Great American Blog

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Somebody needs to give me $600 so I can get an iPhone.

And when did Steve Jobs get hot?

Must be the beard. I have a thing for facial hair, leastaways on men.

Weird tangent: I am a sucker for hairy men. I dig long ponytails and furry chins. Conversely, I am sucker for short-haired ladies. Spikey dyke cuts are so hot. Why is that, I wonder? Maybe it’s because of the subtle gender defiance, or maybe it’s because I like androgyny. But it’s not a hard and fast rule. I was watching Madonna’s Vogue video last night. (Shit. Did I just admit to that? Shit. But I won’t admit that I drew the blinds and danced to it, twice. Pulled out my fedora and everything. Am. NOT. Admitting that. Stupid time-wasting YouTube.) I was thinking about how much I want to have fluffy bouncy Jayne Mansfield hair.

I love my purple spikes, but I am constitutionally incapable of maintaining the same hair cut and/or color for more than a few months. Hairstylist Jeff [heart – heart – heart] says he wants to buzz my hair this summer and bleach it out. I think that’s a great idea—I am already excited, just thinking about the punky dark roots I’ll have—but, since that’s not the kind of thing a girl wants to keep forever, maybe I’ll grow it out into Jayne Mansfield locks.

Back to the iPhone.

I was never a Mac fan. Never did get the hang of the interface, and never did feel like shelling out all that extra money. My computer security has been just fine, thanks, and my Dell Inspiron laptop satisfies my mad graphic arts skillz. (By “mad graphic arts skillz,” I mean I know how to photoshop away a zit, and I can whip up a logo if I need to. I’m better at document design than a lot of folks, but that’s not saying much, when you consider that a lot of folks think Comic Sans is an appropriate font for resumes, bar mitzvah invitations, and divorce papers.)

I do own an iPod, but not because I’m a wild Apple fan. I wanted an industry standard portable music device, and Windows just doesn’t have one. 

But this iPhone… wow. My knees are trembling. I won’t bother nbbnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn

(Goblin! Geroff the keyboard!)

gushing about it here. Just go to Wired and read… well, read just about any article you want.

Gonna cut this short, by which I mean this post will only be around 500, 600 words, instead of my usual 2000+. If I would bother to spend my time writing The Great American Novel instead of this lameass blog, I would already have the National Book Award that I so clearly and richly deserve. What’s his name in The End of the Affair wrote 750 words per day. I could do that if, you know, if I wanted to.

Speaking of The End of the Affair—you should read it. Graham Greene rocks. The British Modernists turn me into silly putty. You think Beverly Lewis writers Christian fiction? PAH! She is a hack, and so is Karen Kingsbury, and so is Janette Oke. (I have not read any of these ladies, but you know I get irritated when you fuss over details. Stop whining and pay attention.) You want real Christian fiction? Read Graham Greene. He does marvelous things for Catholicism. (So does Flannery O’Connor, another Modernist. It’s not her fault she wasn’t British.) You should also see the movie.

[Cue lightning bolts and timpani.]

I have SEEN movies in my life, all right? Just because I don’t watch them anymore doesn’t mean I can’t recommend one now and again. You should watch The End of the Affair because you get to see Ralph Fiennes and Julianne Moore prancing around in the buff. Doesn’t matter which way you swing. You’ll be happy.

So yeah, I’ve got important things to do. The pile of books on the floor is giving me puppy dog eyes. I had it whittled to four just a few days ago, but some holds came in yesterday, and some more came in today. Wasn’t my fault! I suppose checking out three Caroline Cooney young adult books on impulse today was, technically, my doing. (But they’ll be quick reads. They hardly count.) And, okay, I checked out two Omar Tyree books yesterday, but trust me on this, it wasn’t because I wanted to. They’re for the next NoveList article. Just finished LaHaye, and now look what I’m dealing with.

At least I’m not as bad as Nebucheddnezzar. He has 64 items on hold. Kudos to him on his new book, by the way, which will be published in May if he ever bothers to finish indexing it. (“But I don’t have page numbers yet!” he offered as a feeble excuse. Please.)

Okay. Going to go read now. Just have to decide if it’s going to be for pleasure (Hello, Thomas Perry! Hello, Amy “Yes I’m David’s Sister” Sedaris!) or for self flagellation. Could pull a Reverend Dimmesdale on myself with the Omar Tyree, I could.

Haven’t read Tyree yet, but remember what I said about nitpicking details? Don’t badger me.

Argh. That’s 905 words that didn’t go into The Great American Novel. It’s a sin. It’s like sperm lost to masturbation, sperm that could have become little babies. I wonder what Graham Greene would say to that?

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