Return from Toronto

I took a more scenic route back home, not so much along the QEW as after I crossed back into the US. Instead of hopping on the freeway, I took the parkway that ran beside the Niagara River Gorge, and it was a good choice.

From here you can see the northern part of the city of Niagara Falls, with the Nexus Bridge going into Canada, over which Amtrak takes passengers across.

This gives you an idea of the river's rush. This is from De Voeux Woods State Park, by Whirlpool Point. Somehow that little boat made it up close to the main rapids.

More of the rushing river, with another sightseeing boat. You can just make out a cable car that rides across the gorge, in the upper right corner.

Close-up of the cable car. Seems you can only take it from the Canadian side, and have to stay in till it returns.

Then the river meanders on past a massive hydro-electric facility that uses the water from a reservoir behind it. What feeds that, I have no idea. This photo was taken from Devil's Hole Park. You can just see a small boat headed up the river, in front of it.

I like Toronto but the traffic is nasty, mainly because no matter where you go, there's construction and lanes are blocked off and intersections closed and it's a mess. Took me nearly an hour to go 10 miles from my hotel to the job site.

The only reason I got there that quickly was I put my LA Driver attitude on and pissed off a lot of other drivers.

Czar Snowflake strikes, again...

The creature that calls himself president has decided to rescind America's participation in The Paris Treaty signed by Obama. Its goal is to lessen carbon emissions around the world, and all but 2 other countries signed it. But apparently the creature who drove several businesses into the ground, is known for not keeping his agreements, has the temperament of a 5 year old child, and whose skin isn't even as resilient as wet toilet paper is going to negotiate a better deal for the US. As if.

So far this creature has harmed America's relationship with NATO and the EU, has fawned over dictators around the world, has made his spokespeople into liars moments after they said they were speaking for him, has signed an arms deal with the world's biggest sponsor of terrorism and Israel's sworn enemy, and has canceled out every one of Obama's executive orders. He's acting more like a vindictive bitch-man out to ruin his predecessor's legacy than leader of the free world...and he has acolytes who see him as next to god, if not god himself, so he thinks he's doing good.

I am so beyond angry about this nonsense. It's worse than embarrassing to the US. It's like we're Rome under Caligula, and we're crashing into the same fate as that great empire. And Czar Snowflake is damned well going to make sure it happens. I do not understand why, nor have I any idea how to change the course of events, let alone stop them. The GOP is too busy using him as their shield as they dismantle everything this country has built since 1933. What they are helping him get away with used to be considered treason, and we executed people for it.

I despised Reagan; I disliked Bush 1; I distrusted Clinton (both Mr. and Mrs.); I loathed Bush 2; and felt let down by Obama...but I don't recall ever wishing any of them were dead. I cannot say that about Czar Snowflake. I wish him straight to hell...him and his whole goddamned administration.

They are the evil in this world.

I be busy bee...

I just reworked my schedule for June and July...and it's pretty well packed with jobs in Toronto, Tallahassee, New Jersey, Los Angeles, San Francisco, and maybe Seattle. Of course, the two biggest jobs aren't set, yet -- one of three in San Francisco and the Seattle one -- but I'll still be doing a lot with the rest of them. I've still got two definites in the Bay Area, two definites in SoCal, Toronto is tomorrow morning, Florida next week, and New Jersey the week after. I had to do a printout just to keep track of myself.

Regarding LA, I'm set to be in Tarzana the 19th to the 21st and Sierra Madre the 22nd and 23rd. I won't have spare time during the day, but if anyone's open for dinner...I'm all for it. Especially Indian at India Grill or Tex-Mex at Marix. I'll post on Facebook, too, see if anyone still wants to see me.

I wound up working till nearly 8pm to get everything done, at the office, and built a nice hunger headache so haven't done anything on A65, really. Some notes here and there and checking the consistency of the chapter headings. In LD I worked up some cutsie titles for each chapter and while they fit the tone of that book, I don't think it would work for this one. It's like I'm trying to be just a bit too emphatic...and I don't want that. So I'm only numbering them. Right now I'm at Nine.

That's also page 135, meaning I'm over the halfway hump...but this chapter is going to be a bear to rework because I'm slicing out much of Casey's background and I don't want to. I want to figure out some way of having her tell him about herself in a manner that seems natural and not merely self-explanatory. Like how she helped Lando buy his house, and when she fell in love with him on a cable car in Cape Town. Would she share that with Adam, this quickly? I don't think so...

But I need it in there. That's the dilemma. It's time for Casey to begin revealing herself in order for the next section of the story not only to make sense but keep her from seeming like a bitch...

