Good Advice

Nic Alderton, "How To Write A Novel."

Be sure to click the link to find out how to write a really great novel.

Friday QuoteDay

Via StudioMuti.

New life motto? Maybe!

Friday QuoteDay

Via Lily Confidential.

Friday QuoteDay

“It is incredible to me that any woman should consider the fight for full equality won. It has just begun. There is hardly a field -- economic or political -- in which the natural and accustomed policy is not to ignore women. Unless women are prepared to fight politically they must be content to be ignored politically.”

— Alice Paul, American Activist 

(1920, after 19th Amendment passed)

The Komen Kerfuffle

For those out of the loop, the Susan G. Komen Foundation has stopped supporting Planned Parenthood, an organization that provides various health care (including breast exams) to the uninsured here in the States. It's a move that is unsurprising given Komen VP Karen Handel's right-wing political leanings. I am a little late to this story, and other writers have tackled it so deftly that there is not much more I can do than highlight the best.

Here's FitC friend Matt Brunson's informative article, Susan G Komen For The Cure Foundation Turns Evil, highlighting the details and ways to help. A snippet:

SGK has decided to cut all ties to Planned Parenthood, announcing that it will no longer fund grants for breast exams. This maneuver, which hurts all women but most particularly poor ones (a favorite target of GOP politicians), was spearheaded by Rep. Cliff Stearns (R-Fla.), but Handel's fingerprints are also clearly all over this thing. This isn't the first time that SGK has stirred controversy. Some of its partnerships have raised eyebrows, specifically those with companies known for offering unhealthy products (Kentucky Fried Chicken, for one). Many have criticized its marketing hooks, such as the frivolous and, let's face it, sexist "Save the Ta-Tas" and "Save Second Base" campaigns.

Over at Savage Death Island, Twisty Faster gives a run-down with her usual wit and bite; the infantiziling and for-profit Komen has been a frequent subject, hence the title Komen Sucks, Part 47.
Ever on point:

Komen is the most visible brand in the whole cancer industrial complex. It disguises itself as some big altruistic community effort for women’s health, but it’s really just another conservative, honky organization with a misogynist political agenda. A marketing juggernaut instrumental in raking in piles of cash for and cleansing the tarnished images of its evil corporate sponsors, Komen has successfully brainwashed millions to believe that the “problem” of women’s health can be solved by licking yogurt lids.

And the sometimes-for-the-cause-of-good Internet is busy creating and hacking:

Things that can screen for breast cancer. Click to enlarge.

The official SGK site hacked to read: "Help us run over poor women on our way to the bank."

Weekly Flâneur: Silver Screen

Exterior shot of a cinema marquee at night. Click to enlarge.

Let's all go to the movies!

Phillips Place Cinema, Charlotte, N.C.

Talking With Myself

Things I have said outloud in the past 48 hours:

• Said alone, in the kitchen:

"Stop it. Just stop it. You're spaghetti. You're not that important."

Quit with the boiling and the spilling. God. Now I gotta clean that up.

• Said alone, in my office:

"Would I sleep with Bruno Mars or not? I can't decide."

He would catch a grenade for me, but he also has a bouffant.

• Said to Matt:

"Will you buy me this hat with a beard on it? It's a hat. With a beard on it.
It's the perfect disguise."

Yeah, I'm still on that. But. Seriously. Hat-Beard!

• Said alone, in the car:

"You cannot set fire to rain, Adele! That is not how rain works!"

Girl, you're British. You should know this.

FFF: FitC Friends on Facebook

Did you know my wee little blog has a wee little Facebook page? I try to remember to update it when I post here on FitC, but more often than not, I forget. The 17 of you who do "Like" me on Facebook are quite possibly the greatest set of 17 people in the entire world and I love you all. You publicly admit to reading my blather and regularly endure frequent mentions of David Bowie's penis. You make a girl proud, you do. I get starry-eyed just thinking of you all. You too, Google Followers. You lot make me want to take up camping, as I am the happiest camper in all of campingdon thanks to your support.

If you haven't liked me on Facebook or followed me via Google or Twitter ... well. Well. I mean, I still love you. I do. Even as I sit and listen to, "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" on repeat. No, no, it's cool. I understand. You're very busy. We can still make this relationship work.

Facebook seems to think your reluctance to liking me has to do with the fact I do not pay them to advertise my wee page. (And not the fact I talk about penises way too much. Or the fact I neglect to update my blog with any real substance for long chunks of time. Or the fact that I don't sell anything or have anything really to offer save for love and entertainment and occasionally a well-written sentence or two.) I don't want to pay Facebook anything more than the hours of time I already devote to them, so there will be no FitC ads popping up in your sidebars, reminding you to like me, anytime soon.

Which is fine all around. Because I honestly don't think I can compete with the genius that is hat-beards (it's a hat ... with a beard) or the Gah!WhatTheHellIsWrongWithYourFeet!? fugshoes.

The only thing that will go fast in those shoes is your dignity.

In Conclusion: I love you please follow me.

Cinderella

It happened so fast.

The swirl of my dress. The smooth slab of newly laid concrete under my bare feet. The breaking of the stranger's glass on the dance floor. The club was new, a renovated warehouse on the edge of uptown, the crowd small for a preview opening. My shoes kicked off to dance. My bare feet on cool cement. The glass. It was fast and inevitable.

I hopped to the edge of the dance floor with the aid of my friend Mags; perched myself on a raised platform by the bar. Before I could even look at my foot, he was there. Kneeling down in his good suit, cradling my bleeding foot in both hands on his lap, his handkerchief pressed to stop the blood. Maybe then. Maybe that was the moment I knew.

