Friday, June 28, 2013

Facebook Nostalgia Groups, and SGV thread



I belong to three different Facebook Nostalgia (remember when) groups. It's amazing how all the threads and lost memories surface in the collective memory process. I have found long-lost friends, their siblings, a relative, and even gained a new friend or two. One group is for my grade school as there isn't another for the area, another is for my high school, and the third group is for the county where I grew up.

You know you're from Marin when...  is mostly a southern Marin group. It's interesting to learn what happened "over the hill." Some of it I can't even begin to relate to. But even with the Sonoma County group, it's a similar situation. I realized that rural West County—be it West Marin or West Sonoma, there was a very different reality than in the more civilized parts of SonoMarin.

Sir Francis Drake High School I can't say I liked high school, it was a miserable time for me—and other "valley rats." You can see by the moniker, why it might not have been all roses. Interesting to own up to a time that was painful—and not be attached to any of it. 

And the third group is Lagunitas School District and an Geronimo Valley peeps...  Sometimes it's interesting, it's definitely more scattered. Wide age range. There were multiple LSD groups. This one is the most vibrant. There also a San Geronimo Valley group—but if a group is small, I tend not to join it. Too secular. 

We grew up during some unusual times and that the entire rock world descended upon us, along with everybody else. So the stories are interesting. I'm gleaning many backstories, not just the stories of what we remember, but the why behind them that set the stories in motion. But we were really there! One thing that's cool is that the groups are intergenerational.

I also belong to Sausalito Children as I had many childhood experiences there. My mom lived in Sausalito during the 1960s, worked for Juanita, and was an actress at the Gate Playhouse–so it all comes together. A memory here, a memory there. And I've got me some blog fodder. Group creator Andrew Fekses and I discovered that we knew each other when we were kids—through Miranda-Micaela and Chris Wall. How small, the world.

Some nice vintage photos posted in I Love Sonoma County, CA:  Not much by way of info on West County. We reveled in our weirdness. Where I came of age as a writer, and an artist in the schools. I was always a west county girl—it was a very different reality than the more civilized parts of SonoMarin.

Anyway, all this to say, that an incredible nostalgia thread emerged from these Facebook groups. This one began on the SGV post, and migrated to my page. Much fodder for another blog post. But I'm posting it here: stet. Verbatim. Whatevers.

Peter Sutton Hi guys and gals, well mostly gals...we Suttons moved to Arroyo in 1957 as I remember starting kindergarten that year. I believe the Fullicks moved in after we moved to Lagunitas. Ed Barbano was my little league coach when I was 9 and Kathy, his daughter was our baby sitter as were the Gregg girls, Linda and Louise. I remember the smell of rotting salmon in the creek behind Barbano's place and Horseshoe Hill before Moulton built there. Also the party at Michaela's home in 8th grade and dancing with her at a school dance. Hmm.. lets see... there were the Zettyls, The Lushers, Ricky Turman at near Viking's Rest, Gordon Andrews, Diane Moyle, the Bianchi's and of course Maureen way the hell up at the end of the road.I spent a summer at Forest farms when I was 9 - still can smell the oiled canvas tents and musty old wood of the main building not to mention feeding the horses - hay. Used to lie in the tall weeds in the summer just being my kid self...lovely days

Maureen Hurley Horse Hill. There was a hitching post at the top. We'd park our horses there and gaze down on the road to watch the cars not go by. Remember the indoor waterfall that Larry Moulton built in his house? Why did he move to the valley anyway? Where did he come form? He bought up most of Forest Knolls. Remember the variety store with the covered wooden porch and hitching posts? I got coon tails and wooden nickles there. And then a classmate burnt it all down. Plus most of what was left of the town of Lagunitas too. I wish we had photos. Only reason why the Forest Knolls and Lagunitas stores and Papermill Creek Saloon are standing is because they're not made of wood.

Pete. I used to trudge down to your house to play with you. It was a long walk. I didn't always make it there.But as Cavafy said, it's the journey, not the destination that matters. If you were up at Micaela's, then you walked right by my house. The red one in the meadow.

Cool info about Ed Barbano. I didn't know he was a coach. What was Kathy like. I've such a vague memory. I learned to swim there when I was 10. Do you know the story of how Kathy was killed? I was there the day he shot himself, walking home from school as they carried him out in the gurney—he was still alive. I'm guessing I was in high school but it could have been earlier. Our school bus quit going up our road after a while. It was always long walk home (1.1 miles).