And make it understandable for Adam to be falling for her.

63,000+

I seem to be edging up to 65,000 words for The Alice '65, and that feels right. Some characters keep expanding while others shrink. It's almost like playing chess with them, where some advance correctly and others stand aside to let them. So far none of them have been removed, completely, but you never know what will happen next.

Won't get much more done, the next couple of days; I'm off to Toronto for an overnight job on Thursday and have to leave at 6:30am. I considered getting a hotel and going up tomorrow night, just to avoid dealing with morning traffic, but there was nothing close by that was cheap enough to make it worthwhile. So I'll act like I'm doing a flight at oh-dark-thirty and bear it. Take a thermos of tea and nibbles.

Seems I joined Twitter to bitch and re-tweet anti-Republican motifs. My initial intention was to build interest in A65, but so far I've done 5 tweets about it. Same thing happened when I worked up Facebook pages for Adam and the script. I did some posting but don't know what to write now in order to gin up some support. Hell, I can't even get people who I know have read my books to give me reviews on Amazon, which wold help sales.

God...I suck as a salesman.

Plowing through...

I just finished Chapter Eight of A65 and hope to have this version done before my massive list of travels begins. I had Adam refused entry to the movie and unable to buy anything because he hasn't any American money, so he went outside to use a pay phone to contact his bank.  Rather than have him spending hours trying to get the bank to authorize use of his cash card in the US, he winds up being dragged into a bar by Manny and Julie, and has a blast while waiting for Casey's movie to finish its premier.

Just part of the controlled chaos of the story...that I'm still trying to keep locked into possibility. For example, the reason Manny and Julie are there is because Orisi told them about the premier and they came to see Adam. The reason he was able to tell them is because he had Julie tracked down to put a henna tattoo on Adam's right hand to match the left one. And the reason he had Julie's contact information was because Adam borrowed some of Manny's clothes and was going to send them back to them, once he was done...so Julie wrote her address on one of her business cards.

Next comes the trip to Lando's party and the incident in the back yard...duh-duh-duuuuuuuuuh!

It all seems to be falling into place neatly enough...though I don't want it too neat. That's death to reality. There should always be a hint of sloppiness in whatever you do; it's what brings fictional situations to life. The hard part is keeping the sloppiness under control.

But that's the story of my life.

A bit more...

I'm being lazy in posting these bits of A65 instead of writing a real blog, but it's all I'm thinking about, right now...well, that and the catastrophe that is the current administration. If America survives this and the GOP's treason, it will be the greatest country ever...but I'm not convinced that will happen.

Anyway, Adam is washed and henna'd and now faced with a complete make-over...and also a little stoned from Patricia's breakfast cookies...(and BTW -- his dog's name is albacore).

-----------

Once he felt clean, he dried off and found a comfortable bathrobe on a peg near the door, sandals in a pocket, so wrapped himself in them and took his place in the center of the office, once more. This time, half a dozen minions of Orisi stood at parade rest, all of them dressed in black turtlenecks, black trousers, black boots, and black haircuts. They looked so much alike, it was difficult to tell the lads from the lasses. The only part of them that moved was their eyes, which followed Orisi as he briskly circled Adam, snapping like a drill sergeant, "We got zero to start with, people, so face -- hair -- nails -- all of it gets built." The only time he stopped pacing was to yank the robe open to reveal Adam's chest and sneer, "No need to wax."

Adam just sighed and muttered, "Careful ... "

Orisi responded by spinning Adam around and yanking up the rear of his robe, snarling, "Ass, either."

Of course, that is when Patricia came in with another glass of juice and chirped, "Oh, my ... "

For some reason, Adam did not feel embarrassed or shaken. Instead, he merely closed his eyes and muttered, "It's for the Alice ... it's for the Alice ... "

It was Orisi who bounced from agitation. "Out, Patricia!" he screamed. "Out! You know Orisi don't do audiences."

Patricia merely smiled sweetly and responded, "You are so full of shit. And Adam needs another glass of juice."

"Thanks," Adam said. "Are you also washing my clothes?"

She gave him a laugh. "Honey, I told you -- I got no idea how the damn thing works."

"But ... but I need my y-fronts. I always wear y-fronts."

"And you still will," Orisi all but crowed as he held up a pair of black boxer-briefs. Very nice-looking. Quite comfortable, even ... except for the tiny silver and black sequins that made up a gloriously detailed fig leaf on the crotch.

Adam burst out a laugh. "You want to put glittery bits on my bits? Are you mental?"

