lying for a living

The Husband is a morning person. He gets up with the sun, answers his email, runs 10K, plans covert operations for the CIA, and makes waffles before I even stagger into the kitchen. Then, while I’m fumbling with the coffeemaker, he buzzes around me, describing with great energy his plans for our day, or week, or life. Let’s paint the house! Throw a block party! Get a puppy!

He will never understand this commercial. But the rest of us do.

(Via Althouse, who has a hilarious riff on newspaper aesthetics, healthy breakfast cereal, and surrealism.)

For when snorkelling through a slime-filled trench isn’t enough of a challenge: The World Mountain Bike Bog Snorkelling Championships.

Those who accept the challenge use a bike prepared with a lead-filled frame and water-filled tyres to ensure grip on the pond bottom.

The snorkeller-cyclist wears a lead weight belt to avoid floating off the bike.

And if that’s still insufficient for you, there’s “Sunday’s more gruelling challenge, The Bog Triathlon.”

Organisers say the triathlon was set up to accommodate overwhelming demand for “more dirty fun around our famous Waen Rhydd Bog”.

“The event is one of the most unusual in the triathlon calendar and starts with a 12 mile run,” a spokesman for the event said.

“It is followed by two lengths of the 60 yard peat bog trench and then a 25 mile mountain cycle. The event is open to individuals and relay teams.”

Yes, it’s summer in Britain.

Carole Daneri sends this photo of the Gap fire, which she took yesterday evening near the evacuation zone.

Haven’t talked to my mom this morning to get an on-scene report, but the Santa Barbara Independent says that last night’s briefing for fire crews was optimistic and upbeat. That’s encouraging.

The Gap fire, burning in the foothills and mountains above Santa Barbara, has consumed almost 9,000 acres. In places, the flame front is 200-300 feet high. A lot of friends have been evacuated. I know that all my old neighbors near Glen Annie Canyon are spending nights with their cars packed and somebody keeping an eye on the hills — probably somebody sitting on the roof — watching to see if it’s time to get out. Best newspaper coverage is in the Santa Barbara Independent. Latest word from the Indy is that firefighters are hopeful that they can keep the fire from barreling down San Jose Creek. That would be good. My mom lives a hundred yards from that creek.

More amazing photos here.

(Photo: Spencer Weiner, Los Angeles Times. Thanks to Carole for the photo link.)

Fake nails, fake tans, bikinis, piercings, hair extensions for grade-schoolers? “Any good mum would do the same.”

I’ve been glancing at this story on and off for a couple of hours, trying to figure out whether I’m more saddened or angry about young British beauty pageant contestant Sasha Bennington.

“Mummy’s little Lolita: The 11-year-old girl whose beauty treatments cost £300 a month to make her look like Barbie.”

[T]he pageant veteran charged with showing Sasha the ropes demonstrates how to walk like a beauty queen.

She explains how to turn your body round while holding the judges’ eyes, before flipping your head round at the last minute ‘like that Exorcist child’.

Ignore the Mail’s sneering assertion that a children’s beauty pageant held at a “down-market-looking Texan hotel” epitomises the (crass, cultureless) “American Dream.” And shake your head at mother Jayne’s cluelessness about — or indifference to — the fact that reporter Jenny Johnson was not writing a fawning puff piece but a massive Gotcha! article. Just absorb Mum’s attitude.

Part 1:

It was about the same time she started dabbling in beauty pageants that Jayne declared she wanted her daughter to be the next Jordan. She still does.

‘Of course. Jordan is her idol and I fully support her in that. She’s a great role model, this really down-to-earth woman who has made a big success of her life.’

Part 2:

Jayne takes Sasha to a major agency, in the hope that she will be signed up.

The model booker says a vehement ‘no’, horrified by her portfolio, and tells Jayne that clients want their child models to look like children, and that for this sort of career success she would have to stop bleaching Sasha’s hair and encouraging her to wear plastic nails. Jayne refuses to comply.

The portfolio photos include one of Sasha mimicking Mena Suvari’s American Beauty pose.

It comes as no surprise that Jayne used to be a model herself, and one who worked in the ‘glamour’ side of the business.

Just a reminder:

1. In Britain, “glamour model” = Get yer t*ts out.

2. Jordan.

Ask Sasha how she sees herself and she replies: ‘Blonde, pretty, dumb - I don’t need brains.’ Her mum laughs her head off at this, proud that the child is so like her.

Forget what I said at the start of this post. I know exactly how I feel.

To everybody who’s been pestering me — in a nice way! — as to when my novels will be available for audio download and in Kindle format: The Dirty Secrets Club and U.S. editions of China Lake and Mission Canyon are now available for your listening and electronic reading pleasure.

You can get MP3 CDs from either BarnesandNoble.com or Amazon.com.