What were the twins like? I ran into Linda at the Watershed reading in Berkeley (Sept.) and Louise was there too. Bob Haas introduced us and I stood there with my gob hanging open like a dolt—and said I remember watching you play softball at Lagunitas. Louise lives out in Marshall. I posted a photo of the twins on my blog. Interesting that Louise never became a (famous) writer. Reminds me of Old Man Gregg with her tough stance and plaid shirts.

Judy Fullick moved into your old house on Arroyo (when?) after you moved to Lagunitas. I even went to visit you there too. I remember being in your house at any rate.

Carol Ann Mangan What Peter Sutton remembers is a lot of what I remember, I think he was in Rohry or Roland's class. Lora Lusher was in my class, Craig Lusher was in Rohry's class, Rohry said Craig died in a car accident, I know their parents did in S.F. I don't know why I can't remember Maureen but I sure like talking to her now. I remember the hill before Larry Moulton built on it also. Had a vacuum system with hose attachments in the walls decades before other homes had them. His wife was a hair dresser. Their house was ultra modern for the era. I had a paper route so went to all these homes on Tamal and Reseca and Arroyo up to and past thSte Bianchi's home. Was a paper girl before it was politically correct to be one. Still drudging up memories.

Maureen Hurley Pete, Rohry, Craig and I were all in the same class. Hair dresser, of course. One of the Forest knolls storefronts was converted into a hair salon. Not that I ever willingly set foot inside one. Dougie Jarreett used to hang out on Horse Hill. Old Pete, from the old livery stable (he lived at McAuliff's in an old slipstream) also used to sit up there on his strawberry roan and roll a cigaret. He was a DOM always trying to get us into the bushes to play "house."

Carol Ann Mangan Doug Jarrett was in my class. Just listened to Sons of Champlin single "Hello Sunshine" on the Sonoma site. How much fun was that. Those were happier times as my ex-husband was in a band and part of the Marin County rock and roll scene.  If you take enough drugs everything seems happier for a time.

Peter Sutton Talk about DOM how about 'Foxy"? And I was in Rohry's class and remember him as a fun kid! And the Stanley's bought Moulton's place and lived there awhile. I'm still good friends with Mike.

Carol Ann Mangan omg I vaguely remember Foxy dirty old man. I was friends with Darcy at College of Marin for a time. She worked for an "Outdoors Marin" type program. I wrote articles for the Funfinder used to be a part of the IJ during the 1970s. Rohry lives in SoCal now with his wife and my mom.

Peter Sutton Say Hi to Rohry for me Carol. I remember having a hard time pronouncing his name...

Carol Ann Mangan Will do. I keep trying to encourage him to go on this page, so I send it to his wife lol. He doesn't do FB.

Peter Sutton You were probably friends with the Bellflie sp? girls

Carol Ann Mangan Bellefleoure|? I can't remember how to spell it either. Another family of Catholic girls.

Rohry (pronounced Rory) was probably easier going than me back then. I was so self-conscious and was a teacher's pet for awhile so wasn't so well liked by my peers. Also oldest child in a large family so too many responsibilities too early in life. Much more laid back now. Rohry did Air Force for 22 years so he obviously needed the structure at that time.

Maureen Hurley Bellefuille I think, the wizened wood lady (tough and hard as nails—no compassion there) and her three gorgeous daughters–Cheryl, and?

Carol Ann Mangan The mom was a tough nut, but it was a hard business chopping wood for a living. i'm trying to remember their names. Rohry might be able to. One of them was Theresa Nielsen's class, I think Theresa and Carol Manning were very cliquish back then and excluded a lot of people. One of the girls I think married Don Yerion. He was the son of the owners of the trailer park and gas station right outside of town but before San Geronimo. They were decent to my parents.

We were trailer trash when we first moved in 1958, 6 kids in a 28-foot trailer. Can't even imagine that these days. CPS here we come.

Maureen Hurley Don Yerian was my aunt Canice's (Candy) friend, so he was at least 12-15 years older. Cradle robber! Remember the bar/soda fountain? You could gas up and get gassed at the same time. Who else lived in the trailer park—there were several families. The Poppes lived behind the park. we weren't aware of trailer trash stigmatism. never crossed our minds.

Carol Ann Mangan Yes, I think he was in the Army when I was 7 years old, so must have been at least 13 years older. He was a nice person though as I remember and not a pseudo-snob. It's so funny that most people who looked down on my dad had similar family situations.

