I downloaded the soundtrack of The Rocketeer. Woohoo! I love that movie and the theme from it. So good. Thank you, James Horner!

Secondly, reading a few snippy negative reviews (from the professionals) on Amazon.com has encouraged me to make this book the best it can be. I don’t want a review like this, saying, “The story is interrupted at times with philosophizing, hints at the princess’s secrets, and related mythology that might prove frustrating for unsophisticated readers. Strong characterizations can’t make up for the uneven plot, and most readers are unlikely to stick with this lengthy tale.” Eep.

Thirdly, it’s funny; I’ll get ideas for things to have happen in the book (or one of the other books) and I’ll consider, “No, it’s not like him to do that or even think that,” or “She’s much too self-conscious,” or “He has an off-beat sense of humor and wouldn’t appreciate that.” About my characters. Damn. It’s scary that they feel that real to me.

Lastly, Wednesday’s South Park was excellent. The gist: Randy Marsh craps the world’s biggest crap; they verify this with the European Fecal Standards people. His wife — and all women in the episode — don’t understand why men care about the size of their crap. Bono, the previous record holder, gets into a tizzy. Hell ensues, along with surprises, and the South Park writers bash the Emmys for finally giving them one — all in a terrific, well-written, together episode. Oh that show.

On another note: I saw today that some female blogger elsewhere on Wordpress had written a list of things that will help people ensure a good relationship, for guys. She said to guys to not use the bathroom with the door open. I don’t find it offensive actually; in accordance with this South Park episode… I understood the jokes. I get it. Sometimes you just really want to show someone. Maybe I’m that much of a guy? The only thing I can’t stand — well, two — are (1) premeditated fart attacks, and (2) the smell of a really righteously terrible you-know-what. Whatever that you-know-what is. Oh, GOD. The SMELL.

I don’t mind a messy apartment unless I am in the mood to procrastinate, in which case I go mad. MAD. If there is a mess. Understandable, assuredly. But I don’t mind a lot of “guy” things. In fact I prefer comfort to fashionable; I go for easy over pretty; I’ll chug a beer in a competition more readily than down a hasty martini.

No, I did not grow up with brothers. How the hell did I turn out this way? Is there something wrong with me?

TBS’ show My Boys got me. Totally. (Not too well-written at times, but oh well.)

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