Joe Haldeman's Blog, page 6

hand writing

(From Keith Stokes's blog . . . . )

I started writing my original drafts with a fountain pen in 1983, and with every book save one, the first drafts have been handwritten. I feel more flexible without a keyboard. (The novel THE HEMINGWAY HOAX was written on a manual typewriter, because the story's about a manual typewriter. For youngsters, that's like a word processor that has paper instead of a screen, and has the same amount of memory as a pencil.)

-- Joe Haldeman

careers in academia

One nice thing about living in a university town is the inspiring examples provided for young scholars. Here at the University of Florida, our football coach just got a raise, $750,000 a year. That brings his annual salary up to $4.25 million.

He also gets into games free.

Of course, everybody on Florida’s academic payroll is generously rewarded. According to a database Governor Scott released today, “Salaries vary widely among instructors and professors. One full-time instructor at the University of South Florida makes $20,000 a year, for example. The highest paid professor in the entire database is Neil Fenske, who is chairman of USF's Department of Dermatology and makes $1.2 million per year.”

Gosh and golly. When I started teaching I got $165 a month, which included free armloads of papers to grade.

Joe

Monty Python voice: "Start Again."

Here’s an interesting bit from New Scientist (5 March 2016) – “Universe Could End Before the Sun Dies.”  Kind of reassuring in a perverse way, isn’t it? 

Of course the usual boring assumption is that the stars will drift further and further apart as they age, and eventually the whole gemillah will cool into the Heat Death of the Universe. 

But if, as many people think, the amount of dark energy is increasing, the acceleration that is pushing stuff apart will also increase, until (as the article says) “the very fabric of space-time tears itself apart in a “big rip.”  (I don’t know why they didn’t capitalize it.)

This big rip might happen as early as 2.8 billion years from now – but the sun isn’t expected to burn out for another five billion.

So what will it be like around here if we have a sun, but no universe?  The fabric of space-time having torn itself into tatters?  Will bits of it get stuck in our teeth?

I just thought I’d posit this in case you don’t have enough to worry about.  With Trump and all.

Joe

ISIS watching

Turned on the computer this morning and got a message from NASA that the space station would be going over in five minutes --

“Time: Sat Mar 05 5:41 AM, Visible: 5 min, Max Height: 87°, Appears: 30° above SW, Disappears: 10° above NE”

So I ran out and watched it.  It appeared almost instantly, slid across half the sky, and was fading away when it got lost in the trees to the northeast.

As it happened, it was a close match to Jupiter, low in the west.  Jupiter’s almost at opposition, at magnitude -2.1; only Venus gets brighter.  And Jupiter looks a lot cooler in the telescope.

The space station is bright white; low Jupiter was pale yellow.

Weather willing, we’re going to do some astronomy tonight.  The Alachua Astronomy Club is having a star party out at Rosemary Hill Observatory.  Gay doesn’t want me lifting any heavy telescopes, so I’ll probably just take the little Questar.

So it’s going to be a pretty full day.  Bike out to studio, draw some luscious naked woman (or whoever shows up) and then Gay will pick me up, and we’ll go out to Town of Tioga, where they’re doing a street fair.  Junk food and interesting stuff.  I’ll remember to take the camera, with its newly charged battery.

Reconsidering, though . . . with all this going on, I think maybe I’ll drive to studio.  Otherwise I’ll fall asleep over the telescope, and that’s no fun!  And can be dangerous.  You do want to see stars, but . . . .

joe

Seven Days in the Art World

I very much enjoyed Seven Days in the Art World, by Sarah Thornton, which gives one chapter each for investigations of seven manifestations of contemporary art.   Only one individual artist – Takashi Murakami, a good choice for several reasons, and only one magazine, ArtForum International, probably the only choice.

But as important as art is to me, and as much of my time and energy as it consumes, I’d find this book about as interesting if it were as well written but treated animal husbandry or sports cars instead.  This is art for the 1%, and it’s mainly about wealth and exclusivity.  For truth and beauty, look elsewhere.  For the ineffable, go eff yourself.

