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Tuesday, May 31, 2005
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No More Clean Clothes: Time to Come Home.
I'm back from Wiscon - got in early evening last night to discover that Minnesota had rounded the corner into summer,
finally. Flowers blooming; herbs herbing in their garden beds; house musty and hot from being closed up. OK, weather
gods, let's keep it nice and summery now, shall we?
The con sure took its toll on Lisa and Isaiah. Lisa did childcare for the convention, and three days of standing on the
concrete floors of the childcare rooms have her all achey and breaky. Meanwhile, Iko picked up a bug that made the ride home
miserable for him. He was saying, "Home, home, home," in his sleep. Felt so bad for him - we may have to reconsider how we
approach cons in the future for his sake.
That said, I had a pretty good time. Lots of running back and forth between childcare, three panels, writing workshops, "meetings"
with my agent (hibachi bar!), taking Isaiah swimming upon command ("Pool! Pool! Pool!"), and trips to the dealer room to look
at all the beautiful books that I couldn't afford.
On that note, we had the most amazing dinner with Dave and Rachael Hoffman-Dachelet at L'Etoille, certainly the
best restaurant in Madison (and most expensive - hence the lack of book buying!). Rachael fed Lisa while Isaiah slept in his
wrap, I dissolved tenderloin lovingly with gulps of gamay beaujolais, we emptied the desert cart, and Dave turned forty. Happy
birthday, man.
I also want to take a moment to commend John "The Black Hand" Scalzi. Good panel-moderating requires a whip, and Scalzi
wields hot leather from the word go. As a result, the "First-time Novelists" panel was packed with info, I thought, with
very little rambling, whining - and NO chance of hijacking. My advice to Wiscon - require all moderators to take a Scalzi-run boot
camp on moderating panels.
Funnest moments. A rousing writers workshop in which I used Pat Murphy as a verb. Giggling with David Schwartz about
kid names. Catching up with Harry LeBlanc. Hanging at Genna's (my old haunt when it was on University) with my agent Kris
O'Higgins and totally losing track of hours. Hovering 'bout the Ratbastardly keg with Gavin, Jen Lackey, and Minz. Hearing
Maureen McHugh profess her love for champagne mangoes. The long convo after the "Food in Politics" panel. The hall party my
wife and her buddy Kaet hosted - attended by David Levine and a very funny crew who's names I didn't catch. A lovely yet all-too-brief
lunch with Dora, Haddayr, Lisa, and Isaiah on the Capitol lawn. Popping down to the dealer room to chat up Joe Weinberg, Deborah
Layne, and Forrest Aguirre. And of course, momocha and mango lassis at Himal Chulis. Yow.
Google-bait
Was very glad to meet Doug Lain, Simon Owens, C.A. Gardner, Debbie Smith, Jenn Reese, Sarah Prineas, John Scalzi,
Virginia McMorrow. Also Eric, whose last name I never wrote down - badge name Echo. Great guy, and a good writer (currently
unpublished), whom I think y'all will be hearing about in the year to come. Was very sorry not to see Madeleine Reardon (she
was at the con, but we never bumped into each other), Kevin Kage, John Aegard, Victoria Gomez, Midori Snyder, and Terri Windling.
World Fantasy, then?
Especially great to see Celia Marsh, Hannah Bowen, Tempest, Dottie Ulhman, Marjorie Farrel, Walt Farrel, Jason Erik Lundberg,
Janet Chui, Jesse Vogel, Jed Hartman, Kat Beyer, Haddayr Copley-Woods, Karen Meisner, Dora Goss, Lori Selke, Maureen McHugh
(and Bob!!), Tim Pratt, Heather Shaw, Jen Lackey, Gavin Grant, Kelly Link, Gwenda Bond, Christopher Rowe, Jim Minz, Harry
LeBlanc, Kelly and Laura McCullough, Lyda Morehouse, Wyrdsmiths and their new chapbook, and Delia Sherman who sweetly took
several quiet moments to sit with me and oggle Isaiah.
Sorry if I missed anyone, but I'm adding to this last as the days goes on. And sorry for the extensive listing, but yet
again, Earthlink foils my attempts to upload pics - so I'm telling instead of showing. More on that later, and perhaps some
more con notes as they bubble up through my foggy brain.
Yoinks. I gotta get to work in a few minutes.
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Thursday, May 26, 2005
We're hitting the road for Madison and Wiscon in a few, so I'm shutting down the power generators, Luke. If I can blog
from the road, I will - and do check back here early next week, if you want to see some pics from the con.
Until then, are you rapture ready? (Me? No. All I know is: Satan is buff and Jesus is Jed Hartman without his glasses on...)
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Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Fatherhood is a never-ending acid trip
Exhibit A
Yesterday, Isaiah and I were doing laundry for our impending trip to Wiscon, and on our way back up the stairs he said "Tai-ja."
"Tai-ja? Tai-ja?" It's like trying to interpret for someone who speaks English as a second language, talking to
a toddler.
Isaiah pointed to a dense little cobweb on the steps.
"Oh. Spider?"
He smiled at me. "Nanza!"
I couldn't believe it. "What? Is that Ananzi the Spider?"
"Yeah!"
Whoa. Thanks to his mama's eclectic taste in kids' books, my kid can now point to arthropods and make obscure folklore references.
Exhibit B
Later in the day, Isaiah pulled out a John Coltrane CD and handed it to me, saying, "Trane."
Dumb daddio said, "Does that sound like 'train' to you? When we say Coltrane? Sounds like 'choo-choo train'?"
Iko gave me his petulant syllable of frustration. "Nnh!"
"What? What's wrong?"
"Trane!"
"What? Col-trane?"
"Yeah."
"John Coltrane?"
"Yeah!"
"You gotta be kidding me. You're asking me for John Coltrane by name?"
"Nnnh!" said Isaiah, pointing at the stereo.
"You want to listen to John Coltrane?"
"YEAH!!"
So I put on Coltrane. Sure enough, the little Ananzi-loving cultural elitist laid his head on my shoulder, and we rocked out
to A LOVE SUPREME.
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Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Corn Row
The Independent on Sunday can today reveal details of secret research carried out by Monsanto, the GM food giant,
which shows that rats fed the modified corn had smaller kidneys and variations in the composition of their blood.
This is pretty big news, actually, but not because Monsanto supressed a report that was unfavorable to its twanked corn
(a corporation? behaving thusly??mon dieu!), and not because rats went on the fritz eating it (wait for the peer reviews,
all ye chicken littles), but because:
The disclosures come as European countries, including Britain, prepare to vote on whether the GM-modified corn should
go on sale to the public. A vote last week by the European Union failed to secure agreement over whether the product should
be sold here, after Britain and nine other countries voted in favour....However, the disclosure of the health effects on the
Monsanto rats has intensified the row over whether the corn is safe to eat without further research.
A bit of history. Last May, Monsanto pulled its genetically modified Roundup Ready wheat from the launch pad because millers, bread and wheat councils, and trade groups from all over the world told them, effectively, that
America would face a global ban if they tried to bring a GM wheat to market. In light of these very serious trade threats, a deal-breaking study from an influential Iowa State University ag economist,
Dr. Robert Wisner, written in late 2003, spelled out exactly what would happen to rural America if such a global ban went into place.
Between 30 and 50% of the foreign market for U.S. hard red spring wheat, and even more of the U.S. durum
wheat exports, could be lost if genetically modified hard red spring wheat is introduced into the U.S. in the next two to
six years.
To sum up: Guilt by association means all US wheat sales would suffer. And...
Loss of wheat export markets would lead to loss of wheat acreage; loss of revenue to industries supplying
inputs to wheat producers; losses for other rural farm-related and non-farm businesses, local and state government tax revenues,
and institutions supported by tax revenues; and diminished economic health of rural communities and state governments in the
spring wheat belt.
So it wouldn't just be the family farm that vanishes from rural America. Corporate, industrial
farming would take it in the gut, too. So Monsanto turned tail and scrapped its GM wheat.
The fight over GM corn's introduction to Europe won't have nearly the vitrolic reaction which greeted even
the hint of GM wheat - nor will it ever have the economic impact that Dr. Wisner describes. Wheat is bread, after all, and,
right or wrong, Europeans have a neatly painted picture of TAINTED BREAD in their minds when they consider the introduction
of "frankenwheat." Furthermore, in the wake of HIV-tainted blood supplies in France and the 1990's Mad Cow crisis in the UK, Europeans are especially distrustful of the honesty and effectiveness of their government
health organizations. So hearing these same health organizations declare that a new, genetically modified product is
"safe" just sounds like cover-up to them - and this suppressed report of Mansanto's probably confirms many suspicions (right
or wrong). By contrast, Americans will eat anything that the FDA approves, and this is where the corn-fight will start - because
American corps like Monsanto are accustomed to its goverment rubber-stamping their products.
So the suppressed Monsanto report is big news. It may well put the kaibosh on the emerging GM corn
market (the curent moratorium on GM corn is costing the US $300 million annually, says Monsanto) and continued trade
barriers on GM corn could spark a trade war between the US and the EU, one that Monsanto has been itching for.
This article here, originally from the Wall Street Journal, has a pretty good wrap-up of the whole issue
from a sheerly economic and trade policy point of view.
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Monday, May 23, 2005
First off, a warm welcome to readers hopping over to this blog from Asimov's and Analog's sites. What you'll find here are food and farming-related rants, thoughts on parenting (I have a toddler), writing, reading, and
the upcoming release of my novel, The Patron Saint of Plagues from Bantam Spectra (Spring 2006). So thanks for stopping
by - hope you enjoy the show.
What's up today? A Rolling Stone article on the planet's coming economic and ecological collapse, via my brother Mark (who doesn't blog, but should). We've been hearing about this comming collapse for decades, so it's
not "news," per se - but when gas hits $50 per barrel, even for a short time, then it's probably time to remind ourselves
where we're headed. And a Great Depression-style collapse is not only possible, it's likely, in my humble O, for reasons laid
out quite well in the Kunstler article. Indeed, such a collapse is the backdrop of my novel, which takes place in the
aftermath of US agriculture getting its legs swept out from under it. From Rolling Stone:
Food production is going to be an enormous problem in the Long Emergency [as the writer calls this Great Depression-style
collapse -b.]. As industrial agriculture fails due to a scarcity of oil- and gas-based inputs, we will certainly have
to grow more of our food closer to where we live, and do it on a smaller scale. The American economy of the mid-twenty-first
century may actually center on agriculture, not information, not high tech, not "services" like real estate sales or hawking
cheeseburgers to tourists. Farming. This is no doubt a startling, radical idea, and it raises extremely difficult
questions about the reallocation of land and the nature of work. The relentless subdividing of land in the late twentieth
century has destroyed the contiguity and integrity of the rural landscape in most places. The process of readjustment is apt
to be disorderly and improvisational. Food production will necessarily be much more labor-intensive than it has been for decades.
We can anticipate the re-formation of a native-born American farm-laboring class. It will be composed largely of the aforementioned
economic losers who had to relinquish their grip on the American dream. These masses of disentitled people may enter into
quasi-feudal social relations with those who own land in exchange for food and physical security. But their sense of grievance
will remain fresh, and if mistreated they may simply seize that land.
Bruce Sterling has said that the monolithic structures we've come to rely on in the 20th century are doomed - not just
the notion of superpowers, but all large, cumbersome structures, no matter how profitable they seem to be right now. Like Kunstler,
the Rolling Stone writer, I think food and its distribution will drive the change. Right now the average case
of food travels 1500 miles before it arrives at your grocery (it's coffee - the world's second-largest commodity after oil
- that puts that average into quadruple digits and keeps it there). That's totally insane and unsustainable. So are
pears from Argentina and peppers from Israel. So is all the cheap grown food in America, particularly corn and soybeans
grown for our beef industry. The price of corn is actually lower per bushel today than it was in 1950 - because of
corporate giveaways known as the Farm Bill - in order to keep the price of meat down. And don't even get me started on what
farm laborers earn. It's an absolute sin, considering what they bring to our tables. But that's a rant for another day.
The "economic underpinnings" of my book (to again reference Sterling) are based on theories like Kunstler's about what
will happen to America and its wobbly, unsustainable ecomony. What will happen if there's an agricultural crisis?
What will happen if America can't afford its impossibly cheap food any more, or if the gargantuan food distribution system
in this country collapses? Back to Rolling Stone:
Our lives will become profoundly and intensely local. Daily life will be far less about mobility and much more about
staying where you are. Anything organized on the large scale, whether it is government or a corporate business enterprise
such as Wal-Mart, will wither as the cheap energy props that support bigness fall away.
Bigness, which was the American Dream of the two Roosevelt presidencies, is now a value we can't afford. We can't afford
a new New Deal, no matter what the modern "Democrats" say, because if gas prices keep edging upward, very soon we won't
be able to afford Franchise America, either.
I don't say this to depress or even to incite. Kunstler's article speaks about what I see every day in my grocery job,
talking to the farmers from whom my store buys product. This job of mine gives me a rare perspective, since groceries
don't normally buy directly from farmers, don't even know the farmers whose food they turn around sell. It makes me wonder
what would/will happen to a city like mine - Minneapolis, a northern town utterly reliant on California, Texas, and Florida
for its winter food - if gas prices doubled. It makes me wonder what would happen to America if we became dependent
on our own food resources, as we were a century ago.
Buying locally, that catch phrase from the nineties, isn't an act of lefty nobility. It's not a quaint bumper sticker.
It's boot camp for eaters. "Buying locally" is a training course for shoppers, distributors, and retailers,
getting them to look up from their damn shopping lists and wholesale buying clipboards long enough to get them ready
for the next Great Depression.
OK. Kid's stirring. Nap's over. No time to edit for neatness.
Chow!
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Sunday, May 22, 2005
So my neighborm, Amy, called us up this morning to say she was up early, letting the cat in, when she noticed something
out by our car (which was parked on the street). She went over to see what it was and found a pair of jeans, soaked, and with
a belt in the loops. Amy looked in the pockets to see if there was a wallet, but, instead, found a cell phone whose battery
was dead, and a bag of pot - well, a bag with eleven, individually wrapped buds.
We had fun trying to figure out what the hell happened, what to do with the phone, and whether or not people laced marijuana
anymore.
About three or four hours later, Lisa and I talking to our other neighbor, an older guy of about 55 or 60.
"We had a big night last night," he said, cueing us that he had a funny story for us. Turns out his son, who rents or owns
the lower part of their duplex, had a knock on the door at about 330 am. His son opened the door thinking it was his father,
who sometimes locks hismelf out when he goes to get the paper in the morning - but, instead, finds himself mano a mano with
a ravingly drunk dude on his doorstep. Drunk dude tries to barrel his way in, but the son had the wherewithal to answer
the door with his cell phone in hand. So he speed-dialed 911 while throwing himself against the door to keep the drunk dude
from getting in. The son managed to get the door shut, then the cops arrived, and arrested the drunk dude - right out by our
car, says our neighbor, letting us know that they made sure afterwards that our vehicle wasn't damaged.
"But you want to know the kicker?" says our neighbor, winding up his punchline. "The guy wasn't wearing anything but
a t-shirt!"
We will go to our graves simply never knowing the truth behind certain events in our lives...
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Saturday, May 21, 2005
Unintentional Pun of the Week:
A letter writer to the Minneapolis Star-Tribune today (didn't see this letter online so no linky) was lambasting MN Viking
running back Onterrio Smith for failing to take a drug urine-test, and thereby, endangering his future with the team.
Without a shred of irony, the writer said that Smith was “missing a golden opportunity.”
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Friday, May 20, 2005
Think about joining the UFW's action alerts while you're there.
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A buddy at our produce warehouse sent over a white peach for me - from the very first case, from the very first shipment.
God bless his soul.
White peaches, you know, are the original variety, and yellow peaches are the hybridized newcomer. Words to the wise
produce shopper: Good white peaches smell like roses. And this one? Oo la la, it's a-gonna be a good peach season, if this
one is any indication.
But can I get my kid to eat any of this glorious peach? Or even taste it? Of course not. He's almost two, and he's busting
my frikkin balls.
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Thursday, May 19, 2005
Someone at an area grocery recently placed a meat order that read:
"Eighteen whole chickens, raped separately."
I assume he meant "wrapped."
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Last night's warm salad
Don't fear the greens! I made this on the fly last night and loved it. It's probably a good recipe for the neophyte greens
eater, with a great sweet/sour taste - and healthy as hell, my little muffins:
1 half bunch green kale, trimmed (no stems), coarsely chopped
2 TBSP Olive oil
1 TBSP Apple cider vinegar
1 TBSP Maple syrup
1 TBSP Water
Salt to taste
Put the liquids in a hot skillet. Once bubbling, toss in the kale, then turn the heat down a bit. Cover the pan to avoid the
exposed kale getting crispy, and add a judicious amount of vinegar or water if your greens drink up all the liquid ingredients.
I usually cook kale for about 10-15 minutes, till it's just wilted, but if you like crunch (and want all the nutrient you
got coming to you from the kale), cook it less.
When ready, serve hot with feta crumbled over it - or (you knew I'd work this in somehow) slices of champagne mango. Honest.
The green kale and orange mango combo is gorgeous, and that sweet, giddy fruit makes a nice companion to the stern seriousness
of the kale.
Feeds 2 big eaters or 4 whimps.
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More from Gorgeous George
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Wednesday, May 18, 2005
"The OFPA [Organic Foods and Production Action] was passed under the first Bush administration, and came into full implementation
under George W. Bush. But organics isn't *solely* a Republican issue. We have to branch out."
-Jim Riddle,
Chair of the USDA's
National Organic Standards Board
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Ahhh...it was great fun reading the transcript of British MP Galloway, accused of benefitting from the UN's oil-for-food program in pre-occupation Iraq, devouring Sen. Norm
Coleman (Assbucket - MN) like the simple hors d'ouevre he is. My favorite, via Common Dreams:
If the world had listened to Kofi Annan, whose dismissal you demanded, if the world had listened to President Chirac
who you want to paint as some kind of corrupt traitor, if the world had listened to me and the anti-war movement in Britain,
we would not be in the disaster that we are in today. Senator, this is the mother of all smokescreens. You are trying to divert
attention from the crimes that you supported, from the theft of billions of dollars of Iraq's wealth.
That's right, Mr. Galloway. Take our Democrats to school, and show em how real opposition parties sound.
Incidentally, the night before Galloway's testimony, The Guardian reported on a Senate finding that showed who received the lion's share of the oil-for-food kickbacks.
"The Senate report found that US oil purchases accounted for 52% of the
kickbacks paid to the regime in return for sales of cheap oil - more than the rest of the world put together.
"The United States was not only aware of Iraqi oil sales which violated
UN sanctions and provided the bulk of the illicit money Saddam Hussein obtained from circumventing UN sanctions," the report
said. "On occasion, the United States actually facilitated the illicit oil sales."
As if it matters. The air over Washinton DC is choked and black with the discharge from smoking guns. Images of Cheney
wearing a Halliburton blazer and eating the spleens of children could be broadcast simultaneously across every news channel,
and Americans would say, "What? This is outrageous! Everybody Loves Raymond is off the air??"
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Tuesday, May 17, 2005
I received the first draft of the cover copy for PATRON SAINT OF PLAGUES yesterday, the text that will appear on the back
of the book-to-be. I had a few quibbles here and there, but actually, it was pretty good. It totally has that trailer-voiceover-for-summer-blockbusters
feel to it - very funny to hear my story boiled down and pitched like that.
"Racing against time, Stark battles corruption to uncover a horrifying truth: this is no ordinary outbreak, but a deliberately
unleashed manmade virus...and the killer is someone Stark knows."
[Cue "O Fortuna" from Carmina Burana.]
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This is worth noting mainly because some have speculated that the flu might be in decline, since new cases haven't appeared
recently. Dr. Michael Osterholm of the University of Minnesota's Center for Infectious Disease Research and Policy says
that if an Avian flu pandemic were sparked, the global medical community's response would no doubt be ineffective. From
CIDRAP:
It would take at least 6 months to produce a vaccine, and with current production capacity, the best that could be
expected would be to have fewer than 1 billion doses of vaccine initially, [Osterholm] writes. Since two doses per person
might be necessary, that might cover only 500 million people, or about 14% of the world population. Further, the world would
face severe shortages of other products and services, including mechanical ventilators, antiviral drugs, and even food.
The compelling part of outbreak news to me isn't the gory descriptions of hot zones - ok, that's pretty compelling -
but the chess game that takes place on our side of the outbreak board. How do you vaccinate an entire population in a timely,
effective fashion? Is vacciantion even feasible? Maybe simple hygiene is the the biggest threat to public health, along with
cultural traditions that stand in the way of stopping an outbreak. In Angola, people wash the dead ritually, which in turn
has been stringing out the Marburg outbreak Check out this Marburg photo essay at CIDRAP - not as gruesome as could be - if you want to see what health officials really do.
As for Avian flu, the densely populated agrarian communities in southeast Asia, with their equally dense populations
of chickens and swine, are what will no doubt spark a pandemic, if one occurs (this flu is probably caused by viruses leaping
from humans to chickens or pigs, and back again). That means "culling" will probably be an early step - slaughtering millions
and millions of livestock - if vaccinating isn't possible, as Osterholm suggests.
And this could econimically destroy a generation of farmers in some of the poorest regions on the planet.
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Sunday, May 15, 2005
God, what a great day. I woke early, finished a chapter, grocery shopped with Isaiah while his mamasan slept in, then
went over to Dave and Rachael's and loaded up on perennials from Rachael's prodigious garden. She probably unloaded a couple
hundred bucks worth of flowers and ferns and ground cover on me. Then I went home and worked on my garden in sunny, 50 degree
weather for 5 hours. Afterwards, Lisa took the boy to her best friend's house and gave me another couple hours to write, and I
just now finished another chapter. In fact, I'm closing in a completely new draft of the first quarter of Patron Saint.
Stand back. For I burst with life.
By the by, Rachael will be reading at Wiscon on Friday from 8:45–10:00 PM. If you're attending the con, go hear her, ok? She gives me free plants.
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Saturday, May 14, 2005
If you're like me and find tales of sado-masochism, retro-hippie/punk-dom, and farming irrisistible, check out this place
called the pFARM: Some of the pFARMers are hooded or have rings through their noses attached to little golden chains. Two black
leather clad Dominas patrol the perimeter, giving orders to the lay workers, “Loosen the Soil with your Hands!” and “Be Gentle
with the Transplants!” One of the pFARMers speaks out of turn and is led off by his nose. He is subject to animal-related
insults and forcibly buried in the fermenting humectress of the compost pile. and (in the pFARMER's own words): Submissives
must sign away their rights as human subjects. They then donate hair follicles and other body fluids to pFARM in a sex-magik
genomic librarian fetish manoeuver that must be documented to be believed. The biological samples are stored in the barn.
The rights to these cell lines are legally owned by pFARM. The pFARM Cryogenic Storage Library will be offered to the highest
bidder online as a submissive genomic databank. Perhaps the samples should be donated to US Homeland Security Research so
they can isolate the gene for submissive behavior? I’m sure that would help aid world domination! And pFARMers deserve to
be known as the trustworthy and selfless patriots that we are.And now, the burning question. Is it intersitial? For
more fun:, check out the home page. Explore. Indulge. Have a heap of fun, my little mulchbitches...
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I've been making little movies on the software suite that came with our digital camera. It started off as just something
fun to do late at night when unable to sleep or write. I've edited film and video before, and I've been itching for something
visual/physical for my creative muscle, so this was perfect. Also, I have about 17 days worth of AVIs sitting in my hard drive:
Iko crawling, Iko walking, Iko playing with balloons, Iko eating avocado, Iko staring into the camera with a wtf look on his
face. Any single snippet is interesting only to Isaiah's parents, but stitched together and set to "All Together Now" by the
Beatles (a buoyant, bouncing rhythm that makes my simple editing look ingenius), along with copious shots of Isaiah's cast-of-thousands
family, and, bam, I have a home movie that's a billion times better than the shaky 8mm footage of Leave-it-to-Beaver Christmasses
that the previous generation found so thrilling.
Plus, there's no getting around the fact that seeing all my loved ones - here, near, and recently departed - collected
into one, two-minute video and set to music makes me exceedingly happy.
So it's my ritual before writing now. Boutros wakes me up; I stagger behind her into the kitchen; we make coffee;
and while the brew steeps, my family grins at me and Paul McCartney assures me that everything's cool.
Also, I'm giving thought to making a couple 30-second movie versions of my short stories. "Show Me Where the Mudmen Go"
(On Spec) is a great candidate. I'll try to pull my movies together, maybe others will do the same, and, at a not-too-distant
future con, we could have a short-subject sf/f film festival.
Think about it. It's astonishingly easy.
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Friday, May 13, 2005
Why wait for the reviews, or even the premier? Naw. Let's start trashing Star Wars Episode 3: Revenge of the Sith
now!
I was thinking: The Star Wars sextology might as well be Lucas' autobiography. It's not an accident, really, that
the story is told broken in half and reversed, with the true climax being, not Luke's salvation of Anakin, but Anakin's transformation
into a mechanized man. It's taken six movies, but with Revenge of the Sith, Lucas's journey to the dark side will
be complete.
Star Wars 1 had light in it - both figuratively and literally. We saw models of space ships, not
computerized images of them. Sunlight and studio light landed on their surfaces as these "ships" passed through the darkness
of space. They were real. You really could touch them if you were there during the filming. Let's call this the
"light side."
The current trilogy, however, relies on few to no models and very little real light, except in long shots and outdoor
scenes. These first three films are the equivalent of animation, with Lucas weilding complete power over the image on
the screen. Is that a good thing? Maybe. It certainly fits the theme of darkness that Lucas needs in this part of the story.
But to me, the last two movies were lifeless, not simply because they were badly written and badly acted, but because
they seldom looked like real events taking place in real space or under real light - just a computer geek's interpetation
of how light might act upon completely unreal objects. Since such images are created almost completely within the shadows
of a hard drive, let's call this "the dark side."
Lucas' aesthetic choices throughout the epic track his progress to the dark side perfectly. No more little kids in Jawa
costumes. No more papier-mache sandpeople masks. Yoda, no longer a Henson wonder, is a little green blob who can bounce,
fly, and otherwise shake off any sense of gravity he might have had in Episode 5. In Revenge of the Sith, we'll
only see the fantastic portrayed in posh cartoonery, because Lucas never saw a computer graphic he didn't like. Computer
animation looks more "real" to him, and consequently, his great contribution to the "monomyth" (ha!) is now more machine
than man.
