I like my classroom. Everything seems to work, it has nice maps, and a view of the playa. But I’m in the High School section. I can no longer see over the students and spot incoming administrators and parents. Maybe I should get a mini photo-drone to station near the administrative section’s door . . .
Frazzled. And mildly annoyed, but life happens.
I hope to have the next Baba Yaga story posted this week. Everything’s set, it just needs one last read-through and the cover art credit added.
I may be having to have oral surgery this week or next. Cracked a tooth – sideways. Hey, I’m good, what can I say? Depending on how bad it is, it may have to be removed and an implant put in. I’ve been to this rodeo before, several years ago, thanks to a Corn-nut (TM). So if I’m slow approving comments or responding, you know why.
The third Baba Yaga story is started, and there will be a fourth. That should (she types with her fingers crossed) wrap up the set so I can get back to doing the three other things that I’m supposed to be writing.
Some books I regret giving away. Some, mostly read for graduate school, I regret losing hours of my life to (like the one book I ever burned)*. And a few I wish I had never read, or had not read until I was much, much older, if then. When you turn a 12-13 year old loose in the adult section, a little supervision might be in order. Continue reading
Hi, my name is Alma, and I’m addicted to reading and to books. And there is a slight difference, although you’d never know it from my shelves (and desk, and floor, and closet, and my parents’ house.) All flat surfaces not required for perambulation or emergency egress are covered with books. The shelves are double-stacked, triple in some places, and I think the cover on my Kindle is starting to bulge from all the files. But I can stop any time, really. Continue reading
Panhandle road-builders all drive pick-ups. That’s the only explanation for the deep dips in intersections and the very high railroad crossings, steep parking-lot entries, and eighteen-inch curbs. Or they lost a high-school girlfriend to some nerdy gear-head with a GTX or Porsche. It can’t be just for drainage and train safety, nope. Continue reading
The next Alexi Zolnerovich/ Baba Yaga story is begun:
“Very funny, Babushka,” Sergeant Alexander Zolnerovich muttered under his breath, removing the framed photograph from the shipping box. The little tag on the back read, “From one warrior to another.”
“What’s that, Z?” his office mate asked, peering over his shoulder.
Alexi had no idea how to explain and he really didn’t want to. Marty would probably call the psych-eval guys if Alexi even tried. Instead he sighed, “My grandmother’s idea of funny.” He unfolded the easel back of the frame and stood it up on his desk.
Martin Krehbiel shook his head. “A photo of her cat? With an inked-on paw print?”
“Yeah. It’s a paw-tograph’d picture of Ivan the Purrable.” Continue reading
So, a few weeks ago, Brad Torgersen stepped up onto the soapbox at Mad Genius Club and knocked one out of the park, in your humble blogger’s opinion. But a visitor in the comments’ section brought up an idea I’d like to chew on a little, although it was not the individual’s main point. The question is: Should we wait to return to space until Earth is perfect? Or, to phrase it a different way, should only saints be allowed into space? Continue reading
