The Seneca Scourge

Oh boy will you be in for a big surprise — you’re reading, reading and – blam!   The Seneca Scourge by Carrie Rubin would be a good movie.  There’s tension, action, intrigue – sheesh! — a little romance.  I haven’t read a lot of this genre, but it’s a nice mix of elements.  How’d she come up with this?

This is the second novel I’ve read by a medical doctor.  I bought the other one based on a review I read, and was disappointed, especially since I like the idea of novel-writing doctors, or doctors who write novels — writers who practice medicine – left, right brain merge — yay!  I couldn’t even finish the other book.  I think that other writer was trying too hard to be metaphysical and the shit just didn’t work.

But I love the concept of Carrie’s book, and the plot lured me in – I had to know where it was going.  And in the end, there’s room for a sequel, I think.  But, it’s up to Carrie.

Get The Money First (fiction)

“You didn’t know?  You supposed to take the money, then have sex with him.”

“Yeah w-well, I, I asked him.  After.”

“And so — wait a minute — he said he’d give you half and then you’d have to give him a notarized I.O.U.?  Girrrrl…”

“Noooo, he did not say he needed the I.O.U. to be notarized – just the plain I.O.U.  Would you leave me alone about this.  I messed up.  I know this.  I guess you should know all about the standards.  This was your career at one time, before you became, legitimate.”

“Yes, bitch, true.  At least could he fuck?”

I didn’t want to talk about it anymore.  Too embarrassing.

Mod Party

You are cordially invited to my 1960s “Les Baxter” party.  Yeah I know, I know — just work with me here…

When I was a kid this is what adulthood looked like to me.  I’m prompted by Twinkly Sparkles’ post on what it was like to be a kid in the 1960s imagining what being a grown up was like. My mom is light with long hair that she wore in the style of a lot of the white women on TV back then.  My dad and mom went to parties of my dad’s artist friends and there would be pictures.

My party is slightly based on that but mostly based on media images and a few of the dirty magazines I “happened” on back then.

So guys put on your smoking jackets.  Cigars and pipes welcome!  We won’t protest in self-righteous health-awareness.  You’ll get none of that “Oh my God that stinks!” at my party.  Girls – yeah I said it – GIRLS – this is pre “women’s liberation” era – bring your cigarette holders and pink-filtered cigarettes, but no lighters.  The boys at the party will eagerly light your cigarettes on the terrace overlooking the Hudson.  Black women, wear your newly liberating afros, but you have to wear head bands, mini–skirts and Nancy Sinatra go-go boots.  Wear your grooviest bouffants and pale peach-colored lipsticks – re-apply after eating the fondue.

Martinis abound, the plain ones with no fruit, chocolate, peppermint or marshmallows– blech!  Drink up, smoke, swap wives and have an orgy in the blue room – no condoms.  Next week you’re all invited to the Cheetah Club on 53^rd and Broadway!

This wasn’t the sixties but I’m going to play it at my party:

We actually had this album at home: