Starting A New Story

Pavel eyed the sky nervously, noting the onionously-grey low clouds. "I thought you said it never rained at Baskunchak," he commented to no-one in particular.

From further back in the big khaki tent Boris, the engineer, grunted. "It better not."
Pavel remained staring out of the tent front. The tent was designed as a temporary repair facility for military vehicles in the field and was easily large enough to house the 5 men who were currently standing in it. As Pavel stared he could hear the wind pick up in intensity, causing the sides of the tent to rumple. He turned back towards Boris, of whom only the lower torso and legs could be seen. The rest was hidden by the Pioneer's bonnet, from which the engineer protruded.

"Is it ready?" he asked.
Boris withdrew from the engine bay and painfully straightened his back. "As it will ever be," he told the young mechanic, "Is the Captain ready?"

At 27 Erik Vissianarovitch was one of the youngest people ever to drive for the Land Speed Record, not only in Russia but the world. But this was not enough for Erik. It was not enough to be the youngest, he told himself, I must also be the fastest. At a time when most young men were recruited for the military Erik had (through his father's influence) escaped the seat in a fighter jet that his school teachers and cadet officers had earmarked for him. Instead he had found himself (through a combination of luck and determination) as test-driver for ZIL, the vast automotive combine that controlled fully one-half of all automobile production in the USSR.

ZIL made cars for the people, and for the apparatiks. And ZIL had a dream: to be the fastest. It was a dream shared by the Soviet Government, who saw the British in their Bluebirds and the Americans in their Goldenrods and knew that in the Land Speed Record, as in all else, the USSR could not be found lacking.

And so it was that Erik Vissianarovitch found himself in a tent on the vast salt lake of Baskunchak, with a streamlined teardrop of a car, and an engine so secret that even he had no idea how it worked.

Fishermen Have Friends Now?

Hmm. I just had a poke around on my desk (ooh matron!) and I discovered an open packet of Fisherman's Friends. Unfortunately their use-by date was the 17th of October.

Bugger it, i'm eating them anyway. Actually they don't taste too bad, a bit like almon

Random Doobings

"Ouch! Ouch! Quick, I need something to put this egg in that i've just hardboiled!"
"Right-o, i'll get the new Commodore wagon!"
"Um...."
"What?"
"It's a largish egg."
"Rat's cocks."

The Worst Love Stories Ever.

It is uncanny how many heartwarming, family films can be turned into utterly disgusting b-movies simply be the addition of "A Love Story" at the end of their title. And a colon.

Observe -

Smokey and the Bandit: A Love Story
Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man: A Love Story
Pat Garret and Billy The Kid: A Love Story
The Three Stooges Meet Snow White: A Love Story
Patton: A Love Story
Milo and Otis: A Love Story
Jason and the Argonauts: A Love Story.

Come to think of it, that last one is not too wide of the mark. Randy little sods.

Internet Stalking

The other day the subject of internet stalking came up. We all had a good laugh, but I know for a fact that internet stalking is no joke.

I knew a guy who bought one of those internet fridges and it started doing all of his shopping for him on his credit card. He'd leave in the morning and when he got home there'd be a knock on the door and a delivery service would be there with a load of groceries that the fridge thought he needed. At first he just thought it was a bit strange but he was kind-of enjoying not having to go food shopping, and then he began to get the feeling that the internet was gay. Over time he noticed that there seemed to be a lot more food showing up in his fridge that was, well, suggestive. It started with carrots and whipped cream, then some zucchinis and cucumbers and chocolate body paint, but when he came home one day to find the door of the fridge open and a 2-foot long chinese radish poking out at hip-height, he started to get a little scared.

He told his girlfriend all  about it but she just laughed, then all of a sudden all electronic traces of her dissappeared and he discovered that she'd been sold on the white slave trade via ebay.

I can't really tell you how it all ended because unfortunately the fridge surreptitiously ordered a bottle of tequila, the guy and the fridge sat down to have it out, one thing led to another, the guy got a little curious and now he and the internet are living together. It's not kinky, really, it's just one of those things.

Black Ships, by Jo Graham

This book is quite out of left field for me, as it was set as reading by the book club. I read it because I wanted to have a go at reading at loeast one of the set reading texts just to see what it was like.

Ordinarily I don't read books by female authors. This is not mysogyny, I just find that female books infuriate me and this was no exception. This book is a retelling of Virgil's The Aenid through the eyes of a slave girl, Gull, who becomes a priestess. Herein lies the problem. Everything simply happens TO Gull, not BECAUSE of Gull. All the decisions about where to sail the fleet, what to do etc. are decided outside of her control, and she is simply swept along with events. For me, a retelling of the Aenid should give me an insight into why Prince Aeneas decided to do what he did. I didn't get that from this book. This concept of simply being a passenger to the whims of fate is the impression I get from the great majority of female authors. Like everything else this feeling does not hold 100% true, but it holds true enough that I rarely get interested to read more than the blurb on the back of most female author's novels.