The crew gasped.

Patricia scurried from the room.

Adam froze.

Orisi glared at him, a wolf-like snarl crossing his lips. He looked as if he were about to go for the throat, moving closer and closer. Without thinking, Adam backed away.

Orisi's voice became terrifying in its quiet control as his face returned to a shade of burnt umber. "Mental? Me? Son, that ain't possible, because I am Bernardo Giancarlo Michelangelo Orisi, not some fruit-loop from Montana, and you are MY man, now, so my rules apply, and you got no say in it. Therefore understand from this day forward, you will not eat on a night when you are going to be seen by anyone but your mirror. Nor, from this day forward, will you wash; you will cleanse, and you never, never, EVER utter the word soap in my presence, ever again. Nor will you just try things on, but from this day forward your clothing will be fitted to your frame. Every stitch of it! Because an Orisi man dresses from the skin out, beginning with designer briefs made from Egyptian cotton, with a thread count of twelve-hundred, min-i-mum. And understand this, as well -- if you ever, ever, EVER let plain white boxer briefs near your ass at any time in any way or any fashion, I personally will track you down and whip you to within an inch of eternity. And don't even begin to think I won't know, because I will. Do I make myself clear?" Then he whipped the briefs up, like a black flag.

Adam downed the orange juice in one gulp. And coughed. And reminded himself, "Es ist für die Alice. Es ist für die Alice. Es ist für die Alice." Then he took the sequined briefs and discretely pulled them on. They actually were quite comfortable ... except for how the sequined area felt odd against his crotch. Then he smoothed down his robe and stood back in the center of the room, still humming, "It's for the Alice. It's for the Alice."

Orisi circled him three times before he clapped his hands, triumphant. "Let's go, go, go people. We're makin' a man from this lump of clay, and we're late, we're late, for a very important date."

So off came Adam's robe and out came Orisi's tape measure and a gleaming tablet appeared in one minion's hands, and in quick-quick fashion, Orisi snapped the tape here and there and around as he shot out, "Waist -- 30.25, bend left, not too high; hips -- 39, like a damn linebacker; front rise -- 11; thighs -- 23.5, jumpin' jeebus, you are a linebacker; inseam -- 33, no break in the cuff; feet -- 10.5, wide, of course; shoulders -- 18; chest -- 41; length -- 30; waist -- 38, not too pinched, no Zoot Suits, here; bottom -- 42; sleeve -- 24; shirt neck -- 17."

By this point, Adam was well-beyond worrying about being half naked in front of a pack of strangers, even after he was jammed into a chair so the Minions could attack his nails with buffing and scraping and clipping, oh my. A mask of lavender and lace was smeared on his face. His hair was sliced and diced and buffed and burnished and tipped and coiffed and yanked and grabbed and spiked and unspiked and spiked, again. He even let a female minion sit next to him to touch his skin with colognes to be sniffed at ... and moaned over ... and wiped off with an alcohol pad ... until she started trailing up one of his thighs, and even then, all he muttered was a simple, "Careful ... " So she started using his calves ... and toyed just a bit more than necessary with the hair on them.

Through it all, Orisi scrutinized and grunted and growled and grimaced and snapped and snarled and everything else anyone could think of as his crew worked and worked and worked.

What made it bearable was downing another couple of cookies and finishing off another glass of juice. And despite the turmoil, Adam was building a nice, lovely glow ... so much so, he barely noticed as the process continued ... and continued ... and continued ... until Orisi cried, "Enough!"

The crew stopped dead. And stepped back. Hair mussed. Eyes glazed. Pants wrinkled. Turtlenecks askew. The walking wounded. And two seconds later, another minion arrived with a suit bag and carryall.

Orisi took the bag, held it as if it contained the purest gold, and said, "Now comes the final test."

He unzipped it, slow and easy, luxuriating in the sound of the zipper as it opened the bag wider and wider ... and he maneuvered if off the hanger to reveal ... a nice blue suit.

"Dress," Orisi said, as if in prayer.

Adam grinned, pulled on the shirt, put his feet into a pair of silk socks, stepped into the pants, tucked in the shirt, buckled a belt of the purest leather, whipped the tie under his collar and prepped it, then slipped into a pair of Italian loafers before he let Orisi guide him into the coat.

Adam marveled. "It's a perfect fit."

Orisi snorted. "Like I said, we ain't Wal-Mart. Wait here."

Then he led his crew from the office, and even from behind Adam could tell they were frazzled beyond belief.

