While I'm busily doing just about anything except writing a novel (you wouldn't believe some of the stuff I've been able to get done at work) I thought I'd take a break and post a BWSNotWA>

I can't get 100% behind this next site, because in ridiculing the dietary practices of major religions, I believe it makes light of the honest beliefs of a billion or so people.

(Not that I like religion, but it usually pays to be nice to believers. Unless they're Southern Baptists, just no pleasing those people...)

but I'm posting it anyway, because it's not about the best site, it's the


Best Web Site Name of the Week
for the week ending 12 November 2006

Peace through Pork

(found via the Boing)

previously posted: Ed Loves Bacon and Mothership BBQ. Possible synergies?

also check out the Flickr photoset


(about the award -- past winners)

so I'm a little behind.

NaNoWriMo started 7 days and 9 some hours ago, and since then, I haven't written word one. There was stuff... and things... and...

OK, so I was slacking. To catch up now I'd have to write 500 words an hour for the next 26 or 27 hours. (more under the fold) I'm breaking this down into 2 hour blocks, roughly, and while I can't guarantee a chapter or scene out of each, we'll see how this goes down:

#1 11:26am
#2 1:32pm
#3 4:00pm. No update, I was slacking.
#4 5:57pm
#5 7:40pm

...and I then I called it a night.

NaNoWriMo 2006
Busted Seventh: a novel experiment
(Take Two.)
(a previous attempt is around here somewhere)

##

"Mitch, I needed that story seven days ago."

"I hear you, Bill, but you're the one who forced me to do a re-write on a perfectly fine..."

Bill's raised hand stopped Mitch mid sentence. The look on Bill's face was more sympathetic than angry, though.

Bill Lucerne was sitting at his desk, piles of paper in seemingly random stacks covering most of it's top and leaving just enough room for the editor to lean in on his elbows while talking. On the walls of the cramped office were numerous frames, holding certificates, awards, and the occasional picture of Bill with some famous person. Just behind the desk was a set of floor-to-ceiling filing cabinets.

"Close the door Mitch. Come in and have a seat."

Mitch Connaught took the chair from the other desk and spun it around to face Bill's. In contrast to the older, wooden desk that Bill preferred, this was a computer desk that looked like it was pulled right out of a cubicle, and it was also spotless. Mitch knew that Bill used the computer, when necessary, but it was obvious to him where Bill preferred to get his work done.

After Mitch settled in, Bill took a moment to look around, even though they were the only two in the office. "It wasn't me, Mitch. The new magazine owner has taken an editorial interest that is more than a little annoying. I hate it too. Hell, Mitch, you should have known that an article critical of electronic voting machines wouldn't fly with Haskins. His name is on the equipment you were investigating."

"His was one of five companies I looked into. And his wasn't even the worst. I tried to spin it his way, honestly I did. Well, for about five minutes. The re-write I turned into last week didn't mention Haskins at all."

"Yeah, he read it, but was still pulling for a 180 degree turnaround."

"Bill, I've been an investigative reporter for the past 12 years, and you've been an editor for easily twice that."

"Hey now, I'm not that old."

Mitch waved his hand, as if to dismiss the interruption, and then dived back into his argument. "I've never know a publisher, owner, or any shareholder to ever interfere with the nuts-and-bolts of reporting"

"You just haven't seen it. I get a lot more of that kind of thing than you'd think. This new guy, though..."

Bill sighed. He reached down into one of his desk drawers and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. After lighting one, he flipped the 'thank you for not smoking' sign on his desk face down and began to use it as an ashtray.

"Mitch, I think Haskins has got it in for you now. No matter what you write or how you write it, even if you're 100% impartial, that asshole is going to call it on some sort of BS liberal bias and drop your articles. Depending on which people in the office start kissing up to the new boss, he may be able to do it before I even see them. And he'll damn well make sure you can't get paid for any of it." Bill took his time finishing the cigarette, and stubbed it out on the back of the no-smoking sign. "I wish I could do more to help, but it could mean my job if I do."

Bill found a battered Rolodex on his desk from somewhere between two stacks of paper. He pulled a card out and handed it over to Mitch.

Mitch looked up from the card with a quizzical expression on his face.

"The Empyrean & Chthonic New World Times?"

