Harry Harrison's official webpage says that he's gone.
If you don't know the name, I'm sorry for you. You've missed an awful lot of fun.
If you recognise the name - and most of you reading this will - you'll understand why I'm feeling a little downbeat.
I'll say only this: I really don't know what kind of person I'd have been if I hadn't discovered a trove of Stainless Steel Rat books when I was still back in primary school. I can't tell you how many endless hours of toxic bullshit I wallpapered away with the adventures of Jim diGriz and the many others that Harry Harrison created.
No, I'm not arguing that he wrote immortal literature. But he had a hell of a sense of fun, and his priorities were in the right place, and his books made a thousand worlds of difference to me at a time when I desperately needed that escape.
I'm sorry I never got to say 'thanks' in person.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Musing On The Masters
One of the most interesting thing coming out of my Masters studies in creative writing is that I am learning just how... off-centre my expectations were. I figured okay: I'm a working writer. I want to refine my writing, and understand the process a bit better, and I'd like maybe a qualification that might give me some credibility if I want to do more teaching. (Which I probably will, as Jake goes on becoming a better, more sophisticated writer. The schools show no signs of being ready to handle someone who can read far better than most adults, and write narrative fiction with an advanced-adult level grasp of the technical usage of English. Ergo, he's gonna need a bit of outside guidance, and if I'm going to help him, I might as well see if I can find a way to convince the Education Department - or anyone in a similar position - to pay me to handle that kind of thing.)
The more reading I do, however, the more it becomes apparent that University English departments really aren't set up to handle this kind of thing. Look at it this way: if you want to write, you're doing it for an audience. Simple as that. And for most of us, that means we want to be published, and preferably, paid.
Now, every working writer will tell you immediately that if you're going to be published and paid, you have to know the audience you're writing for, you have to know what the marketplace is doing, and it sure as hell helps to know the publishers and the industry too. In other words, the creation of a novel isn't an isolated, writer-alone-in-the-ivory-tower experience, and if you try to treat it that way, you'll probably never get into print. (There's a word for people who write precisely what they like, and expect the audience to magically appear. It's a technical term. In the industry, we call them "wankers".)
I'm not saying you don't create, as a writer. I'm also not saying that you shouldn't write something that you actually enjoy writing. In fact, you pretty much have to enjoy it if it's going to be worth anything. If you hate writing the piece, believe me: your audience will know. The trick is to find a section of the market with which you can enjoyably engage. And so, my buddy Birmo writes explodey books that hover between SF and techno-thriller, and though I've never bothered to ask him, I'm absolutely certain he gets a kick out of doing it.
But the approach taken by English departments, which have been dominated by Literature studies for about a thousand years (You think I'm kidding. You're wrong. The first universities identified as such were founded around the beginning of the second millennium CE. They taught law, rhetoric -- and the study of the classic Greek and Latin literature.) is almost exactly the reverse. You can sum it up with a famous quote from Jacques Derrida: "There is only the text!"
Derrida, of course, is the famous post-modernist/deconstructionist French ur-masterbateur who has bestrode the literary theory scene like some kind of deranged colossus for the last forty years or so. And he has a point. When you're analysing a text, there's not a lot of value, ultimately, in trying to second-guess where it sits in what may be a very foreign cultural context. You'll never know exactly what the writer was thinking. (Even the writer doesn't. That's post-modernism for you!) You'll never know precisely what the work meant to its audience... and if it's old enough, (cave paintings, anyone?) you may know jack shit about the audience for which it was intended. So you study the text.
But that's pretty crippling, in a lot of ways. It's fine for constructing theories and analyses, but it's not much good for creating new work. And, well... isn't that what "creative writing" implies?
There is a very real problem here. It's like a hole in the middle of all the theory and research. Here I am, looking into the way in which Lit Theory of Genre can be used to enhance the production of genre-based fiction... and I'm told that if I want to look at the effects of the publishing industry -- well, that's not English. That's Publishing Studies. Oh, and that powerful community of committed and engaged people who have turned Steampunk from a bunch of books into a huge fan movement with music, costumes, bands, games, movies, conventions, etc? Ummm... no. We don't know what to say about them. If you tell us that they have an influence over the creation of new fiction in the genre... most likely we're probably going to have to cover our ears and go "la la la la la!" VERY VERY LOUDLY until you go away.
