I’m thrilled to the gills, to announce that Seen Reading will return this spring!

When we last met, Seen Reading stayed mostly on the rails. I’ll continue to track the reading habits of transit riders, widening that scope significantly. But I’d love to set up shop all over this great city. If you love your neighbourhood, nominate them for a visit by sending an email with the subject heading “We Want to Be Seen” to julie[at]seenreading[dot]com. Readers are everywhere. Coffee shops. Cafes. Invite me over! C’est voila, we have a week of sightings that showcase your community. And you’ll keep me from getting kicked out of a fitness joint for standing too close to the treadmill. All to say, I think we can do something really great here.

Readers Reading will also continue. If you love the sound of your own voice, send me a 1-2 minute recording of you reading from one of your favourite books. Be sure to introduce yourself, speak clearly, and include an image of you holding the book. (Doesn’t have to be your face. But I’d like to see your hands. It’s a nice touch!)

Join the fun by posting your own sightings on Twitter using the hashtag #seenreading. Follow me @SeenReading where I’ll be posting my own. (If you want to chit chat, holla at me @BookMadam.)

More to come. Just wanted to touch base to say that I’m looking forward to seeing you again!

Julie Wilson

In the meantime, here’s the wassup. I’ve signed with the literary agency Anne McDermid & Associates. We’re currently developing a manuscript of micro fiction based on a number of the entries to be found here. Lydia Davis has certainly made good by it, so here’s to keeping our fingers crossed that there’s someone out there who understands that it’s the tiniest passageways that lead to some of the world’s greatest vistas. I love this kind of writing precisely because it leaves so much to the reader’s imagination.

On that note, there’s another micro fiction project in the works that feels like it could be more of a collaboration with you as both reader and writer. More on that to come.

I’ve also been signed by ECW Press to write a companion guide to the hugely popular HBO series True Blood. we’re calling it Truly, Madly, Deadly: The Unofficial True Blood Companion, and it will be available June 2010, just in time for Season Three. I’m writing it as Rebecca (Becca) Wilcott, but it ain’t no secret. There are a number of reasons I chose to write under a pseudonym, but it mostly comes down to an audience that has a thriving role playing community, and a show in which everyone is someone or something unto itself. In this case, to adopt a pseudonym isn’t an effort to hide my identity but to amplify the things that I adore about HBO, True Blood, The Sookie Stackhouse Novels, and the paranormal. It just feels right.

I’ve also started a book and author promotions service called Book Madam & Associates. It’s very beta right now, but will kick up in early 2010. It’s a fun, cheeky approach to online marketing that takes the business of book selling very seriously. Prices are reasonable. Events to be announced.

Finally, I’m guest hosting the CBC Book Club during Canada Reads. Hope to see you over there joining in the debates and conversations, and generally loving up Canadian books and authors.

Here’s where you can find me, Becca, and everything we’re working on.

Book Madam & Associates blog
Follow Book Madam on Twitter @BookMadam
Book Madam on YouTube

Becca Wilcott’s blog
Follow Becca on Twitter @BeccaWilcott
Friend Becca on Facebook
Becca’s picture Posterous
Complete Becca’s True Blood questionnaire, “Interview with a Sympathizer”

Be seein’ ya!

Julie Wilson

Pixie girl, blonde pigtails, maybe 10, and small for her age. Halfway through, likely approaching the scene where Violet has to marry Count Olaf. Yuck.

The Bad Beginning, Lemony Snicket (HarperCollins)

Page 99:

“I stayed up all night reading,” Klaus said breathlessly, as his sister opened her eyes, and I discovered what Count Olaf is up to. He plans to marry you for real, when you and Justice Strauss and everyone all think it’s just a play, and once he’s your husband he’ll have control of our parents’ money and he can dispose of us.”

Oh no, indeed! I wonder if she’ll make it all the way through the series or close the book before the end of Book One when Snicket offers a final warning, “if you like, you may shut the book this instant and not read the unhappy ending that is to follow.” I did just that.

Monique Trottier

Southbound, Spadina and Dundas — Toronto, ON

Caucasian male, early 30s, with shaggy blonde hair, wearing black-framed glasses, white, collared dress shirt, and light grey dress pants.