The novel seems historically accurate but Ms Graham has small lapses of attention which devalue the action. For example, the fleet of ships docks at the free port of Millewanda to buy back some Trojan slaves that were sold there. To do this they agree to escort a merchant convoy to Byblos because no ship has been able to make the voyage for several years without being attacked by pirates. This gives them the ability to buy the slaves and the motive to go to Byblos, as per the Aenid. But once this modus operandi is established, the threat of pirates is forgotten and they simply cruise to Byblos and never mention it again!

Ultimately I did enjoy this book. It didn't grate on me or slow me down, but it could have been better. A lot better.

A Most Auspicious Occasion

Tomorrow is the International Day of the Cravat. In honour of this auspicious day, i'd like to take the time to regale you with tales of the wierd and wonderful world of cravats.

The cravat first came to western Europe in the Napoleonic era. Jannissary troops from the Carpathian mountains, who wore woollen cravats to ward off demonic influences, mingled with British and Portugese troops during the Peninsular campaign. These backwoods troops proved unused to the streetsmart ways of the Westerners and soon lost heavily at cards. Their cravats were sent home to England and worn on holidays as spoils of war. Beau Brummel was reputed to be the first gentleman to wear a silk cravat. Many gentlemen soon followed.

The world's most deadly cravat was created in 1967 by Alistair Larkmede, a noted apiarist from Devonshire, Rhode Island. Alistair managed to train an astonishing 35000 bees to sit upon his neck in a cravat-like fashion for almost 3 minutes before he succumbed to the poison of 35000 stings and was subsequently eaten. Several jars of the resultant honey still exist and are much prized by collectors.

The first (and thus far only) cravat in outer space was worn by American Astronaut Hyman T Spunkfelcher during the Apollo-Soyuz hookup in 1974. While the cravat was ultimately well-suited to the rigours of space, Hyman did report that microgravity made it difficult to tie. Due to Hyman's subsequent death during re-entry it is not known if he was using a traditional overhand knot or a knot of a more experimental nature such as the 'Indooroopilly' or the 'Old Ma Bacon'.

Prince Phillip's cravat was the only cravat to see both royal and naval service. It is known to have come under enemy fire on at least three occasions, the last of these being the Battle of Bowman's Run, after which it was mentioned in despatches.

The Swords Of Lankhmar

In my quest (no pun intended) to read more fantasy novels, I recently picked up Fritz Lieber's "The Swords Of Lankhmar". This centres around two of Lieber's long-standing characters, Fafhrd and the Grey Mouser, as they battle a magician who can control rats. Heady stuff, i'm sure you'll agree.

As a 'bridge' between the heroic fantasy which I am used to reading and the questing fantasy to which I aspire, it was pretty good. The heroes were heroic, the villains dastardly and the plot quite thin. Scenes of wenching and quaffing abounded, and fans of the salacious won't be dissapointed either.

Lieber's magic seems selfconscious, and trying to get along well with science. When the Grey Mouser is attacked by sorcerous lightning he merely uses a long fire to earth his sword. When the Grey Mouser drinks the potion to shrink to rat size he becomes surrounded by a pool consisting of the bits of himself (described as 'various atoms') that had to vacate his body in order for it to shrink. This smacks of scientific toadyism to me, but I shouldn't complain as i've been a most vocal opponent of physics-defying magical feats in the past.

There is, however, one large hole in the book. Whenever a character sees the moon he always refers to it as 'gibbous' regardless of the time of month. At first I thought that this must be some in-joke that I didn't get, however later in the book Lieber uses the word 'decimate' where he means 'annihilate'. This is a pet peeve of mine, and leads me to believe that Fritz Lieber simply does not know what 'gibbous' means.

That is all.

Another Perfectly Good Saturday Night, Ruined!

Last Saturday night on a flight of whimsy I settled down with a beer to watch Alien Vs Predator, a film that I had not previously seen.

I was struck however by a logical inconsistency: how do a civilisation of hunters manage to civilise to the point of space travel?

Space travel requires many mundane things such as universities and nerds. This line of thought led me to murky waters. Can you imagine an Predator nerd? With glasses? What about an Predator forklift driver? How does the whole invisibility/cloaking device thing work with hi-viz clothing rules on the worksite?

This is why I don't watch sci-fi anymore.

News Update

KABUL: Recent fighting in the border regions of Afghanistan has left an Australian SAS unit surrounded, and without a functioning esky. Until relief supplies were flown in by helicopter this morning the troops were forced to survive for 3 days on only food and water.