"Just call him. I went to college with the guy. He's always buying articles and you'd be surprised what topics he's into. He'll buy your story on voting machines--without asking for any edits--just for starters. It's not quite as much money, but it'll be steady work."

Mitch stood up to leave. He still had questions, Bill could see that written all over his face, but Mitch just shook his head and put the card in his pocket. Mitch leaned over the desk to shake Bill's hand.

"Thanks, Bill, I appreciate the lead. And Bill?"

"Yeah, Mitch?"

"When you leave here--that's 'when', not 'if'--when you do leave here, give me a call. I look forward to working with you again sometime."

"Sure Mitch. You got it. Close the door on your way out."

As Mitch left, Bill lit another cigarette and leaned back in his desk chair, blowing smoke toward the ceiling.

-- next --

NaNoWriMo 2006
Busted Seventh: A novel experiment
-- first -- previous --

##

"So how's the new job, Mitch?"

Mitch looked up from the paper he was reading to answer Henry's question. Henry was the head bartender at McCrary's, and had been in the business for a decade or two. Mitch didn't know for sure just how long, it seemed like Henry had always been there, all the way back to Mitch's college days.

"It's not a new job, Henry; I've always worked freelance. Now I just have a different regular client." Mitch closed his newspaper and turned it around for Henry to read. "The E&C has a cumbersome title, but once you get past that it's just another alternative newsweekly."

Henry flipped through a bit with the hand that wasn't holding a pint glass, then turned back to the cover. "Empyrean and Chthonic?" Henry asked. "Hell, I don't even know to pronounce that second one." Henry went back to reading the newspaper, a bit more slowly this time, actually taking in some of the articles.

"What you just said is close enough," Mitch said. "It's probably some college grad student's idea of a joke or something. That or someone got real creative with a thesaurus. Even the editor over there usually just calls this rag the E&C. Say, Henry, is that beer for me?"

"What? Oh, yeah." Henry look a bit embarrassed, but just set the glass down and settled in to read one of the articles. "Hey Mitch, here's one you did." Henry pointed to the headline, Local Strip Club Sues City for More Skin.

"Hmm? Oh, that one. Yeah, legal cases go so slowly. I actually wrote that a month ago, and the thing is just now heating up to the point where it's worth printing." Mitch took a sip of his beer. "That's a pretty good example of what I've been doing for Jacob. His city desk editor had just quit, or he never had one to begin with, so I've been covering the local politicos, city hall, that kind of crap. The first piece I sold to him was on the election five weeks ago, so maybe he thinks I have an interest in it." Mitch shrugged, and then chuckled. "If there's a steady pay check in it, I guess I do have an interest.

"Henry, you've got racks for a half dozen papers like this one. The college kids and bar patrons pick them up for concert schedules and restaurant reviews. Most people don't bother the read past the headlines, or they just skip the news articles entirely." Mitch caught Henry coming back to the picture of a pole dancer that was printed above his story. "Well, unless we can sell it to them, I guess.

"The E&C is a little different than those others. After the local news and the event listings and all that crap, Jacob likes to run the weirdest stuff." Mitch leaned over to flip to the back half of the paper for Henry. "Not just a single column of odd and funny news, like you see syndicated everywhere, but some really out-there stuff. Like raining frogs and bleeding statues. Cryptozoology, conspiracy theories, lost civilizations, aliens, unexplained phenomena; and all reported just like the real news."

"Still, the first half of this thing is great," Henry said. "Solid layout, good info. And your stuff is good, too."

Mitch raised his glass in mock salute. "Thanks, Henry"

"And some of these are just hilarious. Wait, is the Sasquatch Watch a regular feature or something?"

"Yep. Every week."

"Heck, we should sell this here,"

"No need to sell it. It's free, advertiser supported just like those others. But mention it to Jack and I'll mention it to Jacob, and I'm sure we could have something set up before the end of the week."

"Looks like a heck of a lot more fun than the real paper."

"It is a real paper," Mitch said. "It's right there in front of you."

"You know what I mean," Henry said.

"Well. Yeah, I guess I do. The pay is less, but I'm selling more articles, so in the end it's a wash. And the work keeps me in beer and skittles, at any rate."

-- next --

O, the clarion call of le grande internets, how can one ignore you?

