Author has written 32 stories for Adam-12, Route 66, Emergency, Twister, Public Enemies, and Gone with the Wind.
Update 8/23/16: Most of you know that I have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (similar to Fibromyalgia), along with daily headaches/migraines from the CFS, so I don't usually talk much about those issues because I figure readers are aware that at times my health problems take a toll on my creative energies. But I do want to let readers know that since March, I've been battling really bad migraines...usually I do try to work through them because I really don't like letting them win, but these have been horrible enough that I've had to limit my time on the computer. I'm working with my neurologist and I'm hoping we'll find something that will help me because I really hate that I'm unable to work on any of my stories. Writing is one of my few escapes from my health problems and in all honesty, it pisses me off that my body has suddenly decided to deny me even that pleasure.
So I'm fighting as hard as I can to overcome the migraines because Brice and Louie are getting on my nerves, arguing over whether it's acceptable to eat the black checkers, especially if you (Louie, I'm lookin' at YOU) have accidentally mistaken them for really crunchy Oreos (and mistaken the red ones for giant redhots and then complained that they tasted less cinnamony and more plasticy). And Brice and Chet are getting on my nerves because Chet wants to play his collection of novelty and humorous songs, while Brice wants to play Liszt's "Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2" as a way to inject some culture into Chet. But Brice forgets the song is a staple of many cartoons and Daffy Duck actually recorded lyrics to the song back in the 1950s on the Capitol label. He's also rendered his "Chet needs culture" argument void because I've caught him listening to my Allan Sherman album and my Roger Miller album, singing along to "Jump Down, Spin Around (Pick a Dress O'Cotton)" and "My Uncle Used to Love Me But She Died". I've also caught him listening to my "Sneaky Snake" 45 and doing a dance that is less sneaky-snakey and more "frantically trying to stomp on that fuzzy thing on the carpet that might or might not be a spider but is more likely just a harmless piece of lint and therefore really doesn't need stomping." And Chet is getting on my nerves because he's trying to cheer up the angry Jean Reed from the "Broken Pieces" fic, telling her various jokes and funny stories that are amusing the first couple times he tells them, but not the next three thousand times he tells them. And he's pissing Jim Reed off because being funny is Jim's bag, even though it's really, really, really not. (Just ask Pete about the stupid alligator joke.)
But at least Louie is happy that I got another Poopy Fishy, a butterfly betta named Bongo. I'm just hoping that he doesn't try to get Bongo to play checkers with him. Or tries to eat Bongo because "he looks a little like a swimming red-hot glazed with teal frosting. And that sounds kinda tasty." (I've also had to rescue a car full of little peg kids from the Life game because SOMEONE thought it'd be funny to try to make the little peg kids drive underwater. Without tiny little scuba gear. And the fish was all "you lookin' at me, little peg kids? You lookin' at ME?" because every betta I've had has channeled Travis Bickel.)
Sorry, but I don't do co-authoring, beta work, or accept story suggestions.
Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, or favorited/followed my stories, I appreciate it!
The photo I'm using for my avatar was taken by me at a local fire scene in February of 2002.
Still working on my stories whenever the moon is in the seventh house and Jupiter aligns with Mars...
"Don't ever mistake my silence for ignorance, my calmness for acceptance, or my kindness for weakness." —Anonymous
"Sometimes 'the majority' only means all the fools are on the same side."—Anonymous
"A good story cannot be devised; it has to be distilled. I always regard the first draft as raw material. What seems to be alive in it is what belongs in the story." —Raymond Chandler, from a 1950s letter to a friend
"I don't know, I'm making this up as I go." —Indiana Jones, Raiders of the Lost Ark, 1981
"The thing about a story is that you dream it as you tell it, hoping that others might then dream along with you, and in this way memory and imagination and language combine to make spirits in the head. There is the illusion of aliveness." -Tim O'Brien, The Things They Carried, 1990
"My dear, I don't give a damn." —Rhett Butler from Margaret Mitchell's 1936 novel Gone With the Wind
"But down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. He is the hero; he is everything. He must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. He must be a man of honor–by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it. He must be the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world. He has a sense of character, or he would not know his job. He is a lonely man and his pride is that you will treat him as a proud man or be very sorry you ever saw him. He has a range of awareness that startles you, but it belongs to him by right, because it belongs to the world he lives in. If there were enough like him, the world would be a very safe place to live in, without becoming too dull to be worth living in. The story is this man's adventure in search of a hidden truth, and it would be no adventure if it did not happen to a man fit for adventure."—Raymond Chandler, The Simple Art of Murder, 1934
"He felt like somebody had taken the lid off life and let him see the works."—Dashiell Hammett, The Maltese Falcon, 1929
"Nick Yanov stared at the sleeping ducks in the peaceful pond and said, 'They were just policemen. Rather ordinary young guys, I thought. Maybe a little lonelier than some. Maybe they banded together when they were especially lonely. Or scared.' [Yanov] looked up at the brooding darkness, at the tarnished misty moon. There were no stars. Not even the great star could pierce that black sky. Nick Yanov stood where they had put their blankets down, close enough to the water to pretend they were with nature, here in the bowels of the violent city. He felt some light mocking rain, yet longed to stay here in the solitude, while dead leaves scraped at his feet like perishing brown parchment. Then he flipped the cigarette into the pond and heard the hiss and watched it float. He was immediately sorry he did it. Yet there was other debris on the still water and in the bushes if one used the moonlight to look closely. He didn't want to look closely. He preferred to think it was lovely and clean and pastoral here by the silent lagoon and the slumbering ducks in the icy water. Where the choirboys frolicked in the duck shit."—Joseph Wambaugh, The Choirboys, 1975
"Time takes it all, whether you want it to or not Time takes it all, bears it away, and in the end there is only darkness. Sometimes we find others in that darkness, and sometimes we lose them there again. I think about all of us. Walking our own Green Mile, each in our own time." —Stephen King, The Green Mile, 1996
"You have to dream intentionally. Most people dream a dream when they are asleep. But to be a writer, you have to dream while you are awake, intentionally." —Haruki Murakami
OTHER SITES I AM ON:
Archive of Our Own, WWOMB, Fictionpress, and the Mark VII Fanfiction Realm, all under the pen name Bamboozlepig
My tumblr blog is called The Crazy World of Bamboozlepig