9-24 and 9-25

9-24

Today was the last day of the convention.  Boy, I spent so much money this weekend.  But really, what was I gonna do, SAVE it??

I got to see Kevin Smith again, for the first time in a number of years, and he's same as he ever was (just not as fat): a super-profane, uniquely-positive dude that is a natural entertainer.  He told the story of collaborating with his daughter on a script for a revival of a girls' toyline from the 1980s, and how he got the idea to write the scenes set in the Eighties, while his daughter wrote the scenes set today.  But he writes fast and she writes slow (if she writes at all), and Kevin asked her if he could take a crack at writing one of the 21st Century scenes.  But when his daughter read it, she told him he had no idea how young people spoke or interacted today, and that it sounded like the dialogue had been written by an old person.

This was chilling to hear.  The vast majority of stories and books I write have young protagonists, either teenagers or children, and I'm only a couple of grades younger than Kevin is.  So do I sound like a grandfather when I write a scene of Lara Demming in high school?

My cousin's oldest daughter talked a mile a minute virtually the whole time she was in the car with us, until her father told her she had to stop so we could talk about tomorrow's schedule, but that anecdote Kevin told was something I really wanted to chat with her about, since she is young and I . . . well, I am not.

I was getting gas and I saw this sticker suck to the top of the pump:

Guys, guys, you need to take the anti-Biden stickers THE MOMENT the gas prices start to go down.  God forbid someone think you mean that he was responsible for them falling, instead of just rising.  Be a bit more consistent with your political vandalism, friends.

Exercise: Yes (20)

9-25

We had our last family get-together in the park this afternoon, and while my mom had made herself some kind of ghastly diet chopped fruit and salad dressing bowl, I stopped at Subway to pick up a sandwich.  But when I walked in, I saw something strange: the kid behind the counter was wearing a blindfold, and was making a sandwich for himself totally blind.  It was entertaining--either the kid had been dared by his coworkers, or he'd just volunteered to try it himself--and after I ordered mine, the still-blindfolded kid asked if I wanted him to make me one, free of charge.  So, I watched the guy try--and fail--to put the right meat, cheese, and toppings on the bread--and then get it in the toaster and out again without getting burned.  The sandwich, which he tried unsuccessfully to wrap up and tape, looked absolutely horrendous, and when I took it to the park, everyone commented on what an ugly job the guy had done, but I was happy to tell the story over and over as new people arrived.  Heck maybe I'll tell it on my Patreon Address in October.

Sometimes, I'm not the world's smartest bear.  When I was working on the Christmas movie the other night with my nephew*, a star, brighter than all the others became visible in the sky, and one of the other extras got his phone out to identify it (he had one of those apps that you point at the night sky, and it tells you what constellation you're looking at**).  And when he said, "Oh, that's Jupiter we're looking at," I said to my nephew, "Cool, that's the one with all the rings."

I recorded another podcast with Big (I think that makes four in a row), and then, I sat down to finish up Abigail Hilton's book.  Yes, you heard right--if I worked hard, I would be able to get to the end of the book (except for the Author's Note and retakes, that is).  And about twenty-five minutes into the recording . . . I started to fall asleep.

Now, I desperately didn't want this to happen.  I knew that if I just applied myself, and went for another hour, I'd have accomplished another of my goals for the month (not to mention getting that much closer to reaching my deadline with Abbie, and being able to die calling myself a man), but nothing helped.  I stopped and got a drink of water, I slapped myself heavily on the face (hopefully, that neat sound effect was recorded for posterity), and I cursed the very ground I walked on . . . but I just couldn't do it.  Every other paragraph I'd have to go back and do again, and so, sadly, I stopped in the middle of the second-to-last chapter, and thrust myself onto my bed, where all good things go to die.

Exercise: Yes (21)

*I still haven't heard from a single damn person who wanted me to talk about that experience, by the way.

**Oddly enough, if you point your phone at someone during the day, that same app will tell you when and where that person is going to die.  Fun at parties, I guarantee you.