Joe Haldeman's Blog, page 58
August 14, 2011
meteors
(Useful advice to DAve in sff.net . . . )
What can I say, Dave? You’re just one small sex-change operation away from being able to pee and read at the same time with no trouble. The wife and kids might moan about it, but hey. Three more books a year, at your rate. (And a whole new world of reading, chick lit, will open up.)
No meteor luck this morning. I went out about five to look for Perseids, and had a nice relaxing time lying on the lounge chair staring up at the unchanging skies. I saw two faint flashes that might have been Perseids, and one bright meteor that went in the wrong direction (“sporadic”). In an hour I should have seen ten or twenty, but conditions were far from ideal – nearly full moon and a glowing slight haze that washed out all but 25 stars and one planet (not counting Earth). I guess the two I sort of saw were about second magnitude.
But there are worse ways to waste an hour than lying under the stars in the morning cool. No mosquitoes, even though it rained a little yesterday. I should have thought to take music; tomorrow I’ll take the iPhone and ‘phones.
Joe
What can I say, Dave? You’re just one small sex-change operation away from being able to pee and read at the same time with no trouble. The wife and kids might moan about it, but hey. Three more books a year, at your rate. (And a whole new world of reading, chick lit, will open up.)
No meteor luck this morning. I went out about five to look for Perseids, and had a nice relaxing time lying on the lounge chair staring up at the unchanging skies. I saw two faint flashes that might have been Perseids, and one bright meteor that went in the wrong direction (“sporadic”). In an hour I should have seen ten or twenty, but conditions were far from ideal – nearly full moon and a glowing slight haze that washed out all but 25 stars and one planet (not counting Earth). I guess the two I sort of saw were about second magnitude.
But there are worse ways to waste an hour than lying under the stars in the morning cool. No mosquitoes, even though it rained a little yesterday. I should have thought to take music; tomorrow I’ll take the iPhone and ‘phones.
Joe
August 9, 2011
"No night soil, Kemo Sabe!"
(In sff.net, the light-hearted discussion has turned to honey-wagons.)
Dave, a honey-wagon is a primitive sewage disposal service. I forget whether it was from China or Japan, but it was someplace where they make a lot of sewage and dispose of it.
The guy would come along after dark, his light swinging, for people to bring out their slop buckets. ("Bring out your dung," he would call in a reedy doom-laden voice.)
I think it was called "night soil," at least when they referred to it in English.
Joe
Dave, a honey-wagon is a primitive sewage disposal service. I forget whether it was from China or Japan, but it was someplace where they make a lot of sewage and dispose of it.
The guy would come along after dark, his light swinging, for people to bring out their slop buckets. ("Bring out your dung," he would call in a reedy doom-laden voice.)
I think it was called "night soil," at least when they referred to it in English.
Joe
August 5, 2011
sex, cowboys, and aliens
(COntinuing the discussion of prostitution on sffnet . . . )
The question of pimps is not as simple as it seems on the surface. They make a living exploiting women, but they also offer physical protection for women who have been forced or have chosen to live in the demimonde.
In some scrubbed-clean future where sex is as exciting as Ivory Soap, pimps might be as obsolete as Tea-Party Republicans. But that is then and this is now.
In Amsterdam, the perfectly legal prostitutes live in little cottages alongside a canal. They have pimps, tough pimps, who stand nearby while they’re working. Because men who pay to screw women will be liable to try to screw them metaphorically, too. If some burly asshole says “That was only ten euros worth” or “What do you mean, extra for [ ---- ]? Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it,” he can take it up with someone bigger and meaner and male.
We went out to dinner with Barbara last night, and then on to see COWBOYS & ALIENS. What’s not to like? Mostly goofy fun with Harrison Ford and Daniel Craig facing down icky aliens with nothing more than six-guns and testosterone. The scenery was beautiful and so was the girl (Olivia Wilde), who turns out to be more than meets the eye. Minor characters are straight from Central Casting but do their jobs well.
If the movie was about a half hour too long, it was because they tried to squeeze in every possible trope from cowboy movies and alien-invasion ones as well. The actors did a good job of keeping a straight face while absurdities whipped around them.
