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Found 20 results

  1. Along with a bunch of other worthies I've had an awful lot of fun over the last couple of months. The result is a book - initially an eBook - available in .ePub and .mobi (for kindle) from www.midnightdude.com Why? There are a shed load of reasons, but primarily it's to raise money to keep AwesomeDude.com healthy. Times are hard for all of us, and though there's a 'donate' button on the front page, we thought that as an alternative to a donation selling a book would be good. And it's nice to give a little something back to those that help. The book's not expensive, either, and you're getting 17 short stories and a novella for your wonga. AND, as most of them have been especially written for the book you won't be able to read them anywhere else for quite a while. AND the novella - 'The Summer I Was Thirteen' is by the our much beloved Cole Parker. "So what," I hear you ask, "is the price of this fantabulous, must-have-or-I'll-explode eBook? It's got to be $15!" Well no, it's not. It wasn't created to make anyone rich. It's just a way to support the site and give a little something to those who do. "$10? For all those stories it has to be $10." No. And it's not $9.99 either. I hate the .99. Why do they do that? I know it's to fool you into thinking whatever it is is cheaper, and yes, I get suckered in by it, too. Grrrr. "Well ... $5?" Nope, it's much cheaper than that. It's $4.99 and worth every last cent. "WOW!!!! And where can I get hold of a copy?" At www.midnightdude.com. But first, here's the cover. I'm really proud of the cover. Bruin Fisher took a series of photographs - all of which were first rate - and we finally chose this one. So, to get your copy of Midnight Dude: Selected Readings click HERE. You'll get: 1) a zip file with the book in both .epub and .mobi formats. 2) Many, many hours of happy reading. 3) You'll have helped AwesomeDude.com continue to be the excellent site it is. 4) A scrawny emu's thanks. What more could you possibly want for $4.99? :)
  2. Camy

    Debt

    Joy! We had our budget yesterday. Apparently, those 'in charge' have borrowed - and intend to go on borrowing - an awful lot of dosh. Apparently, the debt equates to over ?17,000 for every man woman and child in the UK. Apparently .... Sadly, I voted for the inept cretins - though (in my defence) at the time the prime minister wasn't a man with despotic megalomania, and the Chancellor didn't have Caterpillars for eybrows and an Adams' family hairdo. Never again! I intend to declare independence. The Royalesque Bank of Emu will be opening its doors shortly. Investors most welcome.
  3. Camy

    Happy Holidays!

    Whatever you happen to call it, may I wish you all a very happy post winter solstice bash. Don't get too drunk, stoned, or whatever ... and if you do, then drink plenty of water before you crash out. Hugs! Camy
  4. I adore Ywriter software. Or perhaps I should say I adore the concept of it, it's great, and it's getting better and better and easier to use the more I write. Anyway, to cut a potentially long and vitriolic self loathing diatribe short. YWriter has recently been updated to a beta of V5. Complete with warnings not to use it for real work! It's in beta, and beta is buggy: obviously. So dick head here uses it to write a short story. It was a good short story, too (I thought while I still had it). Grrrrr!!!! Wail!!!!! Hey ho. Back to V4, and a re-write.
  5. The idea of customer service and 'satisfaction' in the UK sucks. There, I've said it. Like a big kid I fell in lust with the idea of getting a Sony Reader. It's not that I can afford one. It's just that I've got a credit card, and I haven't gone mental with it for a while. So, on Saturday M and I schlepped into the local Branch of Waterstones. Waterstones is supposedly the UK's biggest chain of book shops. They have a deal with Sony to sell their 'Readers', and a dinky site to flog eBooks. "Do you have any Sony Readers left?" I pant, with eyes attractively on stalks, and fondling my plastic. "Yes," the po-faced sloth behind the counter finally puts his paper down, and answers. "several. Do you want to buy one?" "Maybe, but I'd like to see it working first." "Ah." He nods sagely. "There's a display over there." He points, and takes a breath. "Great!" I say, about to walk over to it and play. "But the display model has stopped working." "Oh," I stop, and my lower lip begins to quiver. "You can look. It's just that it doesn't work. "Not a lot of use then, is it?" M says acerbically. "I suppose not." The sloth picks up his paper as we walk over to the display. I decide the Reader is aesthetically beautiful, and rather pleasing, as I prod at its buttons, hoping that maybe it'll magically fire up. It doesn't. M starts to get annoyed. I know the signs. Unfortunately, a young and helpful Saturday sales girl doesn't. "Nice, isn't it?" "It's not working." M states the obvious with such gravitas and disdain I wonder why the young girl doesn't turn tail and flee. "Umm ... no." She says, still in helpful mode. She frowns, then brightens up. "It worked for an hour this morning, then stopped. Oddly the same thing has happened at several of our other branches." "But you have them for sale?" "Oh yes!" She says brightly. "Couldn't you put a new one on display, then?" "Oh no, we're not allowed to. But I'm sure it'll be working on Monday!" It wasn't. I went back and it was still broken ... which has rather put me off. Now, I'm thinking of coveting a BeBook.
  6. Camy

    Stoopid bird.

    Time and time again I do it, and time and time again I berate myself when I ... umm ... wake up. Never, never, never, never, never post stuff when in an altered state. There is an off chance that it might be okay, but the odds are similar to those of winning the lottery. Best not to bother - I tell myself yet again. Gah! Stupid, stupid me. Now, I must go and stand in the corner for an hour. Confused? Here's a poem I wrote about 'it'. Profound or what?!
  7. I spend a lot of time bemoaning the fact that I'm not doing what I should be doing; cursing the mistakes I've made, my bone idleness ... and then wondering what it actually is that I should have been doing in the first place. Daft, huh? Anyway, when I get in one of those frames of mind I read this poem: which knocks sense back into my thick skull. After all: we only have the one shot. We might as well enjoy it, no matter what. ;) Ozymandias by Percy Byshe Shelley (1792-1822) I met a traveller from an antique land Who said:?Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things, The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed. And on the pedestal these words appear: "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!" Nothing beside remains: round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away. ---
  8. We've been here now for three weeks, and the Cats have just started to get to go out. They love the garden, and especially the 'patio' which heats up in the sun. They seem to like lying on their backs and wait for their tummy's to be rubbed. Jolly sensible I think, and I'm going to do the same the next time M comes over ... provided the neighbours are out. The angst involved in letting them out was almost too much. The road at the front of the house, though not a main road, is not Cat friendly - unlike the last place we lived. I've suddenly realized how much I care for their welfare. But the bottom line is that they are not indoor cats, and pragmatically: what will be will be. As for me, I'm chilled, and starting to enjoy life again. I've even started to write a new short story - though in my darker moments I wondered if I'd ever write again. The thing is I'm almost sure that writing and music were the only things that kept me sane for the last year or so. And now the stress is over and done with I'm wondering if perhaps I don't need to write or howl .... Naaaaa. I like it far too much to give up. Oh yeah, we've got a festival gig in July! Oh YEAH! I've got a mac! W00T!
  9. Camy

    Moved

    So ... we've moved, and I can almost feel the stress seeping out of my body and evaporating ... or whatever happens to stress when it's no longer required. For the last couple of days I've felt totally dispossessed - like I was acting in a film with a weird script, and over which I had no control. Most odd. Now it's the cats that are stressed out. The poor things are going off their heads with angst. And because they can't go out for a couple of weeks, they spend most of their time slinking around arguing - or looking longingly out of the window at their new territory. Back to normal soon, methinks. Possibly ... hopefully. Camy
  10. Camy

    Moving

    Having got rid of the 'ouse, I'm in the middle of packing up to move. Lord I have a lot of utter crap ... and it's so damn hard to get rid of. Which accounts for the stress levels. I know that 'things' don't really make one happy. But I've accumulated them, and they're mine (all mine Bwahaha), and I want-want-want to keep them. *sighs* I've already taken two van loads to the dump. *sighs some more* I'll be away for a bit, and back when I can. Cheers y'all, and apologies to those who have emailed and got no response. Camy
  11. Camy

    Stupid I am.

    So I trundle off and write a story - or which I'm proud - and post it. I'm tidying up when the computer goes 'ting'. Email! 'twas a rare missive from the Dude! After opening the champagne, and putting the caviar on ice (yick, pah, pass me a bucket) I sit down to read: I scratch chin, then panic - or was it the other way around.... Paranoia wakes up. Everybody hates me. I pace up and down ... up and down ... down and up.... Then: Grinning I sit back, then frown and start to worry that Cole is going to think horrible things. Checking emails more than once a minute can get irksome. Then: So ... consider a public school story on its way! Camy
  12. Camy

    Trust on-line

    I'd like it if I could assign more than one category to a post. It would be peachy, because this might well end up being claptrap as well, and possibly include a whine or two. So. Trust is the most important part of any relationship, be it in real life or in the relationships we have with people we are never likely to meet. There are people here I like, there are people here I admire, but as far as trust goes is it right, or indeed safe, to open up and be truthful about who I am. Stupid question really. The answer has to be no, but I'm asking it nevertheless. I always tend to trust first and then be very disappointed when the trust I've given is thrown back in my face. Ultimately, as humanity spends more and more time on-line, the question of trust is going to become more important. Can you have meaningful relationships with people in cyberspace? Can you open up to a bunch of similar minded people without fear of recrimination? Can one come out from behind a pen name and say 'This is who I really am'? My muse is saying yes, do it! I'm not so sure.
  13. "They don't like it up 'em, Captain Mainwaring!" This line from 'Dad's Army' set the tone for Katie (ancient siamese beasty) having her claws clipped. She's pretty much house-bound nowadays and her claws are ... well 'savage' belies the truth. 'Wickedly Bitching Sabatier' comes closer. You don't want her on your lap: unless you're wearing chain-mail, and unfortunately, mine's rusty. So ... I tried. The thing is with cats: they're psychic. She knew I was nervous even before I decided to start. Now I have a knee like a pin cushion, and no thanks from anybody. Still, on the upside, I got one paw done. Only three more to go! Yours, most miffed, Camy
  14. Camy

    Happy Valentine!

