Joe Haldeman's Blog, page 25
July 10, 2013
watercolor from Semana Negra
This is from the harbor a few blocks from the Semana Negra hotel . . . sat at a wine shop and dabbled . . . fun!
Joe
Joe
July 7, 2013
Semana Negra
Haven't added anything to this journal since we left the Barcelona area. Too busy. But most of the busy-ness was just getting from one place to another.
Zaragoza was an interesting city, which Gay and I had never visited. Very elegant, with wide boulevards full of handsome people. The focus of the place is the Plaza del Pilar, a huge square of brilliant white stone, which has Roman ruins at both ends and, mysteriously, underneath – there's an expanse of acre after acre of baths and residences, the old forum, and a huge theatre, that lay undisturbed for centuries, until they were uncovered in the eighties. "Zaragoza" derives from the city's old name, Caesaraugusta, and the city does feel closer to Roman times than any other place we've been in Spain.
(This is the fourth or fifth time we've been to the country, I should note, since the seventies. For the record, I don't speak Spanish beyond the bare necessities of tourism; Gay has two degrees in the language as well as one in linguistics, and Spaniards are always complimenting her on her mastery.
(One fact that fixes our first trip to Spain in my personal biography is that I finished writing THE FOREVER WAR then, in an atmospheric little cantina squeezed between the yard-wide streets of the Jewish quarter of Sevilla. I wrote in that dive every morning on my "Little Red" manual typewriter, usually the only customer in the predawn hours. When I finished the book the bartender bought me a beer, and had one himself.)
From Zaragoza we dropped into Madrid, basically to change trains. In previous years this convention, Semana Negra, has reserved a short train, the "black train," maybe two cars long, for the run from Madrid up to Gijon. This time they just reserved a couple of cars on the regular train, so it wasn't the five hours of drunken hilarity I was looking forward to. Ah, well. Kids nowadays – how do you say that in Spanish?
But it was a comfortable ride, with pleasant company and gorgeous scenery, going through the desert admiring the hills like white, or at least gray, elephants. One car did have a skilled guitarist playing and singing, and the bar car did a thriving business.
It was not late by Spanish standards when we got into Gijon. We took a modern bus through the town to the Hotel Don Manuel, a comfortable old place where we have stayed twice before at the same convention. It's a picturesque location on the harbor, kind of raffish and nautical. Strangely full of writers and artists and academics, this week.
We had a little nap and then took the bus to the government center, where a representative of the mayor greeted us and we had cidra, the famous local beverage, a bitter cider described later.
Out at the fairgrounds there was a ribbon-cutting, a black ribbon of course, and we spread out to explore and eat and drink.
We met old friends and new ones, notably the French writer Franck Thilliez, whose business card has an X-ray of a skull (his own?) and the description "Romancier/Scenariste" – so much classier than "novelist/screenwriter." We hung out for awhile with the only other American writer, Howard Chaykin, and his wife. Howard's name is of course familiar to any comics or comix fan. Lots of famous noirish stuff. I've been reading him since the seventies, with the Gray Mouser adaptation and Heavy Metal strips. Then American Flagg! and Time2 (I can't type "squared" in this format) which blew me away.
This event is always brimming with professionals and, as always, I don't recognize many of them, since I'm (A) only peripherally interested in comics and film and (B) old. But enough of them are familiar with science fiction that I'm not totally unknown. It's more pro-heavy than any American gathering, even World Fantasy in its early years. (Well, only in a sense – the people we hang around with are mostly pros or semi-pros; there's hardly any fan presence – but there are about ten thousand hoi polloi who just come to see the movie stuff and show off their interestingly clad bodies.)
. . . more tomorrow . . . .
Zaragoza was an interesting city, which Gay and I had never visited. Very elegant, with wide boulevards full of handsome people. The focus of the place is the Plaza del Pilar, a huge square of brilliant white stone, which has Roman ruins at both ends and, mysteriously, underneath – there's an expanse of acre after acre of baths and residences, the old forum, and a huge theatre, that lay undisturbed for centuries, until they were uncovered in the eighties. "Zaragoza" derives from the city's old name, Caesaraugusta, and the city does feel closer to Roman times than any other place we've been in Spain.
