What not to do on a Pilates Ball (Moment of Aargh)

So to fully explain this, I need to rewind a little to when I got back to London in January. I trudged through my front door, lurched up the stairs, staggered into my bedroom - and found a fairly impressive, anatomically correct (kinda) blow-up pool cushion on my bed, with a welcome home message from Stacey introducing me to Darryl. The anatomical part made a fairly convenient handle to carry it through to the lounge and sling it on top of the bean bag pile, although if the neighbours across the road were watching I predict a certain amount of eye-watering and leg-crossing.

I decided it was time to get back on the Pilates ball a few days ago. What I didn't realise was that at some point, Stacey had wedged my ball against the giant bean bags (now proudly topped with Darryl, in all his glory) to the point that it was holding them up.

I discovered that the Pilates ball had been performing a fairly useful function when I was half-way through the second exercise, which is a backwards stretch. What this means is that I was curved backwards over the bloody ball, finger-tips touching the carpet on one side, toe-tips on the other. This is not a position conducive to rapid movement.

Something shifted in the room. There was a gentle croaking, the whisper of pleather moving against itself. Darryl's pertinent bit (which was all I could really see from my position) wobbled. Then it wiggled.

I froze, trying to figure out what what make a six foot pile of giant bean bags and a blow-up male doll lilo thingie behave like this. My inner voice, which seems to catch on quicker than the rest of me in these situations, whimpered. Then everything happened very fast.

Me (starting to sit up) : Eh?
Beanbags: *Shudder*
Darryl: *Waggle*
Me: What the -
Inner Voice : OhCrapOhCrapOhCrap
Beanbags: *Slow Motion Avalanche*
Darryl : *Target Locked. Hey, babe.*
Me: OH YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!

At which point the ball moved. Since I was totally unbalanced, I moved with it, back to the original position of being upside down. My toes left the ground. Somewhere, the gentle shifting of pleather turned into the silence you get just before everything really goes pear-shaped.

About three seconds later I was enveloped in two very large pleather beanbags, and Darryl.  I missed receiving a black eye from a blow-up dong by about six centimetres, and sheer luck.

And then I fell off the bloody Pilates ball.

The UK has it's own version of the Hunger Games, and here it is.

About 15 years ago, I hit a patch where eating was suddenly a luxury. The thought of doing what I can do today - walk into a supermarket and buy food in quantities to feed myself for a week or more - was so far out of reach it was a pipe-dream.

I was between part-time jobs, and studying full-time. Things were strained with my folks for a variety of reasons, and sheer stubbornness wouldn't let me call them and say I needed help, which they would've done in a minute. (Of course, I would've had to find the money for the phone call. We had no landline, and cell phones were in the realm of yuppie-land, along with fancy holidays and weekly grocery shopping trips.)

On bad days, when I had nothing apart from some instant coffee and sugar to eat, I'd gather the clothes I could part with, head down to the local second-hand shop, and sell them. On very bad days, I also sold off some of my books.
If I was lucky I'd come out with R20 to R40, and head to the store. Toilet paper, canned food - running a fridge costs money - bread, noodles. To this day I have an absolute horror of instant noodles; the sight of those little packets takes me straight back to walking into a shop with my favourite blouse tucked into a packet, and knowing I was about to grovel in the hope of a fair price.

I never got to the stage where I dumpster dived - I'd have broken down and called my folks first - but I knew people who did. They'd wait for the clean-out of the local shop at 7 o'clock. Bread a couple of days past it's sell-by date, cold meats that had expired, as long as they weren't green. If they were hungry enough, they took a chance on the green meat. They didn't have people they could go to and tell about the yawning pit in the base of their bellies; when eating is a luxury, you are always hungry. It's like a rat, sitting in the corner of your brain and chewing quietly at everything.

Fast forward a couple of years. I was in my final year at college, sharing a house with my boyfriend and a flat-mate. We all had  steady part-time incomes, enough that we hired a cleaning lady to come in once a week. We had graduated to weekly shopping trips. We weren't rolling in caviar, but we weren't eating instant noodles, either.
The second week the cleaning lady came, I went home early from college, and found her scraping food scraps out of our garbage and eating it. It turned out she'd walked into town because she couldn't afford the bus fare, and she was looking after her grandkids and a mentally disabled son. She hadn't eaten in three days; the money she got went on food for them, and she was scared to take any of the food in the kitchen and lose her job.
She went home with a food parcel that day, and we made sure that we had bread or left-overs from the night before for her from then on. We weren't rich, but we weren't starving, and cursed if we'd let anyone under our roof leave hungry after cleaning our mess up. And I still remembered the rat, that little frantic chewing of hope and dignity.

When I moved to London twelve years ago, one of the things that struck me was the infrastructure that appeared to be in place to help people out. People struggling to live could get housing, could get a small allowance. Students were given an allowance to study. There were no street kids. There were very few homeless sleeping in doorways, compared to South African cities. They were still there, but when you've grown used to three-year olds begging for food and money with that rat already settled in behind their eyes, the impact is lessened. It shouldn't be, but it is. Humans have a strange capacity for accepting the unacceptable, for tolerating circumstances that should make them blanch and say enough. 

Since then, the tabloids and the wealthy darlings currently running the country have made ordinary people ashamed to claim benefits, often times benefits they desperately need, and paid for during their working lives. (I'm aware of the scroungers. I'm also aware that they're a pretty small percentage of the people claiming.) The shelters and housing have been slashed. The student allowance, often something poorer kids needed to pay for their transport and gear for college has been eliminated. Rentals have tripled in London, and the odds of me ever affording a mortgage for a property in the UK? I have a better shot at winning the lottery. Food prices have soared; it is cheaper to eat the burgers they sell for £1.99 than to buy a loaf of bread and a slab of cheese. (Tesco brand bread : 0.45p. Cheddar cheese: £2.49).
The current arrangement if you're out of work seems expressly designed to make it impossible to keep your dignity and meet all the requirements to sign on for job-seekers allowance.

In the years since I got here, I've seen more and more people appear on the pavements. They sit beside ATM's, or in the stairwells of tube stations, they huddle in doorways and train stations. They wait for the shops to close and hang around the dustbins. If they can't get anything from the shop bins - most of them now lock up their rubbish so people cannot access it - they'll hunt through the bins and bags left for collection on garbage day. Most of them are on intimate terms with the rat.

The shops - all of the supermarkets - throw away thousands of tons of food a year. Instead of using the centres set up to redistribute it, it gets tossed in the trash.

Every now and then, one of the people desperate enough to dig through that skip full of trash behind the shop gets arrested. They get charged with handling stolen goods, or vagrancy. This is not shop-lifting. This is food that was thrown out. In the case of the "stolen goods" conviction, the woman concerned was given the package of food by a friend. Somebody needs to explain to me how it is in my interests - or any of the publics interest - to charge people who are desperate for food with a crime? Tell me how grinding down someone already scrabbling to survive, already choking on the constant fear that comes with constant hunger, with that fucking rat scrambling and chewing at the base of your brain, makes this country better, safer and stronger?

