A Dish Served Cold by Andrew Ashling

The reviews look good. The blurb for this is horrible, offensive and should be changed.

“There is one upside to almost getting raped. It proves that you’re at least desirable to someone”

Are you effing kidding me? Rape is NEVER about attraction. It is ASSAULT. It is about power and sickness and hurting another person, not about sexual attraction.

From the reviews I get the impression that this unfortunate blurb does not reflect the opinions of the author.



View all my reviews

Stanley Kowalski is the name of our newest dog. I think. After the ‘Due South’ character, not the ‘Streetcar…’ though I suppose there might be confusion.

My other dog’s name is Benton after Benton Fraser. It’s a slash reference.

Isn’t he Mr. Adorables?

Tip the world over on its side and everything loose will land in Los Angeles.
– Frank Lloyd Wright

This is the view from my editing room. The building next door is under construction so my view also includes cool entertainment I.E., men in hardhats driving destructo machinery around. I grew up in the suburbs of Chicago, so a view of the mountains will never seem old to me.

Inside, I work with the coolest people on the planet. Artists, writers and film makers, of every race, creed and life style preference you can imagine. It’s like the United Colors of Beneton here. If you are looking for diversity in employment, I highly recommend Disney Studios.

Of course, this being the second largest city in the United States, it’s a big plus to make a decent living here. Nobody likes to live in the economically challenged neighborhoods of a super large city. I think most of what people see on television is about the scary parts of town and the people who must struggle for survival in those neighborhoods.

It took fifteen minutes for me to get to work this morning. I drove here in a convertible with the top down.

I love Los Angeles.

When did ‘politically correct’ become a bad thing? I mean, if an institution seeks to update themselves with an eye towards greater fairness, why would they be criticized, with snideness, for trying to be politically correct? Isn’t that a compliment?

When did Christianity become the National Religion? I missed the memo.

And when did Christianity come to mean conservative? Jesus was a liberal, people!

And since when did Conservative mean ‘we care what you do in the privacy of your own home’? The conservatives I knew growing up believed whole heartedly that their private lives were none of the governments business. When did that change?

No wonder it is so hard to have a rational discussion anymore. Somebody has taken the words and packed them with agendas, misinformation and skewed meaning.

Some days I think the greatest threat to this country is our ever decreasing standards in education. Less money to guns and more to teachers, IMHO, is the solution.

Frightening things happened to the world while I was safe in my downy white bed. I was watching the sunrise and the finches hopping around in the palm tree outside and thinking that if it weren’t for the internet, and the media, I’d never know about the horrible events in Japan. And isn’t it strange to think that there was a time when a woman walking the Mil Potrero Highway in California would have NO IDEA what might be happening in other parts of the world?

Today at work I realized that there is an illumination problem in my room. I’ve thought it was my glasses, and then my contacts, and then just my dreamy lazy brain, but after spending several days in a properly illuminated bedroom I realize that there is something wrong with my office. I can’t see anything in here!

I don’t want to turn on the flourescent lights because they give me a headache. Maybe I need some new bulbs for my desk lamp. Are there better kinds of light for computer work?

The Erie Gay News is running a contest online to give away copies of Death by Misfortune. They’ve got a lot going on over there, so check it out!

Mr. Hyde has withdrawn somewhat and I’m wobbling about today. I may even manage to take the dogs for a walk. I’m dissecting the plot of a book I’m working on. Taking out characters, blending them and changing the interaction between two of them… it’s like re-knitting a cable sweater, but it has to be done.

On Book Two of a Reed Farrel Coleman series that Val recommended, Redemption Street. It’s the second in the Moe Prager series. The first was Walking the Perfect Square which I read yesterday.

The books seem terribly dated, so I was surprised to see that the publish date for the first was 2002. I’m not sure whether they were reissued (I did look around the web trying to find out) or if Mr. Coleman is an expert at writing decades gone by. Even the ‘witty’ dialogue is dated. So much so that it was like listening to my older relatives trying to be funny. The flavor and feel is so consistent that I found I didn’t mind too much. It does look like the series comes into this century eventually, as Innocent Monster is a post 911 mystery.