(This is the fourth or fifth time we've been to the country, I should note, since the seventies. For the record, I don't speak Spanish beyond the bare necessities of tourism; Gay has two degrees in the language as well as one in linguistics, and Spaniards are always complimenting her on her mastery.
(One fact that fixes our first trip to Spain in my personal biography is that I finished writing THE FOREVER WAR then, in an atmospheric little cantina squeezed between the yard-wide streets of the Jewish quarter of Sevilla. I wrote in that dive every morning on my "Little Red" manual typewriter, usually the only customer in the predawn hours. When I finished the book the bartender bought me a beer, and had one himself.)
From Zaragoza we dropped into Madrid, basically to change trains. In previous years this convention, Semana Negra, has reserved a short train, the "black train," maybe two cars long, for the run from Madrid up to Gijon. This time they just reserved a couple of cars on the regular train, so it wasn't the five hours of drunken hilarity I was looking forward to. Ah, well. Kids nowadays – how do you say that in Spanish?
But it was a comfortable ride, with pleasant company and gorgeous scenery, going through the desert admiring the hills like white, or at least gray, elephants. One car did have a skilled guitarist playing and singing, and the bar car did a thriving business.
It was not late by Spanish standards when we got into Gijon. We took a modern bus through the town to the Hotel Don Manuel, a comfortable old place where we have stayed twice before at the same convention. It's a picturesque location on the harbor, kind of raffish and nautical. Strangely full of writers and artists and academics, this week.
We had a little nap and then took the bus to the government center, where a representative of the mayor greeted us and we had cidra, the famous local beverage, a bitter cider described later.
Out at the fairgrounds there was a ribbon-cutting, a black ribbon of course, and we spread out to explore and eat and drink.
We met old friends and new ones, notably the French writer Franck Thilliez, whose business card has an X-ray of a skull (his own?) and the description "Romancier/Scenariste" – so much classier than "novelist/screenwriter." We hung out for awhile with the only other American writer, Howard Chaykin, and his wife. Howard's name is of course familiar to any comics or comix fan. Lots of famous noirish stuff. I've been reading him since the seventies, with the Gray Mouser adaptation and Heavy Metal strips. Then American Flagg! and Time2 (I can't type "squared" in this format) which blew me away.
This event is always brimming with professionals and, as always, I don't recognize many of them, since I'm (A) only peripherally interested in comics and film and (B) old. But enough of them are familiar with science fiction that I'm not totally unknown. It's more pro-heavy than any American gathering, even World Fantasy in its early years. (Well, only in a sense – the people we hang around with are mostly pros or semi-pros; there's hardly any fan presence – but there are about ten thousand hoi polloi who just come to see the movie stuff and show off their interestingly clad bodies.)
. . . more tomorrow . . . .
July 4, 2013
The law is fine but juries can be an ass
(From a conversation on sff.net)
A lawyer pointed this out to me many years ago: "Fair use" allows anybody to
recycle my ideas. No problem; I'm sure most of my ideas came from old pulp
mags in the fifties. But it doesn't really work in both directions. If I read
somebody else's idea and then use a similar one, he could drag me into court.
Furthermore, if somebody writes me about an idea, and I never read his letter,
but in the future I write something similar on my own . . . he can _still_ sue
me. How can I prove I didn't "steal"it? The fact that no one can copyright
an idea in the first place doesn't protect me from a nuisance suit.
The classic example was Ernest Hemingway. A guy in California sued EH because
EH was "in the room" while he was telling a story that had the plot of _To Have
and Have Not_. The room was in California, and Hemingway lived in Key West,
but he _had_ been in LA. The upshot was that EH had to fly to California and
testify; whereupon the case was thrown out.
Bad jurisprudence? Sure. So what? The world is full of bad lawyers, and gullible
juries.
Joe
A lawyer pointed this out to me many years ago: "Fair use" allows anybody to
recycle my ideas. No problem; I'm sure most of my ideas came from old pulp
mags in the fifties. But it doesn't really work in both directions. If I read
somebody else's idea and then use a similar one, he could drag me into court.
Furthermore, if somebody writes me about an idea, and I never read his letter,
but in the future I write something similar on my own . . . he can _still_ sue
me. How can I prove I didn't "steal"it? The fact that no one can copyright
an idea in the first place doesn't protect me from a nuisance suit.
