Some Things Aren't Meant For The Toaster

I have a cold. It's tailing off, but the snot lives on. And believe me: it lives!  It's winter. The dry days are really dry. We also run a wood stove for heating, as well as a reverse-cycle AC unit, or 'heat pump', as they're locally known. That makes for really, really dry air at night, and if you happen to have a dose of snot, as I do, then you wake up wondering how your kids got so much green play-doh, and why they shoved it up your nose during the night.

I woke up this morning at 0600. Generally I try not to do that. My usual routine is 0700, and a dose of stationary bike. At 0600 it was still black outside, and Natalie was asleep. Sleep is important to her. She complains about it a lot. I figured I'd better let her sleep, so the stationary bike was out of the question.

I came downstairs, and amused myself leaving snarky comments on peoples facebook statuses. (See how modern I am? See my withittitude?) A while later, I heard the Mau-Mau on the move, so I checked her room.

The Mau-Mau also has snot. She had climbed out of bed, and was dutifully collecting the night's rich harvest of mucous-encrusted tissues from her bedroom floor, loading them into a plastic bag for deposit in the bin. Very good of her. I offered her some breakfast, but she didn't want anything except a chance to sit on the couch, in the dark, and watch the dawn. I brought her quilt down so she'd be warm.

Next to move was Genghis. He toodled into the kitchen, and I offered him breakfast. Fried egg in an onion-ring. He liked the idea, and went looking for something to toast. Unfortunately, he missed seeing the entire loaf of bread in the pantry, and decided to ask instead if he could toast a rice cake.

I thought about it. And why not? What was the worst that could happen? I do culinary "what-if" games all the time, and sometimes they turn out to be completely delicious. (Example: the day I looked at a big, thick onion ring, and thought my, doesn't that look like an egg-ring! I wonder what would happen if I tried to fry an egg in it?)

My curiosity was piqued. I agreed to the experiment. Genghis loaded the toaster, and wandered off to the toilet.

Approximately five seconds later, I smelled smoke. Turning away from the egg, frying nicely in its buttery onion confinement, I noticed a reverse niagara of white smoke pouring out of the toaster.

Oh, poop.

I darted across to the electrical switch, but it was too late. With a faint 'poof' noise, the ailing rice-cake gave up, and burst into flames. There in the dark of the very early morning, I watched flames thirty centimetres high (a foot to you eejits who don't do metric; a little under a cubit if you favour that kind of thing) leaping merrily from the toaster slot.

First thought: blow it out... nope.

Second thought: smother it with a teatowel... nope. Teatowel starts to scorch. Damn.

Now I began to wonder: should I yank down the fireblanket? I'll never repack the fucking thing if I do, and frankly, it seems like overkill. And there's no fucking way I'm unlimbering the little extinguisher. Not for a fucking rice cake!


At this point, the toaster takes matters into its own hands. Turns out that in the dark, I'd hit the wrong switch, and the toaster still had power. Having duly toasted that rice-cake into something inappropriately Dante-esque, the toaster decided that, yes, its work was done. With a little mechanical chank!! it popped the rice-cake upwards.

Now, if that had been a piece of bread, it would have been fine. The toaster is calibrated for bread. It's designed for bread. It handles bread, yes. But rice cakes are lighter than bread. And rice cakes that have been burning merrily for thirty seconds or so are very much lighter than bread. Can you see where I'm going with this?

It was quite beautiful, actually. Still flaming, the carbonized core of the rice cake leapt vengefully from the blackened heart of the toaster, arcing through the air with a trail of smoke behind it, to fall with a quiet, flaccid little pfut! into a small puddle on the sink next to the toaster.

The toaster still works. We made crumpets, and then toast for the Mau-mau.

But rice cakes do not go into toasters. Nope.

I Told You All That "Airport Security" Was Bullshit!

Something like ten years ago, I pointed out very loudly and clearly that additional "security" on commercial air travel was utter bullshit. The act of 'hijacking' as we understand it became nearly impossible about the time a bunch of passengers on that last September 11th jet got together to fuck up the plans of the men who'd taken the aircraft with a bunch of boxcutters.

In the intervening years, the dickheads in power have made air travel less and less palatable, and "security" more and more invasive. And as far as their efforts go, I can't think of a single fucking success.

On the other side of the scales, though... there was that froot loop who tried to 'jack a flight from Melbourne to Hobart. Remember him? He smuggled wooden stakes onto an Ansett (I think) jet in his jacket, and tried to get into the cockpit. He was convinced that Satan lives under the Walls of Jerusalem (in Tasmania) and he was determined to crash the plane into the Devil's own private retreat.

The outcome? One froot-loop, overpowered and restrained by passengers and stewards.

Then there was the infamous "shoe-bomber", who made an utter fucking hash of setting his bomb-shoes alight in an international flight. Passengers noticed him dicking around with matches and his shoes... and yeah, they jumped the bastard and laid him out.