Whine #1: It is completely unfair to introduce supernatural elements at the end of an action adventure and not explain why. I’m fairly miffed with T. Jefferson Parker at the moment.
Whine #2: Despite my best efforts, I dribbled RED #28 dyed cough syrup onto my white coverlet. I hope there’s a way to get it out.
Whine #3: There’s a person outside loudly contructing or deconstructing something. I want to drop heavy objects onto him to make him STOP.
Whine #4: Everything tastes like soap.
Whine #5: I don’t particularly care for first person narrative. Yeah yeah I know. I shouldn’t complain since I’ve written first person narrative, but it’s like listening to someone who can’t shut up talk about themselves for 300 pages.
Whine #6: The bottoms of my feet itch. But I’m super ticklish so I can’t scratch them. But they itch.
Whine #7: I’ve watched all of my DVD’s.

The view from my bed is pretty. Those green ‘berries’ hanging from the palm tree out there are the food source for quite a few squirrels, rats and birds. And the orchids on my desk are one of my hobbies. I’ve been reading a lot about orchids lately. I’ll post something later when my brain is working in a more linear manner.

Continuing to read. I’ve read several Lisa Gardner books lately. I just finished The Perfect Husband which seems kind of her typical theme. Abusive men, abused but courageous women. Children threatened. There are romantic elements to the stories, but I wouldn’t call them romances. Very strongly written tales, so it’s hard to put the book down, even if you know how it’s going to end. The pov shifts carry the story forward quickly and keep the reader freaked out, because we see the bad guy at the end of the block just a chapter before he intersects with our heroine.

I recognize the same ‘trope’ as in m/m romances. Big strong manly men who are protective and almost superhuman in their abilities. Sex that is totally penis based and, of course, dramatically repeatedly orgasmic. You know. We read it all the time and it’s super hot. Not realistic but super hot, perhaps because it’s not realistic.

Pleasure is easy in romances. Our heroes don’t retain water or feel fat and ugly at inconvenient times. The gorgeous hunk or hunkette turns out to be good in bed, too, with an almost psychic ability to know what is needed and wanted. Great sex means love. Just like we all wish it would. This happens as much, or more, in m/m romance. I’m not a gay man but I know a few. It just isn’t that easy. For anybody.

Maybe that’s why I’m getting tired of the romance genre right now. I want to read about people who manage despite the difficulties. I want to read about love that isn’t easy. Sex that people make work because they care enough about each other to do so.

I loved Crazy Love because it was that sort of romance. So I’ve been picking my way through books by David Lozell Martin. He’s really not a romance writer but he does have emotional depth and realism. Maybe that’s what I want to head towards.

Meanwhile, I have soup and Switch. A weirdly magical lesbian story.

I’m home sick. I’m bored. I feel too rotten to actually do anything.

When I have free time, I write. Granted, sometimes ‘writing’ really consists of me grousing while trying to sort out the latest mess I’ve made of a plot and the hapless characters stuck in it. For instance, I have this unhappy dude who is suspected of murder traipsing off to an adventure and thought ‘easy peasy this plot writes itself’.

Ho ho! says my plot. Take this! And I have a sudden dump of too many characters… I mean, it looks like the Alewives in Lake Michigan during a red tide. All writhing around bitching and complaining. I know what I have to do. But I’m sick and just the idea of rolling up my sleeves and sorting this mess is like asking a sick person to wash the three days of dishes that stacked up when the washer broke. Did that metaphor turn into a snake in my hands? Yes it did.

Like I said, I’m sick.

Snakes and dead fish. What the heck?

So… I opened Kindle and read a bit. This would be good except of course my eyes are burning and my muscles ache and I can’t concentrate. I finished ‘Soulless‘ which is the vampire book Jane Austen never wrote. (that’s a good thing) but I read it while reading ‘The Border Lords‘ which is a book Miss Austen would have probably had the gardener take out and burn. Not because it is bad but because it is intensely violent.

How did I get from dead fish to drug cartels? Well, it seemed like a logical progression a few minutes ago. I think my fever is going up again.

You know how when you’re sick after day three or so you run out of Kleenex and opt for the roll of Charmin? But my roll of tp has toppled off the bed and disappeared and the maid seems to have taken the day off. I need lemon tea! I need a cold compress! Wait, what era am I in?

Back to the book. How is it I’ve written fifty thousand words and only five thousand of them are any good? How does that happen? This would have never happened to Jane who, I understand, wrote in ink pen on paper.

Now my head hurts, my nose is both stuffy and uncomfortable, I’m itchy and irritable and I can’t write worth a damn. Jane would call me Pathetic.

Where is that frickin’ maid?