Yes, I remember drinking my first 7-up at that bar, it was a combination bar, grocery store, soda fountain and gas station. You could buy a quart of milk, a pack of cigarettes, gas, etc. I remember the Yerians let my mom's parents stay in side room they had off the grocery store when they came out from North Dakota to visit my parents and we obviously didn't have enough room in the trailer. Self-described trailer trash, I don't remember being discriminated against for that reason. There was a family who lived in the Galapagos Islands for a year who lived in the trailer park, Karen Steiner and her family lived there, I had friends in the 2nd grade who were from South Carolina who lived there (I think military families from Hamilton AFB), I remember they were proud to be "rebels" when that meant southerners and not misfits.

I just saw you were friends with Alex Call, Clover played at my wedding. John McFee (I'm sure you know this) has been with the Doobie Brothers forever. Such a small world.

Maureen Hurley I ran into Alex Call at the Mill Valley Film Fest. He was super familiar to me—then I found we had a lot of connections in common. Most notable, hitching out to Muir Beach to hear Clover play on the deck of the Muir Beach Tavern—Pelican. Who was the family that lived in the Galapagos Islands? I went there and at Post Office Bay, there were postcards I was given to hand-deliver to—Al Molina, my old biology teacher at CoM.

Carol Ann Mangan Jamie used to live at the Muir Beach Tavern with most of the members of Transatlantic Railroad before it burned down, Janis Joplin used to go out there to gig with Big Brother also in the Summer of 1967 (Summer of Love lol)

Maureen Hurley Moving your quotes onto this thread, Carol.  We are blessed to be able to share our diverse memories today.

The beginning of love is to let those we love be perfectly themselves, and not to twist them to fit our own image. Otherwise we love only the reflection of ourselves we find in them. —Thomas Merton

Carol Ann Mangan: I have to remember this each time I want to go back to victim land when remembering Forest Knolls.

Peter Sutton Carol & Maureen, who were your favorite teachers at Lagunitas? The girls were as hard bodied as bricks. Don passed away not too long ago

Maureen Hurley My aunt Canice (Candy) told me, now she's gone too. his father was Orville, right? Odd name.
Favorite teachers? 3rd grade: Miss Lenz! Grades 5-8 Miss Kolanoski—chorus.

Carol Ann Mangan 3rd/4th grade definitely Dorothy Lenz, 2nd grade Mary McAlpine, always used to read to us and also made juicer drinks like carrot juice long before it became fashionable. I liked Mr. Roche and Mr. Woods (taught 6th grade before Sliney)

Peter Sutton Remember Mrs. Lenz's pet skunk? and how about Mrs. ? who became the famous pot smoking principal of Nicasio elementary? Mrs Brennan was her name.

Carol Ann Mangan I remember the skunk but not the Nicasio teacher. Mrs. Lenz lived in Bolinas as I remember.

Now I remember. I think she was my brother Roland's 2nd grade teacher. She taught him to "free associate" and we teased him that it was another term for daydreaming.

Maureen Hurley I also liked Mrs. Brennan but we only had her as a sub—and she was one GREAT sub! I remember going into Mary McAlpine's class to get a sample of e carrot juice—she took a 25 lb horse bag of carrots and ground them up unwashed, unpeeled. It was awful—extremely bitter—turned me off to carrot juice forever.

Peter Sutton OK...who was the worst teacher you remember...? My vote for Brice...Sliney was no prize either. Loved Mr. Plant

Maureen Hurley Easy. Mr Sliney. Mrs. Brice was sometimes scary, sometimes mean, but she always read to us after lunch. The Phantom Tollbooth! I found Harry Roche to be scary as well—he yelled at kids and threw chalk and erasers at the boys when they didn't get English or math. I remember Mike Frank getting nailed early and opften—chalk dust in his hair or on his shirt.I was traumatized that stuff—I didn't know I had dyslexia, so I never knew the answers. It was all a blur. I liked Mr. Plant too. So goofy. Some say he was a lecher, but I never saw it—of course, I was skinny as a rail and no boobage to speak of... Sliney was both slimy and evil—with his little yellow vest and military precision. Gay blade, I'm sure, but he seemed to really hate kids. Whacking kids hands with rulers was his forte.


Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Facebook conversation (photo) Lyle Daggett & me on Bukowski, Black Sparrow Press, Doubiago



Facebook conversation that this photo generated is newsworthy

FACEBOOK CONVERSATION June 25, 2013

Rebecca Cintron Osvold LoL! that look says "don't let the flower fool ya big guy." were u playing blanche du bois at the time? i realize when we met, i was living in a communal house off campus w ricky appelbaum who was rehearsing & then playing stanley kowalski in judy navas' ssu production for quite a long run! or at least for him... he never got over it. as i moved out he stood in the doorway in his wife beater & ragged bathrobe screaming "reBECCa! reBECCA!" glad i left when i did, God rest his soul.

Maureen Hurley Yeah, you're right. Or I'll take ya to the mat. And not in a good way. I didn't like being hit on. Who was the guy who lived in the white farmhouse at the railroad tracks? Was that Ricky? He used to call me the china doll—because I looked so pale and wan. Charles Bukowski was crashing on his couch. Drunk on a gallon of red wine, asking me for a reading, then hitting on me. I kicked the Buk to the curb, hard—I was so pissed off. John Martin of Black Sparrow Press, his publisher, no less, wasn't letting him stay on his couch.

Lyle Daggett The photo is (at the moment anyway) not coming through in the Facebook feed -- I'll visit your page and see if it shows there. However -- from the details you give here, that would have been just a month or so before Sharon D. and I first met, August 1981 in Minneapolis when she was here to (in part) meet w/ John Crawford at West End Press to talk about details of publishing Hard Country. I've heard bits and pieces over the years of Sharon's account of the trip to Port Townsend. * The evening Sharon and I first met, in a living room in south Minneapolis, I asked if I could see some of her poems (a couple of people had been telling me about her earlier that day), she got up and left the room, and came back and plopped the 300-page manuscript of Hard Country in my lap, the pages held together by extra-long brass fasteners. I read the first dozen or so poems in the ms., and I lay back on the couch just blown away, most amazing stuff I'd ever read. One of the great ecstatic moments of my life.
Maureen Hurley Ah, John Crawford—He also published some of my prose in an anthology. House on Via Gombito. Meridel was crucial for that link to happen. BTW, I'm "Lacy Murphy" in some of the later stories w/ Bill Bradd. Sharon was the one who was always encouraging me to write prose.

Lyle Daggett I remember the anthology House on the Via Gombito, though it was published by New Rivers Press (not West End), edited by Madelon Sprengnether and C.W. Truesdale (Bill Truesdale was the founder and publisher of New Rivers Press until he died some years back). Not aware of John Crawford ever having any connection with New Rivers Press, but what do I know? I think I remember the "Lacy Murphy" name. (As far as I know, I've never turned up in any code names in any of Sharon's stories, though I keep wondering if I'll spot myself one day.)

Maureen Hurley Shit, you're right, Lyle. Crossed wires. But I did meet John Crawford. You do know that Joan (LeSeuer) Crawford was Meridel's cousin, right? Deborah LeSeuer was my neighbor for years.
Centa Theresa You need to write the book. Who else has documented the SF Bay Area Poetry scene?



FB post on Meridel LeSueur, Sharon Doubiago, etc.


TOo good a Facebook thread to toss.

Long ago, and far away. Port Townsend Poetry Conference 1980. Either Sharon Doubiago, Linda Macaluso, or Tobey Kaplan took this photo. I don't think it was Leonard Cirino. I'm listening to Meridel LeSueur. Sitting on the floor at her feet, actually. We crashed the Centrum conference—they tried to bust us, and Meridel said, the California poets stay or I go. Sharon Doubiago read from her new ms, Hard Country—and the rest is history.


Rebecca Cintron Osvold i know u!  that look says "don't let the flower fool ya big guy"

Maureen Hurley Yeah, you're right. Or I'll take ya to the mat. And not in a good way.

Rebecca Cintron Osvold LoL! were u playing blanche du bois at the time? i realize when we met, i was living in a communal house off campus w ricky appelbaum who was rehearsing & then playing stanley kowalski in judy navas' ssu production for quite a long run! or at least for him... he never got over it. as i moved out he stood in the doorway in his wife beater & ragged bathrobe screaming "reBECCa! reBECCA!" glad i left when i did, God rest his soul.

Maureen Hurley Who was the guy who lived in the white farmhouse at the railroad tracks? Was that Ricky? He used to call me the china doll—because I looked so pale and wan. Charles Bukowski was crashing on his couch. Drunk on a gallon of red wine, asking me for a reading, then hitting on me. I kicked the Buk to the curb, hard—I was so pissed off. John Martin of Black Sparrow Press, his publisher, no less, wasn't letting him stay on his couch.