Now we get this, out of China:

http://www.news.com.au/travel/news/two-plane-hijackers-beaten-to-death-by-passengers-in-china/story-e6frfq80-1226415821620

Like so many news articles coming out of China, it's a mess. Were they "hijackers"? Or was it just a "brawl over seats"?

Who knows? Who cares?

Hijacking aircraft is a dead art. The only way it could be carried out with any real chance of success would be by stacking the passenger list with martyrs... or perhaps by arranging to kill 90% of the passengers with gas or poison before launching your attack. Otherwise, the moment you stand up and announce your intention to redirect the aircraft to the destination of your choice, the passengers are quite reasonably going to assume that they have nothing to lose... and they are going to beat five kinds of squishy pink fuck out of you. If you're lucky. (If you're unlucky, the passengers will include someone like me, and when you get to the ground, you'll be screaming to be arrested and taken away to a nice cell in some third world country where the worst that will happen is a little electricity through your gonads)

I wish to hell the inbreds who handle the so-called "security" for air travel would wake up and smell the roses. The bullshit they carry on with costs us all a shitload of money, wastes an enormous amount of time, and pisses off millions of people every week all over the world.

You want airline security? Issue every passenger with a single-use taser as they get aboard the plane. Collect it from them again as they leave.

Problem solved.

Bloodstones

I encountered the delightful Amanda Pillar a while back, and she let on that there was a collection coming from Ticonderoga Press which called for mythological beasties in modern fantasy.

I've never really understood my own idea-catching process. It just sort of happens. But - tip for editors here - if you want a story from me, just tell me the theme of your anthology. I don't know why, but my brain latches onto these things and inevitably coughs up the bones of a tale.

I'm not complaining, mind you. I may not understand it, but it's nice to know it works.

Meanwhile: look out for Bloodstones, from Ticonderoga Press. The list of authors is out already, and it looks good. My own contribution is called "The Bull In Winter", and it involves several mythic critters, most notably a Minotaur with a lot on his mind...

Genius!

And the Wikipedia entry is here: Grabbers!

Pure. Fucking. Genius.  

It's the central concept that won me over. Irish fishing village, plagued by tentacular monsters, discovers the monsters don't handle booze. It's toxic to them. Obviously, the villagers will have to drink their way to victory.

Damn but that is a beautiful idea. No doubt it will not be showing at my local BlandMart Cineplex in Launceston, but that's okay. I'll lay hands on the DVD as soon as possible, and we will have a late-night showing in the cinema shed, with lots of drinkage for those over the age of drinkabilization. 

Hooray!

The Birthday Boy

Tasmania's newest superhero: The Black Hat.

Don't mind the tatty trousers. The boy was concerned that the spandex suit made his legs look skinny. In fact, he said he felt like a "flasher" without his pants. What can you do? 

This wasn't the original intent for that suit. (It's called a "morphsuit", by the way. They're not expensive, and you can find 'em for sale online if you want. They're very cool.)  I found them a while back, and thought I might lay one in against the boy's birthday. But in the interim, his mother found him that top hat at a store in Launceston. And while we were in Melbourne for the SF con, I realised the only jacket he had was a horrible, manky green thing with a broken zip that he wore as part of his school uniform - so we hit the Vic Markets, and acquired him a nice chunk of cow-murder.

Yesterday, he was home from school sick - cough, throat, all sorts of badness - and so I thought I'd give him something to cheer him up. That's his early birthday present from me, there, and he's taken to it nicely. We have no idea yet what powers The Black Hat may have, but he's an eerie presence. I had a chat to Jake about using his body to 'create character' through thoughtful movement, and suggested he try not speaking...

... and honestly, the outcome is nifty. He's got enough body control from the martial arts and the trampoline and the gymnastics to move with a certain slow, deliberate grace, and the whole silent communication thing is very cool. Evocative gestures, postures - might have to send him somewhere to learn a bit about mime, because he seems to have a natural flair for it. 

Anyway. Today's the day of the not-party. We've got people coming through. The sun's come out. We're going to have a bonfire, and cook stuff, and then we'll bundle up with blankets and sleeping bags and doonas, and make lots of popcorn, and go up to the shed to watch movies. Jake has decided we shall watch Peter Sellers "The Party", and then "Big Trouble In Little China", and maybe "The Terminator" if anyone is still awake.

What a well-bred kid, eh?

Back Again

Whoa. That was a week.

I took Jake, and we hit the mainland. Melbourne, in fact. Did the NatCon thing.

I always enjoy the SF Convention thing. The panels and discussions vary from the very damned silly ("God Vs Godzilla: Who Would Win If The 500ft Jesus Of Rio Came To Life And Fought Daikaiju?" - thank you, Cat Sparks, you amiable lunatic) to the valuable and interesting. The fans are pleasant enough. But what I really enjoy is catching up with a peer group of fascinating, intelligent, creative people who share many of my interests, and understand a large chunk of my sense of humour. In that sense, three or four days is never long enough.