My Prof is one of the good guys. He acknowledges and recognises this gap, and he's encouraging me to find ways around it, and to reflect on its effect in my work. But it's getting challenging as hell. It would be nice if I'd just, say, decided to discuss changes in the symbolic meaning of the Catholic Church across Twentieth Century literature, and used that discourse to generate a piece of fiction of the appropriate length which re-constructed that symbolism in a different fashion. That would have been simple.
Also, it would have been fucking boring. So now I'm reading in genre theory, publishing studies, reception theory, and a whole bunch of other shit, and once again, the project is threatening to get Out Of Hand.
Must restrain myself. Do a PhD some other damned time.
The more reading I do, however, the more it becomes apparent that University English departments really aren't set up to handle this kind of thing. Look at it this way: if you want to write, you're doing it for an audience. Simple as that. And for most of us, that means we want to be published, and preferably, paid.
Now, every working writer will tell you immediately that if you're going to be published and paid, you have to know the audience you're writing for, you have to know what the marketplace is doing, and it sure as hell helps to know the publishers and the industry too. In other words, the creation of a novel isn't an isolated, writer-alone-in-the-ivory-tower experience, and if you try to treat it that way, you'll probably never get into print. (There's a word for people who write precisely what they like, and expect the audience to magically appear. It's a technical term. In the industry, we call them "wankers".)
I'm not saying you don't create, as a writer. I'm also not saying that you shouldn't write something that you actually enjoy writing. In fact, you pretty much have to enjoy it if it's going to be worth anything. If you hate writing the piece, believe me: your audience will know. The trick is to find a section of the market with which you can enjoyably engage. And so, my buddy Birmo writes explodey books that hover between SF and techno-thriller, and though I've never bothered to ask him, I'm absolutely certain he gets a kick out of doing it.
But the approach taken by English departments, which have been dominated by Literature studies for about a thousand years (You think I'm kidding. You're wrong. The first universities identified as such were founded around the beginning of the second millennium CE. They taught law, rhetoric -- and the study of the classic Greek and Latin literature.) is almost exactly the reverse. You can sum it up with a famous quote from Jacques Derrida: "There is only the text!"
Derrida, of course, is the famous post-modernist/deconstructionist French ur-masterbateur who has bestrode the literary theory scene like some kind of deranged colossus for the last forty years or so. And he has a point. When you're analysing a text, there's not a lot of value, ultimately, in trying to second-guess where it sits in what may be a very foreign cultural context. You'll never know exactly what the writer was thinking. (Even the writer doesn't. That's post-modernism for you!) You'll never know precisely what the work meant to its audience... and if it's old enough, (cave paintings, anyone?) you may know jack shit about the audience for which it was intended. So you study the text.
But that's pretty crippling, in a lot of ways. It's fine for constructing theories and analyses, but it's not much good for creating new work. And, well... isn't that what "creative writing" implies?
There is a very real problem here. It's like a hole in the middle of all the theory and research. Here I am, looking into the way in which Lit Theory of Genre can be used to enhance the production of genre-based fiction... and I'm told that if I want to look at the effects of the publishing industry -- well, that's not English. That's Publishing Studies. Oh, and that powerful community of committed and engaged people who have turned Steampunk from a bunch of books into a huge fan movement with music, costumes, bands, games, movies, conventions, etc? Ummm... no. We don't know what to say about them. If you tell us that they have an influence over the creation of new fiction in the genre... most likely we're probably going to have to cover our ears and go "la la la la la!" VERY VERY LOUDLY until you go away.
My Prof is one of the good guys. He acknowledges and recognises this gap, and he's encouraging me to find ways around it, and to reflect on its effect in my work. But it's getting challenging as hell. It would be nice if I'd just, say, decided to discuss changes in the symbolic meaning of the Catholic Church across Twentieth Century literature, and used that discourse to generate a piece of fiction of the appropriate length which re-constructed that symbolism in a different fashion. That would have been simple.
Also, it would have been fucking boring. So now I'm reading in genre theory, publishing studies, reception theory, and a whole bunch of other shit, and once again, the project is threatening to get Out Of Hand.
Must restrain myself. Do a PhD some other damned time.
A Bit Of Random Cooking
But before that, a whinge.
Why is Google Chrome turning into a piece of shit? I stopped using Firefox because it got big, slow, stoopid, and stopped efficiently loading web pages. I've been using Chrome since not long after it launched.
