by Jaden Terrell
I came late to the electronic revolution. I love books, love turning the pages, love the look of print on the page (which is not the same as e-ink, no matter what people say), love being able to carry them around with me and not having to worry about plugging anything in. Love everything about them.
Last year, my husband bought me a Kindle for my birthday. I liked the way I could download books so easily (though it took great strength of will not to burn through my paycheck ordering $2.99 novels from Amazon. I liked the way I could make the print larger if I needed to. Above all, I liked that I could carry hundreds of books with me when I traveled. The Kindle didn't take the place of my beloved books, but it was a pretty cool supplement.
Of course, there were downsides too. Although it held a charge pretty well, having to recharge it regularly was a bit of a pain--especially if I let the battery get low and had to plug it in at a crucial point in the plot. And I noticed that, for some reason, I found it easier to put down a book that I would, if I'd bought it in print, have read straight through, and I wasn't as likely to carry it around with me to read in restaurants or in free moments in waiting rooms. I didn't love it, but I liked it a lot.
I liked it even better when I found several books I needed to research my next Jared McKean mystery. They weren't $2.99, but they were cheaper than they would have been in print. Then Timothy Hallinan e-published all his Simeon Grist books and the first of a new series. A long-time Hallinan fan, I bought them all. I was starting to feel pretty happy with this new technology.
I started carrying the Kindle around the house with me, as if it were a regular print book, reading as I took my vitamins, brushed my teeth, brushed my hair, fed the cat. Well, you can imagine the rest. As I stood at the bathroom sink, toothbrush in one hand, Kindle in the other . . . I dropped the Kindle.
It struck the floor, face down, with a sickening crack. Oh no. I picked it up, a feeling of dread settling in my stomach. The screen was intact, but the image looked like an angry orangutan had thrown a tantrum on an Etch-a-Sketch. I tried to turn off the device. No luck. The fractured image was frozen on the screen. I told myself maybe it was in shock and just needed a little time to settle down. No such luck. By morning, it was clear.
The Kindle was dead.
Mike says he plans to replace the Kindle when my next birthday comes around. I have my reservations. It seems like maybe I should wait until they come up with a klutz-proof version. Still, I've managed to keep my laptop intact, so maybe there's hope. Maybe I could get one of those little slings like people carry babies in. Do they make padded Kindle-carriers? Maybe I could make a sort of safety belt for it--hook it to my belt with a carabiner?
Hmm. Maybe I could invent one and market it for a gazillion dollars. Surely I'm not the only Kindle-Killer around.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Crafting a Killer
by Carola Dunn
I'm cheating today--posting a guest blog I wrote for Killer Crafts and Crafty Killers last week (http://anastasiapollack.blogspot.com/2011/03/book-club-friday-guest-author-carola.html). It received a lot of positive comments so I thought you wouldn't mind it reappearing here.
Crafting a Killer
Killers come in all shapes and sizes. Having just finished writing the 20th mystery in my Daisy Dalrymple series, I'm constantly looking for new variations.
For a start, I prefer the word "killer" to "murderer." Not all homicides are murder. Some of the unnatural deaths in my books involve accident, self-defence or defence of others, or assault not intended to cause death. This allows some of my killers to be sympathetic characters. In turn this allows Daisy to hold—and act on—a different view of Justice from that of her husband, DCI Alec Fletcher of ScotlandYard, who's sworn to uphold the Law.
They haven't yet quite reached the point where they want to kill each other!
Of course, some of my killer characters commit deliberate murder. Their motives ring the changes on the basics: greed, jealousy, fear, revenge, anger. They are male and female, young and old, rich and poor. Some are crafty (pun intended); some are not too bright and are not arrested immediately more through luck than cleverness. They are otherwise pleasant people who would probably never kill again if they weren't caught, and unpleasant people who are a danger to society.
But however desperate for new twists, I don't create homicidal maniacs. I'm just not really interested in someone who kills for pleasure, or from an irresistible impulse to kill. I prefer to explore the motive(s) of a person who feels he or she has a compelling reason that we can understand, even if we can't imagine ever taking it to the lengths of murder.
This is the UK cover for Sheer Folly.
The one above is the US cover, now out in trade paperback.
As Susan asked, "Do you judge a book by its cover?"--just as a matter of interest, which do you prefer?
This is one of the comments I received on the Killer Crafts blog:
So Killing is usually a crime of passion or Of the Moment, and Murder has intent, and is plotted, planned and carried out? Killing is a response and Murder comes from deep within the murderer? [LibrarianDOA]
I'm cheating today--posting a guest blog I wrote for Killer Crafts and Crafty Killers last week (http://anastasiapollack.blogspot.com/2011/03/book-club-friday-guest-author-carola.html). It received a lot of positive comments so I thought you wouldn't mind it reappearing here.
Crafting a Killer
Killers come in all shapes and sizes. Having just finished writing the 20th mystery in my Daisy Dalrymple series, I'm constantly looking for new variations.
For a start, I prefer the word "killer" to "murderer." Not all homicides are murder. Some of the unnatural deaths in my books involve accident, self-defence or defence of others, or assault not intended to cause death. This allows some of my killers to be sympathetic characters. In turn this allows Daisy to hold—and act on—a different view of Justice from that of her husband, DCI Alec Fletcher of ScotlandYard, who's sworn to uphold the Law.
They haven't yet quite reached the point where they want to kill each other!
Of course, some of my killer characters commit deliberate murder. Their motives ring the changes on the basics: greed, jealousy, fear, revenge, anger. They are male and female, young and old, rich and poor. Some are crafty (pun intended); some are not too bright and are not arrested immediately more through luck than cleverness. They are otherwise pleasant people who would probably never kill again if they weren't caught, and unpleasant people who are a danger to society.
But however desperate for new twists, I don't create homicidal maniacs. I'm just not really interested in someone who kills for pleasure, or from an irresistible impulse to kill. I prefer to explore the motive(s) of a person who feels he or she has a compelling reason that we can understand, even if we can't imagine ever taking it to the lengths of murder.
This is the UK cover for Sheer Folly.
The one above is the US cover, now out in trade paperback.
As Susan asked, "Do you judge a book by its cover?"--just as a matter of interest, which do you prefer?
