Clearly my "learning curve" is pretty much a straight line. As in "flat lined." I have a weakness for books that purport to be funny. I have yet to find one and today's report is just another notch on my failure stick.
"I Was Told There'd Be Cake" essays by Sloane Crosley who has written for Playboy, the NY Times, the Village Voice. Having tasted the "Cake" I have to wonder just how many articles she wrote for any one of them.
She is a "professional New York woman," writing about the trials, tribulations and joys of living in Manhattan. I have noticed (tiny peak on the learning curve?) the "professional New York woman" is going to be "Poor hapless(but adorable) me! Aren't I just the cutest little thing you've ever seen in shoe leather?" New Yorkers seem to have an unholy pride about living in Manhattan.
She covers "preciousness" in chapter 1 - she tells her dates not to bring her flowers, candy or wine, she wants a pony! Yes a plastic My Little Pony And Me doll. She keeps them in a kitchen drawer and will often ask guests after dinner, "Coffee, tea or a pony?"
Religion - nominally Jewish but her parents were never ardent about it. They always had a Christmas tree and a Hannukah bush.
Carelessness - Has left her wallet in cabs, or subways and it always gets mailed back to her! (Minus the money, of course.) Subtext - Aren't New Yorkers big-hearted folks? (Take it from me, they aren't as a general rule.)
Sex - she thought it was a man and a woman, jumping on a bed (shoes off) and laughing.
The title doesn't seem to have anything at all to do with the contents of the book, but:
"I Was Told There'd Be Cake" Sloane Crosley, Penguin Books, $14 230 pages
Friday, November 6, 2009
Thursday, November 5, 2009
The Times, They Are A'Changin'
I've mentioned Richie's airline retirement club. In the November newsletter came the news that since no one wants to continue as a officer of the club, the December holiday luncheon will be the last ever for The Vanguards. This after 34 years.
A further look informed me that six of the members had 80+ birthdays and eight couples are celebrating more than 50 years of marriage this November. Any leftover club funds will be given to charity -- the LAX USO, Guide Dogs for the Blind and Help 4 Seniors.
I will miss the monthly newsletter because I enjoy glimpses backstage of the airline industry. I could read the WSJ online, but this has been condensed in the newsletter. Such as: American Airlines hourly costs on:
a narrow-body jet with 150 seats or less:
$657 for pilots
$715 for maintenance
940 gallons of fuel per hour
One-aisle jets with 151 seats or more:
$746 for pilots
$888 for maintenance
1,250 gallons of fuel per hour
Wide-bodied jets
$1,043 for pilots
$1,376 for maintenance
1,755 gallons of fuel per hour.
The Environmental Protection Agency is trying to standardize guidelines for airports to capture some of the run-off when planes are de-iced. Tree huggers complain that the de-icing chemicals create dead zones in nearby waters (think JFK) even though they pose no threat to humans. The EPA is hoping to reduce the amount of chemicals by about 22 per cent.
RIP Vanguards - You'll be missed.
A further look informed me that six of the members had 80+ birthdays and eight couples are celebrating more than 50 years of marriage this November. Any leftover club funds will be given to charity -- the LAX USO, Guide Dogs for the Blind and Help 4 Seniors.
I will miss the monthly newsletter because I enjoy glimpses backstage of the airline industry. I could read the WSJ online, but this has been condensed in the newsletter. Such as: American Airlines hourly costs on:
a narrow-body jet with 150 seats or less:
$657 for pilots
$715 for maintenance
940 gallons of fuel per hour
One-aisle jets with 151 seats or more:
$746 for pilots
$888 for maintenance
1,250 gallons of fuel per hour
Wide-bodied jets
$1,043 for pilots
$1,376 for maintenance
1,755 gallons of fuel per hour.
The Environmental Protection Agency is trying to standardize guidelines for airports to capture some of the run-off when planes are de-iced. Tree huggers complain that the de-icing chemicals create dead zones in nearby waters (think JFK) even though they pose no threat to humans. The EPA is hoping to reduce the amount of chemicals by about 22 per cent.
RIP Vanguards - You'll be missed.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
The Next Big Thing
Most of my life I have enjoyed inventing things. I would go into detail, but the patents are still pending (and have been since 1974) and loose lips sink (undoubtedly profitable) ships.
I have never been limited by a lack of inventiveness. perhaps that's the reason my father often looked at me speculatively and said, "She's going to be a Philadelphia lawyer." (Which he never explained to me or anyone else. I still don't know what he meant.)
Anyhow! My next big thing is a "personal product" and if you are 65 or older, you are going to be licking your lips feverishly and demanding, "Where can I gets me some of that?!"
It all happened very recently (today, if you must know) when I realized the solution to a problem most older people have. Sagging skin! Yessss, I knew that would get your attention.
Past a certain age, we all develop "loose skin." I happened to glance at myself in the mirror this morning toweling off and instead of instantly squeezing my eyes shut, I studied the problem. With sufficient support, my folds would stay in place. Nothing to be done about the creases other than applying a hot iron and that would hurt. Even though the scar tissue would puff nicely.
"Yes," I thought, "spray starch. One could lie on the floor (carpeted, of course) and when the folds disappeared, zap! A good shot of spray starch!" Continuing this line, I realized that spray starch cracks when whacked. I needed to blend it with something that would give it temporary purchase.
And then, I remembered ... back in the day, we all wore false eyelashes and we used little, tiny tubes of surgical glue to attach them.
I am about to bet the Murphy fortune that I am onto something. A judicial blend of spray starch and surgical glue. The money will simply cascade over my doorshill. Who's that woman that did the "Thigh Master" ads? I could use her phone number...
I have never been limited by a lack of inventiveness. perhaps that's the reason my father often looked at me speculatively and said, "She's going to be a Philadelphia lawyer." (Which he never explained to me or anyone else. I still don't know what he meant.)
Anyhow! My next big thing is a "personal product" and if you are 65 or older, you are going to be licking your lips feverishly and demanding, "Where can I gets me some of that?!"
It all happened very recently (today, if you must know) when I realized the solution to a problem most older people have. Sagging skin! Yessss, I knew that would get your attention.
Past a certain age, we all develop "loose skin." I happened to glance at myself in the mirror this morning toweling off and instead of instantly squeezing my eyes shut, I studied the problem. With sufficient support, my folds would stay in place. Nothing to be done about the creases other than applying a hot iron and that would hurt. Even though the scar tissue would puff nicely.
"Yes," I thought, "spray starch. One could lie on the floor (carpeted, of course) and when the folds disappeared, zap! A good shot of spray starch!" Continuing this line, I realized that spray starch cracks when whacked. I needed to blend it with something that would give it temporary purchase.
And then, I remembered ... back in the day, we all wore false eyelashes and we used little, tiny tubes of surgical glue to attach them.
I am about to bet the Murphy fortune that I am onto something. A judicial blend of spray starch and surgical glue. The money will simply cascade over my doorshill. Who's that woman that did the "Thigh Master" ads? I could use her phone number...
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
A Great Thought
An Indian chief's thoughts on daylight savings: "Only a government could believe that if you cut 8 in. off the top of a blanket and sew it onto the bottom, you have created a longer blanket."
(Thanks Joyce!)
(Thanks Joyce!)
Interesting News
I have two eye doctors -- a surgeon and an optometrist. (I think that's what they're called - vision checks, glasses, that sort of thing.)
Recently the optometrist sent me back to the surgeon for some Yag laser work on a previously installed cataract lens. It seems a tiny bit of the original lens is left in the eye and the new lens "hooks on" to it and is anchored by it. My original bit had grown and was causing a bit more astigmatism.
So - during the follow-up with the surgeon, he said, "I hope Dr. X will be satisfied with it" and I shot him a startled look -- Since when did a surgeon lower himself to even consider if the optometrist like it? but he went on to say, "Of know of the two professions, mine - surgery - is at the end of all that can be done with it. But his field! They're making new discoveries all of the time!" A reference to not only contact lenses (child's play) but to complicated devices to help blind people see, even if it's only a little bit.
He pointed out that optometrists can now prescribe certain medications for patients when previously they had to refer them to an eye doctor -- no matter how trivial the disease. "Pink eye" or conjunctivitis comes to mind.
Recently the optometrist sent me back to the surgeon for some Yag laser work on a previously installed cataract lens. It seems a tiny bit of the original lens is left in the eye and the new lens "hooks on" to it and is anchored by it. My original bit had grown and was causing a bit more astigmatism.