Here's a thought. Pass a law that states that instead of filling the giant skip behind your store, you use the same people and time it takes to fill it and hand that food out to anyone who needs it. Set up a schedule in the front of the shop that people can see. The excuse that some of the food is dangerous doesn't wash: if it was good enough to be on your shelves at 9:55, it's good enough to hand out at 10:30 to the guy who hasn't eaten in three days. If you do have food on your shelves that is poisonous, you should get hit with jail-time and the mother of all fines. Anything that's left can get collected by the agencies you've carefully ignored. Anything that's left will result in a fine to the shop, and the records will be audited, along with spot inspections.

And here's another thought. If the people running the country do not do something to raise the folks currently struggling into a situation where they can improve their lives, instead of grinding them down harder and faster, the UK is going to turn into the same pressure-cooker that we're seeing in other parts of the world. We had a fun taste of it during the riots a couple of years ago. Personally, I don't want to see that happen again, and neither does anyone with an ounce of sense and sanity. But if you take everything from people, including hope and dignity, they have nothing left to lose, and that is incredibly dangerous. Using the results as an excuse to clamp down on civil liberties will not address the underlying problem.

It isn't too late to turn it around. In another year, it may be. At the moment, the divide between the haves and have-nots is a yawning chasm. If someone doesn't built a bridge over it, we will end up with an overt class war; of the "eat the rich and bury the poor" kind.
Pressure-cookers and rats. It's a very bad combination.

A perspective on not quite dying : It's time to live a little

A quick warning to family and friends who may read this: this post may upset you, because I'm going to be brutally honest about how I felt and what happened. It's pointless writing about it otherwise, but please don't read unless you're up for it. Also, there will be Strong Language involved, because *shrug* this is me, after all. It's also a long post. For the TLDR crowd; not dead yet. ;)

I'm back in London, which is surprisingly warm for this time of the year. The wedding was gorgeous; the bride was a vision, and my brother is a very happy and lucky guy. And if you can get yourself to New Zealand, do so; that country had the best food I've ever come across, and the most stunning scenery.

They also have one hell of a health service. I got to have my third ever ambulance ride in kiwi-land *sigh* the morning after the wedding, and the paramedics and staff at Timaru hospital (Hi, Dr O and Bernard!) saved my life. Considering how close I came to not getting out of the ambulance, I'm pretty damn grateful. I'm not ready to give up on walking the skin of this world just yet, it appears. Thinking how bleak the last year has been pain-wise, and how closely I resembled an ambulatory corpse when I got off the plane at the start of the holiday, this says a lot.

The wedding took place in the lovely little town of Geraldine. We stayed at the Geraldine Motel, which is great - self-contained little apartments and a very friendly owner, who ended up calling the ambulance and talking my folks through what was probably a horrifying experience for them. I started getting short of breath at the wedding which was really weird for me. I'm usually the first one up and the last one off the dance floor, but I just couldn't get my breath. I thought it was hay-fever; it's summer in that part of the world and large amount of the party was sneezing and coughing.

At around 5:30 the next morning I got up because Something Wasn't Right. At around 6:30 I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror, and something poked a very cold finger into my spine and told me I was in a lot of trouble. My pupils were huge. I was pale, clammy and sweating. To be totally honest, I wasn't sure if I was having a heart attack or an asthma attack. My head hurt. I couldn't breathe.

I staggered into my parent's room.

"Mom. Mom. I need an ambulance. I can't breathe." And then I wheezed, standing upright, too afraid to sit down or lie down. I doubt I'd have gotten up again.

I don't know how long it took the ambulance to get there. I know they're staffed by volunteers, and were just down the road. It couldn't have been long, but when you can't breathe every second rattles through your body like eternity. Also, it hurt.

My mom rode in the front of the ambulance. I remember the paramedic in the back kept talking to me and asking questions, and I couldn't really answer her. The notes on my file say I could speak 3 words a minute.

A little way into the trip, I felt myself untether. I lifted the mask off my face and said to the paramedic: "I'm getting worse." A few minutes later everything narrowed down into a pinpoint of light. This time I looked at her and said: "I'm going." My pulse rate on the machine dropped, then flared, then dropped again. There was no panic involved; it felt utterly inevitable, and there's little point in panicking when you know it's going to happen.

The paramedic slapped another ventilator tab into the funky Darth Vader mask and dove into the front, and I floated above myself. (By the way, an OBE is NOT the best way to find out you missed a spot on your hair dye, and you look like you've sprouted a bald patch right at the top of your head. That was annoying and will be fixed ASAP.)

There was a lot of radio chatter from the front, which I ignored. I was looking at my mom, at the way her knuckles were white as she clutched her hand-bag on her lap. I was thinking that I've had a good life. I have a family I adore (and who hopefully feel the same way about me). I have some of the best friends anyone could want. I've written a few good stories. I've just watched my brother get married to one of the best people I know. Am I done? Am I ready to be done? Because there was this tugging. This moment of knowing I could let go, I could be done. No more pain. No more fear. No more stress over bills and rent and work and all the trivial bullshit. No more migraine. No more spending three to four days a week trying not to throw up, convulsing, and shaking from pain. No more wondering how the hell I'm going to get the money for the op that might fix it. No more meds. Just. No. More.

I'd be a damn liar if I said I wasn't tempted; I'd had a couple of migraine attacks since arriving in Melbourne just before Christmas, and although they passed in a matter of hours, they were bad. Not as bad as before the Botox, but bad.

The ambulance had stopped. I drifted further over to the windshield, to the front. I could see the curve of my mother's cheek, the soft skin that was pale with worry. I could see her trying not to cry. Her lower lip was trembling despite being clamped between her teeth. I wanted to kiss her cheek.

Choose.

I thought about everything I haven't done yet. I thought about the books I haven't written, the stories still to be read. The friends still to meet and places to see. All the stuff I put off doing for whatever reason. I wasn't ready to go. I wasn't ready to die in the back of this ambulance with my mom sitting in front of me; that's not something I'm willing to do to somebody I love. Also, call me perverse, but I prefer to leave this planet on my damn terms, and those terms involve good whiskey and a few more decades, not slowly suffocating because of my own body throwing a strop.

I love you guys.

The back door of the ambulance opened and another woman scrambled in. She took a look at me, told the driver to "Step on it, but steady," and injected me with adrenaline.

Choose now.

Fuck it. I've never given up without a fight. I came back, about 5 seconds before they intubated me, which is something I'm quite happy to have missed, thank you very much. That hose looked nasty.

I'll skip the rest of the ride; I did the Darth Vader impression in the emergency room for a very long time. I had drips and drugs and enough blood taken to please the average vamp, and seven people working on me for the first hour or so in the actual hospital. Unfortunately I didn't get everyone's name, but thank you. (Also, not sure where they hire from, but everyone seemed drop-dead gorgeous. Like General Hospital casting pretty.)