Happiness, Will Ferguson (Penguin)

Page 205:

Even Edwin was sorry to see him go. “Nigel, listen. About the incident with the necktie and the pencil sharpener —”

Nigel held up his palm in a small fluid motion, like a Buddhist monk preparing to stop traffic, and said with a soothing voice: “Yesterday’s weather, Edwin. Do not worry about the necktie. There is no need to apologize.”

“Apologize?” said Edwin. “You still owe me 140 bucks. Isn’t that right, Mr. Mead?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Mead. “You’re right. Nigel still owes you for that. Not to worry, Edwin, I’ll make sure that amount is deducted from Nigel’s paycheque — from Nigel’s final paycheque.”

The warm olives arrive and he’s surprised by how many of them there are. He glances peripherally at the waitress, and picks through the olives, gingerly plucking one that looks particularly, safely, tender, and pops it into his mouth, the skin falling free of the pit in one bite. He instinctively grips the bass of his pint glass for comfort, as if reaching for his girlfriend’s hand each night as they fall asleep. The waitress places the rest of the starters between them, nothing that doesn’t require the question, do I use a fork, or not? He grabs another olive, his fingers clumsy in the oil, and manages to palm it into his mouth. This one is tougher. He grinds the flesh in his front teeth while the man sitting across from him pours the last of his wine into the fresh glass that’s just arrived, passing the empty glass to the waitress who waits. He takes a long sip off the top of the glass, and continues. “I’m really happy to hear this. I was going to tell you to leave a month ago. Truly.” He plucks a fritter from the basket, dipping it into the sauce, biting, then dipping again. “Honestly, it’s high time you put you first, son. You’ve worked hard.”

He drops the pit onto his side plate, his hand falling palm up on the table. Relief. He isn’t just putting himself first; he’s putting his best foot forward.

Male, 30s, longish curly brown hair, black t-shirt, black jeans, black oxfords, grey vinyl briefcase.

Fifth Business, Robertson Davies (Penguin)

Page 82:

She was a romantic, and as I had never met a female romantic before it was a delight to me to explore her emotions. She wanted to know all about me, and I told her as honestly as I could; but as I was barely twenty, and a romantic myself, I know now that I lied in every word I uttered - lied not in fact, but in emphasis, in colour, and in intention. She was entranced by the idea of life in Canada, and I made it entrancing.

Night. Hooting of owls.
Noveline (sighing): Sure, and there’s nothing more entrancing than cold weather.
Romana: What could be more romantic than endless snowy nights?
Noveline (drily): Endless summer nights.
Romana: Well, Canada has both. As well as more romantics per capita than anywhere else in the world.
Noveline: Is that a fact? Or have you been listening to Leonard Cohen again?
Romana: Hmmph.


Saleema Nawaz

Caucasian female, early 20s, wearing square rimmed glasses.

Not Wanted on the Voyage, Timothy Findley (Penguin)

Page 35:

Hannah Noyes was a total mystery. Nothing of love or friendliness or joy had ever passed her lips or moved her expression. Moving against her skirts, Mottyl had never felt anything there of pleasure or warmth. Never the descending hand and never the stooping call for a bowl of cream or plate of entrails. Nothing.

The ad in the Chicago Reader had read, “FREE KITTENS. You come get.”

I climbed up three flights of rickety wooden stairs to get to the place. A woman answered the door, curlers in her hair, polyester pants clinging to her thighs. She led me to her closet of a kitchen, the scent of tomatoes cooking on the stove so strong it made me feel dizzy and sick. Goulash in August, in the city, in a brown brick oven of an apartment without air conditioning. She pulled aside the faded calico curtain that skirted around the bottom of her sink, revealing a large cardboard box full of mewling kittens.

I crouched down and made my pick. All black, the only one.

“That one?” she asked. “You sure?”

I cradled the kitten in my hands, and held him out in front of me so we could take a good long look at each other.

She scowled at me and shook her head. “You don’t want. He’s wild, that one. No good for a nice girl like you.”

The kitten let out a quivery cry.

Thirteen years he was - strategically affectionate with me, always willing to tolerate my cheer and my enthusiasm for closeness.

Ami McKay

PS Thanks, Julie - for taking me along for the ride!!!

Caucasian male, mid 30s, blond hair, blue eyes, kind of dreamy. Wait, it’s my guy. He’s hunched over reading the oldest copy of the book I’ve ever seen. He points out that it’s from 1979, certainly not THE oldest. Eye rolling.

