It is a whirlwind in here



In The Line of Fire On Twitter

I posted a tweet – a response, actually – to a tweet that showed a fellow standing off to one side as a tornado filled most of the video. I made the comment that it looked as if he was standing in front of a ‘blue screen’.
It *still* looks as if the fellow is standing in front of a ‘blue screen’, and, fifteen hours later, there has been no verification of the video except the video itself.
However, from that point yesterday, and continuing still, I have been caught in a trail of annoyed, argumentative and sometimes mean tweets about this one post. Many, many, many say that the tornado really happened. I have no doubt of that. Other tweets condemn folk (myself included, of course) of not being meteorologists and thus having no right to state an opinion or – more aggressively – me having the effrontery to make an opinion. Remember, as of yet, I have seen no proof of verification of the tornado video.
But then comes the offshoots, the aside,s and the outright digressions. From nothing stated in the tweets themselves, but (apparently) by folk looking up the particular Twitter account of the person making the comment, a flood of anti-Trump comments were spewed. Some tweets took Muslims to task.The “Mexican wall” was mentioned. One tweet stated: “Dude.they stay on the kind side of the radar.” No, I don’t know what that means. Another tweeted: ” Grow up . It is def real and major damage. Get a life superstar”

There were assorted GIFs, and emoji, and even video showing tornadoes. But nothing to verify the original video (which I concede might be true, but does not look it).
So – so far – there are around 40 folk who agree with my observation, and 15 who (more or less) class me as a bobby..
Whirl, you wild winds, whirl.

Getting Published In New York In The Old Days



Over The Transom

My friend Google tells me that “over the transom” is still a viable term. In this case it refers to a manuscript accepted by an editor submitted cold – perhaps even from the dreaded slush pile.

At any rate, my manuscript for A LOST TALE was accepted “over the transom”, and I was asked to New York to meet the editor. Although I had experienced and appreciated Montréal, Toronto, London, Berlin and other large cities by that time, I had not been to New York. Many events of that trip are memorable, but none more than my “lunch” with the editor.

The editor took me to a dark and trendy place for a late lunch. There were not many people there and, restaurant fiend though I am, the food was not my top priority. Discussion of “the work” and proposed changes was more on the menu for me.

As I sit across the table from my editor, I can not help but notice a man seated by himself beside the wall. He is tieless and shirtless and, though the lighting is dim, what there is reflects from his naked skin. He sits with a beverage and seems to hum to himself.

My editor is discussing both the menu and some confusion he perceives at the beginning of my novel. I note items on the menu unknown to me and am doubly confused.

The shirtless man at the other table increases the volume of his humming and eventually a waiter goes to him and has words. The shirtless man has words back, but they sound like gibberish. At my table the editor suggests something from the menu and I happily comply. There is wine.

Whilst I eat and listen to suggestions, the shirtless man is spoken to by two other waiters. As I (wisely) restrict myself to a second glass of wine, two uniformed policemen enter the restaurant and approach the shirtless man, whose gibberish had increased even more in volume. In the course of a few minutes three other uniformed police officers – one of them female  – arrive on the scene. They are now ranged around the shirtless man and his table. I finally tell my editor what is happening behind him and why I am not concentrating fully upon his suggestions. He turns around.

Two of the officers remove the table from in front of the shirtless man. Two others, one on each side of him, haul him to his feet. It is then that we see his shirtless state continues all the way to his naked feet. The female officer takes the tablecloth from the table and drapes it around him. The four male officers form a circle around the naked, shrouded man uttering his gibberish, and hustle him from the restaurant. The female officer picks up what appears to be a pile of clothes from beneath the table, and a pair of roller skates, and follows them.

I say to my editor that I have never seen anything like that.

My editor concurs.

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