Joe Haldeman's Blog, page 22

a time of changes

Big changes afoot in the Haldeman household.  After a lot of thought and headscratching and comparison of plans, we've decided that this will be our last year of teaching at MIT.

Two numbers:  30 and 70.  I've been at MIT for thirty years, and this year I turned seventy.

I've had better fortune than most writers, and can switch from part-time to full-time writing without having to take up prostitution or busking.  That's partly MIT's generous retirement plan, and partly my good fortune in stopping a Vietnamese machinegun bullet 45 years ago.

The house is paid for, and we don't have any expensive habits like children or buying new cars or kilos of hash.  In fact, in a manner of speaking, my most expensive indulgence has been going to MIT every year, with the expense and hassle of moving house every September and December.

We had lunch with the head of the writing program yesterday, and broke the news.  He almost choked on his ice cream, but recovered to say he was willing to let us go, but only if we'd allow the department to throw an appropriate retirement party.

Break out the dancing girls!

It's been a great experience, one I'll never regret.  MIT has given us a generous and comfortable environment.  But I'm ready to jump out, rip cord in hand, ready to face any metaphor that presents itself.

Joe

some smiles

Boston Comedy Fest kicks off today, and the Globe had an article where they interviewed a couple of dozen comics.  They asked the performers for their favorite one-liners, and the one that made me smile was from Mark Normand, of New Orleans:  "You never see a church with free Wi-Fi, because no church wants to compete with an invisible power that actually works."

Oh, and Christine An, from Georgia:  "Some people like to run the bathroom faucet to mask the sound of urination, but why waste water when you can just scream?"


And Matt Donahear, from New Hampshire:  "I used to think that I liked trail mix.  Turns out I just like M&M's that play hard to get."


Joe

home again

Back on Cambridge and off to teach. England was great fun, as usual.  I got a new fountain pen (surprise!) in Brighton.Came home to a certain amount of schoolwork.  Almost caught up.   Hope to be back on the novel  over the weekend.  I did write a little bit on it in London and on the plane.  In another month and a half I'll be a full-time writer again.Joe

Remembering the Buckdancer

Relaxing in London for a couple of days before the World Fantasy Convention.  Had a book signing at Forbidden Planet last night that brought in a long line, more than an hour of signing, and then I signed a couple of hundred for their stock.  Then a late dinner chez John and Judith Clute.

We're staying in the Holiday Inn by the canal in Camden, in a room with two beds and not quite enough space for two people to stand up.  It does have WiFi, though, for four pounds a day (half price because they liked the cut of our jib.

This morning Gay went out to follow Judith on her London Walks tour of Camden Town.  I should be working, but the Time Literary Supplement caught my eye with a review of _James Dickey -- The Complete Poems_, which I think I must have, even for $85.  If you were reading this column  thirty years ago, you might have read about my encounter with Dickey.  I won a week's fellowship, writing poetry with him.  He said I was his favorite science fiction writer, though I don't think he knew that many.

The recollection does make me feel a little old this morning.  At seventy, I suppose I am old to most of my readers -- well, all of them, even my contemporaries.  Thanks for putting up with my senile maunderings.

Joe

You think _you_ had a day!

  This is Sam. Pepys's diary entry for Saturday, 13 October 1660 . . . .

To my Lord’s in the morning, where I met with Captain Cuttance, but my Lord not being up I went out to Charing Cross, to see Major-general Harrison hanged, drawn, and quartered; which was done there, he looking as cheerful as any man could do in that condition. He was presently cut down, and his head and heart shown to the people, at which there was great shouts of joy. It is said, that he said that he was sure to come shortly at the right hand of Christ to judge them that now had judged him; and that his wife do expect his coming again.


Thus it was my chance to see the King beheaded at White Hall, and to see the first blood shed in revenge for the blood of the King at Charing Cross. From thence to my Lord’s, and took Captain Cuttance and Mr. Sheply to the Sun Tavern, and did give them some oysters. After that I went by water home, where I was angry with my wife for her things lying about, and in my passion kicked the little fine basket, which I bought her in Holland, and broke it, which troubled me after I had done it.
Within all the afternoon setting up shelves in my study. At night to bed.

