My work-in-progress novel is not getting the best of what my mind has to offer, so I wanted to gift my thought-gristles here. You're welcome. After throwing myself at Google's mercy to help me find a fresh metaphor for hot--I know! Desperate times--I surrendered.
This article fascinated me, not because the article's title contained "time travel", nor because it talked about a certain baby lotion and its role in the sexual climate of the 1990s (ack!), but because it highlighted a Brooklyn perfumer who celebrates scents like wet mitten and tortilla chip. As long as it's not wet tortilla chip. I'm already well-acquainted with that scent at the Y. Also, any writer who wields the phrase "sugary boob job" to describe the Georgio Beverly Hills fragrance is my kind of peep.
Disney is jumping on the time travel bandwagon. Really. Even more of a dip in the temporal pond than the Prince of Persia (SO a topic for another blog). The Runner is set in post-apocalyptic 2027 where a tiny group of survivors in the Rocky Mountains find a way to send someone back in time. But lo, the one who draws the short straw to go back has alterior motives. Instead of stopping the apocalyptic events, he returns to save his one true love. Marc Forester of Quantum of Solace is set to direct.
The lugubrious gristle
In the last, say, eighteen hours, I've heard the word lugubrious no less than THREE times. I don't think I've heard lugubrious three times in my entire life. The best was in a late-night Twilight Zone eppy where a player piano reveals people's thoughts they'd never say aloud. Is this the universe humming along in simpatico waves? Encouraging me to use the word in my novel? A subtle hint that I need to perk up?
From time to time (ha!) I post creative clocks. Remember the Kuku Klock and the Death Clock? What about the O-Clock? Oh and the creepy grasshopper clock? And this super-terrific roundup of web clocks? If I haven't made your eyes glaze over yet, check out these creative ways humans try to master time's passage.
Lest you think this post left out the creep factor worthy of Thriller Island, I give you this clock...
Oh, and if you can think of a fresh metaphor for hot that doesn't involve Ricky Martin's white pants, please send it my way.