The sirens beckon from websites innumerable, the whole of the world made digestible for your crass consumption, every human experience imaginable boiled down to an image, a sound bite, a film clip, or a link. Productivity must stand aside in the face of a globally backed assault, goals and dreams will fall to the ditch after being run over on the information superhighway.

best of the hour:
knuckle tattoos
artificial blood, an article over at Popular Science

(both via Neatorama)

more fiction (hopefully) at the next two hour mark.
(the operational hypothesis is that one part of my mind is thinking of the next story point while I'm slacking.) ( I know... not too effing likely, but this is how I operate)

NaNoWriMo 2006
Busted Seventh: A novel experiment
-- first -- previous --

##

Mitch took a minute to pull out an older, battered laptop from his canvas messenger bag. After fiddling for a moment with both laptop and cables, he held a plug out and said, "Hey, Henry, help me out, will ya?"

"You should upgrade already, I hear the new batteries last a lot longer."

"These old ni-cads don't last at all any more. So plug me in."

Henry took the proffered plug and worked it in underneath the bar in the vicinity of the Jagermeister dispenser.

"Does that thing even get the internet?" Henry asked.

"Yes, smart-ass. Not here, though, since Jack is too cheap to spring for free wifi, and I'm too cheap to upgrade to wireless broadband-- which would likely require that new laptop you want me to get. This sucker still works, and I love the action on the keyboard. I've spilled just enough beer in this thing that it's finally working the way I like."

"And it still works? After the beer I mean?"

"You'd be surprised. Computers are tougher than you'd think. And in my experience, it's only the really cheap ones and the top of the line models that hold up this well."

"I can tell you went for the cheap one."

"Well, yeah," Mitch said. "I'm self-employed, after all."

A few keystrokes, a couple of touchpad clicks, and several minutes of waiting for the laptop to catch up, and Mitch was looking at another batch of research files, and a copy of the latest email from Jacob Tallinn, his editor. Mitch usually dealt with Jacob over email, only occasionally by cell phone. Honestly, the convenience of submitting stories over email was a big plus for Mitch, and he didn't mind that his boss was largely unseen and unavailable.

Though he did meet the man once.

It was a memorable visit, walking into the main office of The Empyrean and Chthonic New World Times. The reception desk was the same sort of thing you'd find at any office, from a dentist to a nondescript public relations or law firm: the plain decor in greys and earth tones, the generic waiting room furniture from an office supply warehouse, the commercial grade carpet and the off-white suspended acoustic tile ceiling. Both boring and reassuring, it was a faceless office that could have been used for any part of corporate America.

Just past the past the waiting room, through a pair of fairly intimidating ornate wooden doors, Mitch felt like he had walked into something from Victorian England, and not just because of the sumptuous carpets and couches. Framed display cases were featured on nearly every wall, with a shrunken head or an orchid under glass; the souvenirs and samples from a dozen world explorers. The large desks were made of exotic hardwoods, near as Mitch could tell, and the desk chairs were upholstered in reds and purples. The E&C New World Times used an open-floor layout much like a modern office, but this was not a typical cubicle farm: it resembled a Gentleman's Club of some forgotten era more than anything else. There was even a butterfly collection in the bathroom. Mitch had been ushered into a conference room that, if he had to describe it, was a recreation of a parlour from a London brothel, from about the time of Dickens and Tennyson. After the requisite introductions, the rest of Mitch's job interview was short, but just as memorable.

"So, you wrote this?"

"Yes, I did."

"Excellent. We've been waiting for you."

After that it was a matter of talking with a series of secretaries and assistants, to arrange for payment and setting up the various email and phone contacts.

After Mitch's laptop finally managed to labour through the tasks assigned to it, he pulled up the email that he had saved a few hours ago, when he was last on the internet at a local coffee shop.

"My Good Friend Mitch,"

Jacob Tillmann always started his emails that way, whether he was forwarding a story lead to Mitch, or merely asking for a clarification on a quote or attribution from a previous submission.

"It is perhaps unfortunate, but I must ask you to take on an assignment that will place you in some danger. And I know there are some aspects of this story that you will find hard to believe, on a rational level, but I trust that even the fantastic nature of the story will not deter you, nor compromise your usual journalistic rigour. In fact, your scepticism is one reason I have chosen you for this task. You will be met soon by an E&C representative; I hope you will listen to this individual and follow the instructions and advice presented. Additionally, let me just say that this is no usual news assignment; as such your pay rate will be ten times what was previously negotiated.