I didn't get rid of Firefox, though. I've seen all this shit before, and I've long ago learned that having a back-up browser is useful. And sure enough, lately Chrome is starting to suck. It won't handle Yahoo Mail any more, for example. Just... fails to load. Or if it does load, it won't actually do anything. And even this blog -- five minutes of pondering and fucking around, waiting for it to load. I got bored, so I opened up Firefox, hit it with the URL, and bingo: open and ready to work within seconds.
No. It's not the browser history and temporary files. I clear those routinely. Nope. It's simply that times have moved on, and Google Chrome hasn't moved on with them, while Firefox has done so. Guess it's time to switch browsers again, eh?
And now, the cooking.
Bitter cold day today. Snow on the range, rain down here with sleet and hail, and evil, dark winds from the southwest. I wanted something warm for the troops. I figured I'd maybe do some kind of vol-au-vent by way of a change. Unfortunately, there weren't any vol-au-vent cases available, and I didn't really feel like frigging around with a bunch of puff pastry to make them.
So, fuck it. I went to the bakery, bought four nice, big, crusty white rolls. And it went from there.
Two chunks of salmon, no skin. Three ripe avocadoes. A couple of shallots/green onions/whateverthefuck. A handful of fresh basil. Black pepper in quantity. A little salt. A little balsamic vinegar. Some slices of Gouda cheese.
Gently fry the salmon with garlic and a little butter. Don't crisp it up, and don't worry if it's still pink in the middle. It ought to be that way. Add pepper.
Now, chop your shallots into wee slices, and coarsely chop up the fresh basil. Put 'em in a bowl. Halve the avocadoes, and cube them. Dump the avocado flesh into the bowl. Add more pepper, add some salt, and add a couple tablespoons of balsamic vinegar.
Is the salmon more or less cool yet? You don't want to add it to the mixture if it's too hot. Avocado is nicer when it hasn't really been cooked. While you're waiting for the salmon to cool, cut the tops off the rolls, and pull out the bread in the middle, leaving a nice, crusty, bready shell behind. (You can take the bread from the middle and dry it out with the microwave to turn it into breadcrumbs. Or you can eat it. Or you can... I dunno... put it in an envelope and post it to someone at random in the phone book. Why not?)
Now, chop up your salmon into chunks the size of those avocado cubelets. Throw the salmon in with the avocado, basil, etc. Stir it all up, and check the seasoning (vinegar, salt and pepper) for taste. If you're happy, spoon the mixture into the bread rolls to fill them up. Put a slice of Gouda over the top of each, and put them in a hot oven until the Gouda is all melted and bubbly.
For added credit, put the cut-away tops of the bread on the same tray as the rolls while they're in the oven, and when you serve these up, use a big, decorative goddam toothpick to nail those now-crusty lids back onto the rolls, over the top of the cheese.
Rich, tasty, fresh, and full of good nutritious stuff. Serve it with a decent green salad, and a glass of sauvignon blanc.
Hooray!
Why is Google Chrome turning into a piece of shit? I stopped using Firefox because it got big, slow, stoopid, and stopped efficiently loading web pages. I've been using Chrome since not long after it launched.
I didn't get rid of Firefox, though. I've seen all this shit before, and I've long ago learned that having a back-up browser is useful. And sure enough, lately Chrome is starting to suck. It won't handle Yahoo Mail any more, for example. Just... fails to load. Or if it does load, it won't actually do anything. And even this blog -- five minutes of pondering and fucking around, waiting for it to load. I got bored, so I opened up Firefox, hit it with the URL, and bingo: open and ready to work within seconds.
No. It's not the browser history and temporary files. I clear those routinely. Nope. It's simply that times have moved on, and Google Chrome hasn't moved on with them, while Firefox has done so. Guess it's time to switch browsers again, eh?
And now, the cooking.
Bitter cold day today. Snow on the range, rain down here with sleet and hail, and evil, dark winds from the southwest. I wanted something warm for the troops. I figured I'd maybe do some kind of vol-au-vent by way of a change. Unfortunately, there weren't any vol-au-vent cases available, and I didn't really feel like frigging around with a bunch of puff pastry to make them.
So, fuck it. I went to the bakery, bought four nice, big, crusty white rolls. And it went from there.
Two chunks of salmon, no skin. Three ripe avocadoes. A couple of shallots/green onions/whateverthefuck. A handful of fresh basil. Black pepper in quantity. A little salt. A little balsamic vinegar. Some slices of Gouda cheese.