    Happy Valentine! Here's a story for you:The Card. Hugs! Camy
  15. Camy

    J's Resurrection

    I keep thinking about Jason's blog entry. I keep thinking 'and there by the grace of God go I' but that's entirely wrong. I have been there in my own way. Similar but different. I keep being told that addiction is a personality trait, and therefore genetic. In other words we are pre-programmed to self destruct. And I wonder is that right? Are there addictive personalities or is it just modern day psycho babble to excuse a whole tranche of society for misbehaving? When I was small I was a classic case of ADHD. But then when I was small that nifty acronym hadn't been thought up. I was classified as naughty: occasionally thrashed for it and sent to child psychologists. Not a sniff of Ritalin, or anything else. The one addiction I'm thankful I don't suffer from is alcohol. One majorly major hangover was enough to put me off for life. The rest (nudge nudge - a nod's as good as a wink to a blind man) I'd still be happy to 'suffer from', except for the outrageous cost: that and the inconvenience of possible jail time. Then there's sex. Can you be addicted to sex? I'd say yes. If you can be addicted to powders that change your mood, why not to the ultimate high? I have no idea where I'm going with this, so I'll thank Jason for his post and the thoughts it engendered, and stop. Ave.
  16. Camy

    Sunshine

    So ... I'm fed up with my uber whiny blog entries, and much as I sincerely appreciate all the sage advice and help proffered, enough is enough - until the next time. We have a gig tomorrow night, and like any sensible fools we rehearsed. I wish I'd recorded it. My guitar, which has had some problems with its pick-up, has been fixed, has new strings, and sounds peachy. 'twas a good couple of hours. But not as good as the walk on the beach that followed Don't ask me why, but the beach was empty. It's the middle of June and there's no one around except for a few poor souls fishing. Why do they fish near sewage outfalls, and do they eat the fish they catch? Walking on an empty beach with the guy you love is ... well ... wonderful, fantabulous, magical, fun, erotic, inconsequential, meaningful, and very, very deeply deep. It was sunny, the sea was lively enough to be interesting and there was no wind to bring up goosebumps. We talked and talked, and honestly ... I'm one happy Emu. 'nuff said. Camy
  17. Camy

    Fragile

    I'm feeling fragile. Apologies for the expletives. Ultimately it comes down to purpose. Why am I here, and what the fuck am I supposed to be doing? They say - depending on who the 'they' are - that I'm here to improve my lot and will come back time after time until I get the keys to ... heaven/nirvana/shangri-la or alternatively I'm gonna burn in the fires of hell. Well, I'm not keen. And I'm certainly not keen on the fires of hell. I want to know what it is I should be doing so I can get on with it. Hmm. Not too hard is it? Apparently, yes. It is. The concept of life I grew up with was: be a child, go to school, grow up, go to university, get a job, retire, die. Well, I've truly fucked up on that. I got stuck in the growing up bit, and I can't even seem to achieve that. There are no jobs for life anymore, and retirement is just a farce unless you happen to win the lottery. I wish my dad was still alive to tell me, though actually he was as lost as I am. His only piece of advice to me was 'do whatever you want provided you're happy, and don't harm others'. Nice, but really he should have given me a map. Then there are the side roads I seem to have drifted down. Like drugs. Well, yes I do. Unfortunately. Oh lord, hear my prayer, and send me a sign ... or the lottery numbers. I thank you. I should have been an astronaut or a steam train driver. Perhaps it's not to late. Ok, so maybe not an astronaut. I'm one fucked up Emu. Goodnight. Oh, and then there's M, my true love. I want to live with him, but achieving it seems nigh impossible. The C word - commitment - is just ... terrifying, yet why should it be? I love him, and he loves me. So why is it all so difficult?
  18. Camy

    I want to cry

    When I was young, until I was about twelve or thirteen, I used to cry a lot. When I say a lot, I mean a lot. At the drop of a hat. I don't think I ever cried infront of my peers and friends, but at home I'd be howling at the unfairness of whatever it was that was unfair at that moment in time. Now I can't, and I WANT TO. Badly. There must have been a pivotal moment in my life that caused me to stop. But I can't think of one specifically. I went to boarding school (where you'd rather cut your leg off than be caught crying) and I'm British which means that I'm probably genetically repressed, but I want it, and I need it, and yet I still can't. God is that unfair. </self pity>
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