Joe
 

pig-out

Gay and I went to a super-fancy Boston restaurant, the Menton, to celebrate her birthday.  We treated ourselves to the tasting menu, thirteen small portions, most of which were delectable:

Canapes were nibbles of raw tuna, white caviar, carrot macaron, chevre, rosemary vol-au-vent, caramelized onion, pear borscht, and pumpkin Gougére.  Then slightly larger bits of lobster, prawn, fluke, and smoked bluefish.  Then the main course, Seared Foie Gras de Canard for Gay, and Kataifo-Wrapped Langoustine for me.  Small servings of squab and veal (with celery root, sweetbread, and escargot), followed by sticky carrot cake washed down with a hot toddy.  For second dessert, three mignardises:  Praline crunch, candy apple, and "Banana Whoopie Pie."

My version of it was accompanied by nine small glasses of various wines (totaling about two normal glasses' volume).

Then they come by with a front-end loader to take you to the emergency room.  (Seriously, you'd be a lot more full after a pizza party.  Your wallet would be, too.)

Joe

http://mentonboston.com/menus/chefs-tasting/

Ernie the friendly ghost

Got into New York yesterday noon, and hit the ground running. Right now I'm
at the little café across Seventh Avenue from our hotel, the Affinia. It's
starting to get light, not yet seven. I'm eating a concoction, or confection,
that's two crumbly cookies with a layer of raspberry jam between, optimistically
yclept a Lindser Tort. But it really tastes like two cookies with jam, enough
carbs to fuel a novel. I wish.

Yesterday we met Phil and Judith Anderson at the Museum of Modern Art, and wandered
the halls for a couple of hours, mostly an impressively large collection of
Magritte – such a volume of work! Did he never sleep or eat?

They had two tables displaying his working notebooks, fascinating. Pretty cerebral
guy.

I was impressed with the way he handled darks, and darkness. I don't think
that reproduces well. Blackness with a touch of mauve, or green. I bought
a collection of reproductions anyhow to study, admire.

For dinner we went to the venerable Algonquin, where I used to stay in the seventies,
whenever I was in town. It has magical connections with American writers of
the Hemingway/Fitzgerald age, and when I started out it was still the hotel
for writers. In the eighties, it priced itself out of that market. Still one
of the best midtown restaurants, and a famous watering hole. Big living room
full of overstuffed furniture full of hopeful writers trying to be noticed.
(I didn't recognize anybody, but I'm no good at that sort of thing.) Good
food and wine for only a hundred bucks apiece.

It did make me nostalgic for the seventies, when the Algonquin was the meeting
place for my generation of sf writers. The desk clerk would welcome me by name.
I'd sit downstairs in the living room and drink martinis with the writers as
they came in. Negronis, a straight-up gin martini with Campari. With a strip
of lemon rind. Ah, the good old bad old days.

I should go down there at cocktail hour and have a glass of wine, and see whether
anybody shows up. Real people or friendly ghosts.


joe

RIP Eliot Shorter

I see up by the rose that Elliot Shorter has died.  We used to play folk/blues together in New York and thereabouts, in the seventies.  His version of "Alice's Restaurant" was the first time I heard it, a finger-pick riff I think he copied from Arlo Guthrie.Joe

a little travelin' music, Ray

Gay and I are on the train right now -- Wi-fi in Business Class -- headed down to Washington and then Noo Yawk from Boston. Family visits and then a couple days' business.A Gainesville luthier, Charlie Hyde, asked whether I wanted a new travel guitar (mine's stuck up in Maine) and offered to build a serviceable one for $300 acoustic or $450 acoustic/elecric.  Various interesting combinations of woods.Think I'll go for the wired one.  (Every once in a blue moon I'm asked t perform while we're traveling.  Nice to be able to plug into the sound system.)Joe

The Butler

Went to see The Butler, a good movie about a butler in the White House from Truman to Ford, who silently watches the country changing.  I liked it that they didn't put too positive or partisan a political spin on it.  Forest Whitaker did a fine job of being passive but sometimes smoldering, and he has a great exit line:  An elderly man, he's waiting outside the Oval Office for an audience with (one assumes) Obama.  A dapper middle-aged black man who has inherited his butler post steps up to escort him in; "the president will see you now," and gives him a hand.  Whitaker shakes off the assistance with "I know the way."  He strides down the carpet.

We had dinner across the street at Ristorante Olivio, which was one of our favorite places when we lived in the Arlington area.  Still good, but of course crowded on a Friday night.  Wonderful pasta, just barely al dente, with a rich artichoke and cream sauce.  One small glass of wine, being good.

Joe