This is one of the comments I received on the Killer Crafts blog:
So Killing is usually a crime of passion or Of the Moment, and Murder has intent, and is plotted, planned and carried out? Killing is a response and Murder comes from deep within the murderer? [LibrarianDOA]
And my response:
It's not as clear-cut as that. I think, at least in
British/American Common Law, motive is generally taken into account when
it comes to sentencing, which is up to the judge. Of course, to work
backwards, the jury decides on guilt or innocence, and the public
prosecutor doesn't want to bring a charge that's likely to result in an
innocent verdict. Before that, you have the Coroner and his jury, who
decide whether there's a case to answer.
As far as Alec--the police officer--is concerned, if someone is killed by
someone else, that's homicide. Intent is more or less irrelevant as it's
not up to him to decide whether the killing amounts to murder,
manslaughter, self-defence, or accident. In the case of an obvious
accident, he might decide the evidence doesn't justify applying for a
warrant (he can only arrest without one if he actually sees a crime
committed).
It's where Daisy comes in--remembering that she's a purely fictional
character--that the grey areas widen and diffuse. At times, she's
prepared to back her own judgment and conceal information from the police
in what she perceives to be the cause of Justice.
And that's one of the things that makes it fun to write.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Another March Madness - Spring Break
By Chester Campbell
By the time you read this, we’ll be heading down I-65 through Middle Tennessee and the full length of Alabama to Orange Beach, a location that in the recent past was plagued with oily waste from the BP well disaster. That’s all behind us now, we’re told, and we’ll soon know for sure. It’s Spring Break time and we’re taking two grandsons aged ten and thirteen. It should be an interesting week.
By the time you read this, we’ll be heading down I-65 through Middle Tennessee and the full length of Alabama to Orange Beach, a location that in the recent past was plagued with oily waste from the BP well disaster. That’s all behind us now, we’re told, and we’ll soon know for sure. It’s Spring Break time and we’re taking two grandsons aged ten and thirteen. It should be an interesting week.
We took the same two on a trip to Branson, Missouri in December a year ago. That one brought a pair of mini-disasters. We had just crossed the Mississippi River on the way to Branson when the younger boy sounded like he had suddenly exploded in the back seat. We were traveling along a levee and had no room to pull off and park until he had filled a plastic grocery bag with the detritus of car sickness.
Sarah had to get out in the freezing cold and clean him up with a bottle of water. Fortunately, we found a service station a short distance away to finish the job. But that was only half the story. On the return trip, the older boy pulled the same trick, though it was apparently from something he’d eaten. Needless to say, we’re looking forward to better times ahead.
According to a website called CoolestSpringBreak.com, the annual spring phenomenon dates back to the ancient Greek and Roman spring bacchanalia during which the younger set spent days drinking and dancing and indulging in the inevitable. The modern history began in the mid-thirties when a college swimming coach took his team to Fort Lauderdale to practice in the first Olympic-size pool in the state.
The practice of college swimmers gathering in Fort Lauderdale during late winter ballooned, and continued during World War II, though I’m sure on a more modest basis. After the war, though, it grew rapidly, numbering 15,000 students by 1953. Over the next decade it changed from a swimming exercise to a beach party and attracted 50,000 students by 1961. The rest, as they say, is history.
Since my classmates in the late 1940’s weren’t swimmers, we never made it to Fort Lauderdale. By the late sixties the Spring Breakers had begun their shift to Daytona Beach. I was way ahead of them on that score, however. In 1950 I joined a few colleagues from The Knoxville Journal staff on a spring trek to Daytona Beach. Some brought wives, but I was among the singles. We had a few student nurses from Knoxville General Hospital along, one I was dating and later married.
Though we’ll be staying at a beachfront hotel at Orange Beach on the current trip, we’ll spend some time in Pensacola, a few miles into nearby Florida. Pensacola Beach always swarms with Spring Break crowds. We’ll give our two wards plenty of beach time, but I doubt they’ll be terribly interested in the bikini babes. We plan to take them to the Museum of Naval Aviation at Pensacola NAS and watch the Blue Angels do a little practice at the airfield.
We’ll bore them unmercifully while I do a signing at the Pensacola Southwest Branch Library on Gulf Beach Highway Thursday afternoon and again Saturday at Barnes & Noble in Spanish Fort, Alabama. I’m sure we’ll indulge in more exciting things yet to be determined. All I ask is that everyone keep his tummy contents on hold.
Monday, March 14, 2011
MARCH MADNESS
By Shane Cashion
I had an unusually busy work schedule last week. I was at the office by six each morning and didn’t get home until nine in the evening, except Thursday. There were two basketball games that I wanted to watch that night, and I promised my wife I’d grill a big dinner for the family. After stuffing my face, I poured myself a beer in my favorite frozen mug and plopped onto the couch for an evening of basketball. No more than five minutes into the first game, my television froze. It continued to do so intermittently for the next twenty minutes. With each black screen, my blood pressure rose.
By halftime, I was maniacal, and banished to the basement. Apparently my wife was afraid the neighbors might call the police to investigate the screaming coming from our living room. "All I do is work. That’s it. The one bleeeeeeeeping moment I get to sit down and watch a game the bleeeeeeping TV goes out. I’m so bleeping sick of U-verse. I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do; I’m gonna call those bleeeeeeeeeping bleepers right bleeeeeeeeeping now." Because the kids were playing at the neighbor’s house, I could really let it fly.
As I was navigating my way through U-verse’s automated phone system, which does nothing more than ask you how you want to pay your bill a dozen different ways; I finally got an actual person. By this time, the first game was already over, and I was on my way to a full meltdown.
"This is Mark. How may I provide you with excellent service today."
He didn’t sound like a "Mark" to me. "Mark where in the world are you?" I asked.
"I’m on the phone."
"I know that. What city are you in?"
"I’m in the Philippines."
"Oh my God!"
"May I have your name please?"
"XXXXXX."
"Great. May I have your address please?"
"XXXXX."
"Great. May I have your phone number please?"
"Why?"
"So I can call you back in case we get disconnected."
"I’ve done this before. You won’t call me back."
"I’ve never talked to you before."
"I mean you as in U-verse."
"It’s XXXXX."
"Okay. May I have your account number?"
"I don’t have it."
"I need your account number to look up your account."
"Well what was all the other stuff for?"
"I needed that too."
My wife keeps track of our bills so I screamed to her: "WHERE’S OUR U-VERSE BILL?!!!!!"
"I DON’T KNOW, SHANE! LOOK IN THE KITCHEN!"