The Hobbit, J.R.R. Tolkien (Unwin)

Page 108:

There was a howl of anger and surprise from the goblins. Loud cried the Lord of the Eagles, to whom Gandalf had now spoken. Back swept the great birds that were with him, and down they came like huge black shadows. The wolves yammered and gnashed their teeth; the goblins yelled and stamped with rage, and flung their heavy spears in the air in vain. Over them swooped the eagles; the dark rush of their beating wings smote them to the floor or drove them far away; their talons tore at goblin faces. Other birds flew to the tree-tops and seized the dwarves, who were scrambling up now as far as they ever dared to go.

Poor little Bilbo was very nearl left behind again!

Now that’s out of the frying-pan and into the fire. Poor little Bilbo.

Monique Trottier

Westbound, Bloor and Broadview — Toronto, ON

Caucasian woman, late 20s, with long brown hair in hair-band, wearing tan skirt, white tank top, and pistaschio-green sweater.

Mistress of the Sun , Sandra Gulland (HarperCollins)

Page 217:

In the weeks that followed, Petite rode with the King and his men almost every afternoon. She astonished them, riding in close behind the hounds and proving to be steady, fearless and strong, as good with a spear as any man. In a race, it was sometimes Petite who pulled into the lead, and sometimes the King. The couriers could not keep up.

She can’t recall how they became best friends, but remembers the end. Just as school let out for summer, he moved to town, but not to her neighbourhood. They were in the same grade, but that’s not how you make best friends. Your best friend lives next door, across the street, or, occasionally, two yards behind you. Your best friend can be in your class, but it’s not mandatory. Street rules: a nine-year-old and a seven-year-old have more than enough in common if all they do is toss a ball in the street until dinner’s called. And if the parents are willing to check your mail while you’re out of town, both households are on good terms.

He lived a bike ride away — twenty-three minutes, to be exact — on the other side of a bridge. They strolled ravines, straddled fallen trees, and the only time she met his father was the day he hoisted her bike into the wide trunk of his Cadillac and drove her back over the tracks as her mother was about to lock the screen door. The mother pinched her night robe closed at the neck, face-to-face with the father, his suit jacket sitting in the back seat of the car, his tie’s knot wrestled loose to sit on his left collarbone, his hand ushering her over the threshold with a gentle, and final, pat.

Caucasian male, 30s, brown tousled hair, plaid Western shirt, skinny jeans, sneakers, carrying nothing but a novel.

Middlesex, Jeffrey Eugenides (Vintage Canada)

Page 43:

Eleutherios and Desdemona Stephanides left Bithynios on August 31, 1922. They left on foot, carrying two suitcases packed with clothes, toiletries, Desdemona’s dream book and worry beads, and two of Lefty’s texts of Ancient Greek. Under her arm Desdemona also carried her silkworm box containing a few hundred silkworm eggs wrapped in a white cloth.

Day. Kettle whistling.
Romana: Remember when we stopped eating honey?
Noveline (crossly): Yes. (relenting) The poor little bee slaves.
Romana: Well, there’s something I need to tell you about your dressing gown.

Saleema Nawaz

Caucasian woman, early 40s, wearing faded jeans, black T-shirt, her wavy hair tangled in the wind.

Are You Somebody? Nuala O’Faolain (Owl Books)

Pg. 183

Time. I note every day the physical detail of middle age. The transparent polyps that have formed on the skin of my neck. The first white hair in my eyebrows. Pigment spots on my midriff, which will never tan again. I see people my age cherishing their parents. No service they can offer is too much. If my mother had got old and I had been able to love her, would I be able to love my own aging body now? If I had had children? How do people arrange to love their aging selves?

Every year on her birthday, her mother would tell her the story of her birth. It didn’t matter how far she went from home or how late is was when they finally found one another by phone — once the how are yous and the weather talk was out of the way, her mother would begin the tale. She always managed to make that same story — of a pregnant woman, a county fair, a candy apple craving, and a late July thunderstorm — sound new, and miraculous, time and again.

Now she makes stories of her own, measuring the sentences, and counting the years like this—

I am forty-one and two.

Forty-one years since the day of her birth, two years since she last heard her mother’s voice.

Ami McKay

South Asian male, 20s, dark bushy hair, green t-shirt, khakis, sneakers, black bag. Walking and reading.