The classic example was Ernest Hemingway. A guy in California sued EH because
EH was "in the room" while he was telling a story that had the plot of _To Have
and Have Not_. The room was in California, and Hemingway lived in Key West,
but he _had_ been in LA. The upshot was that EH had to fly to California and
testify; whereupon the case was thrown out.
Bad jurisprudence? Sure. So what? The world is full of bad lawyers, and gullible
juries.
Joe
July 2, 2013
Commercial writing
The Writers Almanac this morning noted that it was Tom Stoppard's birthday, and quoted what he said when his play, Rosencratz and Guilderstern Are Dead, premiered in New York, after a successful run in London. A reporter asked him what his play was about. His reply: "It's about to make me rich." I guess it did.
Joe
Joe
June 30, 2013
Destination Moon!
Fascinating bit of sf nostalgia – a 1950's kinescope of a live TV show on the set of Destination Moon, with interviews of various people involved in the movie, including George Pal and a very young Robert Heinlein.
Good sf history but also a fascinating look back at primitive television production. Not too much rehearsal!
Here's the listing and url --
The Discovery Enterprise: City at Night - On the Set of Destination Moon
Today on Discovery Enterprise we and are going to be treated to a flashback of some classic 1950's Hollywood hoopla as City At Night, a talk/variety show that was produced live on location by pioneering, Los Angeles television station KTLA visits the set of producer George Pal's classic Sci-Fi movie-in-the-making, Destination Moon.
This particular episode of City at Night is a sort of "making of" documentary for Destination Moon, the movie science fiction author Robert Heinlein wrote and served as technical adviser for. Heinlein himself appears five minute after the start of the program.
http://www.discovery-enterprise.com/2013/06/city-at-night-on-set-of-destination-moon.html
Joe
Good sf history but also a fascinating look back at primitive television production. Not too much rehearsal!
Here's the listing and url --
The Discovery Enterprise: City at Night - On the Set of Destination Moon
Today on Discovery Enterprise we and are going to be treated to a flashback of some classic 1950's Hollywood hoopla as City At Night, a talk/variety show that was produced live on location by pioneering, Los Angeles television station KTLA visits the set of producer George Pal's classic Sci-Fi movie-in-the-making, Destination Moon.
This particular episode of City at Night is a sort of "making of" documentary for Destination Moon, the movie science fiction author Robert Heinlein wrote and served as technical adviser for. Heinlein himself appears five minute after the start of the program.
http://www.discovery-enterprise.com/2013/06/city-at-night-on-set-of-destination-moon.html
Joe
June 28, 2013
to Spain
Nothing of any interest to report on the flight over to Spain. Watched a forgettable movie and slept and read some of a pretty good book, The Cold Dish, by Craig Johnson, which I think I'll be assigning for Longer Fiction next semester. It's a good novel, though it may be more grown-up than the MIT students are used to; the protagonist is a lawman in his sixties.
Our old friend Joan Manel picked us up at the airport with his neighbor Ricardo (his wheels), still hale and driving at 87, and took us out to the resort town Cubelles. There Joan Manel's partner Merce joined us and we walked down to the boardwalk for a leisurely lunch. Fresh mussels and luscious French fried potato cubes with aeoli – however you spell mayo with garlic – very Spanish and very good. A big pan full of Spanish vermicelli, fidéua, which I will turn into leftover lunch tomorrow, adding some eggs and chopped onion and frying it.
An exciting afternoon of napping and drinking beer, not simultaneously. We watched an hour of news on the telly, in English, and in the evening had a light repast of bread and cheese. Loud fireworks for some saint's day.
Disappointed to find that my camera was fatally injured on the flight. My briefcase dropped a foot to the ground and I heard a serious metal sound. Shutter broken, stuck in a half-open position.
Well, I was actually going to get a new one anyhow. Looked at several in Tokyo, but couldn't decide, overwhelmed by variety. Maybe Semana Negra will be a better place to shop. Or Barcelona, if we get into town. We'll probably just laze out here by the sea. Working on the novel, mornings. Unless I feel overwhelmed by seriousness and go play.