This year, I met David McDonald and Steve Cameron. I've shared a TOC with them both recently, and met them in passing before, but this time they both had the opportunity to leave their mark. David is as thoughtful and decent an individual as ever you're likely to meet, while Steve has a raft of fascinating stories from his time doing a range of other jobs. (Not sure how much he's ready to reveal to the public at large, so I'm not sayin' what he did that was so interesting. But it was indeed interesting. Yep.)

Of course, on top of all that, Melbourne is always the goods for food. Mr Barnes was kind enough to collect Jake and I from the airport, and we celebrated with an evening of serious Szechuan goodness. I wasn't sure we were going to be able to do it, at first... I got scheduled to a late-afternoon thing, and then a mid-evening thing, so I didn't know whether I'd be able to fit in a dinner, but with just Barnes, me, and a couple of youngsters, we managed to stuff our faces and be off again with a wee bit of time to spare.

I'm not going to run through the whole weekend of dinners, panels, discussions, drinks, awards, and people. I'm just going to say a big fat 'thank you' to everybody involved. You all know who you were, and what you did... or didn't do. I had a great time, and I'm home again, and I'm writing, and that's good.

Anyhow, we made it home again more or less in one piece. Oh, well.. okay, there was that incident at security, where the prawn waving the stupid 'explosive check' wand decided to 'randomly select' me...

...fuck it. Does that phrase piss anybody else off? They pull you out of the stream of travellers, and they hide behind this bullshit "random selection" routine. I like to fuck with their heads, when I have time, by asking what kind of algorithm they're using to ensure truly randomised selection. Naturally, they get that rabbit-in-the-headlights look, and start stammering, because they have no fucking idea what I'm talking about. But of course, I'm talking about true randomness, and the fact that no human-driven decision-making process can actually be considered 'random'.

The truth is that when they pick you, they do so for a range of non-random reasons. Boredom. The fact that they have to meet a quota. That their subconscious prejudices lead them to regard you as suspicious. And all of these factors can be manipulated, and used to beat the system. (It also doesn't help that the little explosive-detector thingies are less than reliable, according to information I've been given by someone who ought to know.) In other words, if you take the time to observe, and act appropriately, you can maximise your chances of slipping past the idiot with the explosive wand precisely because the selection process isn't random.

If the stupid game was actually about safety, I'd probably take it up with the people who run the theatre. But of course, it's not. It's about show. They're not trying to make anyone safe. They're trying to convince us that they're in charge, and they're Doing Something Useful.

Fucking idiots...

...anyway. In all the confusion, what with Jake having his hat and his new leather jacket to look after (we went to the Vic Markets on Sunday morning) and with me being blindsided by Mr Not-So-Fucking-Random and his dysfunctional phallic device, nobody remembered to pick up Jake's backpack. So at the time of writing, the presents for Genghis and the Mau-Mau are still somewhere in transit. Many thanks to Tehani, who put me onto the Tullamarine lost-and-found site... and thanks to the Qantas lost-and-found bunch to whom I eventually managed to get through, after the Tullamarine lot proved they couldn't find their arse with both hands and an anatomy text. I'd even thank Pack 'n' Send, who are moving the backpack through to us... except I don't think I have to thank anybody who charges nearly $100 to ship a 4kg backpack from Melbourne to Tasmania.

Eh. It's all good. Hopefully sometime early next week, the Mau-Mau will get her bamboo dragonflies that balance on their noses, and her Haigh's dark chocolate valentine heart, and Genghis will get his engraved military-style dogtags with chain.

Of course, Genghis already got his book. Three hundred pages of Diana Wynne Jones; The Enchanted Glass. Three hundred and twenty nine pages, actually. (It was in my bag, not Jake's.)

I think he must have enjoyed that book. But I'm reluctant to bother buying more from DWJ to give him. The little bastard read the entire thing through in about six or seven hours. All of it. Cover to cover. What the fuck am I supposed to do about that?

I can tell you one thing I've done. I've given the little sod a copy of Frank Herbert's Dune. He's enjoying it, but it's definitely slowing him up. He's been reading it for over a week now, and he's no more than halfway through. Ha!

But we're back on Tas soil now. And today was a gaming day. I set up and ran a game of Paranoia -- 2nd Edition. I don't think I've done that in... fifteen years? Maybe more?

Eight players, ranging in age from nine through to eighteen. And brutally, joyously, I butchered them all, repeatedly. Except for Jake, who was cunning enough to escape with nothing worse than a frozen lung, and an exceptionally large and bulky prosthetic replacement. (I duct taped a laundry basket to his chest to simulate the discomfort and clumsiness of his new Experimental Oxygenation System.)

I believe the best death of the day was one of the Baggins sisters - young April, who was swallowed whole by a Godzilla-sized aardvark. Damn, I love Paranoia!


Okay. That's it for now. Writing time. Good night!

Goodbye, Ray.

Ray Bradbury has died.

Absolutely nothing I can say or write can touch that one, single fact.

So long, Ray - and... thank you.