Blindness, José Saramago (Harcourt Brace & Co)

Page 25:

…it is here, she discreetly knocked on the door, ten minutes later she was naked, fifteen minutes later she was moaning, eighteen minutes later she was whispering words of love that she no longer needed to feign, after twenty minutes she began to lose her head, after twenty-one minutes she felt that her body was being lacerated with pleasure, after twenty-two minutes she called out, Now, now, and when she regained consciousness she said, exhausted and happy, I can still see everything white.

Night. Waxing moon. Sound of whippoorwills.
Romana (breathlessly): My goodness.
Noveline: They used to say some things would make you go blind.

Saleema Nawaz

Caucasian male, late 20s, with brush cut, sunglasses perched on top of head, and wearing black fleecie.

You Are Here: A Portable History of the Universe, Christopher Potter (Knopf Canada)

Page 59:

It’s Not About You

Not at first did the gods reveal all things to mortals, but in time, by inquiry, they made better discoveries. -Xenophanes

Our understanding of how the contents of the large-scale universe are arranged - as a hierarchy of stars in motion - is the result of hundreds of years of scientific investigation. Whatever the scientific method has become, it was not always as it is now. It has evolved over time, in tandem with our understanding of the universe, and doubtless will continue to evolve as our understanding of the universe deepens. Science and the universe are inseparable.

My first birthday was five days after the moon landing, but my mother always liked to brag that I took my first “giant leap” before Neil Armstrong. My father, in his excitement over the Apollo 11 mission, took photographs of our bulby television set. Sadly, the pictures all failed, the screen turned to a murky green in the blinding Sylvania flash. It was cause for deep disappointment. You have to understand, he was a Navy man. He was a flight mech. in the Korean war, keeping the planes going, testing them by day, but never flying by night, never completing a mission because he was colour blind. He was nineteen.

Ami McKay

I don’t own a plane, so I devised a brilliant plan to steal a donkey, find an unwitting sidekick, and employ a crew to film our cross country road trip in an effort to attract sponsorship. Someone suggested we read to strangers along the way to raise extra funds. It was at this point that I realized I’d have to teach a donkey to read. So, I’m back to the plane. And in search of someone who wants to buy a shockingly literate donkey.

If you’ve ever enjoyed a moment’s distraction here on Seen Reading, a chuckle during a Book Madam broadcast, or want to help offset the future prop costs of The Hard-boiled Book Club, the only book club to ask, “How do you like your eggs?” (details to come), please consider dropping a fiver in my tip jar. (PayPal link found on each post page.)

Publishers, want to be a “Send a Kid to (Book)Camp Sponsor”? Drop a decent chunk in the bucket, and I’ll be your Book Mule, embedding myself and a book of your choice in such exciting locations as: the subway, the airport check-in, the airport lounge, on the actual airplane, in line for the airplane facilities, and any other places in between. Because books are my buddies, I’ll also post pics along the way. Me and Book grabbing a bite. Me and Book taking in the sights. Me and Book in emerg after an unfortunate limbo incident. (Never underestimate a captive emerg audience.)

This is for reals. I’m excited for the BookCamp folk in Vancouver, and would love to lend a hand.

For details, email me at julie[at]seenreading[dot]com.

To donate now, click here. (PayPal.)

Many generous thanks for any support you can offer.

Be seein’ ya!

Julie Wilson

~~~

Caucasian female, early 30s, wearing grey track suit, riding home on 84 bus down 4th Avenue. The Book Warehouse bag contained two items and she was thoroughly engrossed in reading about the art of long-term world travel.

Vagabonding, Rolf Potts (Villard)

In reality, long-term travel has nothing to do with demographics — age, ideology, income — and everything to do with personal outlook. Long-term travel isn’t about being a college student; it’s about being a student of daily life. Long-term travel isn’t an act of rebellion against society; it’s an act of common sense within society. Long-term travel doesn’t require a massive “bundle of cash”; it requires only that we walk through the world in a more deliberate way.

This deliberate way of walking through the world has always been intrinsic to the time-honored, quietly available travel tradition known as “vagabonding.”

Vagabonding involves taking an extended time-out from your normal life - six weeks, four months, two years - to travel the world on your own terms.

But beyond travel, vagabonding is an outlook on life. Vagabonding is about using the prosperity and possibility of the information age to increase your personal options instead of your personal possessions. Vagabonding is about looking for adventure in normal life, and normal life within adventure. Vagabonding is an attitude?a friendly interest in people, places, and things that makes a person an explorer in the truest, most vivid sense of the word.

Vagabonding is not a lifestyle, nor is it a trend. It’s just an uncommon way of looking at life - a value adjustment from which action naturally follows. And, as much as anything, vagabonding is about time - our only real commodity - and how we choose to use it.

Are you a vagabond?

As Walt Whitman says in “Song of the Open Road”:

From this hour I ordain myself loos’d of limits and imaginary lines, Going where I list, my own master total and absolute, Listening to others, considering well what they say, Pausing, searching, receiving, contemplating, Gently, but with undeniable will divesting myself of the holds that would hold me.

Monique Trottier