"I’m back. I have to go find the bill in the kitchen. Please hold on and don’t hang up on me."
"I have your number in case we get disconnected."
"Mhmm."
"Okay. The account number is XXXXX."
"Great. And what is your pass code?"
"What?"
"I need your pass code."
"I don’t have any idea what my pass code is. You already have my name, phone number, address, and account number. What bleeeeeeping more do you need from me? A STOOL SAMPLE!?"
"Unfortunately because your name isn’t on the account I can’t help you without a pass code."
"It’s my wife’s name that’s on the account."
"Right. It’s the same pass code for both of you."
Again I had to scream upstairs to my wife: "DO YOU HAVE OUR BLEEEEEEEPING PASS CODE FOR THESE BLEEEEEEEPING BLEEPS?"
"STOP YELLING!!!!! It’s XXXXX."
"Okay, I’ve got it. It’s XXXXX."
"That’s great! Now please tell me how I may provide you with excellent service today."
"It’s too late. Your service is awful!"
"I haven’t helped you yet."
"No! Not you! I don’t mean you every time I say you; I mean you as in your stupid company."
"How can I provide you with excellent service?"
"Well. You can start by talking normal and not off a script. After that you can help me figure out how to get my TV to work again. You people are relentless in collecting money, but not very adept at keeping the TV running. What I want is my bill to be reduced for the time my service was down and I want my TV to work. Now is that something you can do or do I need to talk to a supervisor?"
"You want to speak with a supervisor? Let me see if one is available to assist you."
Twenty minutes later the same guy returned to the line to tell me that the supervisors were delayed due to unusually high call volume. What’s strange is I almost detected a hint of pleasure in his voice. Throughout our call I’d felt like someone else was listening in, and that together they were laughing at me. At one point, after a long tantrum that I worry will one day appear on YouTube, as these conversations are recorded "for quality control," I said, "You couldn’t care less about my stupid service, could you? You’re in the Philippines. Why would you care?" Again it sounded like he was covering the phone to mask his laughter. Exhausted from it all, I finally just hung up.
No more than one minute after my last game ended, the television screen came to life and worked perfectly the rest of the night. Unable to shake my frustration, I logged onto my computer to see if anyone else hated U-verse. I of course found lots of people who hate U-verse and were more than willing to visit the Internet to vent. As with any large company that boasts millions of customers, some are happy; some are ready to riot. What really caught my interest was a class action firm seeking class representatives to initiate a class action lawsuit against U-verse for all sorts of alleged misrepresentations. I was so angry at having missed my games, I left them a voicemail at just after midnight volunteering to serve as a class rep. I’d be more than happy to devote a thousand hours of my time in hopes of one day receiving a check for $14.38 that I could frame above my mantel. That’s how angry they’d made me, although I must have sounded insane because no one has called to take me up on my offer.
The next morning, I had 52 emails from Uverse waiting for me. They wanted to know if I’d take a customer satisfaction survey. I kid you not, 52. I couldn’t help but laugh. In my mind’s eye I could picture Alejandro on a swivel chair in his call station, probably with a buddy, acting on a dare, laughing hysterically every time he hit the send button.
"Was he really that pissed?"
"Oh you should have heard this guy. He couldn’t watch his basketball games!!! Hahahahhaa."
"That’s hilarious. What did you do while he was screaming?"
"I just stuck to the script. They hate that!!!! Then I pretended I was looking for a supervisor. It was the best!!!!!"
"How long did you keep him on the line?"
"At least 45 minutes!!!!"
"That’s so great. Email him another satisfaction survey. Just one more."
"Okay. One more. Sometimes I really do love this job!!!!!"
For a brief moment, I thought about filling out all 52 surveys. As I was perusing the one attached to the original email, pretending as though I hadn’t received the others, two lawyers in my office stuck their noses in to see if I was watching the clips from Japan on my computer. At the time, I didn’t know the Earth had moved. Needless to say, I didn’t return to the survey. Somehow it didn’t seem quite so important when contrasted with the disturbing videos of cars trying to outrun the ocean. Nevertheless, I do still hate U-verse, and had I not ruined my relationship with Direct TV, Charter Cable, and Dish TV, U-verse would be out!
I had an unusually busy work schedule last week. I was at the office by six each morning and didn’t get home until nine in the evening, except Thursday. There were two basketball games that I wanted to watch that night, and I promised my wife I’d grill a big dinner for the family. After stuffing my face, I poured myself a beer in my favorite frozen mug and plopped onto the couch for an evening of basketball. No more than five minutes into the first game, my television froze. It continued to do so intermittently for the next twenty minutes. With each black screen, my blood pressure rose.
By halftime, I was maniacal, and banished to the basement. Apparently my wife was afraid the neighbors might call the police to investigate the screaming coming from our living room. "All I do is work. That’s it. The one bleeeeeeeeping moment I get to sit down and watch a game the bleeeeeeping TV goes out. I’m so bleeping sick of U-verse. I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do; I’m gonna call those bleeeeeeeeeping bleepers right bleeeeeeeeeping now." Because the kids were playing at the neighbor’s house, I could really let it fly.
As I was navigating my way through U-verse’s automated phone system, which does nothing more than ask you how you want to pay your bill a dozen different ways; I finally got an actual person. By this time, the first game was already over, and I was on my way to a full meltdown.
"This is Mark. How may I provide you with excellent service today."
He didn’t sound like a "Mark" to me. "Mark where in the world are you?" I asked.
"I’m on the phone."
"I know that. What city are you in?"
"I’m in the Philippines."
"Oh my God!"
"May I have your name please?"
"XXXXXX."
"Great. May I have your address please?"
"XXXXX."
"Great. May I have your phone number please?"
"Why?"
"So I can call you back in case we get disconnected."
"I’ve done this before. You won’t call me back."
"I’ve never talked to you before."
"I mean you as in U-verse."
"It’s XXXXX."
"Okay. May I have your account number?"
"I don’t have it."
"I need your account number to look up your account."
"Well what was all the other stuff for?"
"I needed that too."
My wife keeps track of our bills so I screamed to her: "WHERE’S OUR U-VERSE BILL?!!!!!"
"I DON’T KNOW, SHANE! LOOK IN THE KITCHEN!"
"I’m back. I have to go find the bill in the kitchen. Please hold on and don’t hang up on me."
"I have your number in case we get disconnected."
"Mhmm."
"Okay. The account number is XXXXX."