"Casey," he heard Orisi growl, "you're payin' me triple, givin' my whole crew a shot of Stolichnaya, and if this was the Golden Globes, I still wouldn't let him out of the house."

Casey's voice shot back, "You're forgetting why I'm taking him."

"Jumpin' jeebus, I never forget anything, like that! But get yourself ready." He whistled and cried, "Adam. Come."

Adam barked like Albacore, laughed, then peeked his head out with the goofiest, crookedest, sweetest grin he could manage and sang, in a charming, jokey, growly voice, "Oh, I'm an Englishman, that's for sure, who's just had his first pedicure."

Back to the A65...

Worked on Adam and his dilemma all day so feel like just posting a bit more. This is after Adam's agreed to accompany Casey to the premier of her new movie and been bullied by Orisi into bathing.
----
Adam just sighed as the bubbles drifted over him, like a blanket. He sipped some OJ and bit into a cookie ... and stopped in mid-chew. "I'm sorry," he said, "would you and Dumpling like a biscuit and some juice?"

"Thanks, I'm fine. But, Dumpling, would you like some?"

Dumpling worked his way off the counter and toddled over to grab at the cookies, his black eyes never leaving Adam. That is when Patricia barged in with a fresh plate, saw Dumpling about to bite into a cookie and swooped him up in one arm as she set the plate down. Then she took the cookie from his hand, grinning.

"Oh, I've got something lots better for you, honey," she said. "Cereal! With bananas."

"Thanks, Pat," said Julie. "But he likes tea with half milk and two lumps. And do you have porridge?"

Patricia gave her a completely blank look so Adam piped in with, "Oatmeal."

Patricia brightened up. "Right! I use that for the cookies." She tickled Dumpling into giggles as she chirped, "I gots some straws-berries and blues-berries and you'll like it lots more." Then she carried him from the room.

"He won't vomit, again, will he?" Adam asked.

Julie smiled. "No worries. Solid ground."

By this point, the mass of bubbles had covered Adam up to his chin, so he turned off the water and leaned back in the tub, forcing himself to relax.

"What is it people like about bubble baths?" he murmured, deep and growly. "I feel as if the oily residue left on my skin is meant less to cleanse and more to fill my pores with petroleum by-products, thus enhancing the possibility of pimples."

"Manny and I love them, but we use a light soap and rinse off, after. Dumpling ... he accepts."

"Too bad I've no access to a shower."

"What about these buttons?"

Adam looked at a set of colorful dots atop the right edge of the inner basin. One had a shower icon next to it. "Do you think it is?" he asked.

"Try it," said Julie. "Just keep this hand safe till it's dried."

"We'll have to see what happens," he said, looking at the ceiling tiles. "Where is Manny in all this?"

Julie cast him a sly look. "Next room, being all Fan-Boy."

"With Casey Blanchard? He's heard of her?"

Julie giggled. "If he had known it was she you were coming to see, he'd have crawled into your lap before Dumpling had a chance, and discussed her films and career the entire flight. Puts her on a scale with Angelina Jolie and Sigourney Weaver, he does. One of his mates let the cat out when he said, Bitches who can beat you to a bloody pulp, and wouldn't ya love it? Our first date was to see ... which was it... Sky Knights, I think. It's hard to keep track; we own every one of them, and Dumpling has slept through Ilithium Four twenty-seven times."

"You might want to make that twenty-nine," said Adam.

Julie whispered the first touch of henna across the tops of his fingers as she said, "I'm counting yours, sweets."

"Oh."

"You really didn't know who she is?"

Adam shrugged. "I'm not much of one for film. I read. Prefer it. There's something permanent about a book. Steady. Comforting. But I can't really tell her that, can I? It'd be like dismissing her entire career."

"She's been around long enough to handle it. Manny says her first job was when she was ten, on a sit-com. The Family Saint. For the first year. Played a neighbor's daughter on several episodes. We have that on Blu-Ray."

"Dear God, Manny is fanatical."

"But he's my fanatic."

Fifteen minutes later, she had set the mandala and a car was returning her, a reluctant Manny and a sleeping Dumpling to their hotel, and Adam was draining the tub. He found another dry face-cloth, turned his right hand palm up, draped the cloth over it and pressed the shower icon, using his left hand.

Glass walls rose up between the two basins and several ceiling tiles shifted to reveal tiny shower nozzles. He set the tap to going ... and a moment later, water rained down on him. He was just able to keep his right hand out of its way as he leaned back and let the whispery warmth cascade over his head, face and body, bringing him a tender peace.

Henna me, baby...

Well...I have now experienced the full measure of a henna tattoo. Like the little brochure said, it starts out looking very light, after the mud flakes off, but it darkens...and so it did.

What's interesting is the slight difference I feel in my skin, between the parts undyed and those with the tattoo. It's the barest hint of slickness with a touch of a dip when I draw my finger over the top of my little lion.

Adam's would, of course, be much more refined and detailed. Julie would make his seem almost 3-D in its depth and meaning. But something I hadn't thought about was, it wouldn't be at its height till he was back in London. It would be soft and yellowish, slowly burning darker and darker till a fine genial color more like burnt umber than raw sienna.

This is why online research is never really sufficient for digging into a story. You can get the gist of it and the ideas and the form and function, but the details that make the story humanesque come from actually being there...doing it...or watching and talking and listening.

I found that out many years ago, when I first wrote Return to Darian's Point. A major point in the story comes when Perri, the hero, is taken to The Cliffs of Moher to learn the truth of himself. There's a squat round tower just up the hill from the touristy part of the Cliffs, and from the photos I saw it seemed to be an easy jaunt.

But when I got there, the first time, I found not only was it up a steep incline, but at that time the main pathway was damned dangerous. Uneven steps right next to a 700 foot drop to the ocean. No barriers to hold you. Sharp winds. I saw some Italian kids squat on a flagstone just inches from the edge, their backs to the sea, to have a friend take their photo. I learned their coast guard was always picking up bodies of people who hadn't taken the Cliffs' danger seriously. It altered the story a bit...and made it stronger.

And now, as regards A65...experience has done the same, again...

Sick little puppy...

Man...I got slammed with a cold so didn't go back into work till Wednesday...and probably shouldn't have. But I had so much to catch up on and so much to do. I'm pretty much booked solid through July with packing jobs. Well...if two of them come through. I have four others all set. All up and down the West Coast -- Seattle, San Francisco, and LA (I hope, I hope, I hope).

Today was the first time I felt good enough to work more on A65. nothing much, jut updating some things and making sure of a couple of consistencies I wasn't sure about. If I want to work on my laptop while traveling on a plane, I need to get rid of my gut, because the seats are getting closer and closer together, and right now there isn't room enough for me to open it so I can use it. Today's travel is meant for those with 30 inch waists.

The arc of Adam's character is now obvious to me; I just need to make sure it's an honest and smooth transition. Casey's is beginning to become known. She had a lot more layers to get through before i could really understand her, and still have some to peel back, but she's getting there, too.

I'm having fun with Patricia and Orisi, and adding Julie and Manny into the mix, with their baby, Dumpling, is helping. Lando and Veronica are still pretty much one-note and I don't like that, but they're being careful...which I understand. They aren't exactly sympathetic characters.

Mind is blitzed...I'm still not over the cold and coughed myself into a headache, earlier, today, which I'm just beginning to get over. So...how about some more of Brighton, from the east, near Hove, since it now figures into A65?

I'm actually looking back on it with fondness...

Wandering around Brighton...

I slept in, this morning...didn't get up in time for breakfast so had one at a shop on St. James Street, then went wandering. And I did something I've never done before...I got a tattoo. Not a real one, a henna tattoo in support of Adam in A65.

The artist is Arthur and he has a booth on Brighton Pier. He's been doing this for 22 years and uses a little bag to do the design, like he's decorating a cake. As mine dried, we chatted and shared cups of tea and I watched him do all sorts of art...mainly on girls and women, but a couple of guys...from simple little lightning bolts to full hand and finger. All quick, neat and lovely. And...he has a facebook page -- https://www.facebook.com/hennatattoobrightonpier/.

He let me read his book of Mehandi, from India, which spoke of the medicinal qualities of Henna, and we joked about Lucille Ball using this to color her hair. Time well-spent.

 I then wandered up the promenade through a mile and a half of Minis. Seriously. There was a special Classic Minis festival that ran from Brighton Pier to the Marina.

They ranged from regular little Minis to...

Mini trucks to...

 Mini Limos! It was a sort of contest, and some famous dude was announcing the various awards as I passed.

This is at the other end, when I was ready for a cold drink and a pee. And seriously, there were nothing but Austin Minis (and a couple of Wolseley Minis) the entire distance.

I then hopped a bus over to Beacon Hill Nature Preserve just to see the windmill...

...and got a nice view of the city.

Brighton's quirky and its own kind of town, and has a massive gay presence...and I like that. I'm using it in A65, for when Vincent suggests Adam take his former girlfriend off for a weekend, once he gets back from LA.

It's a much better choice than Sheerness.