"As always, your servant,
J. Tillmann."

Mitch read the email several times. He still had no idea what Jacob was getting at, but his eyes always lingered on that last point. Ten times is a nice round number, Mitch thought, and I can certainly use the cash. Particularly if this drags on a bit, and I get to negotiate some sort of reimbursement for expenses. I could make two or three months rent off of this one story.

"I still have no idea what the damn story is yet," Mitch said aloud, "but hell, I'll bite."

Mitch clearly heard the voice of his editor in his mind: "Excellent."

-- next --

NaNoWriMo 2006
Busted Seventh: A novel experiment
-- first -- previous --

##

"Henry, can you turn around for a minute?"

"What's up, Mitch? Need another beer?"

Mitch spared a glance down to the bar, but then returned his rapt gaze to the figure that had just walked through the door.

"Actually, yes. But I can wait a minute on that. Would you please just tell me who walked into the bar?"

Henry took a few seconds to finish up what he was doing, then turned around to see what Mitch was asking about.

The glass he was holding crashed to the floor and shattered.

"Mitch?"

"Yes, Henry?"

"That's a seven foot tall elf."

"Yep."

"I haven't used drugs for over two decades..."

"I've never used drugs, other than alcohol. Speaking of which, this might be an excellent time to switch to bourbon."

"Amen, brother" Henry reached behind him for a bottle, still not turning away from the armed elf that was just now stalking up to the bar, and talking a seat.

##

Henry had set up three glasses.

"So you're a, um, dark elf?" Mitch asked.

"We don't use that word."

He had set his swords and bow on the floor, but even leaning up against the bar, the hilts of his swords still stood a good foot above the countertop. The unstrung bow threatened to scrape the ceiling. A quiver packed with arrows lay across the saddlebags on the floor to one side of the barstools.

"This was all a lot simplier before that idiot John Ronald Rueul showed up, not to mention all the fan boys who have followed. If I hear that damn Drizzle-name or whatever it is one more time I'm going to explode."

"So, um... you don't call yourselves elves, is that it?"

"Oh no, elf is fine for what it is. Elves are elves, though, and I hate the kids who reference some arbitrary 'rule book' and then pull racist terms to describe my people. I am not 'dark'. You can imagine how some humans would react to a similar term."

"Oh. I guess I spoke without thinking," Mitch said.

"Ideally you would call us tuatha de danaan like all our folk, or perhaps daoi-sidhe for me and my sib. Though I'd prefer to be called by my name." The elf downed his bourbon, and offered the glass back to the bartender. "Henry, wasn't it? I'll take another."

Mitch took a chance. "And put that on my tab. My name is Mitch Connaught, but I have a hunch Jacob already told you that." Mitch held out his hand. "And how should I call you?"

"Sid. That's close enough to my real name, and what I usually go by on this side of the rift."

Sid grabbed Mitch's hand with a grip that was firm, cold, dry, and hard like iron. Mitch steeled himself, and to his credit did not flinch, and even managed to meet Sid eye-for-eye and hold his gaze as well as his hand shake.

"You should tell me your real name someday, Sid."

"I'll hold you to that, Mitchell O'Connor O'Brien of Connaught. Someday you will know me, and be known to the Conclave, Synod, and Councils of my people. But that is something for another day. Until then I think there is a fair amount of whiskey left in that bottle, and we have things to discuss."

-- next --

no update for 10pm
or for midnight.

Really, only a complete idiot would try to keep this sort of thing up for a full 20-whatever hours.

"Um, Boss? I was going down this checklist, and 'complete idiot' seems to be an apt description for your drunk ass. [beat] Sir."

Shuddap, you. And save the dialog for the novel.

"Yes, sir."

What did I just finish saying? Wait. Don't answer. Just... argh.

Figments are such a pain in the ass.

Anyway... between the beer, the past expenditures of mental effort, and my desire to finally watch some more anime (I'm in the middle of Godannar: Giant robots that merge and combine, buxom pilots, nasty mutating giant beasts, high school, and so many soap-opera-ish love triangles that even the robot mechanics are hooking up... It's grrrreat!) (wait, lost my train of thought...) so no fiction for the final hours this evening.

