I don’t know what he’s trying to do to Pfirsich, here, or what the alternative to not drinking the liquid was.
Sometimes the author and the reader are on the same journey.
Don’t stay up too late trying to find it.
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Posts Tagged ‘rescue’
36 items.
As a woman, you’re born into a war zone, and nobody will back you up. It’s why “witches” were burned or drowned, to keep the rest of the women in line.
Can you imagine how much the human race could have gotten done — on the right road — if it didn’t spend 80% of its time making sure the girls didn’t get any?
Pfirsich really got his. He’s lucky his shy older brother was there for him.
You get the feeling here Jeff knows what Udo did to the underwear and socks?
Rosen is so much fun to draw. In the afterlife in AFTERDEAD (I don’t know why I always capitalize that; maybe the opposite of those authors who don’t capitalize proper nouns?), he’s become a very different character. Being dead does that to a person. Call it devolution.
Tomorrow we have a new story, The Triangle Trade. It starts off with the Peach going around a bad commander, earning unexpected admiration — and a bad case of jealousy in someone near and dear.
Awww, Rosen is so nice. He doesn’t want Winzig to worry his pretty head about it. Or talk to anybody else.
The German Luftwaffe did name bounces of a hard landing after weekdays. It reminds me of how my Dad startled my sister and me and had us screaming with hilarity when he said that he was going to “whip us into next week.” How was that possible? Time travel? We didn’t yet understand the concept.
It’s now thought it comes from the travel of the European invaders across this continent, as they traced out a week’s travel. On the prairies, they could literally see where they’d be for another week. As Dutch farmers measured distance by pipes of tobacco smoked, our immediate European measured distance by time traveled by wagon.
Yes, I had to ask two guys up here to please stop arguing about when they got here, whether in 1946 or 1963 — if there were any Makah in the room it would make us all look like fools.
The cat referred to here is Lina, otherwise known as Kali Javelina Shitbird.
Went up to 100 degrees yesterday, about 7:00 pm, then cooled off quickly as the sun went behind the trees and set. I won’t go into all the insane things going on with working on the house here — even a writer can’t ignore her tent forever.
The sunlight, reporting, house-fix-up, animals, summer guests… they all have me distracted. There’s no use fighting it. This winter will be long months of rain, the best kind of writing weather. Next spring, of course, we’ll tear into the house again, and catch up on the rest of the jobs; it just has to be done if you’re a grownup, even if you are an author.
I’m working on laying out all the old Stinz stories into a newly-numbered SINGLE series with Indyplanet.com. Once it’s all done, I can get back to writing. I’m up to issue 8 (not the old numbers, remember), and it’s working along rather nicely. For once Stinz, with its sloppy publishing history, will be something to be easily followed in one volume.
Right about here we really start to see how the Peach isn’t as self-assured as he’s been putting on for so long.
Us girls like them strong, tough guys with the kitten-lovin’ hearts. They won’t beat us up — or our kids. It’s all about the DNA.
I first mistyped “DAN,” but then that guy and I have been married since the day Nixon left office. The actual day, not an anniversary. Is he perfect? Am I? He just about broke my heart with affection when he was snarling about somebody else, “I don’t put up with crap like that from anybody else but YOU.”
Love means you put up with each other. It’s like being married to a bear. And Ogres — our mates — come in handy, as in, “I can’t do that, my Ogre (wife, lover, husband) won’t let me do that.”
“My mother, drunk or sober,” was a comment about the right or wrong of the American actions in Vietnam.
Right now, outraged emails demand I get involved in getting us out of Afghanistan because “we can’t win.” I tell ‘em, “We told you people not to go over there — been there, done that, kinda busy now. Good luck.”
I swear, doesn’t anybody read Kipling any more? Novelists and cartoonists are all writing about reality. They can help de-broody a hen — or warn us against marching up the Kyber Pass.
More and more, Winzig is showing himself to be a dangerously honest and courageous person. These people will brave you to death.
There’s no reason to be THAT brave on this planet. We developed on it, there’s plenty of food, water and warmth. We only get in trouble if we try to fight that and overbreed.
Everybody’s just rabbits.
One of the few stories where I actually used a straight-edge for panel borders.
Reading Gary Larson’s The Prehistory of The Far Side. If you want to find out what an author is REALLY thinking while attempting to get ideas across, just go read that thing. It’s the most honest, WTF-was-I-thinking? explanation of the creative process I’ve ever read.
Editors, reviewers, professors, and creatives who want a grant fall for the profound explanations for art. We’ve all had head trauma and we’re excited about something and we want pats on the head and we wonder Who Does This Stuff? Elves? all the time. We’re like the sloppy scientist labs have at least one of if they can afford her — for the mystery conjunctions, the what-if moments and the that-shouldn’t-have-worked! discoveries.
Most novelists meant most of what they wrote to be funny, especially the tragic stuff, because how the hell else do you get it across? In the original German, All Quiet on the Western Front is fricking hilarious. The title, after all, is actually Im Westen nichts Neues — “In the west, nothing new.” Which still fits.