Gently fry the salmon with garlic and a little butter. Don't crisp it up, and don't worry if it's still pink in the middle. It ought to be that way. Add pepper.
Now, chop your shallots into wee slices, and coarsely chop up the fresh basil. Put 'em in a bowl. Halve the avocadoes, and cube them. Dump the avocado flesh into the bowl. Add more pepper, add some salt, and add a couple tablespoons of balsamic vinegar.
Is the salmon more or less cool yet? You don't want to add it to the mixture if it's too hot. Avocado is nicer when it hasn't really been cooked. While you're waiting for the salmon to cool, cut the tops off the rolls, and pull out the bread in the middle, leaving a nice, crusty, bready shell behind. (You can take the bread from the middle and dry it out with the microwave to turn it into breadcrumbs. Or you can eat it. Or you can... I dunno... put it in an envelope and post it to someone at random in the phone book. Why not?)
Now, chop up your salmon into chunks the size of those avocado cubelets. Throw the salmon in with the avocado, basil, etc. Stir it all up, and check the seasoning (vinegar, salt and pepper) for taste. If you're happy, spoon the mixture into the bread rolls to fill them up. Put a slice of Gouda over the top of each, and put them in a hot oven until the Gouda is all melted and bubbly.
For added credit, put the cut-away tops of the bread on the same tray as the rolls while they're in the oven, and when you serve these up, use a big, decorative goddam toothpick to nail those now-crusty lids back onto the rolls, over the top of the cheese.
Rich, tasty, fresh, and full of good nutritious stuff. Serve it with a decent green salad, and a glass of sauvignon blanc.
Hooray!
Monday, August 6, 2012
All's Well... Working My Way Back Up To Date
I've been busy. Sorry. By way of apology: here's the first thousand words (first draft) of the creative work I'm doing for my Masters' Degree. It's a 13000 word poem in the Ottava Rima system used by Byron for his epic Don Juan.
It isn't as easy as it looks.
This isn't a work of undying genius. But before you say anything, go look at Don Juan itself. You can find it online easily enough. I'm not trying for undying genius. I'm trying for something like Byron. This is a first draft. When I'm done, it'll be much more Byronic.
Meantime, I'm off again. Gotta go do some Swedish with the kids.
The Queen of Bedlam
Canto I
When all the world was young, great marvels walk'd
The broad earth o'er, a wild and dreadful place.
Thus Artemis her Attic mountains stalk'd
And Olympus quailed before Zeus' stern face;
The very stones beneath Poseidon rocked
And warlike Ares father'd the might of Thrace.
Aye, some would call these fearful beings 'gods',
And claim they raised up Man from earthen clods.
They wandered o'er that younger earth at will,
Strew'd tales like dragon's teeth in their wake.
Meaning no mortal either good or ill,
All their mighty deeds wrought for their own sake.
Their smallest whims oft raised the poet's quill,
The hero's sword, the maiden's heart – to break!
For to creatures of such Titanic fame
The lives of men are but a little game.
E'en unto these rainswept isles they came
Roving the grey hills, the greenwoods deep.
Our forefathers gave them many a name
Now lost, for such are mickle hard to keep
When Father Time his rightful meed doth claim
Deliv'ring all men unto lasting sleep.
For who can hope to keep alive the past
When each must go beneath the earth at last?
Yet it seems that e'en Titans have an end
Shadow'd and uncertain, 'tis true, but still;
These triumphant centuries of Man must lend
Strength to that belief, or at least until
Some storied wonder comes forth to ascend
In glory, to rule – or perhaps to kill.
After all, to the elephant what boots
It if the mouse be trampled underfoot?
Still the world is wide. Mayhap some far land
Of fabled realms, like the high Hindoo Kush
Or ancient, shadow-haunted Samarkand;
Yet makes a home for mighty beings such
As those of long-lost legend. Understand:
Though Albion's a fair land, green and lush
So many millions teem her shores today
'Tis no surprise her gods have turn'd away.
The last such nonpareil in Britain dwelt
Not centuries past, but a few short years
Agone. While of Scotland she came, no Celt
Was she. Last of the fairy kind, her peers
Long since vanished. By many, 'tis felt
Their flight was no loss, but I greatly fear
Mankind's future will be hopeless, tragic
With no leavening of sweet fay magic.
Maeve was the name of the last fairy queen;
A queen without a country, for in Bedlam
Was she prison'd, until eighteen fifteen,
Cruelly bound by one of the Monro clan.