The awesome Doctor O thought I'd be in for four days or so. I got released the next afternoon, and managed to see a great deal of New Zealand. A week later I was on a luge in Queenstown, thinking "I'm lucky. I'm forty years old and it's a beautiful day and I'm alive."

And here's the thing; this may have been the best thing to happen to me at this point in time. It made me realise how much I haven't been living, this past year or so. I've made a few attempts - gone out to friends, written a bit, worked a lot more - but it hasn't been living.  It's been existing on this frantic little treadmill of work-pain-meds-pain-work-pay bills, and I haven't enjoyed enough of it.

Time for a change. Time to live my life, however much time I have left. I have no idea how successful I'll be at it, but I'm cursed well going to try, as Amber would say. Because it shouldn't take almost dying in a foreign country to realise that you're in a rut, that you're marking time like a hamster on a wheel, and that life is still happening around you through the fog of pain-killers and grimness of I'm not enjoying this.  (Also, universe, you've had your annual shot at killing me. Can we give it a rest for a bit, now, ok?)

On my bucket list for this year - get my motorbike license (FINALLY!). Hopefully get around Europe a bit on a long weekend. Get my brain fixed.

My friend Anne-Mhairi Simpson read my blog last year on what happens when the Botox wears off, and started up a Go-fund me site here. A bunch of fellow authors have stepped up to offer give-aways. I read what Anne-Mhairi wrote and sat down and cried, but these were good tears. I have no idea what I did deserve friends like you, but I'm so very lucky and grateful. It gives me hope; they've already raised over £100. Considering the ultimate cost, every penny will help; it means I'm that much closer to getting my life back. I'd like to not do the funky chicken pain-dance again, ever. The last one was in the back of a taxi in Melbourne. But whatever happens, I promise you guys that I'm not going to give up. I promise to keep trying to live, and live well. How can I do anything else, with people like this in my corner?

Migraine Hell Week: This is what happens when the Botox wears off

So last week, the Botox I'd had for the migraines wore off. In one of the worst cases of incredibly bad timing my body has EVER come up with, it decided to respond to this by sending me into pain convulsions, swiftly followed by an episode of blindness, in the middle of the working day, at my desk.

Now, the guys I work with are aware that I get migraines. They've seen me with mild ones. I normally know when it's going to be bad, that I need to get home and into the dark, and I'll make sure I leave before that happens. I thought this one was going to stay mild. However, it ramped up so hard and so fast, that in the 90 or so seconds of me thinking I needed to go home and taking a couple of painkillers for the trip, I was suddenly in so much pain that I couldn't walk, talk or think. I sat in my chair and trembled.
My team thought I was having a seizure. I suppose technically I was, but it was pure pain. There's not much else to it.

The shaking thing isn't new. I get it when it's a bad one, but I'm usually curled up in the dark and by myself, in private. If I whimper and cry there's nobody else around to witness it, to see that moment of horrible vulnerability. Having it happen in a public setting, with people I work with daily, was a moment of personal humiliation I'd like to never repeat.

My boss sat down next to me in the middle of this and asked if I needed an ambulance. I'm very grateful they didn't get one; an emergency room is no place for someone in the middle of a severe migraine attack. It's bright, it's loud, and the smell is overpowering. I don't even want to think about the agony involved. I couldn't answer for a while; the pain had locked my vocal cords. All I could do was a raise a hand so he knew I was conscious, and let me tell you, I've rarely wanted to pass out so badly.

Most of what followed is still broken into jagged little moments of memory. I know that I was half-carried, half-staggered into a dark office. I know I was crying. I know that shortly afterwards I lost my vision completely, and came pretty close to panicking; it's one thing having that happen at home. It's completely different in public, where you are vulnerable to everyone and everything around you. Thankfully, like the last time, the blindness passed in a few minutes.

They sent me home in a taxi. I stayed at home the next day with a pounding, throbbing head. I felt better that evening, sat in the lounge with Stacey, and managed to do the pain jitterbug all over the lounge carpet. No blindness this time, and Stace managed to get me to lie still and breath. It was a short episode, but it hurt. The migraine went from pounding to ultra-sharp; it felt like someone was trying to ram a long needle into my brain.

I felt okay the following morning and went into work. I lasted three hours before the panda-eyes of doom appeared and I got the shakes again. And then I lost my words. It's an interesting side-effect, that one. You lose words that you use every day. Your mind tries to find them and they just aren't there any more. As a bonus, you start slurring. The slurring starts off as a slight burr; and ends up sounding like you've just made friends with several shots of good-grade whiskey. The look of horror on my boss's face was impressive.
I refused a taxi - the previous episode had proved I'd get home faster on the train - and Stace met me at the station in case I had another pain-jitter attack. It was close, but I managed to not have it until I was back home and in bed.

Rinse, repeat, until Saturday, when I went into the migraine clinic again for more Botox, and an assessment of the diary I've been keeping.

Sunday I had ten hours pain-free. Today I've got a minor episode - functional, but not happy. It takes about 5 days for the Botox to kick in, so hopefully it speeds its merry way through my system.

Doc reckons I'm a good candidate for the operation which removes the muscle the nerve runs through at the top of the eye-socket, and moves the nerve at the back of the skull. He said I could reduce the migraines by between 80 - 90%, so there's hope that I can get my life back. I'm thinking about it, very hard. Apart from the issue of general anaesthetic and the risks of the op itself, the main barrier is cost. The NHS doesn't cover this, the op would take place in Berlin, and the charge is £7000. Seven grand is a LOT of money for me, particularly as the cost of Botox and a hefty dose of painkillers on a monthly basis has eaten up just about all my savings. This disease is expensive in every respect.

But seven grand to get my life back would be cheap, if I had the money. To be able to make plans to go out with friends and not cancel at the last minute. To be able to eat without throwing up from pain; I've lost a few kilos in the last week, and it's not a healthy weight-loss. To not walk around looking and feeling like an escapee from the Walking Dead make-up trailer. To not wonder just how easy it will be to one day miscalculate the pain-pills and accidentally overdose. You don't track too well with constant migraine; and if the pills don't dent it the urge to take more is huge. To be able to write, and work, and be pain-free for at least some of the time. To never see that look of helpless shock and horror and pity on the faces of your friends and colleagues again. To stop thinking dying might be a relief.
Yeah, seven grand - probably closer to eight if you factor in the flights and the stay in Berlin - it would be cheap.

The Numptiness Continues: Dateable Boys Rules

Continuing the examination of the latest contender for Stupidest Dating Advice for Humans, let's have a look at Justin Lookadoo's Dating Rules for Boys. (Find the girls version here.) Now since in all fairness I haven't yet developed testicles and technically don't qualify, what I'll do is give you my comments as a female. Since I fall into, ya know, the gender half that you seem to want to encounter. (In Justin's world, there doesn't seem to be an acknowledgement of gay/bi/trans as a valid thing, because, you know, God.)


Being a guy is good. Dateable guys know they aren’t as sensitive as girls and that’s okay. They know they are stronger, more dangerous, and more adventurous and that’s okay. Dateable guys are real men who aren’t afraid to be guys.

My Response:

There are enough idiots who trip over their egos already, and think acknowledging their emotions are dangerous. Why would I want to date one of them? Been there, done that, kicked the Neanderthal to the curb. Also, you want emotional, Justin? Try dating a musician. I'll give you stronger, because pure biology means most men are physically stronger than me. Mentally? Not. A. Hope. More dangerous? You try and get between a little old lady and the last packet of biscuits on the shelf, Justin. I'll hold your coat. Just tell me where you want the flowers sent. More adventurous? BWHAHAHAHAHAHA. I'm pretty sure I've done stuff, and enjoyed it, that'd make your hair fall out. And the real men comment? As opposed to what, Pinocchio? 

Believe in yourself. Dateable guys know they are men even if someone has tried to bring them down or make them less than men. They know that the past doesn’t define the future.

My Response:

*sigh* Unless they've been castrated, Justin, or are identify as other than male, they are men. There is no "real", unless we're heading back to the world of Pinocchio again. See, the problem with ripping off lines from cheesy inspirational posters is that when you examine them, they don't make any sense. The past sure as hell impacts the future, buddy. It colours it, it affects it, and yes, every now and then it defines it, for anyone who isn't a sociopath. 

Control your mind. Dateable guys know that God demands self control. They learn ways to control their minds so they can control their bodies.

My Response:

This is how you control your unwanted erections, boys! Just imagine it going away. (Note: You may regret this when you hit your forties.) If that doesn't work, point it out to God and wait for a personalised lightning strike.

Don’t just want a win, want an adventure. Dateable guys know life is about danger. You might not win, but that’s not the point, doing it is. Dateable guys risk failure to live the adventure of life.

My Response:

There is a small but noticeable difference between cheesy inspirational posters and sounding like a travel ad. Congratulations, Justin, you've managed to combine both.

Face your Fears. Dateable guys will not be controlled by fear. Whatever controls you owns you. Fear is from the enemy and so the Dateable guy stands in the face of it and says, “ha!”

My Response:

Well, technically fear is a survival mechanism, because as a species there isn't much point in dying before you've had a chance to breed. Standing in front of, say, a mugger with a gun and saying "Ha!" isn't facing your fears, it's nominating yourself for a Darwin award.

Men of God are wild, not domesticated. Dateable guys aren’t tamed. They don’t live by the rules of the opposite sex. They fight battles, conquer lands, and stand up for the oppressed.

My Response:

WTF? So men of God don't wear clothes, live in houses or believe in toilet training? Precisely what rules are we talking about here, because I'd love to know them. And Justin - you can't stand up for the oppressed if you're conquering lands. That makes you the oppressor. Just a thought.

Bring God into it. Dateable guys bring God into it. “What would He say if he was talking to me through this situation?” they ask.

My Response:

Depends on which book of the bible you're reading, I guess. We have the "KILL EVERYTHING!" option, which happened a few times. Or we have the "Go forth and multiply option," which is pretty loud and clear in other places. I'm pretty sure neither one of those is quite what you're looking for here. To be totally honest though, if you need to check with your deity on a date, you really should be tied to a chair under a descending blade before this happens. How about "DON'T DATE PSYCHO'S?" Will that do?

Be honest with girls. Dateable guys don’t use the truth to their advantage. They know that girls read into things so they don’t use that for their good. They are honest and not manipulative.

My Response:

Em. What? Justin, honey, I have no idea what you just said. I would, however, like access to whatever you were taking when you came up with that. You know, so my poor little brain can read into things properly.

Be a gentleman. Chivalry is not dead with the Dateable guy. Even if society thinks this is old fashioned he knows that it is God-fashioned. He keeps his gentleman side strong and considers all women important enough to care for.

My Response:

You know, I'd prefer it if the guy I'm dating is considerate to everyone, and not a condescending prat. Strange, that. 

Keep it covered up. Dateable guys know that porn is bad for the spirit and the mind. They keep women covered up.

My Response:

What, exactly, do you intend covering me up with, Justin? Because let me tell you something, sweet stuff - you have no right to tell me or any other woman how to dress. Doing so is a warning sign of an abusive control freak. I don't particularly care if you watch Smurf porn on your day off, and most guys realise porn is fantasy, the same way Die Hard or Star Trek is. The ones that don't are the ones with issues.

To summarise, the dateable boy rules (gag me with a spoon) aren't as stupendously misogynistic as your dateable girl rules. They are, however, a bad combination of the worst self-help posters I've seen floating around the net for years. They also have no resemblance to real-life, and make no allowance for the human mind or spirit. 

You don't need any of these craptastic rules to be dateable. You do need to be a decent human being, not someone who thinks that boys and girls need different rules and different standards. Because they don't. Treat all people like they have value, and don't invalidate someone's opinions because of their sexuality, gender, colour, religion or nationality. That applies to men and women, straight, gay, transgender, or just figuring it out.

I should feel bad, Justin, because you've made it obvious you hold none of these values. Instead you're spewing idiocy at kids, most of whom are intelligent enough to eye-roll you so hard your ass should spin.  But you're still a numpty.

Moments of Skedification, and the weekend roundup

Let's start with the good and exciting, shall we? (Never fear, we'll move swiftly onto my weekend moments of WTF, of which there were a couple.)

Allegories is garnering great reviews, and stormed up the chart in the first week of release on Amazon. Hitting the top 100 is nice. Hitting it in several categories transfers into dreamlike. I think I can safely say all 22 of us made hysterical cooing noises over on Facebook.  (I re-read it this past week.Those stories rock.) If you want your mind blown, check it out on the Amazon site - and there is a paper edition available as well. I got the Moon card, and I came up with something a lot gentler than I normally do. (I've also been told I made a few readers cry, and THAT is a very strange feeling.) Anyone who jumps from that to House of F.A.R.T. is probably going to go into literary shock, though.

I (finally!) have an author page at Facebook, all thanks to Anne Chaconas at Badass Marketing. With my usual wonderful techie talent, I can't get the link to work, but it's JHSked, Author. (I suspect Anne is equally horrified and fascinated by what I do to tech. I'm pretty sure I reduced her to helpless gibbering at least once in the past week or so. I'll update on writing stuff over there as well, but since the general consensus was that the wall should be "Skedified", some of the strangeness that is life as I know it will end up there as well.

I have an interview with Eden Baylee, where she crawled into my mind and encouraged me to swear here: http://edenbaylee.wordpress.com/2013/11/08/get-inside-the-mind-of-author-j-h-sked-jhsked.
Eden is one of my fellow authors from the Allegories, and she's brilliant - head on over and say hi.

Moving swiftly onto the Skedification parts:

1) Zombie ribs. Not quite as horrifying as Zombie Duck was - I still haven't gathered the courage to attempt cooking a whole duck again, but it was bad. It was back to Chinese take-away since everything was still frozen.

2) Moment of Aargh, porn style: I should know better than to attempt opening yoghurt one-handed, I really should. On the bright side, I missed the ceiling, and actually got some in my mouth. It was actually good. The rest of it made friends with my ear, the fridge, the floor, and my trousers. Not a good look.

3) The lamp incident, which involved going for a two hour nap, and waking up with my floor lamp in bed with me. Said floor lamp tops out at 6 foot. I have no clue. None.

4) Forgetting to remove the seeds before roasting chilli peppers. Roast chilli is lovely, but forgetting to deseed meant trampling over Stacey on my way to stick my face under the cold tap because I thought my lips had caught fire. It is, however, an EXCELLENT way to clear your sinuses.

5) Walking into the lounge and nearly face-planting because I tried to miss what I thought was a large dog lying on the carpet. We don't have a dog, and there was nothing there, just my cousin, who closed her eyes and shook her head.

6) Near miss house fire. The plug is a twisted hunk of metal and plastic, and the socket is as scorched as if our local Conservative politician had farted at it. Both of us in the room; neither of us heard or smelled a damn thing. Get your fire alarms checked, guys. That one was too close.

So far, no pigeon sightings to be reported. Also a lack of SOS (Spawn of Spider, for any new readers), which I'm very happy about. There's something very unsettling about realising your carpet is moving towards you. (It's ALWAYS towards you.)

Allegories of the Tarot Interview and Give Away: Meet Red Tash

Get to know Red Tash, one of the 22 contributors to the recently-released†Allegories of the Tarot†Anthology (which is already trailblazing its way up the fantasy anthology charts on Amazon!). Red wrote her tale, The Hermit, based on the card of the same name. You can read an excerpt of†her story below.†

Get the†Allegories of the Tarot†Anthology on†Amazon,†Smashwords, Kobo, and everywhere else e-books are sold.†Add the†Allegories of the Tarot†Anthology†to your Goodreads to-read shelf!

About Red

Red Tash is a journalist-turned-novelist of dark fantasy for readers of all ages. Monsters,†wizards, trolls, fairies, and roller derby await you in her pantry of readerly delights. Tash is the†author of the Amazon best-selling dark fantasies Troll Or Derby and This Brilliant Darkness; and†a columnist for both LouisvilleKY.com and InveterateMediaJunkies.com, where she does†double-duty as a comic book reviewer.

Tashís own work in comics is included in Scary-Artís†The Pit and the Compendium, Filthy Cake, and is featured in Arcana Comicsí Steampunk†Originals. Prior to beginning her career in fiction, Tash wrote a nationally syndicated newspaper†column on parenting and family life, among other publishing credits. A rabid social media†junkie, Tash can be found on every conceivable corner of the internet, so just google heróshe†dares ya. Beyond writing, Tash has absolutely zero interest in anything, unless it is rehashing her†glory days as rollergirl Tyra Durden of the Derby City Rollergirls & RollerConís TeamMILF.

You can find Red Tash at RedTash.com

Just a few questions...

What intrigues you about this particular Tarot card? To me and to many others, the Hermit is the Tarot's representation of the Wise Old Man from the Hero's Journey of literary myth, and from Jungian archetypes. In fantasy and science fiction, he manifests as the Wizard (Dumbledore, Gandalf, Obi-Wan Kenobi, etc.), and he's always revered for his wisdom. I was doing a Tarot reading many years ago for a friend, for fun, when I realized that the Hermit and the Fool were one and the same, just at opposite ends of the same journey. That idea has always intrigued me, and was in no small part inspiration for my series of Wizard Tales!

Why did you decide to get roped into this project?†I've been acquainted with Annetta and some of the other contributors for a little more than a year, so when I saw their names on the roster I was definitely interested. I actually swore off doing any anthologies in 2013 due to my ridiculously busy schedule, but I told myself that if the Hermit card wasn't taken, I'd do it! It was one of a handful of cards not claimed, so to my mind, it must be destiny.

Have you ever had dealings with the Tarot before? I've owned a few decks. My original guidebook fell apart from overuse until I made a new cover for it. I used to do readings for all my friends at parties, or just chilling out at my apartment back in the college days. Eventually while on my own ìHero's Journey,î I realized that I didn't truly believe in the predictive power of Tarot, I Ching, horoscopes, or anything of the like, so I packed my deck away. I remain fascinated with the Tarot, though, not just for the perfect storytelling framework opportunity that it presents, but as a conversational tool. It's a great way to walk yourself through a sort of 360 degree analysis of whatever is troubling you.

What other projects do you have planned?†In 2013 I'll write and hopefully release Troll Or Park, the sequel to my biggest hit, Troll Or Derby. I hope to release my fourth Wizard Tale, as well.

How literal did you want to get with your card?†I have a sincere appreciation for lore, so I tried to stick to the spirit of the card. The Hermit is an important leg of The Fool's Journey. I wanted to show the progression from Strength to Hermit, from Hermit to whatever the Wheel of Fortune brings next.

Is your story a part of something you've written about previously?†Actually, yes! I write a serial titled The Wizard Tales, and this will be the sixth story set in that world. Since it's exclusive to the anthology for a year, I'm not sure what official "number" it will be when it's re-released as part of the series.

Would you like to have written about any other card? Which card? Why? I†actually did, in this story. I wrote about the incarnation of Strength, as lived by the gypsy fortune teller Madame Zelda from Troll Or Derby. It really gave me the chance to delve into that previously minor character's finer points, and as a result, she's taking on a bigger role in the upcoming Troll Or Park! Honestly, though, the Hermit was story enough for me. I just couldn't resist involving another "card" in this tale.

If you could have the power to divine the future, would you or would you not and why?†I love the Tarot for a lot of reasons, and I respect the lore that goes with it, but if being great at reading Tarot cards gave you the ability to read the future, I'd have already won the lottery multiple times! Sometimes I think doing a spread just gives you an excuse to be honest with the person asking the question. Does that tell the future?

Honestly, I don't believe in that hocus pocus. We know what we know, we do what we do, we feel what we feel--sometimes it comes true, sometimes it doesn't. You don't have to be a fortune teller to give someone false hope. Ask any weatherman on a rainy Saturday in June.

I think we all do the best we can with the information we've got, whether it's a gut feeling or a conviction of ESP. We know enough about our world to know we don't know jack, right? Best we can do is do our best and live for today. I know enough about my future to know that.

