.

Aero hits the ring tomorrow eleven-ish, and whereas he’s in pretty good shape overall, he is competing not against two or three other bichons (as he often does at smaller dog shows) but well over a hundred. Carol’s putting her back into it and we’re hoping for the best, but much depends on how well Aero “baits”; that is, how focused he is on Carol with a piece of bacon between her lips. Aero doesn’t bait easily, and he tends toward rowdiness. The dog show thing for him is a glorious opportunity to wrestle with his own kind, even (or especially) when he should be daintily prancing around the ring. He’ll get his chance, and I’ll be on the sidelines, taking movies and praying that nobody nearby is in heat. Sex trumps even bacon–but you knew that.

I’ll let you know how it all goes.

Off to Bichonicon!

May 5th, 2009

by Jeff Duntemann.

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Carol and I are packing up for the dash down I-55 to St. Louis, where we will be for a few days, attending the Bichon Frise Nationals at the Sheraton Westport Chalet. Hundreds and hundreds of bichons in one hotel! Furballdemonium! As always, it’s hard to tell how often I’ll be able to post while there–hotel broadband is a very uneven phenomenon. I’ll try and get some pictures for those who can’t imagine it. (On the other hand, I know that most of you can imagine a lot.)

But in the meantime, I want to post more broadly what Jim O’Brien pointed out in a comment to yesterday’s entry. Spelled correctly in Irish, “oonchick” would be “oinseach”–not that I would have had a chance in hell of guessing!–and means what I think Sade meant: a person of pathetic and foolish stupidity. And although Jim had not heard the term “gomog,” a “gom” is Irish slang for idiot. I greatly appreciate Jim’s tips, and again, spelling is key: If you can’t spell it, you can’t find it.

And for quick grins, Domino is now pushing certified CarbonFree sugar! (Yes, yes, yes, I know what they mean. But multibilliondollar corporations should maybe filter their merchandising efforts for that species of completely avoidable howler.)

A Fine Day Off

Apr 30th, 2009

by Jeff Duntemann.

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Well, we got here late yesterday afternoon, as planned. Still, as relatively painless as the drive was, it took its toll. Somewhere in the Great Big Illinois Nothing along the western reaches of I-88, I started to get a scratchy throat. By the time we got to Downer’s Grove, I was sniffling–but there’s no way to blow your nose while attempting a transition onto I-294, trust me. Carol gave me a Zicam as soon as I could take one hand off the wheel for a few seconds, and half an hour later, we go to the condo intact.

That last forty minutes was some of the gnarliest driving I’d done since we left Phoenix six years ago.

We didn’t feel much like prowling for supper after a drive like that. My sister came to the rescue by ordering a take-out Italian feast from Salerno’s on Wolf Road in Mt. Prospect, and once a little of their superb chicken tetrazini went down the hatch, I was a far happier guy. Julie is walking now, and big sister Katie is very close to carrying on coherent conversations. Kids grow up fast when you’re not looking, even if you stop looking for only a month or so.

I was in bed by 9:15 and slept until 6:30. I’m still sniffling, but don’t panic: It’s the same damned cold I always seem to get after a period of intense stress and expenditure of energy. There’s a lot to do this trip, and I’m by no means done with my book, but I’m taking today off, and in a moment I’m going back to bed for awhile. If I can keep my butt in bed and not expend any more energy than I already have, the cold will be gone tomorrow morning. That’s the plan, at least. I’ll let you know how well I do.

If That’s a Wind Farm, This Must Be Adair

Apr 28th, 2009

by Jeff Duntemann.

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yorkwatertower I pretty much know this route by heart. It’s gotten to the point where I know with complete certainty that when I see the York, Nebraska rainbow water tower, we’re at Mile 350 and thus three quarters of the way across the cornfields to Iowa. I know where the wind farms are. I know where the weird transparent barn is. I know where the Heartland Museum of Military Vehicles is. (We stayed near there in Lexington, Nebraska last night.) I know where the really clean restrooms are. (Sapp Bros.) I know where the guy selling oil leases out of his back yard (which faces I-80) is; and I know his phone number: 1-800-DRY-HOLE.

Heh. Have I been this way before, or what?

Yes, we’re crossing the prairies again, on our way to Chicago for our younger nephew Matt’s graduation from the U of I School of Accountancy, and the Bichon Frise Nationals in St. Louis next week. We’re spending the night in Iowa City, right downtown at the dog-friendly Sheraton, which isn’t dirt-cheap but has marvelous beds.

We worried about the weather, but the weather’s been great: Sunny for the most part and completely seasonal. It snowed heavily in Colorado Springs yesterday morning as we were leaving, but once we got off the mountain things warmed up and dried out, and in the 850 miles since then we haven’t seen any wet pavement at all.

I’ve always liked Nebraska, but Iowa’s a great state too. We stopped outside of Des Moines to gas up ($2.09/gal) and when I went in to get some bottled water, the store clerk asked me if I’d like some free popcorn. She was cleaning out the popcorn machine according to schedule, and the boss always told her to dump whatever was left over before popping another batch. The boss was gone, and in consequence I walked out with an immensity of still-warm popcorn in a plastic bag. Carol and I munched until we couldn’t stand the thought of any more popcorn, and I think we put away maybe a quarter of it.

Carol brushed the dogs as I drove, and we sang along with the CD player and discussed how to evaluate the literature on nutrition and health. Driving this trip has become almost painless. It’ll never feel as good as sitting in my comfy chair reading a good book, but there are times when you just have to be somewhere, however it is to be done. We’ll be in Des Plaines by suppertime tomorrow. I’m not sure when we’ll be back. That’s how it goes with trips to Chicago. I’ll keep you informed.