"Great. And what is your pass code?"
"What?"
"I need your pass code."
"I don’t have any idea what my pass code is. You already have my name, phone number, address, and account number. What bleeeeeeping more do you need from me? A STOOL SAMPLE!?"
"Unfortunately because your name isn’t on the account I can’t help you without a pass code."
"It’s my wife’s name that’s on the account."
"Right. It’s the same pass code for both of you."
Again I had to scream upstairs to my wife: "DO YOU HAVE OUR BLEEEEEEEPING PASS CODE FOR THESE BLEEEEEEEPING BLEEPS?"
"STOP YELLING!!!!! It’s XXXXX."
"Okay, I’ve got it. It’s XXXXX."
"That’s great! Now please tell me how I may provide you with excellent service today."
"It’s too late. Your service is awful!"
"I haven’t helped you yet."
"No! Not you! I don’t mean you every time I say you; I mean you as in your stupid company."
"How can I provide you with excellent service?"
"Well. You can start by talking normal and not off a script. After that you can help me figure out how to get my TV to work again. You people are relentless in collecting money, but not very adept at keeping the TV running. What I want is my bill to be reduced for the time my service was down and I want my TV to work. Now is that something you can do or do I need to talk to a supervisor?"
"You want to speak with a supervisor? Let me see if one is available to assist you."
Twenty minutes later the same guy returned to the line to tell me that the supervisors were delayed due to unusually high call volume. What’s strange is I almost detected a hint of pleasure in his voice. Throughout our call I’d felt like someone else was listening in, and that together they were laughing at me. At one point, after a long tantrum that I worry will one day appear on YouTube, as these conversations are recorded "for quality control," I said, "You couldn’t care less about my stupid service, could you? You’re in the Philippines. Why would you care?" Again it sounded like he was covering the phone to mask his laughter. Exhausted from it all, I finally just hung up.
No more than one minute after my last game ended, the television screen came to life and worked perfectly the rest of the night. Unable to shake my frustration, I logged onto my computer to see if anyone else hated U-verse. I of course found lots of people who hate U-verse and were more than willing to visit the Internet to vent. As with any large company that boasts millions of customers, some are happy; some are ready to riot. What really caught my interest was a class action firm seeking class representatives to initiate a class action lawsuit against U-verse for all sorts of alleged misrepresentations. I was so angry at having missed my games, I left them a voicemail at just after midnight volunteering to serve as a class rep. I’d be more than happy to devote a thousand hours of my time in hopes of one day receiving a check for $14.38 that I could frame above my mantel. That’s how angry they’d made me, although I must have sounded insane because no one has called to take me up on my offer.
The next morning, I had 52 emails from Uverse waiting for me. They wanted to know if I’d take a customer satisfaction survey. I kid you not, 52. I couldn’t help but laugh. In my mind’s eye I could picture Alejandro on a swivel chair in his call station, probably with a buddy, acting on a dare, laughing hysterically every time he hit the send button.
"Was he really that pissed?"
"Oh you should have heard this guy. He couldn’t watch his basketball games!!! Hahahahhaa."
"That’s hilarious. What did you do while he was screaming?"
"I just stuck to the script. They hate that!!!! Then I pretended I was looking for a supervisor. It was the best!!!!!"
"How long did you keep him on the line?"
"At least 45 minutes!!!!"
"That’s so great. Email him another satisfaction survey. Just one more."
"Okay. One more. Sometimes I really do love this job!!!!!"
For a brief moment, I thought about filling out all 52 surveys. As I was perusing the one attached to the original email, pretending as though I hadn’t received the others, two lawyers in my office stuck their noses in to see if I was watching the clips from Japan on my computer. At the time, I didn’t know the Earth had moved. Needless to say, I didn’t return to the survey. Somehow it didn’t seem quite so important when contrasted with the disturbing videos of cars trying to outrun the ocean. Nevertheless, I do still hate U-verse, and had I not ruined my relationship with Direct TV, Charter Cable, and Dish TV, U-verse would be out!
Saturday, March 12, 2011
The Amazon
Father Gaspar de Carvajal was a Catholic priest who visited the coast of South America in the middle years of the sixteenth century and wrote a book about it.
The book begins in a perfectly believable fashion. They were, he said, following the coast, keeping it on their starboard (right-hand) side. One day, the coastline veered from south to west. The water around their ship went from blue to brown and a current began to push against the bow, both signs seeming to indicate they’d entered an estuary.
Five days of steady sailing ensued, still with no sign of an opposing shore. The sailors began to have doubts. If they were on a river, it was huge, larger than any in Europe.
Then, on the morning of the sixth day, their ships were suddenly and viciously attacked. The assailants were a host of natives in canoes, natives who (according to Gaspar ) were all women, set on capturing our men for the purpose of procreation.
Mind you, the crew had been at sea, without women, for many months by then. They might have welcomed some feminine company, had not Gaspar, wise man that he was, claimed to have been in possession of superior knowledge, i.e. that the ladies weren’t after a lifetime of connubial bliss. They were after a date and dinner – with the seamen as the dinner.
Fear of cannibalism strengthened the crew’s resolve. The attack was beaten off. The women disappeared into the jungle, never to be seen again. And not one member of the crew accused Father Gaspar of being a mean-spirited Baron Munchausen of sexual angst for inventing the story. (Okay, I made that last part up.)
But Gasper made up more than the story. He also invented a name for the place where it all happened,
He called it the Great River of the Amazons, later (shortened and Anglicized) to become the Amazon River.
He was, of course, inspired by the legend of a similar tribe of warlike women in the mythology of the Greeks.
But who needs tall tales, and myths, when it comes to the Amazon? I sure as hell don’t. For me, the truth is impressive enough.
There are more species of fish in the Amazon River than there are in the Atlantic Ocean...
...bigger fish than can be found in any other river, fifteen times as many species as can be found in all the rivers of Europe. Twice a year, between the months of February and March, the Atlantic Ocean waters roll up the Amazon in a great tidal bore (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tidal_bore) that the Brazilians call the Pororoca. It generates the longest waves on earth, sweeping along everything from piranhas to tree trunks. One Brazilian surfer, Picuruta Salazar, managed to ride one of those waves for 37 minutes. It carried him for 12 kilometers.
...half the world’s bird species, one-third of all the types of living creatures on earth. And almost three hundred varieties of mosquitoes.