Against The Day

Regular readers of this enblogment will know that I am rather addicted to the works of Thomas Pynchon, that elusive, reclusive American novelist. He only releases a novel every ten years, so it was no surprise when his new effort, Against The Day, weighed in at 1085 pages when delivered to me from Amazon last December.

I've just finished it. From the Amazon reciept which i've been using as a bookmark I can see that it was delivered to me the week before Christmas. That's over nine months it took me to read, and there's a reason: it's virtually impenetrable.

The subject matter is right up my alley. It starts at the Chicago World Fair in 1893 and follows a horde of characters including some never-aging child zeppelineers (the Chums Of Chance); The Traverse family of dynamiting anarchists (initially from Colorado); Yashmeen Halfcourt and her father; the British secret service operatives from T.W.I.T.; detective Lew Basnight; photographer Merle Rideout, Nikolai Tesla, millionaire Scarsdale Vibe and others. It's been said that this novel has 400 characters. Pshaw! I wouldn't say it doesn't, mind, but I seriously doubt someone counted them all.

The novel simply sprawls. It moves along at it's own pace, which is sometimes maddening, but it gets there. Inasmuch as it has a plot it's about anarchism, and how the radicals of the left (unionists) were displaced by the radicals of the right (Marxists). But that's grasping at straws as far as finding a plot goes. It could also be said to be about the Great Powers' search for the mythical city of Shambala, or simply a family saga about the Traverses. As in all Pynchon though, the plot doesn't really matter. Its the narative that counts. Pynchon is, as always, encyclopaedic in scope. If anything can be thrown in, it is. In that way it reminded me most of Gravity's Rainbow, except that it seemed much more cohesive. GR was a psychedelic trip, ATD seems more like a ride on a ghost train: the randomness and sheer lunacy are still there, but they're weaved in as part of the experience, not thrown at the reader higgledy-piggledy.

Did I enjoy the book? Yes. Every time I picked it up I was captivated. The problem was, it was so dense and impenetrable that getting the interest level up enough to pick it up was difficult, so it tended to lay around a lot while I read other books instead. Hence it taking me nine months. Taking it with me on my recent trip to the Cook Islands helped a great deal: a week on a desert island with nothing else to read provided a lot of impetus.

Would I recommend this book to others? Not without a word of caution. I like Pynchon and I like the times it was set in, and I like the type of gentle fantasy it contains. If someone didn't like all three of these prerequisites, this book would be a monster.

Captain Doobie, Goodtime Slim, and the Shed Police

The doorbell rang unexpectedly. It was always doing that.
Goodtime Slim answered it, as it was a Tuesday. The House Charter decreed that Goodtime Slim should answer the door on weekdays, and Captain Doobie should answer it on weekends. This might seem unfair until you realise that weekends are the chosen time for religious callers of all faiths. It is a testimony to Captain Doobie's rampant (and unrepentant) atheism and Goodtime Slim's rampant (and unrepentant) cowardice that both men felt they had the better end of the stick.

In any event it was a Tuesday, so Goodtime Slim opened the door to behold two men in their late thirties dressed in some sort of black paramilitary outfit. Goodtime Slim glanced downwards. His immediate suspicions were confirmed. Jodhpurs. This couldn't be good.

"Mmmmyeeeeus?" he intoned, trying out his new 'English butler' routine.
"We'd like to see your shed," barked the slightly taller of the two. The other, who looked like he'd recently been hit in the face with a shovel (because he had), said nothing.

"What?" cried Goodtime Slim dropping the act due to the randomness of it all, "why?"
The tall man leaned in close. "Because the government has decided to levy a tax on sheds," he told him abruptly, "$100 single bay, $200 double, $50 potting."

"What about carports?"
"$75. Why," the man's eyes narrowed in hungry suspicion, "have you got one of them too?"
"No!" cried Goodtime Slim hurriedly. His mind was whirling. He didn't have $100 and neither (to the best of his knowledge) did Captain Doobie. To make matters worse, his next available $100 was already earmarked to be spent on sundry crap. Goodtime Slim was rather fond of sundry crap.

He thought fast. 'We don't have a shed," he declared suddenly.
"Then what's that I saw when I looked over your gates?"
"Um, that?"
"Yes, that large, galvanised iron shed-shaped object." The taxman's voice simply oozed sarcasm.
Goodtime Slim did his best to look innocent. "It's a toaster,' he told them.
"It's not a bloody toaster!" yelled the taxman, "It's a shed!"
"It is so too a toaster!" Goodtime Slim yelled back in panic.
The tall taxman stood back and folded his arms in a menacing manner. "Prove it," he ordered.
Gulping, Goodtime Slim led them through the house and into the backyard, detouring through the kitchen to grab two slices of bread. Before they reached the side door of the 'toaster', the tall man stopped. "Why does your toaster have a louvre window in the side?" he asked in a nasty tone.

