We went to a Blue Oyster Cult concert last night, and it was long and loud.  I felt like I was turning in to my mother, complaining about the cigarette smoke and scowling at the teenagers with their dirty pillows hanging out.  Then I pulled out a compact and checked my teeth in the mirror, confirming that my transformation into Mom was complete.  But I digress.
The concert started at 7:00 with Foghat, who played for an hour and a half, which is impressive considering they were pretty much a one-hit wonder band back in the seventies. And of course they didn't play that one song, "Slow Ride," until the encore.
The intermission was an hour long, during which a complete stranger standing behind me began to share the details of his heroin addiction, the armed robbery charge he was sent to jail for, his subsequent parole, and how he has to attend Narcotics Anonymous meetings five times a week as a condition of said parole.  The saddest thing about this is that this is the second time a total stranger has felt the need to share this kind of story with me (Jason is still mad about the fresh-out-of-jail heroin addict we befriended at Six Flags New Jersey.  Not my fault Kingda Ka broke down for 45 minutes and I have an approachable nature about me.) 
It turns out that I only know three songs by Blue Oyster Cult: "Godzilla," "Burnin' For You," and "[Don't Fear] The Reaper."  They played for almost two hours, and of course, "Reaper" was last.
Then Jason took me to Denny's for pancakes at one in the morning.  He sure knows how to make a girl feel special!  He didn't seem to mind at all when I fell asleep with my face planted in his hash browns.  Good times!

Just returned home from three days on Block Island.  The phone reception was spotty, and internet connection was impossible from my parents' house, so overall,  it was pretty relaxing!  Ran in to some old friends, and got to chat with Gary at the Block Island Grocery. Really wanted Jason to meet him as Gary is a dead ringer for Stephen King, and had the misfortune of breaking his leg shortly after Uncle Stevie was hit by that van years ago, which resulted in many tourists arguing with Gary about his secret identity.
While sitting on the beach Sunday, my phone had one moment of clear 3G reception, and an email came through from one of the editors I've been waiting for a response from regarding a short story I submitted.  He requested one small revision of an awkward scene transition, and if I would consider fixing it, I would be on the short list for the anthology he's putting together!  It took me about 20 seconds to make the requested revision and send it back to him.  Yay!
Then Jason caught a fish.  It was a barely legal-sized scup, but we fried it up for dinner as a side dish.  He did, of course, put pictures of his big catch up on Facebook.
On the ferry home today there was a woman wearing a T-shirt with her zip code plastered across her boobs.  Jason looked it up and discovered it was the zip code for Greenwich, CT--the richest town in the nation.  I plastered a big old fake smile on my face, approached the woman, and said, "Greenwich, right?  I recognize the zip code because my housekeeper lives there."
So it was a good weekend all around!

Welcome to my website!  Yes, it still needs work, but I also have a day job, and can't devote endless hours to playing with audio files.  Not that I wouldn't like to.
Currently, I am awaiting the publication of my short story "Zombie Mama" in the anthology Zombidays: Festivities of the Flesheaters, which will be out by June 15, 2011.  I have three other short stories that are currently under consideration and I will post more details as I know them!
In the meantime, if you are desperately trying to get your hands on something I've written, pick up a copy of Rush Limbaugh is a Big Fat Idiot by Al Franken.  He's not quite as funny as I am, but he's close.