One word of advice: Should you add The Amazon to your bucket list, center your visit around Santarem, not Manaus.
Santarem is a rather pleasant place as far as isolated jungle cities go. Manaus…isn’t.
Want to know why? Read my book, Dying Gasp.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Dealey Plaza
by Earl Staggs
I was in an office at the B&O Railroad in Baltimore waiting for a coworker to return from lunch so I could go. He came back early and stood just inside the door with a strange expression. After a minute of silence during which everyone’s attention turned to him, he announced, “President Kennedy’s been shot.” Friday, November 22, 1963.
It never occurred to me that all these years later, I’d be living in Fort Worth, an hour from Dealey Plaza in Dallas where it happened. I’ve been there three times, and each time is like the first. I’m immediately overcome with a feeling of awe that I’m at the spot where one of the most significant events in history took place.
Dealey Plaza is a pie-shaped park area near downtown Dallas, no larger than half a block wide at the top end along Houston Street. Elm and Main Streets slope gently downward from Houston. Elm bends toward Main and merges into it at the bottom end of the Plaza to form one street which goes under a railroad trestle. There’s a grassy area between the two streets and another one on the right of Elm. That one goes uphill at an angle of about forty-five degrees and is known as “The Grassy Knoll.” The entire area is smaller than you might imagine, less than the length of a football field from Houston Street to the trestle.
There are no huge signs identifying the site, no tour guides to show you around. The City of Dallas decided long ago not to overtly advertise it as a tourist attraction. Halfway down Elm Street is a faded white “X” no more than a foot square embedded in the gray roadway which approximates the point at which the fatal bullet (or bullets) struck the President.
If you stand on the sidewalk near the “X” and look back over your left shoulder, you see a seven-story red brick building at the corner of Elm and Houston. The corner window on the sixth floor is the one from which Lee Harvey Oswald allegedly fired. The building was known as The Texas School Book Depository then. It has since been renamed The Dallas County School Board Administration Building. The entire sixth floor is a museum whose name does not mention Kennedy or Oswald. It is designated simply “The Sixth Floor Museum.”
As you approach the building, a huckster hands you a tabloid newspaper detailing the assassination. “Look it over for free,” he says, “and if you want to take it with you, it’s five dollars.”
Once inside the museum, there are pictures, films, and displays chronicling the events of that day and those leading up to it. The ominous corner window, called “The Sniper’s Perch,” is sealed off in glass, but you can stand at the window next to it and look down at the “X” in the street, a distance less than fifty yards.
One of the interesting exhibits is a man’s light-colored suit. If you recall the news footage of Jack Ruby shouldering his way through a gaggle of news reporters and cops with a gun in his hand, you may remember Oswald was handcuffed to a large man wearing that suit. That police officer donated the suit to the museum a few years ago.
It’s hard to describe the feeling I have when I go to Dealey Plaza. I feel a chill down my back and I stand transfixed, taking it all in. My imagination kicks in and I picture the scene on that day.
Onlookers lining both sides of Elm Street to get a glimpse of their President and the First Lady. They’re filled with excitement, pushing closer to the street to get the best view, smiling and waiting, anticipating what may be a once in a lifetime experience.
The motorcade turns off Houston onto Elm and coasts toward them. Halfway down the street, a shot echoes across the Plaza. Another shot. One more. People run, duck, fall to the ground in panic and shock. The First Lady climbs onto the trunk of the limo, a Secret Service agent jumps on to protect her. People look and point in all directions, unsure where the shots came from. A man named Zapruder has the presence of mind to keep his 8mm movie camera trained on the limo. The motorcade speeds up and disappears under the railroad trestle. A scant few seconds engraved in history.
Standing there, letting my imagination play out the scene, I almost feel as if I was there that day. I had the same experience and feelings when I visited Gettysburg and Pearl Harbor.
We’ll never know for sure why Ruby shot Oswald. More significantly, we’ll never know for sure if Oswald acted alone. Despite all the investigations, analyses, and expert opinions, conspiracy theories still exist. Strong arguments can be made on either side of the issue. For my money, the truth could go either way, or lie somewhere in the middle. What took place in Dealey Plaza that day in 1963 is an indelible and irrepressible enigma, a mystery forever unsolved.
Here’s one more thing for anyone interested. In writing this, I became curious about Oswald’s widow. On November 22, 1996, the 33rd anniversary of the assassination, Marina Oswald Porter appeared on Oprah Winfrey’s TV show. Marina revealed that she eventually came to some startling conclusions, and she offers proof to substantiate her conclusions that:
. . .her husband did NOT shoot Kennedy
. . .Oswald was not only a patsy, but an FBI informant
. . .there WAS a conspiracy covered up by the government via the Warren Commission.
Very interesting. You’ll find a complete transcript of what Marina said here:
http://jfkresearch.com/marina/marina.htm
To end this on a lighter note, there’s a line I love from “Shooter,” a film made from the Stephen Hunter novel POINT OF IMPACT starring Mark Wahlberg as former Marine sniper Bob Lee Swagger. Swagger visits an elderly gun expert, and the conversation turns to famous guns and shootings, eventually getting around to the JFK assassination.
“The guys who killed Kennedy,” the old man says, “were buried in the desert three hours later. I still have the shovel.”
***
I was in an office at the B&O Railroad in Baltimore waiting for a coworker to return from lunch so I could go. He came back early and stood just inside the door with a strange expression. After a minute of silence during which everyone’s attention turned to him, he announced, “President Kennedy’s been shot.” Friday, November 22, 1963.
It never occurred to me that all these years later, I’d be living in Fort Worth, an hour from Dealey Plaza in Dallas where it happened. I’ve been there three times, and each time is like the first. I’m immediately overcome with a feeling of awe that I’m at the spot where one of the most significant events in history took place.
Dealey Plaza is a pie-shaped park area near downtown Dallas, no larger than half a block wide at the top end along Houston Street. Elm and Main Streets slope gently downward from Houston. Elm bends toward Main and merges into it at the bottom end of the Plaza to form one street which goes under a railroad trestle. There’s a grassy area between the two streets and another one on the right of Elm. That one goes uphill at an angle of about forty-five degrees and is known as “The Grassy Knoll.” The entire area is smaller than you might imagine, less than the length of a football field from Houston Street to the trestle.