The western stuff was the true gen, silly and satisfying, and the science fiction was no more absurd that in any number of sf movies that ask to be taken seriously.
They could have made a “serious” western with the same people and production values, but they were smart to play it light, tongue firmly in cheek. It’s pretty much a standard oater, with aliens playing the part of Indians (and the “actual” Indians allying with the whites) – the aliens have death rays, but they’re no more or less effective than the armament Apaches usually carry, at least in terms of kill ratio.
I thought it was great fun, a perfect summer movie.
Joe
The question of pimps is not as simple as it seems on the surface. They make a living exploiting women, but they also offer physical protection for women who have been forced or have chosen to live in the demimonde.
In some scrubbed-clean future where sex is as exciting as Ivory Soap, pimps might be as obsolete as Tea-Party Republicans. But that is then and this is now.
In Amsterdam, the perfectly legal prostitutes live in little cottages alongside a canal. They have pimps, tough pimps, who stand nearby while they’re working. Because men who pay to screw women will be liable to try to screw them metaphorically, too. If some burly asshole says “That was only ten euros worth” or “What do you mean, extra for [ ---- ]? Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it,” he can take it up with someone bigger and meaner and male.
We went out to dinner with Barbara last night, and then on to see COWBOYS & ALIENS. What’s not to like? Mostly goofy fun with Harrison Ford and Daniel Craig facing down icky aliens with nothing more than six-guns and testosterone. The scenery was beautiful and so was the girl (Olivia Wilde), who turns out to be more than meets the eye. Minor characters are straight from Central Casting but do their jobs well.
If the movie was about a half hour too long, it was because they tried to squeeze in every possible trope from cowboy movies and alien-invasion ones as well. The actors did a good job of keeping a straight face while absurdities whipped around them.
The western stuff was the true gen, silly and satisfying, and the science fiction was no more absurd that in any number of sf movies that ask to be taken seriously.
They could have made a “serious” western with the same people and production values, but they were smart to play it light, tongue firmly in cheek. It’s pretty much a standard oater, with aliens playing the part of Indians (and the “actual” Indians allying with the whites) – the aliens have death rays, but they’re no more or less effective than the armament Apaches usually carry, at least in terms of kill ratio.
I thought it was great fun, a perfect summer movie.
Joe
August 3, 2011
a womanly talent
(In sffnet, we're in a strange conversation about the nature of prostitution -- )
I don’t know, Dave . . . the direction you’re going would wind up with everything a person does for money classed as prostitution – or at least everything that he or she wouldn’t be doing anyhow. A lot of people are just in a state of, as the kids say at MIT, IHTFP.
The H is for “Hate” and the rest is obvious. They may say they’d rather be doing anything, but they do keep punching the time clock, out of inertia or fear or whatever.
I’m no expert on a lot of things, but especially inexpert in this, since for forty years I’ve been doing what I want, and for more than half that time it’s paid well enough. Some of that time I have been a prostitute, by some people’s sense of the term, since I was writing things for money that I was indifferent about. Rather than following my muse to the poorhouse door.
But people who hold up their nose and say “That’s not real writing” about strictly commercial work probably have not done it. Well, to cleave to the original metaphor, there are prostitutes in many cultures who see their work as socially or even spiritually useful. I’m not going to say they’re wrong, either. Their ministrations might defuse, or diffuse, some frustrated man’s anger at the world. And the simulacrum of love that they offer may be the only spiritual connection some men have with others.
If you think that’s not true I would invite you to listen to the talk in any army barracks that’s near a source of prostitutes. Young men are always hungry for sex, but that’s not their only hunger, and of course sex is not the only thing that these women provide. When you live in a world bordered by blood and pain and fear, a woman’s smile or touch is a sudden link to normal life.
(If that’s sexist, I stand charged. But I don’t think a reasonable jury would convict me.)
Joe
I don’t know, Dave . . . the direction you’re going would wind up with everything a person does for money classed as prostitution – or at least everything that he or she wouldn’t be doing anyhow. A lot of people are just in a state of, as the kids say at MIT, IHTFP.
The H is for “Hate” and the rest is obvious. They may say they’d rather be doing anything, but they do keep punching the time clock, out of inertia or fear or whatever.