There’s also very little about putting brush to canvas or chisel to marble, but I guess that’s all right; there are plenty of books extant about those things.  I have most of a roomful myself, there under that pile of discarded canvas and paper.

What makes Thornton’s book valuable is her background and her attitude.  She has a good formal education in art history and sociology, and she has an investigative reporter’s aggressive curiosity.  I don’t think it’s insulting to note that she has useful protective coloration:  attractive young women in great clothes and spike heels can walk into places where balding overweight sf writers couldn’t even get arrested.  (Well, maybe I could get arrested, in the same outfit.)

I read it a chapter at a time over a longish period, leaving it home when I travelled.  Perhaps it’s less overwhelming that way.  And I was happy to put it down, every now and then, and pick up a brush or a pencil to work out some of the controlled excitement and wry amusement that the book radiates.

Joe

Hey! Everybody celebrate!

I just got a notice saying today was INTERNATIONAL BOOK DAY!!!   So I unlimbered my eyeballs and picked up a book.  Then I saw that it was actually yesterday.  I put the book back and turned on the teevee.

joe

It's that day again . . . .

There are only eleven days till pi day. It's not too early to be thinking in a circular manner. Right now I'm contemplating a lamb meatball pie with a mashed-potato crust. But I have only begun to think. I got a bunch of good carrots at the market yesterday, but they won't last that long. Parsnips would be good. A lamb and parsnip pie with little cubes of carrot for color. A lot of onion and garlic. And of course a fruit pie for dessert, but I usually just buy that at Publix. They have Pi Pride.

Joe

maturity (get-well message)

I guess I am actually recovered, David. Though the process of getting back
to normal takes a little longer than it used to. An aspect of "maturing" that
is not well advertised. It's as if the body accumulates inertia, like a rolling
ball of mud.

The zoological metaphor is that wasp that rolls up little balls of shit and
builds things with them. Should be the mascot of an engineering school. Somebody
call M.I.T.!

Joe

hobnobbing with the grates

Looking up “hob,” the part of a fireplace where you [used to] set pans to keep them warm, I got the modern definition “a dirty old man;” i.e. Horny Old Bastard. 

Put that on your hob and smoke it.

Joe
 

zoos and booze

We had fun yesterday, Friday, with Gay’s sister Wendi. After breakfast we
went to the Santa Fe College Teaching Zoo, part of the college that we haven’t
visited in ten years or so. The animals aren’t remarkably exotic, but they’re
well presented and the guides are charming young graduate students.
 
After a good lunch at the new hippie-dippie park place, Café New Love, we went
to a great movie, “Hail,Caesar,” the Coen Brothers romp about 1950’s film excesses.
 It’s full of funny broad performances and knowing satire. Funniest movie I’ve
seen in some time. Channing Tatum, who’s involved with a possible movie of
 The Forever War, did an amazing job – not only his acting, which was as always
good, but some awesome athletic dancing, in a hilarious set-piece supposedly
under rehearsal by his studio. The surrounding dancers were outrageously epicene
– most of the gay men I know would just lose it over that scene. It will probably
be the movie of the year for me, unless something really earth-shaking comes
along.
 
Then we had dinner with Brandy and Christina at the Italian restaurant by the
movie house, an Olive Gardens that has decent food but is too loud. I had a
pasta e fagioli that was not as good as the one I make. (And mine doesn’t have
screaming children as a side dish.)
 
I accidentally ordered a glass of Chianti and took one sip, and remembered it
was February. And passed it over to Wendi. Only eight more days before I can
have wine again.
 
(As always about this time of the month, the little devil on my shoulder is
saying “So what are you trying to prove?” – and my answer is kind of weak.
Various helpful psych-wise people have pointed out that compulsive non-drinking
is no more admirable than compulsive drinking, and my answer to that is too
complex and boring to take up at a dinner table. Or here.)
 
(But a note from a friend reminded me that it’s been 31 years since I first
instituted the custom among Midwest fandom. Two of us are still fasting in
February. [Why? It’s the shortest month.’]}
 
Joe