I'll pick this back up in the morning. Right now the alarm is set for 5am, so I should be able to post two more updates before I have to go to work tomorrow at 12pm.

update 9 Nov: You should know by now that when I say "update", I actually mean "neglect and ignore"

More novel coming, I hope. maybe this time before my next day off.

oh, and re: last weeks disclaimer about religion: I take it back. Screw 'em all, let God sort it out (If she isn't busy), and go make me a ham sammich.

##

You might say this weeks BWSNotW is late. I say, no, I originally posted this on Tuesdays; also, the vaguely worded dateline that follows the header means I could very easily post this as late as next Monday, and this would still have been the best web site name for the week cited.

Best Web Site Name of the Week
for the week ending 19 November 2006

let me get the phrasing right...

wind(the)frog(dot)net, or at least, that's how they prefer to spell it.

I have no idea. This week, moreso than past weeks, the BWSNotWA is close to being a random award. I started out by typing "wtf" into Google. Not surprisingly, this returned the entire internet as a search result. So I downshifted into, "no, really. wtf?" and out of the mere million or so candidates that this search pulled up, I settled on Wind the Frog.

(Crooked Timber was a more interesting read, but not quite the best name this week; laugh at the winding? windy? frog then go check out the other.)

(about the award -- past winners)

Where the hell was I?

...

Best Web Site Name of the Week
for the week ending 26 November 2006

Where the Hell Was I?

Yeah. Another lazy post. If I could somehow trademark and/or copyright the lazy post, I'd be charging all of your asses for doing the same thing a half million times every day.


(about the award -- past winners)

I'm about to go all Escoffier on your asses, so you better takes notes.

I'll wait; get a sheet of paper, or fire up a word processor.

Often I post recipes. Often I use these little windows of foody experience to also impart on you ungrateful internet masses some of my hard-won culinary expertise. Actually, I'm just a hack, but since quite a few of you know even less than I do about cooking, I can get away with sounding like an expert.

Right now my house smells Awesome. You have no idea, really, since there's no way to transmit this over the internet, but damn, someone call up Mrs. Blind and tell her that her son knows how to *cook*.

It's pot roast. (I tend to use these huge slabs of chuck for my pot roast). Now, in the past I've used [redacted] and fresh herbs and [redacted] and it's made a really great dinner, with the vegetables that have been roasting in beef juices and [redacted] for four hours, and plenty of sauce for the garlic mashed potatoes. But unfortunately I can't post that recipe because a friend of mine is pretty damn possessive of that particular dish (since I invented and cooked the recipe specifically for her birthday) and if I post that one to the blog, I think she plans to cut off my balls. or something similar. Perhaps not surprisingly, I'm not going to ask for details, or risk the currently-vague-but-still-ominous-un-named-retribution from the 5 foot terror.

(and now she's going to kick my ass for picking on her height. just can't win...)

That's a great recipe (and yes, I'm saying that now just to mess with you) though what I'm doing tonight is almost as good and is even easier to fix.

Now let's review why I conjured up the ghost of Escoffier, and just who that turkey is. Hell, I don't feel like explaining: wiki, go read.

Traditional French culinary sauces seem to require whole sides of beef or a flock of poultry, a kitchen herb garden, a well stocked pantry, a staff to mince veg and simmer crap for hours, and really, no one has the time or interest for this kind of thing anymore.

So, here is the new version of the five mother sauces:

- A quart jar of tomato sauce
- 2 taco (or chili) seasoning packets
- Butter
- processed, microwavable cheese
- a can of cream of mushroom soup

I'm sure these are rough analogies to the actual five suaces, but I don't give a crap. And #3 is surely the most underated of the five: need a sauce? Add butter to the dish.

Sometimes it really can be that simple.

Tonight is a pot roast using #5. Cream of mushroom soup. On top of that, I added a packet of onion soup mix, fresh mushrooms and onions (I often use fresh versions of ingredients to hide the pre-made sort)...

Well, let's get into details, shall we?

As per a previous pot roast posting, season both sides with salt and pepper, sear both sides of your roast in a skillet, put the large hunk of meat to a disposable roasting pan--
and now, on top of that,
smear the contents of one can of cream of mushroom soup on top of the roast. Sprinkle the contents of one packet of dried onion soup on top of that. Add a half pound of sliced mushrooms, and a cup of sweet onions (sliced or diced) along with at least a cup of water and a teaspoon of minced garlic. You'd like your liquid to come up a bit more than halfway up the side of your cut of meat.