~~~

Caucasian woman with blonde hair, wearing white and black sleeveless top, and black pants. First reader of the last set, she crosses the stage to a mic under a still dark night and addresses the Scream survivors still planted on the grass, ready to listen.

The Night is a Mouth, Lisa Foad (Exile Editions)

Page 82:

“Right, right. But listen, Gold. If you ever find yourself sitting in a city made of hunger, cut its heart out or it’ll eat yours. No joke. And Gold, if you talk to your mother, tell her I love her. Tell her that I didn’t do anything wrong. And tell her that if I did, it’s partly her fault. Because we’re a team.”

“Dad—”

“Okay, okay. Bye, darling.”

Seconds later, the phone rings. Sure enough, it’s Gold’s mom.

“Gold, it’s your mother.”

“My mother’s dead.”

The woman sitting two rows down leans forward, her chin in her hands, her chin on her knees. She strokes her shoe laces, tracing them past each eyelet to the end of their road, her fingers perilously edging over the tip of her sneakers. The man beside her reaches over, places his forearm lazily across her shoulder, his finger just able to twirl the longest strand of her curly hair around his index finger. He tugs gently; she likes the tingle. He kisses her clothed shoulder, and she sits back into his shoulder. Breezy readings come but once a year.

~~~

June’s Book Madam book choices revealed! What did I pick for this month’s winners? Watch below to find out!

Follow @bookmadam on Twitter for your chance to win free books from SeenReading.com and McNally Robinson Booksellers!

Female, 20s, dark curly hair. Wearing a yellow dress, lying on a blanket.

The Flying Troutmans, Miriam Toews (Knopf)

Page 33:

That night Logan came home drunk. I heard him fall down in the kitchen. I went in and switched on the light and he said, Oh man, dude, that is a seriously diaphanous nightgown you’ve got on. I switched the light off again and knelt down beside his head. C’mon, let’s get you up to bed. He wanted to stay there.

Day. Full sun.
Noveline: People always picture angels wearing nightgowns, don’t they? But just imagine the drafts. (shudders) I think heaven would be a place where everyone could wear pyjamas all the time.
Romana: (looking over) Then I guess we’re already there.

Saleema Nawaz

]]> http://www.seenreading.com/the-flying-troutmans-by-miriam-toews-knopf/feed/ http://www.seenreading.com/outliers-by-malcolm-gladwell-hachette-audio/ http://www.seenreading.com/outliers-by-malcolm-gladwell-hachette-audio/#comments Thu, 09 Jul 2009 10:00:51 +0000 somisguided http://www.seenreading.com/?p=1154 Calgary, AB

Caucasian male, mid 30s, in a SUV that definitely goes off road. Stereo blasting Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell.

Outliers: The Story of Success by Malcolm Gladwell (Hachette Audio)

On the 10,000 Hours Rule: “In Hamburg, we had to play for eight hours.”

Listen to the audio clip …

This non-stop strip tease has been brought to you by SeenListening.

Monique Trottier

]]> http://www.seenreading.com/outliers-by-malcolm-gladwell-hachette-audio/feed/ http://www.seenreading.com/be-seein-ya/ http://www.seenreading.com/be-seein-ya/#comments Wed, 08 Jul 2009 21:45:55 +0000 julie http://www.seenreading.com/be-seein-ya/ After almost three years, I’ve decided to conclude Seen Reading, the project. SeenReading.com will continue as a personal blog, and umbrella for past, present, and future projects such as 30 in 30, Readers Reading, and Book Madam. I’d like to thank Ami McKay, Saleema Nawaz, and Monique Trottier for coming on board for such a short (yet sweet) time. I still envision Seen Reading as a community and am open to suggestions. Until that time, however, I’m taking an extended hiatus to regroup and, well, write.

I’m renewing my efforts to craft a collection of microfiction loosely based on the over 600 sightings amassed here. This will be, I hope, the first in a series of such collections. I haven’t abandoned my novel; I’m simply allowing myself to own that this is voodoo that I do do (she said, doo doo) so well. That I should also enjoy writing it as much as I enjoy eating orange creamsicles and drinking french-pressed coffee is what makes life hella kinda cool.