Not the vile Doctor Thomas, lately dean
Of that benighted hell, but a quondam
Chief Physician, his grandfather James
No man better destined for Hades' flames.
They met upon the shores of Cromarty Firth
Where the dour North Sea growls and shows its teeth.
He thought her a young maid, alive with mirth
Lissome, lovely, her beauty like a wreath
Of wildflowers, rarest of all the earth.
Her hair, her eyes, her breast – aye, and beneath!
All this the handsome lecher's eyes took in.
He proffered his hand, and made a satyr's grin.
“Sblood,” quoth he, “What star hath fled from heaven?
For surely 'tis a splendid jewel of night
Before me here. May I die unshriven
If e'er I have beheld such a fair sight.”
It was his habit his words to leaven
With sweet whispers that a comely maid might
Hark to. Displaying thus his manly charms
That he might persuade her into his arms.
Yet no blushing, virginal maid was Maeve
Rather a mighty queen of ancient race
Loved o'er centuries by great men, and brave;
Adored by bards and poets, full of grace.
This James Monro seemed but a very knave
A bumpkin, reaching far above his place.
She thought at first his squalid schemes to thwart
Then check'd herself. Perhaps she'd make some sport!
For in truth, she'd wandered long and alone
A-roving the wildwoods, the beasts and birds
All the companionship that she might own.
Deep inside her, she hunger'd for some words
Of comfort, and merriment, some light shone
In the long dark; a cup from the vineyards.
To be the last of your kind is trying,
While short-lived mortals must go on dying.
So with a pretty smile she turned her head
And in a voice like sweet music she spoke.
“Grace to you good sir, and good health,” she said
“A shepherdess am I, of simple folk.
Seeking here for my flock, which lately stray'd.”
And here, she gathered 'round herself a cloak
Made play as if she suffered from the cold
To see if this bumpkin might grow more bold.
Say this for James Monro; he was not slow
To act upon an opportunity.
“Eventide is nigh, and the sun hangs low
In the west. Lady, please, my coat,” said he.
“Tis of finest fleece, and quite warm, I trow.”
The garment doffed, he made a leg – most pretty.
No earthly cold can harm a fairy queen
But Maeve took it, and smirk'd to see him preen.
“A gentleman such as yourself is rare
As an honest man in parliament,
And more welcome withal,” she said. With care
She donned his fine, dark, woollen coat, and went
Upon her way, as if to leave him there,
Though 'tis certain 'twas never her intent.
Monro, recking nothing of her wiles
Would have follow'd her for a thousand miles.
“The hour grows late,” said he, “Night comes apace.
Permit me, please, to play your gallant squire
And see you safely from this lonely place.”
Maeve gazed long upon him, her eyes sapphire
Pools, dreaming on the snow-plains of her face,
And Monro felt as if he caught afire.
For such is the strength of fairy glamour
That incites the soul to lustful clamour.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Sick Child
It's the fearful, terrible side of parenthood. It's hurtful, and horrible, and intense beyond words.
Genghis is sick.
There's all kinds of colds and infections sweeping through this part of the world right now. Everyone I come across is coughing and sniffling. All three kids are down. I'm on my way back up, though there's a lingering sinus infection giving me some grief.
But little Genghis... with his overactive immune system, his tendency to asthma; this stuff hits him hard. It has done so since he was just a baby. I remember a horrible, high-speed drive at four o'clock one morning, so I could pick up some prednisolone from the hospital at Natalie's order so that six month old Genghis could get some relief from croop -- that hideous, barking, knife-painful cough.
Sick adults are part of life. But sick children are unbearable, at least for me.
This time round, Genghis is running a fever - night and day, which is bad, because these things spike at night, and he's already hot. His face is pale, except for the bright pink-red spots on his cheeks. His eyes are dull. He's coherent, and he's not terribly unhappy, but when he coughs... oh, shit.
And he coughs in bouts all night long.
It sounds like croop. Nat says that it's not technically croop, since it's also associated with buckets of mucous, whereas croop is a dry cough. But it sounds like croop, and it hurts him the same way: that sharp, searing, cutting pain in the throat that makes you think you've swallowed a knife. But because of all the mucous and phlegm, he can't stop. He coughs, and coughs, and gags, and coughs some more, and we check the clock and figure out which medication he can have now, and when he had his last dose, and he coughs some more, and the sound of it makes my skin crawl.