Cover the roasting pan with foil, and then roast at 350 degrees for at least three hours. You don't need to do anything to the roast in between now and then, just let it go. (honest. no turning, no basting, just... leave it)

At this point, if you wanted vegetables, you might be thinking about how to cook those. This dish begs for mashed potatoes, so you might think about cooking some of those.

And three and a half to four hours later? (along with torturing anyone withing smelling range of your oven for 2+ hours?)

A roast that falls apart (no need for a carving knife) in a lovely mushroom-onion-gravy. Really, really nice.

OK, Andy, you and the union guys break this set, we need to clear the sound stage for the next project...

"Um, boss, this isn't a set. This is that bar you hang out in, Mc..."

McCrary's.
OK?

McCrary's... don't get me in trouble here by mentioning the other... Hell, look, just get that 3rd person POV camera out of here, mothball the props that are ours, and send a runner to file the shooting schedule and scripts back at the office in the NaNo drawer. 3rd file cabinet on the left, I think the label says 'November' or something.

"Hey, Mr. B. The Usual?" Henry was holding a pint glass in the air, in either beckoning or a mocking manner.

"Pint o' the Black, Henry, thanks." I said.

It was the usual dump. These were the usual folks. No, not the regulars, but the idiots who typically inhabit my head.

"Um, sir? No, wait, that's not right... what should I call you?" Mitch asked.

Mitch, there's no need for that. Modesty and respect don't really suit you. You were mocking me relentlessly just a few posts ago. I know I had to hobble your memory a bit for the November project but...
wait, just keep drinking a bit more of that whiskey, it'll come back to you.

What are we pouring tonight, Henry?

"Just in. Knob's Creek."

Oh my. Good stuff. Um...

"Yeah, Mr. B?"

Get me a shot of that, with the beer your pouring now to back it.

"Sure thing"

Wait, make it four. No, five. Hey, Prof.

"Good to see you again."

Good to have you here, Prof. I think that'll do it for now.

"Wait," Mitch said, "There's this other issue that needs to be addressed..."

Can it, Mitch. Hey, Sid?

"yes, sir"

three feet of steel slid out from one of the scabbards that had been sitting quietly against the bar. Laid out on the bar top, the simple length of bared blade made an impressive statement.

Thanks, Sid.

"you still owe me, under our agreement..."

Sid, get out from underneath those italics. It's too ominous by half.

"Ah, man, you're no fun."

Can it, Sid. Look, four figments all at once is almost too much for me to handle, but don't think you can get away with looking cool just because I'm distracted. You're already a seven foot tall, armed elf. What more do you want?

"A little more screen time would be nice."

Go talk to Mitch; he's been complaining about that shit for 13 months now.

" 'tis true," Mitch mumbled, around what was now his 4th shot of bourbon.

Hell, last year Mitch was bleeding in a taxi for two months, with a still-gaping arrow wound on his back. You, on the other hand, are the coolest thing this side of Samuel-with-snakes-on-a-plane, and you're merely stuck in a well-stocked bar. We should all be so lucky.

Hey, Prof.

"Yes, lad?"

Wait. Since when are you Scottish?

"I've always been Brittish. It's you, lad; you're just now getting around to filling in my backstory."

...

OK. Screw that for now. Prof, since no one around here is actually going to write this damn novel, at least not this month (or maybe this year) let's de-construct this a bit and see if we were actually going anywhere with it.

"Well, sure, why not?"

Good man, Prof. I can usually count on you.

"As long as the whiskey holds up. This Knob Creek is pretty good, though of course I have to say scotch is better... I'm a sociable fellow, though, and if this is what we're pouring..."

"And if someone else is paying, of course," Mitch added.

"well. um. yes. Speaking of which; Henry, is there more of this fine potable behind the bar?" Professor Halford asked.

"Yes, of course. Same glass, Prof?"

"Might as well, Henry. Might as well."

Prof?

"Yes, lad?"

Happy now?

"Yes, lad."

Good.
Can we get back to my frickin' question now, Professor Halford?

"Hmm. *cough*. yes. So we were to take a look at the output so far, and see what was actually going down."

