Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we scan the blogosphere and find that the danger zone is everywhere. From right here in Chateau Johnson, where a strike looms at the spouse's plant, to worldwide -- the latest Kyoto Protocol suggestion is to set off bombs of pollution particles to cast a pall over the earth and cool it down.
Our response at "The Gods Are Bored?" Laugh until there's no tomorrow, and then say goodbye.
Okay, before we get started today, I want to urge my multitudes of readers to go to Mark of the Beast and help Anntichrist S. Coulter's friend if you can. Some of you billionaire venture capitalists can spare a couple of bucks for a young woman suffering from a brain tumor who has no insurance. (Imagine that! No health insurance! She must be one of the four in ten Americans in the same boat!)
I know you've read this far because of that sexy little title above. And yes, today's entry is about doing it.
The Beatles had a song called "Why Don't We Do It in the Road." No one will be watching. Hey, even you non-geezers have heard this one.
So, why don't we do it in the road? Because asphalt is hard. And if the road is dirt, there's gravel on it. Which partner gets his or her back shredded with gravel while doing it in the road?
I'm inspired to write this by just having read a book that I picked up at a library sale. The book is called Elsewhere in the Land of Parrots. I rarely read novels, but this one was pretty decent. And I don't think I'll spoil it too much if I tell you that two of the characters do it in a shallow draft rowboat, drifting in the snake-infested mangrove swamps of Ecuador.
I'm a goat judge, not a sport fisherman, but I've spent the odd hour here and there in a rowboat. And although I can swim like a fishy, my impulse in a rowboat is to stay as still as possible, because if you move around much you're gonna either take a bath or toss your cookies.
If you've done it in a shallow draft rowboat, please comment. Leave no small detail uncovered. I'm just really curious.
A few years ago I belonged to a historical novel chat room, and one of the contributors was a published author named Michael Jensen who had written a gay romance novel about Johnny Appleseed. It's called Frontiers. Now that was one rip-roaring read. I loved it, especially the hot stuff.
Michael came to do a reading in Philly, and I went to see him, and he plied his audience with free whiskey, which I guess emboldened me. When he had the courage to ask for criticism, I said I found very little, except for one thing. His hero does it on a clifftop.
I've spent a lot more time on clifftops than in rowboats, but again these are not locations that lend themselves to doing it. Not that you'd be dumb enough to plunge off the edge or anything. Clifftops are just doggone rocky. Sometimes you're hard-pressed (pardon the pun) just to find a comfortable place to sit, wearing layers of rugged hiking clothes.
I'm sure some daring folks have done it on clifftops and come home with flesh gouged out of their thighs. And they might think it worth the fun.
Now, a thick pine forest with years of soft needles underfoot and an army blanket or two ... emmmmmm ... Well, suffice it to say that if you're writing a novel where your characters are doing it, you might want to consider this location.
And then there's the good ol' broken-in Sealy, with perhaps a candle or two to set the mood.
If you find that boring, be my guest in the snake-infested mangroves. But don't say I didn't warn you.
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS