Did they make cheesecake out of dinosaurs back then? Here is some gratuitous Eighties music and some gratuitous Raquel Welch in a fur bikini shots to start your weekend off right. Never let it be said that I refuse to pander!
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Now, I have my good points. Among these is my ability to shop. I’m not just a tireless shopper; I’m not just a savvy shopper; I think it fair to say that I am, in fact and in actuality, an expert shopper. If I can’t get it for you at 50% off or in exchange for something you have lying around the garage, it does not exist.
So, it is a fact universally acknowledged that a savvy shopper at the subsistence level of poverty in possession (however temporary) of a hundred bucks and change, must be in search of some highly practical purchases.
at Winners:
additionally:
Yep, nobody can say I’m not a practical shopper! And tomorrow, if there’s any left, I’ll get groceries!
So there I was, at the Surrey International Writers’ Conference. As I am every year on the rainiest weekend in October. It’s traditional, although it beats me how tradition always remembers the rain and forgets the “George Clooney deployed to raincoaster‘s table” thing that I’ve repeatedly requested.
So there I was, sitting mild-manneredly at my trade show table, ably representing the Shebeen Club in my civilian alter ego rather than my raincoaster Cthuloid altar ego, which is quite another thing, I’m sure you’ll agree. The only places in meatspace where I’m better known by my online names than my meatspace ones are the Editor’s Association of Canada (“Oh My GOD! You’re Evil Elf!”) and Restaurant Connor Butler (“Hey! raincoaster’s here!”) and sweetly those sounds do fall upon my ear, forsooth and for other reasons as well.
But there I was, being all polite-like and not even trying to pull anything for once, and I look up and I see that right there in front of me, tantalizingly close, yet oh, so far away, was the workshop of all workshops of all the weekend in which I wanted to be.
And I wasn’t.
And I joked with the moderator about just putting my ear to the door crack, or if I had anything with which to bribe her I’d have bribed away, but alas I do not, so I couldn’t. And she quite understood and offered me her chair instead, which she is not supposed to do because after all, I could be all weird and shit, although of course we all know I am considered to be perfectly normal.
On my home planet.
And so I got to sit in on a talk given jointly by the both hard-bitten and jocular thriller writer Michael Slade, and Diana Gabaldon, queen of the hot, brainy historical novel. And, verily, it was a treat.
Come to think of it, the last time Diana Gabaldon saw me I was on both my knees and my fifth glass of wine, so perhaps it’s best that my hair is a different colour now.
But that is neither here nor there. It’s entirely salon-related and thus has no place in this story.
This story. Right.
The story I’m telling you.
The story Diana Gabaldon told, about being interviewed by a German fellow when once she happened to be on a book tour through, you guessed it, Germany.
And he was saying you’re brilliant, your books are so popular, they’re so literate, what quality your writing has, no wonder everyone loves them…
and she was thinking yes, yes, dooo go on…
and then he asked a question. The Question. A question that, perhaps, could only occur to a straight, male German interviewer.
He asked:
And could you explain to me please the exact nature of the appeal of a man in a kilt?
And she paused for a microsecond, or maybe a nanosecond, possibly even a picosecond, and then she replied, in her dignified Julia Child as a Professor of English Literature voice:
Well, I suppose it’s just the idea that you could be up against a wall with him in under a minute.
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Talk about a modern-day superhero! Inglewood, New Zealand priest Gary Husband which, come to think of it, is a real funny name for a priest you must admit, has volunteered to undertake a Panty Pilgrimage. It seems the town has been knickerless since the local store stopped carrying ladies’ underwear over a year ago. Apparently, neither the internet nor the Sears catalogue are available in this remote corner of Kiwilandia either, which of course makes the crisis all that much more severe.
The priest organized ad-hoc panty raids to the neighboring settlement of New Plymouth, but now, thanks to the fervent prayers of his parishioners, a regular bus schedule has been organized and paid for by the government.
Council’s operations director Rob Phillips says the Tranzit Coachlines trips will be subsidised for a year “to ensure people were really serious about buying those new knickers – and anything else that might take their fancy”.
That’s contemporary socialism for you. From each according to her ability, to each according to how she feels about the Disney print granny panties they happened to have in stock. But it’s not a trivial issue; no indeed, it could accurately be called seminal, at least once more of the local fellows get involved.
In a world fraught with the threat of terrorism, the very last thing you want to do is turn an entire gender into commandos.
raincoaster 