Lyle Daggett The photo is (at the moment anyway) not coming through in the Facebook feed -- I'll visit your page and see if it shows there. However -- from the details you give here, that would have been just a month or so before Sharon D. and I first met, August 1981 in Minneapolis when she was here to (in part) meet w/ John Crawford at West End Press to talk about details of publishing Hard Country. I've heard bits and pieces over the years of Sharon's account of the trip to Port Townsend. * The evening Sharon and I first met, in a living room in south Minneapolis, I asked if I could see some of her poems (a couple of people had been telling me about her earlier that day), she got up and left the room, and came back and plopped the 300-page manuscript of Hard Country in my lap, the pages held together by extra-long brass fasteners. I read the first dozen or so poems in the ms., and I lay back on the couch just blown away, most amazing stuff I'd ever read. One of the great ecstatic moments of my life.

Maureen Hurley Ah, John Crawford—He also published some of my prose in an anthology. House on Via Gombito. Meridel was crucial for that link to happen. BTW, I'm "Lacy Murphy" in some of the later stories w/ Bill Bradd. Sharon was the one who was always encouraging me to write prose.

Lyle Daggett I remember the anthology House on the Via Gombito, though it was published by New Rivers Press (not West End), edited by Madelon Sprengnether and C.W. Truesdale (Bill Truesdale was the founder and publisher of New Rivers Press until he died some years back). Not aware of John Crawford ever having any connection with New Rivers Press, but what do I know? I think I remember the "Lacy Murphy" name. (As far as I know, I've never turned up in any code names in any of Sharon's stories, though I keep wondering if I'll spot myself one day.)

Maureen Hurley Shit, you're right, Lyle. Crossed wires. But I did meet John Crawford. You do know that Joan (LeSueur) Crawford was Meridel's cousin, right? Deborah LeSueur was my neighbor in Forestville for years.

Centa Theresa You need to write the book. Who else has documented the SF Bay Area Poetry scene?

Saturday, June 22, 2013

DROUGHT

DROUGHT

It's odd how the life you
always envisioned
was never that obvious.
Hiding in some dark alley,
perverse dreams enticing you on,
like fool's gold or carrot sticks,
stubborn dreams that never materialized
haunting you—
but those hopes and aspirations,
abandoned by roadside ditches
amid thistles and blue chicory
and a paucity of water,
were the only things
that kept us going.

6/22/13

END POEM

Lemon Rustler


Agh! Full moon loonies are walking in broad daylight, I caught a woman from up the street walking up and down our private driveway, tweaking, stopping off to rustle lemons from our tree (with her own stepladder, no less). She's stealing the new lemons. Babies. Some from last year too. She hid the old ones in the shrubbery for later. Meyer Lemons don't keep once they're picked. We won't mention her equally crazed chihuahua who was having a pissing contest with the neighbor's cat. Then, she had a long screamfest with the neighbors who were rescuing their cat. All this while I'm trying to write. My knee is really cranky today. I barreled out the front door. All of us standing in the driveway ready for blood. I told her she needed to leave, she was trespassing. She called Ricky the manager white trash. It got worse from there. This may be Oakland, but don't mess with us, this is our hood. Police enroute. Welcome to hot summer in the city.


Friday, June 21, 2013

SOLSTICE TRIOLET


SOLSTICE TRIOLET

On the crest of the ridge, the full moon
rises with the fire of sunset in her arms
and holds the remains of the longest day.
On the crest of the ridge, the full moon
seeks the sun's solace—a slender night
while clouds shimmer in unearthly hues.
On the crest of the ridge, the full moon
rises with the fire of sunset in her arms.

6/21/13

Thursday, June 20, 2013

SOMEBODY'S MOGGIE


He scratched at the front door
insisting we let him in.
Somebody's senile moggie
inspected the living room,
sat down, then looked at us
as if we'd lost our minds
rearranging the furniture like that.

We were a generic match
and the floorplan was familiar
so he ambled over to where
the food bowl should have been,
it was there last time he looked—

he puzzled it out, and posed, 
rail-thin, then yowled mightily.
We obliged with a saucer of milk.
Blue Willow to match his eyes. 

He sniffed. Shook his head.
Not his cuppa, apparently.
And so, he gazed at us
with crossed eyes, trying 

to set his world right.





Just as I stepped into the shower, the poem arrived at an inopportune moment, building, as I shampooed my hair, and I hoped that I could hold onto it, repeating each line. I madly typed down what I could remember in a Facebook comment box as that was open and easy to save.