Joe
Our old friend Joan Manel picked us up at the airport with his neighbor Ricardo (his wheels), still hale and driving at 87, and took us out to the resort town Cubelles. There Joan Manel's partner Merce joined us and we walked down to the boardwalk for a leisurely lunch. Fresh mussels and luscious French fried potato cubes with aeoli – however you spell mayo with garlic – very Spanish and very good. A big pan full of Spanish vermicelli, fidéua, which I will turn into leftover lunch tomorrow, adding some eggs and chopped onion and frying it.
An exciting afternoon of napping and drinking beer, not simultaneously. We watched an hour of news on the telly, in English, and in the evening had a light repast of bread and cheese. Loud fireworks for some saint's day.
Disappointed to find that my camera was fatally injured on the flight. My briefcase dropped a foot to the ground and I heard a serious metal sound. Shutter broken, stuck in a half-open position.
Well, I was actually going to get a new one anyhow. Looked at several in Tokyo, but couldn't decide, overwhelmed by variety. Maybe Semana Negra will be a better place to shop. Or Barcelona, if we get into town. We'll probably just laze out here by the sea. Working on the novel, mornings. Unless I feel overwhelmed by seriousness and go play.
Joe
June 26, 2013
snakes, cont.
Going through a bunch of sketchbooks while sorting through the office, I came upon this picture from Airlie Beach, Queensland.
Sometimes small zoos are the best; the animals kind of ignore you and do their thing.
Joe
Sometimes small zoos are the best; the animals kind of ignore you and do their thing.
Joe
June 24, 2013
a narrow fellow in the grass
Out bicycling this morning with Brandy, there was a lot of standing water on the trail, after heavy rains the past couple of afternoons. Another cyclist approached after going through a shady area, and she warned me there was a snake on the trail, so I slowed down. Brandy passed me from behind, and I relayed the warning. He didn't hear me, though, and almost ran over the poor reptile's head. It reared back as if to say, "Don't you know I'm dangerous?" – but didn't strike.
I recognized it as a diamond-back water snake, pretty common and not dangerous. Three feet or less long. They do look kind of scary if you have an eye out for rattlers, as I always have in these parts. But the diamond-back rattler has a distinctly shaped viper head, and this one had a streamlined watersnake head. I watched it slither off into the underbrush, as fast as its little ribs would take it.
Made my day. I really do love snakes.
Joe
I recognized it as a diamond-back water snake, pretty common and not dangerous. Three feet or less long. They do look kind of scary if you have an eye out for rattlers, as I always have in these parts. But the diamond-back rattler has a distinctly shaped viper head, and this one had a streamlined watersnake head. I watched it slither off into the underbrush, as fast as its little ribs would take it.
Made my day. I really do love snakes.
Joe
one girl
A very pretty model on Saturday, small and slight. A stern expression. She's an artist, picking up a few bucks on the side.
June 20, 2013
a little levity
Looking for something else, I stumbled on my diary notes from 2003. They included this joke, which I think bears repeating . . .
This little guy is sitting at the bar just staring at his drink..
He's been sitting there for half an hour when this big trouble-making truck driver steps next to him, grabs his drink and gulps it down in one swig.
The poor little guy starts crying.
"Come on, man, I was just giving you a hard time," says the truck driver. "I'll buy you another drink. I just can't stand to see a man crying."
"This is the worst day of my life," says the little guy between sobs. "I can't do anything right. I overslept and was late to an important meeting, so my boss fired me. When I went to the parking lot, I found my car was stolen and my insurance has run out. I grabbed a cab home but, after the cab left, I discovered I had left my wallet in it. At home, I found my wife in bed with another man. So I came to this bar and was thinking about putting an end to my life, and you show up and drink the damn poison."
Joe
This little guy is sitting at the bar just staring at his drink..
He's been sitting there for half an hour when this big trouble-making truck driver steps next to him, grabs his drink and gulps it down in one swig.
The poor little guy starts crying.
"Come on, man, I was just giving you a hard time," says the truck driver. "I'll buy you another drink. I just can't stand to see a man crying."
"This is the worst day of my life," says the little guy between sobs. "I can't do anything right. I overslept and was late to an important meeting, so my boss fired me. When I went to the parking lot, I found my car was stolen and my insurance has run out. I grabbed a cab home but, after the cab left, I discovered I had left my wallet in it. At home, I found my wife in bed with another man. So I came to this bar and was thinking about putting an end to my life, and you show up and drink the damn poison."
Joe
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