So - during the follow-up with the surgeon, he said, "I hope Dr. X will be satisfied with it" and I shot him a startled look -- Since when did a surgeon lower himself to even consider if the optometrist like it? but he went on to say, "Of know of the two professions, mine - surgery - is at the end of all that can be done with it. But his field! They're making new discoveries all of the time!" A reference to not only contact lenses (child's play) but to complicated devices to help blind people see, even if it's only a little bit.
He pointed out that optometrists can now prescribe certain medications for patients when previously they had to refer them to an eye doctor -- no matter how trivial the disease. "Pink eye" or conjunctivitis comes to mind.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Yippee!
Freedom is here at last! I am referring to an e-mail I got today from PublishAmerica.com saying that my seven year publishing contract with them was about to expire and, if I wanted to renew it - same terms and conditions for another seven years -- to send them official notice.
I wrote back: "Do NOT under any circumstances renew my contract! I can't wait to get the publishing rights back." I think that was fairly straightforward...
Seven (long) years ago, I sold them the publishing rights to my second book ("Dispatches From a Born-Again Cynic") because they advertised that "We're just like a regular publishing company - we pay our authors!" Bait enough for me as my first book ("Sponsors: How to Get One; How to Keep One") was totally my project -- I wrote it, edited it, found a printer, found a commercial artist to do the cover, paid both and followed up with a Web site, advertising, promotion and distribution. (And 10 years later had a $16,000 net profit - book has been out of print for two years.)
PublishAmerica was now promising to do all of that FOR me and pay me royalties... How sweet it was...
Until I discovered their idea of "promotion" was to ask me for a list of 100 names so they could send a "notification of publication" to these people -- "Family! Friends! Everyone you know!" They put the book on their Web site and That Was That.
Many of you may have noticed a certain ... stubborn streak ... to my make up. Since they had broken multiple implied promises -- leaving me to do the heavy lifting - I did minimal promotion when it first came out and that was it. The first couple of years, the book did well enough and then it died.
I blame myself for an unfortunate title - people saw "Born Again" but not the "Cynic" and dropped it as if it were one fire and ran. An experienced publisher might well have argued with me and shown me the error of a title like that.
Reading between the lines of ensuing e-mails, I think they're going broke. E's such as "Buy copies of your book for 50% off and still get royalties!" and other succulent (hah!) offers.
Hell with 'em. From the blog, I have enough material to put together a whole new book incorporating the best of that one into it.
I should be saying "thank you" but since I wrote several times offering to buy back my contract (for what they paid for it - $1) and those letters were never answered ...
I wrote back: "Do NOT under any circumstances renew my contract! I can't wait to get the publishing rights back." I think that was fairly straightforward...
Seven (long) years ago, I sold them the publishing rights to my second book ("Dispatches From a Born-Again Cynic") because they advertised that "We're just like a regular publishing company - we pay our authors!" Bait enough for me as my first book ("Sponsors: How to Get One; How to Keep One") was totally my project -- I wrote it, edited it, found a printer, found a commercial artist to do the cover, paid both and followed up with a Web site, advertising, promotion and distribution. (And 10 years later had a $16,000 net profit - book has been out of print for two years.)
PublishAmerica was now promising to do all of that FOR me and pay me royalties... How sweet it was...
Until I discovered their idea of "promotion" was to ask me for a list of 100 names so they could send a "notification of publication" to these people -- "Family! Friends! Everyone you know!" They put the book on their Web site and That Was That.
Many of you may have noticed a certain ... stubborn streak ... to my make up. Since they had broken multiple implied promises -- leaving me to do the heavy lifting - I did minimal promotion when it first came out and that was it. The first couple of years, the book did well enough and then it died.
I blame myself for an unfortunate title - people saw "Born Again" but not the "Cynic" and dropped it as if it were one fire and ran. An experienced publisher might well have argued with me and shown me the error of a title like that.
Reading between the lines of ensuing e-mails, I think they're going broke. E's such as "Buy copies of your book for 50% off and still get royalties!" and other succulent (hah!) offers.
Hell with 'em. From the blog, I have enough material to put together a whole new book incorporating the best of that one into it.