An excerpt from†The Hermit

As I strolled through the flea market, the memory came unbidden: a gypsy tent awash with blood--deep reds and purples fading to brown before my eyes; the amber eye of the dragon, disembodied, palmed in the bloody hand of a child. The child looked up at me, a tiny girl with a hooked nose and silent tears streaming down her face. "My brother," she said, before choking on her own sobs. "My brother."

I was too late to Autumnfell.

Read the rest of†The Hermit†in the Allegories of the Tarot Anthology!

About Allegories of the Tarot

Once upon a time, there was an editor with a fascination for the Tarot. She was struck one day by a crazy idea. ìHey,î she said. ìWhat if twenty-two writers each wrote a story about the twenty-two cards of the Major Arcana of the Tarot and were fashioned into an anthology?î

The idea would not leave her alone.

And thus, the Allegories of the Tarot was born.

Crowdfunded by a campaign on Indiegogo with the help and support of an amazing group of writers, twenty-two stories were crafted around the mysteries of the Tarot. The group includes a Pushcart Prize nominee, a Pulp Ark nominee, a former Bigfoot researcher, a journalist, an award-winning YA author, and a Rhysling Award winner. Professional writers, new talent, and a range of genres boggling the mind: Horror, Speculative Fiction, Bizarro Fiction, Erotica, Mystery, Humor, Paranormal, Epic Fantasy, Literary, Romance, and Historical Fantasy.

What has emerged is an outstanding collection of fiction, unique and mysterious. Stories that will make you cry, make you laugh, and make you think. Stories that make you feel the touch of the Universe.

Dare to step through the portal to shadowy realms and emotional journeys.

Get the book!

Allegories of the Tarot†is available in e-book and paperback format†on Amazon, Kobo, and in multiple e-book formats†on Smashwords.

Donít forget to†add†Allegories of the Tarot†to your to-read shelf on Goodreads.

Connect with the†Allegories of the Tarot†Anthology on its†website,†Facebook, and†Twitter.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Allegories of the Tarot - We are launched!

Get the Allegories of the Tarot Anthology in on Amazon and Smashwords.
Add the Allegories of the Tarot Anthology to your Goodreads to-read shelf!

Swing by the Allegories of the Tarot Facebook page and enter the release-day giveaway of a custom Tarot box--complete with Tarot deck!

Who hasn't been fascinated by the mysterious Tarot, writer and reader alike? For centuries, fortune-telling by the Tarot has caught many an imagination, but nothing like what will be presented here.

22 cards... each an individual splinter of the human psyche.

22 writers... honing each splinter into a story of triumph and decay, arrogance and humility.

Stories of the brightest lights and the darkest corners of the weirdest minds.

22 cross-genre worlds.

22 portals into the Universal.

Only one way to get there.

Come with us. Cross the portals. The Universal awaits.

About the book

Once upon a time, there was an editor with a fascination for the Tarot.†She was struck one day by a crazy idea. "Hey," she said. "What if twenty-two writers each wrote a story about the twenty-two cards of the Major Arcana of the Tarot and were fashioned into an anthology?"

The idea would not leave her alone.

And thus, the Allegories of the Tarot was born.

Crowdfunded by a campaign on Indiegogo with the help and support of an amazing group of writers, twenty-two stories were crafted around the mysteries of the Tarot. The group includes a Pushcart Prize nominee, a Pulp Ark nominee, a former Bigfoot researcher, a journalist, an award-winning YA author, and a Rhysling Award winner. Professional writers, new talent, and a range of genres boggling the mind:†Horror, Speculative Fiction, Bizarro Fiction, Erotica, Mystery, Humor, Paranormal, Epic Fantasy, Literary, Romance, and Historical Fantasy.

What has emerged is an outstanding collection of fiction, unique and mysterious. Stories that will make you cry, make you laugh, and make you think. Stories that make you feel the touch of the Universe.

Dare to step through the portal to shadowy realms and emotional journeys.

Early readers have fallen in love with the†Allegories of the Tarot

"Allegories of the Tarot Anthology is a magical book. Magic that will keep you turning the pages. There are muses, demons, †psychics,†evil,and more! I shivered, I laughed and I even cried. Magic, I tell you. Magic." -Julie Affleck

"Reviewing an anthology is slightly more difficult than discussing a book or comic because the tone varies from author to author. However, Allegories somehow flowed together as a well-matched whole. The project ended up feeling like several beads strung together to form a beautiful necklace that were more amazing for being paired together." -Jodi Scaife

"All twenty-two stories in this volume are, in a word,†superb. I found myself scouring the Internet as I read it; every story made me want to go find more work by its author.†The ultimate compliment I can give†Allegories†is to say that when I finished it, I thought how I envy those who havenít read it yet." -Lisa Millraney

Get the book!

Allegories of the Tarot is available in e-book and paperback format on Amazon, and in multiple e-book formats on Smashwords.

Don't forget to add†Allegories of the Tarot†to your to-read shelf on Goodreads.

Connect with the†Allegories of the Tarot†Anthology on its†website,†Facebook, and†Twitter.

Toilet Story - final title and cover reveal

I finally have a title (thanks to Jason Mckinney, whose family I've hijacked and put into this story), and I got the cover done and dusted yesterday.

It's in the home stretch of formatting, and should go live on Amazon in time for Halloween. It's a fun little short, and I had a blast writing it.

So, with minor trumpets and a blast of Pumpkin Spice air freshener, I present : The House of F.A.R.T.
(Hey, it's a comedy about monsters running out of toilet paper. We weren't aiming for dignity here.)

For the guys interested in the art side, it's a mix of an iphone photo (I think I took multiple pictures of every door in the flat) and straight drawing and painting in Corel Painter. The tentacle and toilet roll were done using the airbrush tools, with a charcoal base. And yes, I giggled hysterically the whole through it.

It's not often you get to visualise Cthulhu yodelling for help, is it?

UPDATE : The House of F.A.R.T is live as of now. Click on the thumbnail of the cover in the top right hand side to head straight over and download it.

WTF Wednesdays : they're back! (Moment of Aargh Part 789200)

My strange day of the week has defaulted to Wednesday again.

I started off with a stabby duvet, when my knee brushed against the cover as I climbed out of bed. After screaming and clutching my knee, I pulled the feather out of it (zombie duck's revenge, I reckon), and lurched downstairs for coffee.

An hour later, as I swung back into my bedroom to get my boots on and leave for work, I discovered what happens when the shopping bag hanging off of the bedroom door lays a snare trap.

One of the handles had drifted down from the door knob, and was resting at ankle height. I stepped in it.

About five seconds later, I was dangling from my bedroom door with a mouthful of fluff that was partially the top of an Ugg boot, and partially carpet. It took me a few minutes to extricate myself, mainly because my legs had decided pretzel twists were fun, and I wasn't entirely sure which one the bag handle had wrapped around. I was also seeing stars since I head-butted the carpet, the other Ugg boot, and a random sock that had escaped from the hidden lost sock dimensional black hole. My bag had fallen off the bed when I landed and bounced off my neck. 