Last night we watched Manhattan. It was past midnight, me with a cup of Earl Grey, my husband with  a decaf coffee. We stay up too late. We watch movies at odd hours. It started years ago, when we were first dating. His house was a small brick rental, a dark cave surrounded by old growth. He didn't live there long. The entire back garden was a swampy mess of bamboo and mud. Once we saw a rat by the edge of the fence. But the house was clean, and the bamboo shaded the windows, casting a pale greenish glow in the afternoon sun, and the front yard had a swing hanging from a branch of an old oak tree, perfect for two people to share. On Sundays we would sleep late. Watch movies with coffee and unbrushed hair. Did we love each other yet? Were we, or weren't we? We watched Annie Hall in our sweatpants and sweetened our drinks with kisses.

At night, he'd cook dinner for me, while I prattled around his house. I'd kill bugs hiding behind bookcases and never tell him. He'd startle at the bang of my shoe. What was that? Nothing. I'd wash down the kitchen counters, make the bed. Kiss him goodbye at the door. Look back to the lit front porch as I drove away. My own apartment would be cold when I returned.

In bed last night I asked him, could you pinpoint the moment you fell in love with me? It was raining outside in short bursts, on and off. No, he says. I nest in the folds of our bed. Me either. Our bedside lighting was a wedding gift, with satin tan lampshades. Sometimes I miss the green of the bamboo shading. His body is like a radiator, and my feet grow warm next to his. I don't remember falling asleep, but I know I reached out a hand to scratch the space in between his shoulder blades. I reach out a hand just to feel him near me. 

My friend Mags and I called each other Gypsy Sisters. We were wanderers. She sat in my London flat and gifted me nail polish and suntan lotion from Doha. I took her for pints at the Black Friars pub and we watched a small mouse brave the carpeted floor for crisp crumbs. And years ago when she held my hand on the dance floor at the new warehouse club, I stepped on a piece of glass. I didn't feel any pain. Too tipsy.

He held my foot gently, as if it were a wounded bird. Flightless. Mags gave a sigh in my ear. Look at him! He's so sweet! His eyes raked mine in search of tears. None. I watched him in quiet fascination. He washed the cut with bottled water, stopped the bleeding. Searched for glass embedded in flesh. Worried.  I spoke. Don't get blood on your suit! He didn't care. His hands mentally grounded me against the sway of alcohol; his hands ceased the risk of infection. There's no scar. He found my sandals and worked the small clasps. Tenderly slid it on my injured foot. No more wounds tonight, OK? Gave me a hand up. Kissed me. Sent me back to dancing and to wandering with a rust-stained handkerchief for his troubles. Maybe then I knew. Maybe that was the moment, with Mags' sigh and my bleeding foot and a broken glass and Matt with both hands lovingly holding on to me in pure care and concern. It happened so fast. I knew I loved him. Maybe then.

I fell in love with him.

Friday QuoteDay

 If you made this, or know who does, please tell me so I can give credit where credit is due.

Weekly Flâneur: City Blues

Skyline at sunset with large blue and gray clouds. Click to enlarge.

The Day's Blue Period.

Charlotte, North Carolina, USA

Friday, Jan. 27, marks the one-year anniversary of Weekly Flâneur.

Let's see what this year brings, shall we? 

As ever, thanks for walking with me. 

Forgotten Boy Bands Of The '90s

Tonight's jam?

Canadian white boys, Soul Decision, playing that song you may inexplicably know all the words to, Faded!

The frosty-tipped Tyler Durden lead singer has a stipulation in his contract to raise his eyebrows every four words. Note the requisite playing-basketball-in-a-vague-warehouse-type-building. See, Boys, The Backstreet for further reference.

Today in David Bowie

My beleaguered starshine DAVID BOWIE is on the cover of Rolling Stone for the month of February.

The sample of the article touches on the cray-cray-crazy drug-fueled Bowie rather than his music. Let's hope that's to drive up print sales and the actual article covers his myriad musical stylings. In short: Drugs are bad, and Dear Bowie Boy knows it.

If you really want to know how Bodacious Bowie changed the world, ask his listeners. Especially the fangirls (yours truly included).

Weekly Flâneur: Alma Mater

Roehampton University in London was recently named the most picturesque university campus in the UK in an article by student website AllAboutCareers.com.

Though the article states with displeasure, and rather bitterly, about its first place local: "You could argue that Roehampton doesn’t actually have the most beautiful campus in the UK, but the reason that it’s managed to grab the top spot is the university’s absolute dedication to ramming the beauty of its campus right down your throat. As soon as you go on the homepage of the university website, KAPOW!, you’re slapped in the face with an inviting image of Roehampton’s most idyllic vista."

What the author doesn't quite grasp is that dear Roe needn't "ram" anything; the campus actually looks like it does in pictures all the damn time.

As a student at Roehampton, the inevitable grumbling moments of academic frustration sometimes hit and as I found myself tromping through the rain to the library or to the bar, it would not escape me even in my worst mood that the campus was still just as beautiful as the first time I saw it in full bloom. Even the drunken uni kids leaving beer bottles on the sidewalk couldn't hinder the over-all lush beauty of the gardens, the ponds, and the stoic buildings. It needn't try to be pretty or tranquil; it simply is.

For this week's belated Weekly Flâneur, I give you 14 images of my beloved alma mater (appropriate Latin for "nourishing mother"), Roehampton University, in her glory through the seasons.

The reflecting bridge. Click to enlarge all images.

Bridge in the snow.

Friday QuoteDay

Via Foam Corner.

Friday QuoteDay

Via the secret MCMXCI

Weekly Flâneur: Nostalgia

Image of Big Ben and London. Click to enlarge.

Miss your shining face through the crowds, Mr. Big.

City of my heart, London, UK