I hate not being able to help. But there's fuck-all I can do.
No, that's not true. He wasn't eating, so I figured out a way to make Oysters Kilpatrick without a grill (since I took the oven into Launceston this morning for repairs and an overhaul.) He ate five of them, which is pretty good going. I've also figured out how to make something resembling a lemon tart using the stove-top and the microwave oven... the filling tastes damned good, but the crust is -- well, it's commercial shortcrust that's been microwaved, isn't it? Best I can do, under the circumstances. Anyway, it should be all right with a little whipped cream, following on from the steamed prawn dumplings and the pan-fried pork dumplings.
I'm not a doctor. But I bet I can get him to eat, at least a little.
He's in the bath right now - a big, hot, steaming bath, under the heater-lights. He hasn't coughed in half an hour or more. The paracetamol is doubtless helping, but eventually he'll h ave to get out of that tub.
I hope he sleeps a little better tonight. I hope the fever doesn't do what fevers do and climb higher still. I hope his throat eases a little.
I really hate this.
Genghis is sick.
There's all kinds of colds and infections sweeping through this part of the world right now. Everyone I come across is coughing and sniffling. All three kids are down. I'm on my way back up, though there's a lingering sinus infection giving me some grief.
But little Genghis... with his overactive immune system, his tendency to asthma; this stuff hits him hard. It has done so since he was just a baby. I remember a horrible, high-speed drive at four o'clock one morning, so I could pick up some prednisolone from the hospital at Natalie's order so that six month old Genghis could get some relief from croop -- that hideous, barking, knife-painful cough.
Sick adults are part of life. But sick children are unbearable, at least for me.
This time round, Genghis is running a fever - night and day, which is bad, because these things spike at night, and he's already hot. His face is pale, except for the bright pink-red spots on his cheeks. His eyes are dull. He's coherent, and he's not terribly unhappy, but when he coughs... oh, shit.
And he coughs in bouts all night long.
It sounds like croop. Nat says that it's not technically croop, since it's also associated with buckets of mucous, whereas croop is a dry cough. But it sounds like croop, and it hurts him the same way: that sharp, searing, cutting pain in the throat that makes you think you've swallowed a knife. But because of all the mucous and phlegm, he can't stop. He coughs, and coughs, and gags, and coughs some more, and we check the clock and figure out which medication he can have now, and when he had his last dose, and he coughs some more, and the sound of it makes my skin crawl.
I hate not being able to help. But there's fuck-all I can do.
No, that's not true. He wasn't eating, so I figured out a way to make Oysters Kilpatrick without a grill (since I took the oven into Launceston this morning for repairs and an overhaul.) He ate five of them, which is pretty good going. I've also figured out how to make something resembling a lemon tart using the stove-top and the microwave oven... the filling tastes damned good, but the crust is -- well, it's commercial shortcrust that's been microwaved, isn't it? Best I can do, under the circumstances. Anyway, it should be all right with a little whipped cream, following on from the steamed prawn dumplings and the pan-fried pork dumplings.
I'm not a doctor. But I bet I can get him to eat, at least a little.
He's in the bath right now - a big, hot, steaming bath, under the heater-lights. He hasn't coughed in half an hour or more. The paracetamol is doubtless helping, but eventually he'll h ave to get out of that tub.
I hope he sleeps a little better tonight. I hope the fever doesn't do what fevers do and climb higher still. I hope his throat eases a little.
I really hate this.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Is It Too Early For Christmas Crap?
To which the only sane and civilised reply must be: yes. It is too early. It is ALWAYS too early.
Unfortunately, girls of six years old (going on seven!) are neither sane, nor civilised. Today, Natalie and I received this... list of demands. For Santa.
I like to think the image will expand if you click on it. But what would I know? Blogger is... blogger.
I added translations, by the way. Just so you'd understand the full depth of the Mau-Mau's convictions regarding her role in "Chissmiss".
...a fucking hovercraft? REALLY?
Unfortunately, girls of six years old (going on seven!) are neither sane, nor civilised. Today, Natalie and I received this... list of demands. For Santa.
I like to think the image will expand if you click on it. But what would I know? Blogger is... blogger.
I added translations, by the way. Just so you'd understand the full depth of the Mau-Mau's convictions regarding her role in "Chissmiss".
...a fucking hovercraft? REALLY?
Friday, July 6, 2012
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 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.
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