I’m no expert on a lot of things, but especially inexpert in this, since for forty years I’ve been doing what I want, and for more than half that time it’s paid well enough. Some of that time I have been a prostitute, by some people’s sense of the term, since I was writing things for money that I was indifferent about. Rather than following my muse to the poorhouse door.
But people who hold up their nose and say “That’s not real writing” about strictly commercial work probably have not done it. Well, to cleave to the original metaphor, there are prostitutes in many cultures who see their work as socially or even spiritually useful. I’m not going to say they’re wrong, either. Their ministrations might defuse, or diffuse, some frustrated man’s anger at the world. And the simulacrum of love that they offer may be the only spiritual connection some men have with others.
If you think that’s not true I would invite you to listen to the talk in any army barracks that’s near a source of prostitutes. Young men are always hungry for sex, but that’s not their only hunger, and of course sex is not the only thing that these women provide. When you live in a world bordered by blood and pain and fear, a woman’s smile or touch is a sudden link to normal life.
(If that’s sexist, I stand charged. But I don’t think a reasonable jury would convict me.)
Joe
ho, ho, ho
The Huffington Post had a fascinating article this morning about women who are selling, or renting out, their bodies to help pay for their student loans.
(www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/07/29/see...)
Of course it’s not a new aspect of sex-for-pay, but the new angle is the middleman – websites dedicated to the proposition. The women are listed for free, and male customers pay as much as $200 a month for a premium site, where they, um, pop up with greater frequency than a $50/mo. customer. One site, SeekingArrangement, claims to pull down, shall we say, a million bucks a year. And who knows how many pairs of trousers.
It has a youtube site, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XaGhTrawiUI, where the firm’s owner says he got the idea while he was a student at MIT . . . I wonder if he was one of mine? Hey, I want my piece of the pie! (Or is that what they call it now?)
Is it prostitution? Of course is; sex with a stranger for pay. Though one of the customers on the youtube piece says it’s just a matter of paying up front rather than later. (Which is, of course, an age-old rationalization for using prostitutes rather than dating.)
I’d say that the social (and societal) damage prostitution does is not simple, but at one level this implementation of it gives the women some protection. She’s not bonded to a pimp; she can review potential customers before agreeing to the transaction; she can change her mind and walk away from it at any time up to the actual union. She probably deals with a less sketchy class of johns.
I wonder whether it will ultimately change the demographic of both johns and whores. There are a lot of sf societies where prostitution is just a job – one spaceman in a Heinlein story says something like “You know, a ‘service station’ used to be a place where you got gasoline!” – and I’ve written a couple myself. (One a short play, “The Moon and Marcek.”) But I don’t think America is going that way any time soon.
Joe
(www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/07/29/see...)
Of course it’s not a new aspect of sex-for-pay, but the new angle is the middleman – websites dedicated to the proposition. The women are listed for free, and male customers pay as much as $200 a month for a premium site, where they, um, pop up with greater frequency than a $50/mo. customer. One site, SeekingArrangement, claims to pull down, shall we say, a million bucks a year. And who knows how many pairs of trousers.
It has a youtube site, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XaGhTrawiUI, where the firm’s owner says he got the idea while he was a student at MIT . . . I wonder if he was one of mine? Hey, I want my piece of the pie! (Or is that what they call it now?)
Is it prostitution? Of course is; sex with a stranger for pay. Though one of the customers on the youtube piece says it’s just a matter of paying up front rather than later. (Which is, of course, an age-old rationalization for using prostitutes rather than dating.)
I’d say that the social (and societal) damage prostitution does is not simple, but at one level this implementation of it gives the women some protection. She’s not bonded to a pimp; she can review potential customers before agreeing to the transaction; she can change her mind and walk away from it at any time up to the actual union. She probably deals with a less sketchy class of johns.
I wonder whether it will ultimately change the demographic of both johns and whores. There are a lot of sf societies where prostitution is just a job – one spaceman in a Heinlein story says something like “You know, a ‘service station’ used to be a place where you got gasoline!” – and I’ve written a couple myself. (One a short play, “The Moon and Marcek.”) But I don’t think America is going that way any time soon.