Something like that.

"Well, first off, the hero seemed to be fairly well delineated, though perhaps from the first posting it was a bit unclear who the main character was."

Time constraints, Prof. I was writing off the cuff, no time to edit.

"Oh. so. Well, I guess we can't blame you for that."

You better not.

"Ah... yes. Well then. So our hero was defined by profession,"

"Writer," Mitch interjected.

"Investigative reporter, to be a bit more precise"

Mitch acknowledged that with a nod and a raised glass.

"And a couple of scenes that established him not only as an independent, a freelancer, but also as one that was just abandoned by the, presumably mainstream press?"

Yeah, that was kind of the idea.

Prof continued, "But who was then adopted by the fringe press, or really, more like the fringes of society. Good set-up, by the way."

Glad you like it. Stop with the compliments, already; what's your beef?

"Well, so far the premise is solid, if a bit thin to cover everything, especially when you throw in the strong fantasy element, from out of left field, in just the first chapter."

Who says it's the first chapter?

"...so. ah. I'm guessing you planned for some other intervening scenes?"

No shit, Sherlock. This is a first draft.

"Since you were publishing these pages..."

Stop. right. there.
A blog entry is publishing sort of like a 14-year-old fumbling to cop a feel through three layers of clothes is having sex. Yes, there is a direct intent, and at least a general resemblance, but there are many degrees of professionalism to consider between a self-published blog and a finished, edited work.

"Or starting with your fumbling teenager..."

Don't finish that thought.
also, don't assume that just because I posted it, that we're dealing with anything like a finished project.

"Yes. Ah. So..."

Eh, just can it, Prof.

"Eh?"

Shut up and drink your whiskey.

Let's move on. Sid?

"Yes, sir?"

What's your take on it?

"Well, honestly, having a seven-foot-tall armed elf hanging around would make it a bit difficult for our hero to do anything heroic. I mean, really, no matter how hairy the shit, I think I could handle it, no prob."

Your right, Sid. You're a great character, but completely wrong for this application.

"Does that mean I'm laid off?"

Nah. I'm sure we can find some room on the payroll for you. And even though I'd have to immediately brush you off, if this narrative were to continue, I'd bet that there is some circumstance where a cavalry style rescue might be necessary.

[sotto voce] "Like I'd want to save their scrawny human butts..."

What was that, Sid?

"You heard me."

I like you more and more, Sid. I may have to write a scene where you specifically don't save the day.

"um, Thanks?"

Yeah. Drink up, Sid. Soon it will be obvious that we both hate the main characters.

[Mitch, rousing a bit from shot #6:] "EH, what was that?"

You should be used to getting the short end, Mitch. It's what happens to the main character. Henry?

"Yes, Mr. B?"

Set them up again, for me and Mitch. If he's going to get it, he may as well have one good night before the pain really comes down. Though that may be a year off, as yet.

"So, what's next?"

Interesting that you should ask that, Prof. Actually, I'm thinking a good deal about that myself. The obvious answer would be to pick up the story of Trey, either as a young recruit, or as a young officer. That, or some other story of Amphital.

Or, more immediately, more beer. Keeping up with you figments is thirsty work. Henry?

"Yes, Mr. B?"

The same again. Maybe I'll find inspiration in the bottom of the next one.

"That's a fool's quest, Mr. B."

Well then it's just as well that I like to play the fool, Henry.

[*snort*] What? Huh?

Oh, excuse me, I haven't had any beer since Saturday, and I don't think my brain is working properly at the moment. Once again, here's the BWSNotW, a day late.

Ah yes, but before we get to the awarding of the, um, award, we have a short philosophical debate: Just what is a website's name?

Should we consider the URL, look for identifying information on the page itself (logos and the like), or should we perhaps restrict it to just those terms contained within the title tag?

eh, I'll likely do all three at some point.


Best Web Site Name of the Week
for the week ending 3 December 2006

Potapych, the Bear who liked Vodka.

Love it.

This website's name is also the title of a short web animation, which you should go watch.

(In this case the site's URL is also close-to-being-classic, Clever Like a Monkey, but I've already posted monkeys. No more monkeys! Unless they're also drinking vodka. Or maybe banana daiquiris or something.

and a special bonus: based on a true story!


(about the award -- past winners)