There are no huge signs identifying the site, no tour guides to show you around. The City of Dallas decided long ago not to overtly advertise it as a tourist attraction. Halfway down Elm Street is a faded white “X” no more than a foot square embedded in the gray roadway which approximates the point at which the fatal bullet (or bullets) struck the President.
If you stand on the sidewalk near the “X” and look back over your left shoulder, you see a seven-story red brick building at the corner of Elm and Houston. The corner window on the sixth floor is the one from which Lee Harvey Oswald allegedly fired. The building was known as The Texas School Book Depository then. It has since been renamed The Dallas County School Board Administration Building. The entire sixth floor is a museum whose name does not mention Kennedy or Oswald. It is designated simply “The Sixth Floor Museum.”
As you approach the building, a huckster hands you a tabloid newspaper detailing the assassination. “Look it over for free,” he says, “and if you want to take it with you, it’s five dollars.”
Once inside the museum, there are pictures, films, and displays chronicling the events of that day and those leading up to it. The ominous corner window, called “The Sniper’s Perch,” is sealed off in glass, but you can stand at the window next to it and look down at the “X” in the street, a distance less than fifty yards.
One of the interesting exhibits is a man’s light-colored suit. If you recall the news footage of Jack Ruby shouldering his way through a gaggle of news reporters and cops with a gun in his hand, you may remember Oswald was handcuffed to a large man wearing that suit. That police officer donated the suit to the museum a few years ago.
It’s hard to describe the feeling I have when I go to Dealey Plaza. I feel a chill down my back and I stand transfixed, taking it all in. My imagination kicks in and I picture the scene on that day.
Onlookers lining both sides of Elm Street to get a glimpse of their President and the First Lady. They’re filled with excitement, pushing closer to the street to get the best view, smiling and waiting, anticipating what may be a once in a lifetime experience.
The motorcade turns off Houston onto Elm and coasts toward them. Halfway down the street, a shot echoes across the Plaza. Another shot. One more. People run, duck, fall to the ground in panic and shock. The First Lady climbs onto the trunk of the limo, a Secret Service agent jumps on to protect her. People look and point in all directions, unsure where the shots came from. A man named Zapruder has the presence of mind to keep his 8mm movie camera trained on the limo. The motorcade speeds up and disappears under the railroad trestle. A scant few seconds engraved in history.
Standing there, letting my imagination play out the scene, I almost feel as if I was there that day. I had the same experience and feelings when I visited Gettysburg and Pearl Harbor.
We’ll never know for sure why Ruby shot Oswald. More significantly, we’ll never know for sure if Oswald acted alone. Despite all the investigations, analyses, and expert opinions, conspiracy theories still exist. Strong arguments can be made on either side of the issue. For my money, the truth could go either way, or lie somewhere in the middle. What took place in Dealey Plaza that day in 1963 is an indelible and irrepressible enigma, a mystery forever unsolved.
Here’s one more thing for anyone interested. In writing this, I became curious about Oswald’s widow. On November 22, 1996, the 33rd anniversary of the assassination, Marina Oswald Porter appeared on Oprah Winfrey’s TV show. Marina revealed that she eventually came to some startling conclusions, and she offers proof to substantiate her conclusions that:
. . .her husband did NOT shoot Kennedy
. . .Oswald was not only a patsy, but an FBI informant
. . .there WAS a conspiracy covered up by the government via the Warren Commission.
Very interesting. You’ll find a complete transcript of what Marina said here:
http://jfkresearch.com/marina/marina.htm
To end this on a lighter note, there’s a line I love from “Shooter,” a film made from the Stephen Hunter novel POINT OF IMPACT starring Mark Wahlberg as former Marine sniper Bob Lee Swagger. Swagger visits an elderly gun expert, and the conversation turns to famous guns and shootings, eventually getting around to the JFK assassination.
“The guys who killed Kennedy,” the old man says, “were buried in the desert three hours later. I still have the shovel.”
***
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Twofer Thursday
by Jonathan Quist
I'm going to do something today that I would never have dreamed of doing up until three weeks ago. I'm going to mention Jeanne Dams and Joe Konrath in the same breath.
As individuals and as writers, Jeanne and Joe are polar opposites of each other.
Jeanne is a lovely "woman of a certain age" who knows how to look great in a vintage hat.
Joe is a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy who makes himself equally comfortable in jeans and tee-shirts or a coat and tie. Well, a writer's corduroy jacket, anyway. And I'm not sure I've ever actually seen Joe wearing a tie.
Jeanne is a former school teacher who writes both contemporary and historical traditional mysteries with strong female protagonists.
Joe is a former teacher who writes both horror (as Jack Kilborn) and thrillers with a strong female protagonist.
If you make a film about Jeanne's life, Helen Mirren would be an excellent casting choice.
If you make a film about Joe's life, try to dig up John Belushi.
I first met Jeanne Dams when she was the executive director, and just about everything else, of the old Of Dark and Stormy Nights writer's conference. (Dark and Stormy continues today as part of the Love is Murder conference in Chicago each February.) Jeanne happened to be the first person to greet me at registration, and though she didn't know it at the time, her welcome prevented me from chickening out and going back home.
I first met Joe through one of his lectures recorded at the same conference, and met him face to face the following year. (I nearly wore out the tape of that lecture, until I solved the problem by getting a car with a CD instead of a cassette player.)
I can say with all honesty that I like and respect both of them, as writers and as individuals, yet they are of two different worlds with very little intersection. But still I am compelled to review two of their books side-by-side. And that just blows my mind.
I love audiobooks, because I spend a couple hours on the road every day, and because I have seen the impact that audiobooks can have on the lives of readers who are unable to read print editions. I was fortunate enough to win an audiobook copy of Joe Konrath's Cherry Bomb at Love is Murder. So I popped it in the car player for a week and a half of commuting.
Cherry Bomb is the sixth in Konrath’s series featuring Chicago homicide detective Lt. Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels. I had previously read the first two in the series, so I had a rough idea what I was getting into. Konrath’s novels are intense, gritty, but also funny. He injects a lot of black humor into the mix. This is a good thing, because Joe Konrath writes some of the most seriously disturbing and generally creepy villains you’ll find anywhere. The humor, some of which could be judged in poor taste out of context but which works well in these books, leavens the mood without breaking it, and provides the occasional release of tension that these stories demand. Cherry Bomb in particular seems to run at one of two speeds: Catch Your Breath and Run Like Hell. And while I didn’t read this book with the idea I’d review it, one notable aspect jumped out immediately – Cherry Bomb has a lot more depth to it than the first couple of books in the series. It’s not that those were lacking anything – it’s just that Konrath is continuing to mature as a story teller. (Joe, if you're reading this, I never thought I'd mention your name and "mature" in the same breath, either. Yeah, you're welcome.)