Joe
July 24, 2011
Ray Carver and the hot house of Iowa
Ray Carver was one of the best writers I’ve known – out of a hundred or so! – but he was famously inarticulate about the art and craft. Made for an interesting teaching style – “Here, this is really good. Alan, would you read it out loud?” “That sure as hell is good.”
His collection Will You Please Be Quiet, Please impressed the hell out of me. You have to use the adjective “lapidary”; not a word out of place and not an extra word. He mostly wrote about small ordinary things -- “Blindness” a striking exception – but he wrote about them with extraordinary intensity and accuracy.
I loved his work and his troubled person, but I could never write in his muted thoughtful style. Cymbals and tympani don’t do well in pianissimo passages. He said he liked my work, but I know it was with large existential reservations. When I was with him I sort of felt like Star Smashers of the Galaxy Rangers lurching around in a watchmaker’s shop.
We did resonate from the very start, I think about the sense of writing as a calling rather than a profession, fundamentally important, and we were both kind of quiet in the raging ego furnace that was (and surely still is) the Iowa Writers Workshop.
Joe
His collection Will You Please Be Quiet, Please impressed the hell out of me. You have to use the adjective “lapidary”; not a word out of place and not an extra word. He mostly wrote about small ordinary things -- “Blindness” a striking exception – but he wrote about them with extraordinary intensity and accuracy.
I loved his work and his troubled person, but I could never write in his muted thoughtful style. Cymbals and tympani don’t do well in pianissimo passages. He said he liked my work, but I know it was with large existential reservations. When I was with him I sort of felt like Star Smashers of the Galaxy Rangers lurching around in a watchmaker’s shop.
We did resonate from the very start, I think about the sense of writing as a calling rather than a profession, fundamentally important, and we were both kind of quiet in the raging ego furnace that was (and surely still is) the Iowa Writers Workshop.
Joe
July 23, 2011
Ray Carver and the heat domes of Mars
(In sff.net, talking about Raymond Carver . . . )
Have to admit, Dave, that in spite of all the fascinating tech stuff in your recommendations, the one I’m most likely to pick up next is the Carver bio. Loved that guy.
Carver was one of my teachers at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and we became pretty close drinking buddies. He was drinking way too much at that time, I’m afraid – as if I weren’t -- and I didn’t do anything to discourage it. (Though his real fellow dypsomaniac was John Cheever. They were both living at the Iowa Union, and the word was that they’d both wake up in one room or the other – no romance implied, just lack of mobility after downing a bottle or two of scotch.)
Did 1100 words yesterday! Walked through the woods for about a half-hour, not far enough to get lost. Hearty dinner of stuffed cabbage and mashed potatoes. Stayed up till about eleven, chatting by the bonfire, very pleasant.
I had my half-glass of wine. Circumstances have given me a long-term supply . . . the guy who went grocery shopping didn’t know anything about wine, and so for “Pinot Noir” he got a strange, not to say ghastly, large bottle of cheap Pinot flavored with blackberry. <glyph for finger down throat> But I can put a tablespoon of it in a glass of water, and it doesn’t taste too bad in that dilution.
Did a little drawing of the "mule," the little truck, on my 5X5" tablet -- but ran out of space! Drawing from the rear bumper, I ran out of paper just past the driver’s seat -- what a beginner's bumble. I'll try again on the larger notebook I brought, mixing ink and watercolor.
It was comparatively warm on the island. In fact, I had an experience that’s never happened before . . . I went for a walk in the afternoon, into the dark woods on the western side of the island – and suddenly, out of nowhere, there was a waft of hot dry air. Then another. Like some huge invisible creature breathing! I walked toward the water (didn’t get quite to the edge; high tide) and saw an explanation: the island to the west had been baking in the sun, and when the wind shifted it carried the hot air across the short channel.
No complaints, reading about “heat domes” in the Midwest and east (sounds like an old George Pal special effect). It only got up to the mid-70’s and was cool enough at night to need a flannel shirt.
The writing is going well. So far I’m just working on the novel. Might take a crack at a short story later on. Eight more days.