For download from Audible.com:
The Dirty Secrets Club
China Lake
Mission Canyon

Kindle editions:
The Dirty Secrets Club
China Lake
Mission Canyon

When more of my novels become available in these formats, I’ll let you know.

Man found in Wisconsin basement covered in barbecue sauce.

I don’t know if the man was all there — it’s unclear whether his clothes were — but he had the best line of the week. Asked about the BBQ sauce, “He told the officers that it was urban camouflage.”

Apparently, “The guy told officers he covered himself in barbecue sauce because he wanted to hide from the government.”

In that case, I’m guessing the flavor he doused himself in was not Old Hickory.

(Yes, that’s an American government joke. It’s the Fourth of July.)

(And thanks to Rich for the link.)

Track the Bullitt car chase through San Francisco.

It’s the Fourth of July. Spend time with an American classic.

More real real comments on the U.S. book tour:

Strangest moment in Pittsburgh #4: On approach into the Pittsburgh airport, the young woman sitting across the aisle of the jet from me Omigawwwd!-ed to the man sitting beside her: “Wow, I wasn’t even born in 1979. Were you guys good?” Since the man was Dave Parker — 1978 National League MVP, 1979 World Series MVP, and member of the 1979 World Series champion Pittsburgh Pirates — he was entitled to answer Yes. The strange part? Nobody opened the emergency exit and ejected the woman from the plane.

More thanks to those who showed up to hear me speak: Blog readers! Snart, Hiker Chick, Gargoyle, Phil, Matchstick (the lurker), Sleeplessnsb… I appreciate it!

“Stop by Chicago sometime.” I did! I flew through O’Hare on my way from Pittsburgh to London. After a day of weather delays, microbursts, and crazed reservation-hopping from ain’t-gonna-make-it flights to might-make-it flights, I landed in Chicago with 50 minutes to spare. The flight attendant told everyone to stay seated, “Because these London folks need to run.” Then she waved us out the door like a squadron leader for the 82nd Airborne, shouting, “Go! Go!” (I suspect that working for a midwestern regional carrier is less exciting than she wishes.) Anyway, a bunch of us barreled into the terminal, aiming for Concourse K, which is in Nebraska. And halfway there, I saw a bookstore. With MY BOOKS right there on the shelf. I veered off from the pack, hauling my pen from my back pocket, giggling insanely. And you know what? When you throw a stack of books on the desk, looking totally out of control and shouting, “I’m signing these! I’m the author!” — nobody in the bookstore bats an eye. They don’t ask to see your ID, or even bother to compare your face with the author photo on the book jacket. They clear space, haul out the Signed by the author stickers, and start slapping them on.

So, Chicagolanders: Next time you fly out of O’Hare on American Airlines, check the bookstores in Concourse K. I left my signature all over the place. Maybe you can tell me if I actually signed my own books.

I’m back from the U.S. book tour. It went off without a hitch. Almost, anyway. The Chihuahuas have gone into detox. (Note: Espresso is bad for anxious little dogs.) And Trixie, one of my people, is languishing in jail because of the stewardess-slapping incident. I’m bereft. Until she’s released, who’s going to prepare my Eggs Benedict, or my papaya-and-mink-oil smoothies? Perhaps somebody will start an Internet petition on her behalf. I’d look feisty in a “Free Trixie” T-shirt.

Okay, highlights and random observations — the real, real story:

