First, all my urban fantasy students wrote terrific finals. Next, I heard from Intergalactic Medicine Show that they will be publishing a story of mine, “The Angel’s Touch.” The incept for the story was Sarah teasing me when I was railing against one of the many angel tv shows that maybe I should write an angel story. Next, Sarah and I went on a rugged hike that included wading across the James near the railroad bridge—it’s that low. Then we joined friends to watch the Richmond Braves lose to a team called the Mudhens. (You’ve got to love a name like that). Finally we biked out to see Becoming Jane. (I was one of 3 or 4 males in the audience.) We both emerged dewy eyed and liked it a great deal.

Once the foot-dragging locals in Surry were by-passed in prosecuting Vick’s case, things have changed dramatically. Michael Vick comes to Richmond today to face the music. But it ain’t over till it’s over. Now maybe he just owned the house, you know, for several years, and never, like, noticed 50 or 60 abused dogs around the place, the bloodstains, and all. Sure, makes sense to me, Michael. Who wouldn’t want a place in Surry? I’m afraid all my sympathy’s for the dogs.

Marina, one of my beloved stepdaughters, is featured prominently in an article in the Richmond Times-Dispatch today for her fashion design work. I suppose I might be able to take some tiny credit for giving her her first sewing instruction, but she’s drawn clothing designs since she could hold a pencil. Follow the link, watch the slideshow, buy the clothes someday…

Former student Dustin Lacina sent me the link for this delightful commentary by Ursula Le Guin: On Serious Literature. Enjoy.

Sarah and I went to see Sicko recently out in suburbia. The only places the film is playing in the Richmond area are way the hell out beyond our usual stomping grounds. We loved the film and both found it surprisingly moving, especially the Cuban segment. The expedition really brought home to us, however, what city dwellers we are and how ill-suited we are to the car habitat. Short Pump, where the 14 screen monstrosity resides where we saw the film, is a big box nightmare with seas of cars and lanes and lanes of traffic to go anywhere. We had intended while there to go two blocks up the road to the Apple Store. (I hope to get a new keyboard before beginning another novel; this one is falling apart). The idiocy of getting in a car to make the journey was anathema to us, but our attempt to walk soon proved impossible. The Times-Dispatch ran a cover story on the unfortunate dangers of driving—one of our leading ways to die in this country—with several suggestions for improving your odds. Driving less wasn’t one of them and certainly not living somewhere you didn’t need to drive to go a couple of blocks. I’ll stay in the city where it’s safer.

Corporate money talks but students can’t, even on a public sidewalk, at least when the deadliest threat to America is involved—I mean, of course, marijuana. Though the right-wing majority insists we must err on the side of the speaker when it’s money talking, anyone even joking about drugs must shut up. Just think—these guys will be making decisions long after Bush has crawled back into his hole in Crawford. Ain’t we the beacon of freedom though?

Three of my short stories, “Memories Are Made of This,” “The Banjo Singer,” and “The Broken Dream Factory,” all returned to me homeless with editors’ regrets this weekend. I’m reminded of my dating life in high school, only in those days, rejection was mercifully quick: Work up your nerve, make the call, “Sorry, you’re not quite what I’m looking for at this time.” These editorial regrets, however, often take months and months to reach me. Too bad I can’t switch the processes. Back then I thought I was immortal; these days I know I’m not.

All three stories are sleeping comfortably. I tucked them in and reassured them I still love them. Tomorrow I’ll send them out in the world again to join a half dozen companions and their big brother, my novel The Donut Man, all awaiting another judgment. It’s like dating across light years, serial apocalypse.

I’ll be showing Dr. Strangelove in class today, in the perfect frame of mind for the Doomsday Machine.

When I was quite young, I used to watch television with my folks on Sunday afternoons in Dallas. There wasn’t much on, but their favorite show was a hispanic variety show. We were new to Texas, but my parents were delighted by all things Mexican—the food, the music, the dance. Whenever we got the chance traveling with my dad, we would visit Mexico.  As an adult, I’ve traveled to several countries, but Mexico is still my favorite.  There are no better hosts in the world.
When I moved to Virginia in the mid 80’s, I entered a black and white world. Where were the brown people, the Spanish language, the food, the music, and culture? That’s what I missed most about Texas—perhaps the only thing. I certainly didn’t miss the politics.  Now that’s changed, and Virginia—indeed, the entire country—is richer for the hispanic immigrants who have come here.

Now it looks like as long as they’re willing to work for shit wages as a permanent underclass, we willingly accept their contribution, but when they want the respect they deserve, we self-righteously (and hypocritically) turn our backs. It’s shameful.

The quote for the day comes from Kelly Link’s “Some Zombie Contingency Plans” (from Magic for Beginners):

“Be prepared. It’s just like the Boy Scouts, except you have to be even more prepared. You have to prepare for everything that the Boy Scouts didn’t prepare you for, which is pretty much everything.”

This brought to mind my own Boy Scout experience. I know many guys got a lot out of scouts, and as long as they’re not equating being a good American with believing in God and not being queer, I don’t have a problem with them. I love all that outdoor stuff. But my scout troop in Irving, Texas pretty much sucked. We went on a total of one campout the two years I was in the troop, going to Lake Grapevine for a long weekend in November. The scoutmaster was a retired Air Force colonel who didn’t like kids and glared at you if tried to engage him in conversation. I guess he thought we were being insubordinate. He housed himself in a ginormous tent big enough for a MASH unit, complete with a heater and a cot. It was cold and getting colder. We all slept crammed into moldy tents in cheapo sleeping bags. He started his fire each morning with a cup of gasoline. You could hear the big whoomp all over the camp, as the pillar of flame went up into the treetops. The guy demonstrating the proper way to sharpen an axe cut his thigh pretty badly and had to go to the hospital, but the rest of us were stuck there. The big event on Saturday was a tracking exercise. The rather large scoutmaster and his equally rotund assistants were supposed to mark a trail with rocks and twigs and other crap, and the rest of us were supposed to track it. A buddy of mine and I, who were more or less willing outcastes, happened to spot the scoutmaster and co. across the lake piling rocks and breaking branches and watched them through binoculars. When they were done, we high-tailed it back to the starting point to participate in the competition, which we easily won by heading straight for the place where the fearless leaders had ended up. We each got an official Boy Scout flashlight without batteries. The next day it snowed, and everybody’s parents drove out to rescue us. This was Texas, after all, where nobody was really prepared for snow in November. It was years before I discovered on my own that camping could be fun, though I always forgot to bring the gasoline.

According to this morning’s Richmond Times-Dispatch, a search warrant of Michael Vick’s property where dog fighting regularly took place still hasn’t been executed. The wheels of justice turn slowly for the rich. According to Vick’s pal Portis, Michael should be able to do whatever he wants with the dogs since they’re his property. When I was researching Time and Time Again, I found several gruesome accounts of fights between slaves staged by their owners for their gambling pleasure. These were no-holds-barred contests that often resulted in one of the men’s death, but hey, those guys could do whatever they wanted with their property, right? It’s one thing when we brutalize each other, but when humans breed and brutalize animals for entertainment, we sink to a new low. I’m not much on prisons, but in this case, perhaps the dogfighters could be adorned with pork chop necklaces and thrown into a cellar with a pack of hungry pissed off pit bulls, and they could discuss their property rights with them. Since Vick is a rich athlete, however, I doubt anything will happen to him.