So let's all bow down to the Baal of CG's, everyone, and whisper right along with Lucas:
"What is thy bidding. my master...?"
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Wednesday, May 11, 2005
I Have Returned
All's cool with my mama. She's in rehabilitation care after her surgery, on the mend, and getting ornery. Furthermore, I made
the trip home from West bend, WI in 4.5 hours yesterday (normally a 5 to 5.5 hour drive). God bless packs of lawless, Illinois
speeders.
When I got home, Isaiah and I immediately slipped into our old rapport. He crawled on my head saying, "Zha ZHA! Zha ZHA!"
Not sure where that meant, but it made me feel loved, for reasons yet to be fully understood.
In movie news, I was just informed that my role in the zombie movie is not as a zombie but, instead, a "zombie."
I'm trying not to be upset by the script writer's use of air quotes, but it's hard to watch a dream start to fade and crumble.
When he saw my lower lip start to pooch out, the writer assured me that I will be one of the ranks of the undead and that
I will be frightening. So I didn't spiral off into a diva fit - but I am willing and able. For the sake of my art, you know.
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Friday, May 6, 2005
I did my headshot for the zombie movie yesterday, which suprised me since I didn't really think there was going to be
a zombie movie. But it's happening. Allegedly shooting starts in mid-August. Furthermore, my offhand request to be Zombie
#3 was apparently granted. Seat-of-your-pants films rarely make it to the finish line, I know that. But this one has
already exceeded several markers, so I'm starting to have a glimmer of hope that my lifelong dream of being a zombie in a
B horror film will at last be manifest in the world and released upon all of you.
Did I ever tell you that my dad lost his shirt on The Blob in the fifties? Well, not his shirt. He lost a good
pair of loafers. My family's fascination with shitty movies is intergenerational and on the verge of epic.
Speaking of shitty familial epics, I'm heading back to Wisconsin for a couple days. My mom's health is not great. All
is well, nothing life-threatening, but she's in the hospital and needs a pair of hands out in the real world to help her out.
So I'll be travelling sans wife and kid, which will definitely be the hardest part of the whole affair.
I'll check in from the road, if I can.
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Also, the Mothers of Invention panel at Wiscon was renamed, FYI, in case you really want to hear writer-breeders talk
about how cute our kids are, how little time we have to write, and why phrases like "Do you wnat to wear pants while you play
with your beads?" are suddenly coming out of your mouth:
Creation and Procreation (Writing SF&F: The Craft) Saturday, 2:30-3:45 p.m. in Conference Room
5
Do babies eat the brain? How does the transition into parenthood affect the ability to do creative work that requires
personal space? An honest discussion of the practical aspects of parenting and writing, with some wider implications thrown
in. For writers who are thinking about becoming parents (or vice versa): You are not alone. We'll tell you what it's like
for us. M: Karen Meisner, Naomi Kritzer, Theodora Goss, Haddayr Copley-Woods, Barth Anderson
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In Isaiah news, he now has a little boy-doll, which he's named Donna. Gender-skewing: right on track...
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Wednesday, May 4, 2005
Your Foodie-Insider Vocabulary Tip of the Day
Work the following phrase into your next conversation about meat, particularly beef:
"Carcass-Liquor."
Example of Usage:
"That last side of beef we purchased sure did leak a lot of CARCASS-LIQUOR when we cut it."
Best used with meat industry executives, butchers, and squeamish vegans.
(a.k.a, "Purge.")
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Monday, May 2, 2005
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On Aprill 11, I blogged about the Marburg virus outbreak in Angola. Mainly, I was annoyed by the reporting and the attitudes of the global medical community toward local Angolans many
of whom were unwilling to take their infected family members to an area hospital. This was perceived as ignorant and
backwards, despite the fact that Doctors without Borders hypothesized early on that the hospital itself was the source of
infection. My supposition was that some "natives" weren't willing to take their infected to the hospital in question because
it was Marburg central.
Well, now look what's going on. From the NYT:
Dangerous mistakes at a hospital in Angola in recent days could undo the work of medical teams who have been battling
an epidemic of the deadly Marburg virus, the World Health Organization reported on Friday.
Twice in the past week, doctors at the provincial hospital in the northern city of Uíge were exposed to blood from
infected patients, and so are now at risk of developing the disease themselves. The virus causes a hemorrhagic fever that
can be fatal within a week.