Earlier in the series, Lt. Jack Daniels was responsible for the capture of serial killer Alex Kork. In Cherry Bomb, Alex is back, escaped from jail and out for revenge. And she’s getting it, through people close to Jack. Along the way, she is sexually abusing some of her victims. Sometimes for her own pleasure. Sometimes to hurt Jack. Sometimes both. But always with a seriously twisted method to her madness.
By the time I started on the final disk of Cherry Bomb, I knew I was going to need a big change of pace. I knew that my public library had several of Jeanne Dams’ novels in audiobook form. I found one I had not yet read in Silence is Golden, the fourth in the Hilda Johansson series. Hilda is a Swedish immigrant, and the senior live-in house maid in service to the Studebaker household of South Bend, Indiana at the turn of the 20th century. Because of her position, she is able to observe things in many places with a servant’s anonymity. But because of her position, her actions fall within strict boundaries that she must work inside or work around. But Hilda is bright, stubborn, and up to the task of solving the problem at hand. Dams treats setting as a character, with the result that Hilda’s world feels very much alive and like a visit home.
In Silence is Golden, the problem is that a local boy, a close friend of her 12-year-old brother, Erik, has gone missing. Erik reveals that the boy had wanted to join the circus passing through town. When he is found, he has been badly beaten, and is quiet and withdrawn. When Erik himself disappears, Hilda has to use all her wits and all resources at her disposal to find him and bring him home safely.
Perhaps it is because I was looking for a light story that I didn’t catch on right away. Or maybe it’s because Jeanne Dams’ characters strictly observe the customs and mores of 1905 South Bend. Or maybe it’s because she uses certain stereotypes as red herrings, later shattering the stereotypes. Whichever, this was not the light, predictable story I expected, and the crime under investigation was not mere kidnapping. Someone was capturing and sexually abusing young boys. And though Hilda could not say it outright, she was nobody’s fool, and wasn’t going to allow it to continue.
And neither was Jeanne Dams. Her work, particularly in this series, straddles the genre lines between “cozy” and “traditional mystery”. Cozies tend to include minimal violence, foul language and sexual content. In Silence is Golden, which was inspired by a real-life case reported in a 1903 South Bend newspaper, Dams has pretty much said, “No you don’t, buster, we’re not sweeping this one under the rug” and tackled a topic normally off-limits for her genre. She has done it masterfully, without her characters violating their own taboos, and she leaves the reader feeling the same passion for justice that Hilda herself feels.
And that is the heart of why I felt compelled to hold up these two books side-by-side. While Cherry Bomb does not have sexual brutality as a central theme, it is certainly present. Silence is Golden has a strong female protagonist who cannot imagine a world where such things take place. Cherry Bomb has a strong female protagonist whose life is crumbling brick by brick because she lives in that world. These two stories attack from completely different directions, and both yield the same result: I was left thoroughly entertained by the stories, and burning mad at the crimes they portrayed.
Cherry Bomb and Silence is Golden both represent the work of authors at the top of their game, and I highly recommend both, though not necessarily to the same audiences.
I cannot say for certain that my reaction would have been as strong had I read the books separately, but the combination of these two books hit me harder than many of the stories I’ve read that dealt with sex crimes in clinical detail.
How about you? Have you encountered combinations of books or short stories where the combination was greater than the sum of the parts?
Giveaway Time!
As I mentioned, my copy of JA Konrath’s Cherry Bomb was a lucky giveaway from Love is Murder. I want to share the love. So I’m giving away my copy.
This is the Brilliance Audio Unabridged edition, ISBN 978-1-4233-1262-8
Note the word Unabridged – if you give it to your grandkids, and they ask
your son-in-law,“Daddy, what does f*** mean?”, that’s your problem, not mine.
This is truly a twofer – the performance features two top voiceover artists, Susie Breck and Dick Hill. Both are award-winning voice talents. Many of you may know Dick Hill as the voice of Jack Reacher.
The Rules: I will mail this copy of Cherry Bomb anywhere in the world that can accept parcels from the U.S. Postal Service. If you are outside the U.S. and your country has laws that forbid delivery of literature containing profanity or sexuality, that is your responsibility.
The winning entry will be chosen at random from among those with correct answers to the following two questions:
1) What is the name of Joe Konrath’s personal favorite character from his Jack Daniels series?(Hint: The character appears in Cherry Bomb and on Joe’s web site.)
2) What is the title of the Hilda Johansson mystery being released in the fall of 2011?
(Hint: The answer may be found on Jeanne Dams' web site.)
If no entries contain both correct answers, a winner will be selected from entries containing one correct answer, then from all entries.
To enter, send an email with the subject Cherry Bomb and your answer
To MurderousMailings@gmail.com Entries must be received by noon, US Central time on Saturday, 12 March 2011. (Please note - this email address is temporary for this contest.)
I'm going to do something today that I would never have dreamed of doing up until three weeks ago. I'm going to mention Jeanne Dams and Joe Konrath in the same breath.
As individuals and as writers, Jeanne and Joe are polar opposites of each other.
Jeanne is a lovely "woman of a certain age" who knows how to look great in a vintage hat.
Joe is a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy who makes himself equally comfortable in jeans and tee-shirts or a coat and tie. Well, a writer's corduroy jacket, anyway. And I'm not sure I've ever actually seen Joe wearing a tie.
Jeanne is a former school teacher who writes both contemporary and historical traditional mysteries with strong female protagonists.
Joe is a former teacher who writes both horror (as Jack Kilborn) and thrillers with a strong female protagonist.
If you make a film about Jeanne's life, Helen Mirren would be an excellent casting choice.
If you make a film about Joe's life, try to dig up John Belushi.
I first met Jeanne Dams when she was the executive director, and just about everything else, of the old Of Dark and Stormy Nights writer's conference. (Dark and Stormy continues today as part of the Love is Murder conference in Chicago each February.) Jeanne happened to be the first person to greet me at registration, and though she didn't know it at the time, her welcome prevented me from chickening out and going back home.
I first met Joe through one of his lectures recorded at the same conference, and met him face to face the following year. (I nearly wore out the tape of that lecture, until I solved the problem by getting a car with a CD instead of a cassette player.)