• Best surprise: At every single event, from Houston to Los Angeles to New York, old friends turned up. I’m talking law school classmates, my kids’ former cub scout den leaders, bridesmaids, and parents of people dear to me. Hell, a girl I went to school with 30 years ago in Santa Barbara showed up to hear me speak. In Dayton. I feel extremely lucky to have such generous and supportive friends.
• Biggest laugh: Walking out of baggage claim at London Heathrow after a 17 hour trip from Phoenix, I saw the Husband standing among the limo drivers, wearing a bow tie, carrying a placard that read, “Meg Gardiner. American Airlines flt. 50. Dutton Books.”
• Best lesson: Be ready for anything. The evening before my New York City event, I walked out of my hotel on West 54th Street and ran straight into Paul Goldstein, my former law professor, who was on his way to speak at Borders in Columbus Circle. The event was sponsored by Stanford law school, so most of the crowd wore suits. Except for some Borders, ah, regulars. Including one man who shouted instructions at Prof. Goldstein from the front row. And a woman who wore a tiny, unbuttoned blouse, tied pirate-style (well, sort of tied, in a look out, it’s gonna blow! kind of of way) over, shall we say, ample fields of flesh. And I mean ample — she was falling out of that shirt in directions that I didn’t even know existed. You’ve heard that physicists think the universe may contain undiscovered dimensions? Well, they were all on display there in Borders — undulating, and swelling in and out of view (gah, my eyes, they still burn!) when the gal got up and strolled straight past the good professor not once, but twice, to heap a pile of hors d’ouevres on her plate six inches high. Then she strolled back, licking her fingers and muttering spells at the rest of us. My event the next night didn’t serve hors d’ouevres. But by comparison, it was a piece of cake.
• Weirdest moments in Pittsburgh: (3) Seeing Andy Warhol’s silkscreened version of a Life magazine photo, depicting — repeatedly — the body of a young woman who had leaped from the Empire State Building and crushed a car eighty-six stories below, (2) Admiring a massive gold canvas with patches where the paint had been washed off, apparently with a hose… only not. Elapsed time between reading the phrase “stream of urine,” and speed-walking out the door: .15 seconds. (1) Walking past the Pittsburgh Westin and finding myself surrounded by several hundred Goths. All wearing fuzzy tails. Death-metal furries. Yow.
• Least surprising discovery: Cinnabon has no sense of humor. When I asked for a side of insulin to go with my cinnamon roll, the woman behind the counter stared blankly and said, “I don’t understand you.” But the joke was on me. After two bites, the icing dissolved my teeth.
• “Who needs sleep?” mantra: Repeating “I’m not tired,” works! Until it doesn’t. Same with coffee. And, sadly, with Snickers bars.
• In summary: When your publisher offers you the chance to fly across the country to meet booksellers and talk to readers about your work, grab it. You’re luckier than hell.

Which one’s from The Onion?

Fox News airs altered photos of New York Times reporters. Photoshopped to create yellowed teeth, huge nose, sticky-out ears, receding hairline.

U.S. sprinter undergoes search-and-replace. The fundie American Family Association’s OneNewsNow site “corrected” sprinter Tyson Gay’s name in all its stories. Their headline: “Homosexual eases into 100 final at Olympic trials.”

Entertainment scientists warn that Miley Cyrus will be depleted by 2013. (Video. With bonus headline at the end of the clip: “An earthquake wiped out Etchisketchistan today.”)

Got some reviews of The Dirty Secrets Club and the U.S. edition of China Lake.

The Dirty Secrets Club:

“A crackerjack thriller.” Seattle Post-Intelligencer.

“Steeped in nonstop action, psychological terror and an evocative use of the San Francisco background, The Dirty Secrets Club brims with surprises and unpredictable twists. Gardiner succinctly explores soul-numbing grief and forgiveness (especially the inability to forgive oneself) as well as greed, thrill seekers and revenge. She also layers on a contemporary issue — in this age of Facebook and MySpace, where every private thought and deed is laid out for everyone to view — what’s the price of secrecy?” Chicago Tribune.

“Sometimes it seems like England gets all the good stuff first: the Beatles, the Mini Cooper, ‘The Kumars at No. 42′… American readers will now have the chance to experience one of the finest contemporary writers in the genre.” BookPage.

“Now [Gardiner] has the chance to show her birth country what she can do in this appealing, entertaining thriller.” Sarah Weinman, Newsday. (Weinman likes Jo Beckett best when she’s investigating, rather than remembering her late husband, and adds, “Gardiner’s no-nonsense style allows her free rein to drop twist after twist.”)

“Highly recommended.” Library Journal (starred review).

China Lake:

“Gardiner nimbly turns what could be a tired plot into a suspenseful thriller, thanks in part to the quick-witted—and even quicker tempered—Evan.” Publishers Weekly.

“Gardiner… renders a cast of compelling characters and a hair-raising plot that never stops.” Booklist (starred review).

“Bottom line: Is Meg Gardiner worth the investment of your reading time? Yes. Yes she is. As these two works aptly demonstrate, she is a confident, creative and entertaining storyteller with a skillful sense of pacing, a sure hand with characterization and an evocative sense of her northern California settings.” Bookgasm.

Now. To shrink my swollen head so that I can fit through the door of the bus, I note that the Washington Post was driven crazy by Dirty Secrets, calling it “less a novel than a clever little contraption designed to seize readers, extract $25, punch their various buttons and eventually release them with a dazed look in their eyes and, ideally, a smile on their faces.” The problem? The book is commercial. Commercial, commercial, COMMERCIAL. It contains awful commercial attributes such as villains, good guys, and “our next Major Plot Element, the Heroine.” The reviewer figures I could have written something better, “but London’s expensive these days, and a writer’s gotta do what she’s gotta do.” Yes, the Post thinks I’m a word whore. And not the kind with a heart of gold. Oh, well.

On the other hand, Time Out New York picks Dirty Secrets as one of the summer’s Top 20 Beach Reads. And it commissioned poet Matthea Harvey to turn lines from the 20 books into a poem.