To write about, and to, the readers I’ve seen on my daily travels has been a joy and privilege that I don’t expect to repeat. The reasons to end now are mindful and plenty, but they can be summed up in a reader sighting quite different from the one I’ve often cited as the starting point for Seen Reading, the woman seated at a bar who upon closing in on the final pages of Miriam Toew’s A Complicated Kindness had to leave because it wasn’t the right place to be when she finished the book. Not unlike that day, when something twigged inside me and I realized that I not only wanted to note the reading habits of those I encountered, but that I also wanted to respond to what they’d been reading, this truly other reader showed me that the stories of readers everywhere.

I’d place him in his mid 70s. For years, I’ve seen him on benches along the Danforth and in Withrow Park, always by streetlight. When weather permits, he appears and takes up residency for the night, plastic bags beside him, nose buried deep in a new book. A year ago, I started to leave a book out from time to time in the hope that he’d find it. I had no idea if my tastes matched his, but, each morning, the book was gone. Walking through Withrow Park one particularly hot evening, I noticed that all the benches were occupied, in some cases by more than one person. I started to leave more books out; again, each morning they were gone. If you’ve partnered with me for a contest, there’s a good chance your book has found it’s way into the hands of one who may not be able to afford more than multiple readings, someone who, like me, enjoys the ritual of being transported into a world of someone else’s design. All that’s to say that on the other side of this hiatus, I hope to be engaging in more one-to-one conversations with readers from all over, and all circumstances. Reader Relations.

Publishers, I still plan to talk up your books. Continue to contact me at julie[at]seenreading[dot]com.

Indie booksellers, my offer to advertise your stores for free is still in effect.

And, as always, I’m open to innovative ways to reach readers. If you want to partner for a contest, you know where to find me.

So, there we are. To suggest that I’ll be seeing you in all the familiar places is a bit hokey, but, nonetheless, true. And it’s to my great delight that I’ll be able to once again join the ranks of readers who obliviously miss their stop, pay no mind to the noise at the neighbouring table at the coffee shop, and read into the dusk at the park, moving from one bench to the next in search of the last of day’s light.

Schedule for final entries:

Ami McKay — Monday, August 3
Saleema Nawaz — Tuesday, August 4
Julie Wilson — Wednesday, August 5
Monique Trottier — Thursday, August 6

Be seein’ ya.

Julie Wilson

Caucasian male, mid-forties, wearing brown t-shirt, khakis, with black bag and red bike helmet.

Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned, Wells Tower (Farrar, Straus and Giroux)

Page 95:

A flock of geese rose from the far side of the lake and drifted into a spotty boomerang formation overhead. Barry hoisted Marie up so she could see over the car. One arm slid across her shoulders, the other caught her in the crook of her knees, and he propped my daughter on his stomach in a way that showed he’d held her like this many times before.

Night. Picnic blanket. Full moon.
Romana: Did you know a boomerang works just the same in space as it does on earth?
Noveline: Shhh.

Saleema Nawaz

Caucasian Male, mid 50’s, black track pants, grey sweatshirt, camo. baseball cap, handlebar moustache.

Colonization: Down to Earth, Harry Turtledove (Del Ray)

Pg. 70

She sighed again. He prudently kept driving. She knew how much he loved going into space; he knew better than to rhapsodize about it. He even enjoyed weightlessness, which put him in a distinct minority. And coming back after being away gave him several honeymoons a year. Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder, he thought, cheerfully butchering Shakespeare - an American spaceman had taught him the pun, which didn’t work in German.

Single White Male.    Mid50’s.    Gainfully Employed.

Enjoys botany walks, filk music and contra dancing.

Turtledove, the Roberts - Jordan and Sawyer, Azimov.

Seeks Deanna Troi to his William Riker.

Shall we boldly go?

He will place the ad. on the internet tonight…

- Ami McKay