I should be saying "thank you" but since I wrote several times offering to buy back my contract (for what they paid for it - $1) and those letters were never answered ...
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Back Story
I was in the library the day aftr I reviewed Alana Stewart's book on Farrah Fawcett and what popped up in the non-fiction shelves? George Hamilton's "Don't Mind if I Do." Snap! I pounced on it.
He doesnt get to Alana until page 209 when he saw her waterskiing in Acapulco Bay. She was a Ford model and a month later, he ran into her in New York, dancing with a playboy at Le Club. He abandoned hope and returned to LA where he was a partner in the Candy Store (disco of yore.) He saw her there, alone except for a girlfriend and made her acquaintance.
He discovered that she was 20, had grown up in Nacogdoches, TX (though born in San Diego). A former flight attendant for Trans-Texas Airways, she saved up for a ticket to New York and the Ford agency which happily accepted her. Hamilton said of her, 'I was captivated by Alana's spunk and drive, not to mention her precocious wit and sense of humor."
Items - She got hepatits from Mexican clams and as a result became "a health nut and walking food allergy. When the meal invariably failed to measure up, Alana would send the food back to the kitchen and the waiter back to his native land."
They'd had a back and forth relationship for some time. He gave up; she started dating the Earl of Litchfield, with the intention of marrying him. Sulking, Hamilton went to the Riviera and had an affair with Britt Eckland, who had just ended a relationship with Warren Beatty. (Ah, the Swingin' 70s)
They had a farewell dinner before her return to England in Palm Springs. Hamilton's dear friend (and neighbor) counseled him, "Marry her! She's smarter than you are!" and offered Elvis' plane but: for that night and that night only. He proposed, she accepted and they flew to Las Vegas. Alana's dog was the maid of honor.
Hamilton was 33; she was 27 (yes, a long courtship). They married in 1972, but were divorced in 1975. They had a son named Ashley.
George remarked that "and then there was the matter of Steve McQueen, then married to Ali McGraw. He and Alana hit it off. She insisted there was nothing between them. But Hamilton kept finding McQueen's favorite beer in the refrigerator (neither Hamilton nor Alana drank beer) and McQueen's motorcycle in their garage. He said, "Sherlock Holmess closed the case, but I'd rather have been wrong." So far he has never remarried.
He doesnt get to Alana until page 209 when he saw her waterskiing in Acapulco Bay. She was a Ford model and a month later, he ran into her in New York, dancing with a playboy at Le Club. He abandoned hope and returned to LA where he was a partner in the Candy Store (disco of yore.) He saw her there, alone except for a girlfriend and made her acquaintance.
He discovered that she was 20, had grown up in Nacogdoches, TX (though born in San Diego). A former flight attendant for Trans-Texas Airways, she saved up for a ticket to New York and the Ford agency which happily accepted her. Hamilton said of her, 'I was captivated by Alana's spunk and drive, not to mention her precocious wit and sense of humor."
Items - She got hepatits from Mexican clams and as a result became "a health nut and walking food allergy. When the meal invariably failed to measure up, Alana would send the food back to the kitchen and the waiter back to his native land."
They'd had a back and forth relationship for some time. He gave up; she started dating the Earl of Litchfield, with the intention of marrying him. Sulking, Hamilton went to the Riviera and had an affair with Britt Eckland, who had just ended a relationship with Warren Beatty. (Ah, the Swingin' 70s)
They had a farewell dinner before her return to England in Palm Springs. Hamilton's dear friend (and neighbor) counseled him, "Marry her! She's smarter than you are!" and offered Elvis' plane but: for that night and that night only. He proposed, she accepted and they flew to Las Vegas. Alana's dog was the maid of honor.
Hamilton was 33; she was 27 (yes, a long courtship). They married in 1972, but were divorced in 1975. They had a son named Ashley.
George remarked that "and then there was the matter of Steve McQueen, then married to Ali McGraw. He and Alana hit it off. She insisted there was nothing between them. But Hamilton kept finding McQueen's favorite beer in the refrigerator (neither Hamilton nor Alana drank beer) and McQueen's motorcycle in their garage. He said, "Sherlock Holmess closed the case, but I'd rather have been wrong." So far he has never remarried.
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