Some of the practices in this hospital are astoundingly stupid, especialy when one considers that theWHO, CDC, Doctors
without Borders and other medical groups have descended on the city like, well, a plague. With 255 deaths in the most deadly
Marburg outbreak in history, idiocy like this is still happening:
In another case, staff members put a baby into the cot of a child who had just died of Marburg virus, without first
disinfecting the cot.
So, if they don't bring patients here, the locals are "superstitious" and "uninformed," eh?
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Sunday, May 1, 2005
Sadly, it is also just 34 degrees. Grey and crappy. And Iko's pushing a fever of 103 (consequently, Lisa and I got about
15 minutes of sleep last night). Yeesh.
I'm usually a sucker for the season-based epiphany. Autumn's introspection over death. The glory of June. The midwinter
gin-soaked naked snow-angel ritual (a personal fave!). But it's difficult for me to feel spring this year, despite the fact
that I'm completely into the season. (The garden. The compost. Seedlings yearning toward sunny windows.) Usually, the
springtime sensation of departing something hard and bitter is enough to carry me through the drizzliest of May Day parades.
But this year, I feel pretty cold inside. I'm still sitting in the shadow of my brother's death, still feeling the
gaping hole that his departure has left in my circle - despite the fact that his favorite song, Johnny Cash's version of "Let
the Circle Be Unbroken" is earworming me constantly (thank you for that reminder, Rob). It's one thing when it's
an uncle or a grandparent, you know, or even a parent. Painful as those deaths might be, that's the natural order of
things: The old eventually sail away and leave the young behind. When your own generation starts to set sail, well, the here
and now suddenly feels a little less permanent, and the force that drives the green fuse, a tad lame.
When I was eight, my cat Tigger died. He was a ballsy tom, a hunter, a mensch - more like a dog than a cat. I came
home from visiting my dad that summer, and my mom and step-dad told me that Tigger had run away. The whole cliche Lie.
"Tigger ran off to a farm. He found a nice place to hunt mice." Well, it didn't wash for me. Tigger was Chewie to my Han Solo.
(Wrong! Strike that. Reverse it.) Tigger ran off? He ran away? He didn't like his life with us? Why? I just couldn't make
sense of it.
Robin saw that I was wrestling with this so he said, "Let's go for a walk." He was 10 years older, so any attention from
Robin was gold to me. We walked up over the hill behind our apartment building, where the abandoned farm was, and he told
me the truth about Tigger. Robin had been taking care of the apartment while Bonnie and Jack were away, and Tigger came home
sick one day. He obviously had eaten something bad, because he just came in to the apartment, sprawled out on a towel in the
bathroom and died.
I remember this conversation perfectly. The scene was idyllic in that old farmyard, but I'll spare you the prose. Mainly
I remember my reaction, which was relief. This made so much more sense than Tigger willingly running off. He died? With
us? With Robin around? Something about it jsut set me at ease. Probably because it was the truth.
I asked what he did with the body. Did he bury it? I asked because I had a hard time picturing the taciturn hipster Robin
having a little funeral for Tigger.
He told me, no, he didn't bury Tigger. He threw his body in a Dumpster.
"What? You threw him away?"
I remember how evenly Robin responded - not like he was talking to a little eight-year-old, but like I was his equal.
"That's not Tigger. That body wasn't Tigger. Besides, he was done with his body."
I didn't cry like I thought I was going to. I was more taken with the fact that Robin was being so good to tell me what
really happened, that I might never have known otherwise. Right. Tigger came in to the apartment, left his body with us, and
died. I remember thinking, "This makes sense to me."
Half of my family really freaked out because Robin didn't have a traditional funeral. No eulogy. No hymns sung in a church
that no one had ever been to before. Rob just wanted us to have a dinner, to be together, and that's it (a surprisingly
difficult request in retrospect - he knew that, I think). Because, hey, the dude was done with his body, you know? Way
done. Mega done. He hated the nursing home where he spent the last year of his life, and eventually his motto became, "I would
love to stay but that would keep me from going."
I had 14 years to prepare for Robin's death (I found out about his Parkinson's diagnosis back in 1991, the same night
I got my first migraine. Sing it Johnny: Let the cir-cle...), but it's still a compass-spinning moment. The essence
of Robin has been calving away for years - his posture; his medieval handwriting; his right-angle trains of thought;
his voice - yet only in retrospect am I aware how much of Robin is in me, how intricately we were intertwined despite teh
decade between us. That body may be cremated and gone, but so much of Robin is still here, in my skin and very bones.
But that's as much comfort as I can draw from May Day this year. Maybe next year, I'll feel the magical mystery tour
- for now it's just going to feel like a very long autumn.
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