(It should be noted that I may have dropped a bra size. Repeated bouncing is not good for the girls, and they have felt decidedly unperky since this episode. If I thought it worked on tummy fat, I'd still be imitating a baby seal instead of writing this.)

I got myself off the door eventually, without bringing it down on my head. I stood up, brushed myself off, said a number of the rudest words I know, and kicked the sandals I'd been yanked out of across the room, and left.

When I got home I couldn't find find my sandals anywhere. I eventually found one under the boots (no clue). The other one was under my pillow. (Really, truly have no clue, and am nervous about speculating).

Considering last week contained the highlight of the toilet seat moving out from under me like it was greased at four in the morning, it could have been worse. And I will keep telling myself that until the next moment of aargh happens. But still, WTF, Wednesday?

Let's talk about religious tolerance, for a bit.

There's a current trend of dissing anyone with religious beliefs. The old trope of hating anyone who believes their god is better than your god, or has a different coloured beard, or hangs their hat in a different way is still alive and well and throwing stones; one of the pagan boards I visit had a charmer drop by threatening to rap us to dearth earlier on today. (The urge to send him a dictionary was strong. Note to fanatics : threats only work if you spell them properly, otherwise we tend to point and laugh. And debate not turning you into a frig.)

This one is slightly different, in that it shows complete and utter contempt for anyone with any sort of religious belief whatsoever. I'm not sure whether it started as a fashion statement or a rebellion. I do know that a lot of the time it descends into HYSTERICAL CAPITALS and screaming over the internet.

Nobody argues that certain powers in mainstream religion abused their positions, and still do. And of course there are fanatics in every religion on the planet. They're called bigots, and their true religion is hate. The latest group to join their ranks are the militant atheists, storming newspaper columns and comment board to proclaim everyone else's ignorance. 

The average person with a spiritual belief doesn't deserve the scorn and contempt I'm seeing. The average person tries to live their life, and carve a little place for themselves in the world, and religious beliefs - or lack thereof - are part of that. Demanding that I  - or anyone else - change a core, deeply personal belief is like walking up to a stranger in the street and demanding to examine their underwear. It's insulting, obnoxious and annoying, and at the end of the time it puts them right in the middle of the group they rant against. 

Because there is no reasoning with them. There is no room for debate in the world according to their outlook. There is no tolerance here, just the sound of heavy boots trampling reason into a mess of incoherent ramblings and the screaming of a crowd that has lost it's mind.

I have no issues with someone who wants to be an atheist. But like any other outlook, it needs to respect the fact that other people don't feel that way, will never feel that way, and have no urge to do so.

Anything else means you fit in perfectly with your own little Crusade, your personal version of Jihad; take no prisoners and to hell with the damage. But it's all in a good cause, right?

Until the morning you wake up and realise you are living your own version of Animal Farm; that there is no Us and Them because you do exactly the same things, poison the same wells, and cause a great deal of hurt and harm.

Irony. She bites.

New Toilet Story snippet

A brief update on the migraine side - I am currently pain-free, and cautiously optimistic that it may stay that way for a bit. The Botox appears to have kicked in. Not this is not migraine-free - I still have aura, and I doubt that will go anytime soon. I can live with that quite happily has long as I can function. There will hopefully be a reduction in actual pain and severity of the pain when those break through - paralysed muscle or not, nerves that swell up to 300 times their regular size are logically going to play the funky chicken with me on occasion - so I'm crossing my fingers and hoping.

Here's another excerpt on the toilet saga. The usual warnings apply - this is a first draft; things may change - but in the meantime, have a bit of a giggle with me.

######

Thursday. 06:48

Tabs opened the bathroom door and was rewarded with an indignant howl.

"Jason! It's for you."

He groaned and trudged down the passage. "Again?" He whispered incredulously.

"Be nice." Tabs rapped him on the forehead affectionately as she passed him. "The poor thing went all out for you today."

Jason hauled out the toilet roll and selected Wild Lavender from the air freshener row. "I couldn't get the mermaid grow a crush on me?"   

He opened the door and blinked rapidly at the elderly chupacabra perched on the pot. 

"Mavis," he said. "You look adorable. Are those new pearls?"

She was wearing a wig. It was shocking pink and was styled high enough to brush the light fitting. Jason watched it brush against the hot bulb and start to drip strands of melted nylon down its prodigious length.

Sharp little white teeth simpered under a muzzle never designed to showcase ruby red lipstick.  A pair of large, rheumy eyes fluttered false eye-lashes at him. The aqua glitter eye-shadow winked and sparkled.

"Y'all have a good day now, Mavis." Jason said, handing his gifts over and closing the door.

The bouffant hair bobbed precariously as a little paw waved goodbye. The claws were painted in a shade that matched the wig.

Flush. Spray. Whistle.  

Jason shook his head and headed for the coffee and his giggling wife. At least this time she hadn't tried to give him a live goat, although the last three were safely corralled out back, where they made excellent organic lawnmowers and supplied pretty good milk. Still, another one would have had the neighbours kicking up a fuss for sure.

Toilet Story Snippet

Today's blog: an update from the toilet story. 


This is currently my go-to WIP when I need to put a smile on my face; hopefully it does the same for you.

In other news : one visit to Leicester last week. No pigeons were sighted. I did end up with a bee trying to cuddle me fifteen minutes into the training session. Since lighting does amazing things, the only thing my audience was aware of was me breaking off in the middle of a sentence and squawking while doing an apparently awesome impression of a miniature windmill. *sigh*.   

I head to the Migraine Clinic next week Saturday, and I'm hoping for a small miracle, or something that will reduce the frequency of these things. Currently I'm getting two or three attacks a week, and it isn't fun. I would like to be able to function like a normal human again. Crossing fingers, toes, and everything else.

                    ###################################

The letter came that Friday. The envelope was a standard A4 size, off-white affair buried under about fifty dollars worth of postage stamps, with their address and "McKinney Family" written in an elegant copperplate hand.

Jason opened the envelope at the breakfast table, and read the letter that slid out aloud to his family.

'Dear McKinney Family
First, please accept our sincere apologies for the lateness of this communication. Your post office has returned our original missive three times, once via the Siberian outback, once for insufficient postage, and once through a time-warp continuum that meant it arrived approximately three centuries ago.

Our initial request was for you to enter a trial period as emergency hosts. The official title is Saviour of the Bog Roll, and  comes with a small stipend (a portion has been paid into your bank account through electronic transfer for the use of your facility during the test) to compensate you both for the inconvenience and cost of additional materials used by your guests.'

Jason paused for a sip of coffee. Tabs took the opportunity to fetch their ancient lap-top from the lounge, and power it up. It sat grinding through the log-in menu as Jason resumed reading.

'Due to a minor clerical error, the trial period was activated without your knowledge or agreement, and you met our testers without any forewarning. The feedback has been gratifying, and we thank you for refraining from acts of violence towards them.'