Joe
Have to admit, Dave, that in spite of all the fascinating tech stuff in your recommendations, the one I’m most likely to pick up next is the Carver bio. Loved that guy.
Carver was one of my teachers at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and we became pretty close drinking buddies. He was drinking way too much at that time, I’m afraid – as if I weren’t -- and I didn’t do anything to discourage it. (Though his real fellow dypsomaniac was John Cheever. They were both living at the Iowa Union, and the word was that they’d both wake up in one room or the other – no romance implied, just lack of mobility after downing a bottle or two of scotch.)
Did 1100 words yesterday! Walked through the woods for about a half-hour, not far enough to get lost. Hearty dinner of stuffed cabbage and mashed potatoes. Stayed up till about eleven, chatting by the bonfire, very pleasant.
I had my half-glass of wine. Circumstances have given me a long-term supply . . . the guy who went grocery shopping didn’t know anything about wine, and so for “Pinot Noir” he got a strange, not to say ghastly, large bottle of cheap Pinot flavored with blackberry. <glyph for finger down throat> But I can put a tablespoon of it in a glass of water, and it doesn’t taste too bad in that dilution.
Did a little drawing of the "mule," the little truck, on my 5X5" tablet -- but ran out of space! Drawing from the rear bumper, I ran out of paper just past the driver’s seat -- what a beginner's bumble. I'll try again on the larger notebook I brought, mixing ink and watercolor.
It was comparatively warm on the island. In fact, I had an experience that’s never happened before . . . I went for a walk in the afternoon, into the dark woods on the western side of the island – and suddenly, out of nowhere, there was a waft of hot dry air. Then another. Like some huge invisible creature breathing! I walked toward the water (didn’t get quite to the edge; high tide) and saw an explanation: the island to the west had been baking in the sun, and when the wind shifted it carried the hot air across the short channel.
No complaints, reading about “heat domes” in the Midwest and east (sounds like an old George Pal special effect). It only got up to the mid-70’s and was cool enough at night to need a flannel shirt.
The writing is going well. So far I’m just working on the novel. Might take a crack at a short story later on. Eight more days.
Joe
July 21, 2011
Maine weather
Wrote all day, a thousand words, and so kind of missed the nice weather. By five clouds had us socked in, with a cool breeze coming over the water, maybe about sixty.
Of course I look at the sweltering weather almost everywhere but Alaska and count my blessings. Bring on the cool; I can take it! Hell, I don’t even mind putting on socks!
Joe
Of course I look at the sweltering weather almost everywhere but Alaska and count my blessings. Bring on the cool; I can take it! Hell, I don’t even mind putting on socks!
Joe
Norton Island
Gay took me to the plane yesterday at 9:00. Flew to Charlotte and then to LaGuardia, where I waited a few hours – waiting for the pilot to show up; the second time that’s happened in a week. Flew into Bangor on a nice little jet, landing about 6:00. The driver from Norton Island, Tim, was waiting there. We drove straight out, one cheeseburger stop, listening to a Maine rock station. Weird stuff kids listen to nowadays.
Got to Norton island about 9:00 last night. Bonfire going, a half-dozen people sitting around. Mostly talked with Steve, who owns the island, catching up. Just had time to say hello/goodbye to Tom DeHaven, who’s been here for a couple of weeks, and his friend Joe. Talked for a couple of hours, drinking pure spring water.
A new experience: The other three times I’ve come here I’ve taken good advantage of the wine cellar. No more, alas.
Steve has to go down to New York for business (he’s a financier of some sort); will be back Saturday.
Cabin very simple and comfortable. Stars peeking out from behind clouds. Wonderful sleeping, Dead quiet except for sea breeze and birds.
Came down to the main cabin about 5:30 and fixed coffee. Tried to be quiet but I may have awakened the cook, Lucia. (I think that’s his name; introduced last night.) Guess I’ll hang around and write here in the living room till breakfast.
Joe
Got to Norton island about 9:00 last night. Bonfire going, a half-dozen people sitting around. Mostly talked with Steve, who owns the island, catching up. Just had time to say hello/goodbye to Tom DeHaven, who’s been here for a couple of weeks, and his friend Joe. Talked for a couple of hours, drinking pure spring water.