"Cooling vanes," Goodtime Slim corrected him, "not louvres."
"And why does it have a big sliding door at the front?"
"That's how we clean the crumbs out."
They reached the side door. Goodtime Slim had to admit that he was out of ideas. The plan at this staghe was to throw the bread in, comment on a cloud passing overhead that looked like Isla Fisher's buttocks, then jump the fence and leg it whilst the taxmen were otherwise engaged. As plans went, even Goodtime Slim had to admit it lacked a certain panache.

He opened the door, and threw in the two slices of bread. Then he shut the door and ambled back to the two taxmen, squinting up at the sky as he did so.

Unfortunately the sky was clear. He should have paid more attention to the weather report. The sky stretched in an unending cascade of cerulian blue from horizon to horizon. Goodtime Slim had no idea what to do next.

They stood in the backyard, a light spring zephyr gently rustling the leaves of the apricot tree behind them. The two taxmen glared at Goodtime Slim. The shorter one farted, whether from impatience or gastric upset Goodtime Slim was unable to tell.

"Shouldn't be long now," he told them nervously, "gosh, I hope I got the setting right."
Without warning, the door of the shed opened and with a sharp 'ting!' two pieces of medium-brown toast sailed out the door at just the right height to knock the peaked caps from both uniformed officers. The taller one leaned in towards Goodtime Slim. "Alright," he said, crushing the piece of toast he held in one large fist, "you've won this round, hippie."

The two tax agents stalked off. There was a pause, then they stalked back.
"How do you open your gates?" the taller man asked huffily.
"Just jiggle the peg," Goodtime Slim explained hurriedly, "It needs a bit of grease at the moment."
"Humph," the officer remarked, then left again. This time, his departure was also observed by Captain Doobie, who surreptitiously peered around the still-open shed door, welding mask pushed up on his head, oxy-acetylene torch in hand.

"Are they gone?" he asked.
"Yes," Goodtime Slim answered.
"Where's that toast gone then?"
Goodtime Slim looked at him. "They crushed it. Like a bug."
"Curse them!" Captain Doobie cried to the heavens, "Goddam shed fuzz!"

The History Of The English Language

Sitting Duck.

The term 'sitting duck' was not used in its current form until 1933, when Smilin' Mudguts Walker's song "Sitting Duck Blues" was released for the electric phonograph. Prior to this the phrase had been more correctly known as "sitting Ducs"; "Ducs" being the old French noble title for the overseer of a duchy.

Smilin' Mudguts, an illiterate Iowan corn-shucker, mistakenly believed he had lost millions on the stock market in 1929, and thus had turned to an itinerant life of blues music for solace and a source of income. "Sitting Duck Blues" captured the tenor of the times and was purchased in record numbers for the era, despite its obvious mispronunciation and misspelling of the key term, and musical encrapitude.

The original term "sitting Ducs" is thought to be a reference to medieval court doctrine which always seated the Ducs of any gathering with their backs to the open door, thus making them far easier to perforate with crossbow quarrels when they weren't looking.

Random Doobings

Goodtime Slim was nervous. After breakfast he'd heard nothing more from Captain Doobie, who had hoovered up a bowl of coco-pops and a mug of milo and disappeared out into the shed. Goodtime Slim hadn't really been that sorry to see him go and had settled in to do the crossword in the paper. However, over the space of the intervening two hours (he was stuck on 15 down: Goddess of tillage and corn) he noticed that Captain Doobie had made several trips from the shed to the road, his arms laden with detritus. Now, as the sound of hammering started to reach his ears from the end of the driveway, he thought he'd better have a look.

When he looked out of the front door he was greeted with a sight that was, on the whole, unexpected. He could see Captain Doobie crouched behind the agapanthus with a large dynamite plunger, peering down the road and poised to plunge. Wires trailed from the plunger to a large wooden arrangement consisting of a stand firmly anchored to the footpath (there'd be trouble with the council now, Goodtime Slim knew) and a lever leading to a large piece of chicken wire some 5 feet by five feet stretched between a wooden frame. The whole apparatus looked like nothing so much as a large fly-swatter.

"Oi!" Goodtime Slim called to his hunched housemate, "What do you think you're up to?"
He was then favoured with a look from Captain Doobie which told him that what he was doing should have appeared obvious. "Oh, for heaven's sake," he replied primly, "I'm catching the bus."

Gosh!

I'm very pleased to announce that my short story "Protocol" will soon be published on theforce.net fan fiction site. It took a great deal of work to get it accepted. Two editors had to approve it, then a panel of judges. However, i'm pleased to say that it passed muster, and it will be uploaded to the site just as soon as I organise some cover art for it.

Now where did I put those crayons...