I wanted to recoup the tone of this post with something Highbrow, which the image search cranked out as name of this cool Transformer Autobot. Classy tomorrow, I promise.
What to write? Actually, that's not the question. I have tons to write, but not necessarily here or today.
1) Last night's MWA meeting on short stories was full of concrete advice and anecdotes. I'd almost settled on entering Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine'sMysterious Photograph context every month until I won the $25 and got my 250 words printed as the only likely way to ever crobar myself into active status at MWA. The panel and other attendees provided me with other options. That's good, because this month's guy in a bunny suit standing next to a coin-op washer isn't nefariously inspiring to me. I'm dry. But I do have old and crusty, pre-rejected stuff that I could put a new glaze of shellac upon and try to sell, and the lovely folks provided us all a list of suckers. At least, I dearly hope they're suckers.
I also was lucky enough to meet Todd Robinson, aka Big Daddy Thug, whose extravaganza of Thuglit items I bid upon and won at the charity auction at Bouchercon 2005. Never met him, didn't know him, already had the T-shirt. That's how up the curve I am.
For a non-paying market, Thuglit's got a pile of award nominations and accolades recently. Todd was nice enough to invite me to submit, although I fear they may already have outclassed me. Still, I can go for quantity if not quality. My awesome story will have (sing along now): three floozy moms, armor piercing rounds, and an overdose- with the dead puppy nailed to a tree.
2) You may laugh, but today's wacky snippets both come from National Review Online:
Guy in London interrogated as terrorist for singing along with The Clash. His cab driver tipped off the police he was too into the music. The cabbie didn't like the Zep none either.
Wikipedia's always dubious, but maudlin and extensive, list of people who died in the bathroom.