A new experience: The other three times I’ve come here I’ve taken good advantage of the wine cellar. No more, alas.
Steve has to go down to New York for business (he’s a financier of some sort); will be back Saturday.
Cabin very simple and comfortable. Stars peeking out from behind clouds. Wonderful sleeping, Dead quiet except for sea breeze and birds.
Came down to the main cabin about 5:30 and fixed coffee. Tried to be quiet but I may have awakened the cook, Lucia. (I think that’s his name; introduced last night.) Guess I’ll hang around and write here in the living room till breakfast.
Joe
July 17, 2011
Ioway or the highway
The Iowa gig was fun. The first thing was just a general talk about writing. They set up a big canopy over the FOREVER WAR statue (I sent a picture to LiveJournal a couple of weeks ago) and I chatted and Gay fed me questions for awhile, and the audience asked some later. There were maybe fifty people in the audience, but then it doubled or more when a sudden rain shower started.
(There was an outdoor part of the Book Festival; bookstores and publishers with tables full of books. Most of them were covered by canopies, and the ones who weren’t did have plastic to cover up their wares, but it took some fast work!)
The second was a joint discussion inside the library, supposedly about Science in Science Fiction, but the other writer who shared the podium, Cara Lockwood, was not a science fiction writer. She writes teen adventures, so we broadened the scope of the discussion a bit. It seemed successful, standing room only, I guess seventy or eighty people.
The local independent book store, Prairie Lights, hosted a wine-and-cheese reception in the afternoon. Pretty crowded mill ‘n’ swill, but we found a little table and enjoyed talking with the buyer of the store, Paul Ingram (a friend from our old Iowa days in the seventies) and Greg Prickman, the librarian who invited us to the festival.
Getting here was almost 24 hours of pure hassle. Plane late out of Gainesville and Atlanta, and so we had to spend the night in Chicago. In the airport standing in line for hours. Got to bed at a motel after midnight and had to get up at 04:30 to stand in line for security and then catch a dawn flight to Iowa. Doubt that I slept an hour; too rattled.
Finally got to Iowa City a day late but just in time for a quick shower and a bite and then go talk.
Next morning now. Wrote for a couple of hours at a coffee house downtown. We’re going out to breakfast with Alan Koslow from Des Moines and then off to the airport excruciation again. We’ll supposedly get back to Gainesville a little before midnight. I do have a book to read. Three, actually.
Joe
(We couldn't resist a tee shirt from a booth at the festival . . . it has a squiggly line being written by a pen and the inscription "Oh, the humanities!")
(There was an outdoor part of the Book Festival; bookstores and publishers with tables full of books. Most of them were covered by canopies, and the ones who weren’t did have plastic to cover up their wares, but it took some fast work!)
The second was a joint discussion inside the library, supposedly about Science in Science Fiction, but the other writer who shared the podium, Cara Lockwood, was not a science fiction writer. She writes teen adventures, so we broadened the scope of the discussion a bit. It seemed successful, standing room only, I guess seventy or eighty people.
The local independent book store, Prairie Lights, hosted a wine-and-cheese reception in the afternoon. Pretty crowded mill ‘n’ swill, but we found a little table and enjoyed talking with the buyer of the store, Paul Ingram (a friend from our old Iowa days in the seventies) and Greg Prickman, the librarian who invited us to the festival.
Getting here was almost 24 hours of pure hassle. Plane late out of Gainesville and Atlanta, and so we had to spend the night in Chicago. In the airport standing in line for hours. Got to bed at a motel after midnight and had to get up at 04:30 to stand in line for security and then catch a dawn flight to Iowa. Doubt that I slept an hour; too rattled.
Finally got to Iowa City a day late but just in time for a quick shower and a bite and then go talk.
Next morning now. Wrote for a couple of hours at a coffee house downtown. We’re going out to breakfast with Alan Koslow from Des Moines and then off to the airport excruciation again. We’ll supposedly get back to Gainesville a little before midnight. I do have a book to read. Three, actually.
Joe
(We couldn't resist a tee shirt from a booth at the festival . . . it has a squiggly line being written by a pen and the inscription "Oh, the humanities!")
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