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The other Apple guy has fun at other people’s expense.

Johnette Napolitano. What a good song to get stuck in your head 🙂

I’ll be working on the first draft of the for-hire YA starting tomorrow. We’ve agreed on a plot, characters, I’ve done the outline and arranged the scenes for more action, etc., which will make this the most disciplined project I’ve worked on, bar none, and I haven’t started actually writing yet. I will probably not

On the way back from Dave’s, Ray and I stopped to watch fireworks go off. Eventually, Ray said, “Mom, I’m bored and tired. I’m done with fireworks.” “Awww…” “Mom.” So we went. But as we were driving, she announced all the fireworks she saw as “pinalleys,” as in, “That was a beautiful pinalley!” Finally, about

The rhizome–root–of the blue ginger plant is known as “galangal” and is the one ingredient I couldn’t track down for the tom yum soup I made on Saturday. It’s also called “laos.” But it’s also called “John the Conqueroo,” a frequent player in blues songs and a component of a mojo bag. Coooool.

Via Dave, whose parents were never married.* We have to post these rules before we give you the facts. Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules. At the end of your blog post, you need to

(fragment) I have this talent for sideways time, so when I graduated from high school, I got recruited by TimeLines Unlimited, Inc. Which is just a glorified bus company, for shuttling people around. Since most people can’t do sideways time, we just load ’em up on the bus and let them “sleep” the whole time

…on the Internet! Author Stephen Brust posts the following in his blog: “Does anyone remember the given name of Vlad’s father? I think I do, but I’m too lazy to look it up, and it would be so embarassing to be wrong.” –One the commenters responds: “Maybe Sethra Lavode is his father too…Vlad, I am

“Crazy” played on a theramin. …and here’s the original song, by Gnarls Barkley.

At first, it was shocking to see Martin–but she called him the Bibliophage–eat her books. First, he would inhale, savoring each part of the book, sometimes individual pages. Then he would remove the pages–either with a scalpel or by hand, keeping the edges as neat as possible–a sensual purr of torn fiber. And then, while