But it escaped, on the wing, as do all the good ones. This was the ghosted remains of what I could remember. I had been reading a BBC article on the secret lives of cats—moggies, moggs, mutts, a cat of indeterminate breed. But lost, or abandoned cats, even if purebred, can be moggies too. Moggie comes from Maggie, a diminutive of Margaret—suggesting a disheveled appearance. 
Perhaps I was also thinking of Eric Bogle's macabre song, Nobody's Moggy Now I had heard him sing at the Sebastopol Celtic Festival during a songwritng workshop decades ago. I was mesmerized as Eric told the backstory of a moggy, a dead cat by the side of the road.

Nobody's Moggy Now —Eric Bogle

Somebody's Moggy by the side of the road
Somebody's pussy who forgot his highway code
Someone's favorite feline who ran clean out of luck
When he ran onto the road and tried to argue with a truck

Yesterday he purred and played in his pussy paradise
Decapitating tweetybirds and masticating mice
Now he's just 6 lbs of raw minced meat that don't smell very nice
He's nobody's Moggy now

Oh you who love your pussy be sure to keep him in
Don't let him argue with a truck the truck is bound to win
And upon the busy road don't let him play or frolic
If you do I'm warning you it could be CAT-ostrophic

If he plays out on the roadway I'm afraid that will be that
There'll be one last despairing MEOW and a sort of squelchy SPLAT
And your pussy will be slightly dead and very, very flat
He's nobody's Moggy
Just red and squashed and soggy
He's Nobody's Moggy now

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

INLAND

INLAND

Inland
a plot of ground
far from the water
sucking the shore
salt smell of waves
awakened the boats
Beating death by
drowning the
taste of the sea

6/19/2013


WALT WHITMAN

WALT WHITMAN

Beyond the seas
we take up the burden
bequeathed
by the earth—
a clear flame of truth
separated from
theories of religion
as the perfect meaning
is often lost to us
we are more sacred instinct
than the surge and fret of time,
the spirit often lost
while the letter of tradition
is retold with unlimited unction.
a poet's work
this song of America
make us feel the poetic force
These poems touched
with sweeping music
of Time and Space
open the mind.
to sing the first
harmony of the universe
The conjunction of
of poetic vision,
gaze into the future,
the social miseries lose
their finality of woe,
in the eternal human march.

6/19/2013

FOUND POEM

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

Bummed knee


I am a reclining social media typist. My keyboard is leaning at a 37* angle on my lap. Propped up on the bed at a 37* angle (the angle of declination), with a bran hull pillow under my knee. I can't do much else these days. I've become a bum with a knee for an excuse.


With my keyboard on the fritz, I'm lucky to get anything correct. If I touch the num-pad or move the keyboard, it freezes. Sometimes it types the oddest string of letters. I need a new one but I really prefer a bluetooth keyboard to a leashed one. And money is not an option. Meaning I have no money to option. No matter that the pain has turned my brain to fuzzy logic.

*      *      *

Last night I took the kinezio tape off my knee (it was itching like mad), with no support, my knee feels very unstable—just to walk to the teapot for a refill is tricky. 

Acupuncture today. Not sure it'll be of any use. Waiting for simple surgery—in a holding pattern stuck in bureaucratic mode. A simple meniscus trim job‚ cartilage torn in two places. Both sides of the knee. Agh! I imagine loose-jointed chicken carcasses.

*      *      *

Day two of headaches. Tea is not working. Got right cranky and tweeted to Sherman Alexie "Don't be such a twat" on Twitter for tweeting "Grammar cops are rarely good writers." Then I deleted it. Maybe Advil would be a good idea.

Clearly Sherman has not been reading trashy novels on his Kindle.

*      *      *

I'm averaging a book and a half a day on Kindle. Freebies rule. OMG, the typos! Usually they flub it's vs its. But the grammar is also fairly a·tro·cious! I actually wrote to one author, who ruined her great storyline with too many sentences constructed with an aggressive possessive use of the common noun: the door's knob. The room's ceiling. Really? SO what's the technical term for this? Other than bad.

Makes me stop and look at the sentence construction every time. 

Understand, I'm a very forgiving reader when it comes to fiction. I can read just about anything—as I'm a slut for storyline. But enough already! I smacks 'em in the metaphorical gob with a wet fish every time they can't use a compound word, or use unnecessary and excessive apostrophes. Makes for very fishy reading.

My bed is a vast sea of unschooled fish.

What came out of this process were my Amazon reviews:
My Amazon Book Reviews
March 27, 2014 I posted my first review.