"Honey?" Tabs had logged into their bank account. Now, pale and shaky, she turned the screen towards him. Jason stared at it. "That's a lot of toilet paper," he said.

"Based on our testers feedback, we would like to offer you the role for the next year. Your downstairs bathroom will be an emergency stop for any being in our alliance that runs out of toilet roll between the USA earth time of 06:44 to 06:49 on Thursday mornings.

Acceptance will entail the following:

1) Minimum of two-ply toilet roll. Quilted is appreciated, but not mandatory.

2) A permanent button will be installed in the room concerned. This will require a visit by workmen, but will be kept as short as possible.

3) Any air freshener except rose, which a number of our members are highly allergic to.

4) The Saviour family agrees to refrain from any acts of violence, including but not limited to the use of: sharp instruments, blunt objects, kittens, chainsaws, projectile weapons and corrosive liquids.

5) Upon acceptance, the yearly stipend will be transferred to your bank.

6) The Saviour family is entitled to two (2) holiday periods of two (2) weeks per time during the course of the year. Please notify it advance by handing a letter to a guest no less than three (3) weeks prior to planned vacation.

7) The Saviour family is requested to refrain from using the unusual appearance of most of our members to scare or intimidate in-laws, mis-behaving children, surly UPS delivery men, any agent of the IRS or postal service, and the cable-guy.  Bankers, telephone marketers and GM company CEOs are welcome, and may be  offered as a friendly snack. (Please use only non-synthetic bindings due to delicate digestive systems.)

("Do they say anything about hall monitors?"
"No, Chris."
"What about -" 
"We are not feeding anyone to anything."
"Kids, don't eye-roll your father.")

'If you are willing to accept this, please hand this missive to your next guest, and the installation will be arranged.

Yours sincerely,

The Federated Alliance of Rare Things.'

The week Goodreads blows up

If you're on Goodreads, then you probably already know about the howls of anguish screaming across the internet. 
To summarise: a number of people on the site have made a hobby of slash-and-burn posts, reviews and shelves against certain authors. A number of authors have had very public meltdowns and abused bloggers and reviewers. It's been ugly on both sides. 
Goodreads took their toys away.
Both sides promptly imploded in fits of wailing and chest-beating. There's also been a good amount of somewhat-pompous "see-what-you-get" comments, which change to wailing and chest-beating and screams of betrayal as soon as said commentator realises they've also been targeted.

I stepped back from Goodreads a while ago. The dog-piling on both sides was part of it, as well as being repeatedly spammed by book recommendations from authors, but mainly it was time (I just don't have that much of it). I still have my account and my groups, and I swing by to see what's happening every now and then, but I don't live on the site.

The world of Goodreads is insular. Dogpiles and flame-wars happen on a regular basis. This time, Goodreads managed to make itself a target, and has now experienced dog-piling to the nth degree. Some of the comments immediately following the announcement validated it to some extent, but the response - banning some of the commentators - didn't make the site   come out of it smelling like roses. People should have the right to their opinions, whether you agree with them or not.

So for what it's worth, here are my thoughts:

1) Goodreads was always for readers. It was never really an author-friendly place, outside of the author groups. I kind of liked that; I'm part of a couple of groups that just jabber and chat, and I've never mentioned my books to them. As a reader, it's a pretty cool place to find new books, or re-discover old favourites.
I don't want every part of my life to be around promoting my books. I write the things, I've already lived them. Sometimes I just want to be a reader, and people change how they interact with you on that site when they find out you are an author. 
It's not hidden; anyone who clicks on my profile will find it, but I don't wander around forums talking about it. 
It would be the equivalent of walking through a shopping centre wearing my underpants on my head, ringing a bell and yodelling. I'd get a lot of attention but very little support.

2) Censorship is never a good thing. Neither is dickish behaviour. But personally, I'd rather know that someone is a complete dick by seeing what they've posted. It may be poison, but it's up front and in your face. On the 'net, you can avoid it by clicking away. Nobody ever straps your ass to a chair and forces you to respond to it. 
As a reader, it meant that stuff certain posters were particularly vicious about probably got a look from me out of interest sake if nothing else. Sometimes their points were valid, sometimes they were being dicks.
As a writer, I'd cringe every now and then on behalf of whoever was on the receiving end, but as a writer the first thing you should be doing in strapping on armour before you head into the wilds of any public forum. 
Getting into a net war with these guys is like throwing popcorn at a toddler; you will end up surrounded by a bunch of very angry people, and they tend to exchange popcorn for small nuclear devices. It's pointless and exhausting, and kind of leads me to the next point, which is something it took me a while to understand:

3) Readers don't really want authors to interact with them on their turf. That's bolded for a reason; if readers want to interact with a writer, they'll head on over to the blog, or twitter, or Facebook, and comment and chat. Places like Goodreads and the Amazon boards are places the reader doesn't want the author to butt in. It's like having the chef at a restaurant sit down at your table and watch you eat, and occasionally complaining about how you use your fork.  

4) A lot of this is down to bad behaviour by authors; spamming forums about their books and getting into flame wars when people told them to shut up, and in certain cases just being as needy as toddlers wanting attention. Goodreads/Amazon is not the place to throw yourself a pity-party because you've only sold three books a week, and people don't understand your unsung genius, and won't somebody please give you a hug and tell you they love you. As a writer this is awkward to read, however much I sympathise. To the average reader, this is the equivalent of pissing on a live wire and wondering why it hurts. 
There is now open hostility towards authors on both of these places, and to a point that hostility has been earned. Whether we like it or not is immaterial; that feeling of 'stay off of my block' is there and imbedded. Whining about it won't change it. Realising that it's there, and not escalating things is important; it won't help you one little bit, and poking this particular bear with a stick may result in a very short-lived writing career. If you need support, join an authors group. Leave the reader forums the hell alone if you are wearing your author's hat.
   
5) It is unlikely that things will change that much. Threats of mass exodus happen every time something changes on a site like this. There may be a dip in attendance for a few days, but in six weeks time, odds are people will be back on the site, reviewing and chatting, and getting worked up about something else. 

6) There is always something else. There is always somebody who wants to be vicious, and someone who feel moved to respond and escalate the situation. There is always someone to throw popcorn at. It's the price we pay for being part of that particular society. But the censoring of opinion in any society, whether it's on-line or in the real world, is a slippery slope, and nobody in their right mind will condone it. Who get's to decide whose opinion is valid, and whose is not? Who watches the watchers?
I may not like a lot of the stuff I see on Goodreads, but the people who post it have the right to speak out. If they come across as bullying or obnoxious, they've exposed that bit of themselves, and that's a good thing. People are quite capable of making their minds up about the stuff they write, eye-rolling, and moving swiftly on. If they expose valid issues and concerns, that is also a good thing. 
Gagging them is not.