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Ouatic-7 [userpic]
No EMP For Me, Please

So, I get up about 4AM this morning, thinking I'll eat breakfast and get an early start on butcheringrya_kelley's baby.

I sit with the cats on the landing a bit until an altercation seems imminent, then go down. Still dawdling I play sudoku a while before I get the kettle going.

Power failure. The whole neighborhood.

I consider getting out my lap top but my neighbors aren't going to have any more wireless than I do and it doesn't have much charge on, anyway, it so I can't even watch a DVD.

I think about getting dressed and going to Denny's.

I sit there in the dark, still playing sudoku on my PDA, the tiny screen my only light.

pilgham emerges. "It's too quiet. I can't sleep without all my white noise generators." His AC, his fan, his radio. He rustles up a flashlight and lights the stove with a match to make his coffee and my tea.

It starts to get light out and I open the drapes and can actually read.

Thr power comes back on at 8.

I have survived three and a half hours with no modern conveniences, except my PDA. Life is good.

I gotta get started on that baby.

Mood: calmcalm

But of course they are admired!

I suspect you did things as I do even now and lit a candle and read a paperback.

I picked up a rotting Phyllis A. Whitney Black Amber (1964) last night where I was working (OK, so I'm a filtcher of stray paperbacks from the bulging bins of discarded books in nursing homes, so sue me)and had to wonder how this woman ever got published. The heroine's intrusive and vapid behavior is only matched by that of those around her.

The discovery of a dropped scarf in the abandond house next door leads to a wild thrill of significance. But the house in question seems to be grand central station from the way it is described and there appears to be no signifigance to the scarf except for its existance. Was everybody trying to write like Daphine DuMaurer? Why does the heroine persist in grabbing up and hugging stray cats without them clawing her face. Does the writer suffer from an unsatisfied craving for cat companionship? Am I going to finish this book? Every page I turn comes off in my hands. Fanficcage is in good company.

It sounds like the heroine would piss me off too much for me to finish the book. The lingering hope that one of the cats would claw the cow would not provide enough interest.

Much of it is pleasant enough because the characters do not figure in it, you see. It reads like a tourist guide of the time bolstered by the memories of a single visit. There is no need for the explanations or descriptions but they are oddly evocative of the time. By that I mean they are evocative of the dozens of movies churned out in the late 50'/early 60s which feature long and inexplicable drives in the country in which the story is set. In an oddly sanitized and sunny Istanbul here.

We can only dream of the heroine getting tetanus from the earrings she just clipped on to her ears. Or she got a nasty scratch in her leg stumbling around the house next door in the dark. Dare we hope for festering?

And the samovar of dark history they just bought, could it not be cursed?

It will be if they don't wash it before making any tea.

Damn. They intend only to polish its exterior and display it on a table.

What in sam hell is the good of a samovar of dark repute if you don't serve tea from it to unwanted guests?


They probably serve instant tea, the philistines.

Did they have presweetened Nestea in the early 60's?

Make that candle a flashlight and change the PA Whitney title, and you have me late at night in the '70s! Once I figured that my bedroom light shined onto the backyard grass, where my parents could see it.

Occasionally my dad would wake me up at 8 or 9 a.m. after I'd stayed up until 4:00, reading. No, dad, it was not too nice a day to sleep through!

Never the Whitney fan but the bookmobile came on Saturday afternoon so many a time I read crappy pb romances until 4. And then got up at what my mother considered a Godly hour. It always pissed me off that my brother was allowed to sleep until noon and I never, as far as I can recall, was allowed to.

Now, on the rare occasions when I'm the last to bed, P gets all agitated because he is, you know, very conservative.

Conservative -- he's a Tory? OMG, I never knew.

He says the last decent politician was Pitt, the Younger.

My parents were plagued with always discovering one or another of us half dressed when it was time to go with a sock dangling from the fingers and the nose stuck in a book. I don't think we ever made it out of the house as a family without parental shouts of despair.

Serves them right for letting you all learn to read. I mean, really.