I can say with all honesty that I like and respect both of them, as writers and as individuals, yet they are of two different worlds with very little intersection. But still I am compelled to review two of their books side-by-side. And that just blows my mind.
I love audiobooks, because I spend a couple hours on the road every day, and because I have seen the impact that audiobooks can have on the lives of readers who are unable to read print editions. I was fortunate enough to win an audiobook copy of Joe Konrath's Cherry Bomb at Love is Murder. So I popped it in the car player for a week and a half of commuting.
Cherry Bomb is the sixth in Konrath’s series featuring Chicago homicide detective Lt. Jacqueline “Jack” Daniels. I had previously read the first two in the series, so I had a rough idea what I was getting into. Konrath’s novels are intense, gritty, but also funny. He injects a lot of black humor into the mix. This is a good thing, because Joe Konrath writes some of the most seriously disturbing and generally creepy villains you’ll find anywhere. The humor, some of which could be judged in poor taste out of context but which works well in these books, leavens the mood without breaking it, and provides the occasional release of tension that these stories demand. Cherry Bomb in particular seems to run at one of two speeds: Catch Your Breath and Run Like Hell. And while I didn’t read this book with the idea I’d review it, one notable aspect jumped out immediately – Cherry Bomb has a lot more depth to it than the first couple of books in the series. It’s not that those were lacking anything – it’s just that Konrath is continuing to mature as a story teller. (Joe, if you're reading this, I never thought I'd mention your name and "mature" in the same breath, either. Yeah, you're welcome.)
Earlier in the series, Lt. Jack Daniels was responsible for the capture of serial killer Alex Kork. In Cherry Bomb, Alex is back, escaped from jail and out for revenge. And she’s getting it, through people close to Jack. Along the way, she is sexually abusing some of her victims. Sometimes for her own pleasure. Sometimes to hurt Jack. Sometimes both. But always with a seriously twisted method to her madness.
By the time I started on the final disk of Cherry Bomb, I knew I was going to need a big change of pace. I knew that my public library had several of Jeanne Dams’ novels in audiobook form. I found one I had not yet read in Silence is Golden, the fourth in the Hilda Johansson series. Hilda is a Swedish immigrant, and the senior live-in house maid in service to the Studebaker household of South Bend, Indiana at the turn of the 20th century. Because of her position, she is able to observe things in many places with a servant’s anonymity. But because of her position, her actions fall within strict boundaries that she must work inside or work around. But Hilda is bright, stubborn, and up to the task of solving the problem at hand. Dams treats setting as a character, with the result that Hilda’s world feels very much alive and like a visit home.
In Silence is Golden, the problem is that a local boy, a close friend of her 12-year-old brother, Erik, has gone missing. Erik reveals that the boy had wanted to join the circus passing through town. When he is found, he has been badly beaten, and is quiet and withdrawn. When Erik himself disappears, Hilda has to use all her wits and all resources at her disposal to find him and bring him home safely.
Perhaps it is because I was looking for a light story that I didn’t catch on right away. Or maybe it’s because Jeanne Dams’ characters strictly observe the customs and mores of 1905 South Bend. Or maybe it’s because she uses certain stereotypes as red herrings, later shattering the stereotypes. Whichever, this was not the light, predictable story I expected, and the crime under investigation was not mere kidnapping. Someone was capturing and sexually abusing young boys. And though Hilda could not say it outright, she was nobody’s fool, and wasn’t going to allow it to continue.
And neither was Jeanne Dams. Her work, particularly in this series, straddles the genre lines between “cozy” and “traditional mystery”. Cozies tend to include minimal violence, foul language and sexual content. In Silence is Golden, which was inspired by a real-life case reported in a 1903 South Bend newspaper, Dams has pretty much said, “No you don’t, buster, we’re not sweeping this one under the rug” and tackled a topic normally off-limits for her genre. She has done it masterfully, without her characters violating their own taboos, and she leaves the reader feeling the same passion for justice that Hilda herself feels.
And that is the heart of why I felt compelled to hold up these two books side-by-side. While Cherry Bomb does not have sexual brutality as a central theme, it is certainly present. Silence is Golden has a strong female protagonist who cannot imagine a world where such things take place. Cherry Bomb has a strong female protagonist whose life is crumbling brick by brick because she lives in that world. These two stories attack from completely different directions, and both yield the same result: I was left thoroughly entertained by the stories, and burning mad at the crimes they portrayed.
Cherry Bomb and Silence is Golden both represent the work of authors at the top of their game, and I highly recommend both, though not necessarily to the same audiences.
I cannot say for certain that my reaction would have been as strong had I read the books separately, but the combination of these two books hit me harder than many of the stories I’ve read that dealt with sex crimes in clinical detail.
How about you? Have you encountered combinations of books or short stories where the combination was greater than the sum of the parts?
Giveaway Time!
As I mentioned, my copy of JA Konrath’s Cherry Bomb was a lucky giveaway from Love is Murder. I want to share the love. So I’m giving away my copy.
This is the Brilliance Audio Unabridged edition, ISBN 978-1-4233-1262-8
Note the word Unabridged – if you give it to your grandkids, and they ask
your son-in-law,“Daddy, what does f*** mean?”, that’s your problem, not mine.
This is truly a twofer – the performance features two top voiceover artists, Susie Breck and Dick Hill. Both are award-winning voice talents. Many of you may know Dick Hill as the voice of Jack Reacher.
The Rules: I will mail this copy of Cherry Bomb anywhere in the world that can accept parcels from the U.S. Postal Service. If you are outside the U.S. and your country has laws that forbid delivery of literature containing profanity or sexuality, that is your responsibility.
The winning entry will be chosen at random from among those with correct answers to the following two questions:
1) What is the name of Joe Konrath’s personal favorite character from his Jack Daniels series?(Hint: The character appears in Cherry Bomb and on Joe’s web site.)
2) What is the title of the Hilda Johansson mystery being released in the fall of 2011?
(Hint: The answer may be found on Jeanne Dams' web site.)
If no entries contain both correct answers, a winner will be selected from entries containing one correct answer, then from all entries.
To enter, send an email with the subject Cherry Bomb and your answer
To MurderousMailings@gmail.com Entries must be received by noon, US Central time on Saturday, 12 March 2011. (Please note - this email address is temporary for this contest.)
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