Charlie the tree is looking more sprightly after a bit of primping. Roomie straightened his branches and fluffed the needles and tugged him upright, and while he's still sporting a profound case of root dysplasia, he no longer looks like a scoliosis sufferer.
Today was a good day. I ate some quality pig and picked up a quarter ham for my first Christmas dinner in the new place. We could do with some mashed potatoes, I think, and maybe a pie. Cherry or pumpkin. It won't be the kingly spread put out by my family in Florida--turkey and green bean casserole and booze--but at least I'll be spared my aunt's Waldorf salad. She makes it every holiday despite the fact that no one touches it for fear of spending the rest of the night kissing the toilet with the clenching, heaving lips of their tortured asshole. No food should look like an unfortunate accident at a porno film catering area.
I will miss the candied yams, though.
I've been working on a Flack/Stanhope fic set post-"Cuckoo's Nest" for the past six weeks. I'd hoped to have it done by Christmas, but as is customary for me, the simple wee plotkit blossomed into Herman the giant bunny.
It's at 9,400 words and counting, and on reflection, the subject matter isn't very festive unless your idea of a good time is a frustrated, heartbroken Rebecca detonating on a hungover, contrite Flack and accusing him of an affair with Angell, in which case, I can only imaginer your holiday gatherings and recoil. If I were going for festive, methinks I should've written the one where Flack buys Rebecca a Tempurpedic bed for Christmas and then worries that she'll think it's lame.
I'm got so many ideas in the pipeline, but scant motivation. Mostly, I want to sit around and watch TV and pretend I'm not sorely disappointed with the hackneyed, thudding heap of rehashed characters and plotlines that is Under the Dome.
I liked Dale Barbara well enough, but with every page, I became more and more certain that I've read this book and met these characters before, like, say, in The Stand
, which is a grander, far superior book. And the constant, not very subtle sermonizing about the evils of the Iraq War grew irksome. After the tour de forces that were Duma Key
and Lisey's Story
, I thought Stephen King had regained his masterful stride and escaped the boggy pit of self-reference into which he often falls, but no such luck. This one belongs in the steerage of his pantheon, right next to Cell
, which started out well but rapidly deteriorated into a morass of self-cannibalism. I made it to page 613 of Dome
and stopped, and unless I get supremely bored some grey, winter afternoon when the cable and Internet go out, it will be the second King book I've ever abandoned(Cell
was the first.). It's a shame, but even the best weavers occasionally slip a stitch, I suppose.