September 25th, 2006

bear by san

(no subject)

buymeaclue and nihilistic_kid gave me a book last night. It came wrapped in white tissue paper, which, of course, I put on the floor for the cat.

Mebd has figured out that the real fun here is had when you take a glitter ball, shove it under a sheet of tissue paper, and chase it around. Much more amusement when it crinkles!

I'm sure the downstairs neighbor loves me.

I am so lucky this cat has no thumbs.
bear by san

John M. Ford, 1957-2006

Making Light and elisem have let us know that the mighty Mike Ford passed away last night.

I did not know Mike half as well as I would have liked, and this is not entirely unexpected, but...

Oh, hell.

One of the things they don't tell you about writing and selling a science fiction or fantasy novel (or even a couple of short stories) is that in so doing you are, after a fashion, marrying into a family. And that with that family will come delights, loved ones, crazy uncles you can't stand, and unpleasant duties. One of those unpleasant duties is passing the word when someone leaves us.

One of the pleasant, if bittersweet, ones is recalling why they were loved.

Mike Ford was, to my small acquaintance, someone who epitomized the expression, "It's always the quiet ones." He was sly and conspiratorial and wicked in the best senses of those words, and willing to go to vast lengths for a witticism, with eyebrows that would be the envy of Leo G. Carroll. He projected an air of dignity that vanished at the first opportunity to make a terrible joke--the more vastly obscure the better--and an air of erudition that was not illusory at all. 

His art was funny, humane, and ruthless, and so was he, that is the finest thing I can say of any man.

This is magic, this is what magic is:
Grief too terrible to be borne.

— John M. Ford, "A Holiday in the Park"
bear by san

Sherwood said just the right thing.

John M. Ford
--Nemesis Draco


And, because all we can do, as I said somewhere else, is curse entropy and put our shoulders to the wheel, I have a galley of an article to review, and a novella to critique for truepenny, and a novel to read for sartorias, and the UPS man just brought me the Undertow manuscript. And I should eat something today.

Let us, by all means, slop the hogs.

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bear by san

We're not unreasonable. I mean, no one's going to eat your eyes.

While grocery shopping today, I had my biannual FEROCIOUS LIVERWURST DEATH CRAVING, so I bought liverwurst. (Mother Goose is the only brand that will serve, for historical reasons.) 

Anyway, for dinner, I had a piece of bread with liverwurst and cheese on it.

By eleven, I was hungry again, so I had another one, and realized I was done with liverwurst for another two years. This happens every time I have liverwurst: I have a craving, I eat some, then the next time I try to eat it, halfway through it starts tasting of old socks.

There must be a trace element in this stuff or something.

Maybe it's the vitamin A? Maybe this is God's way of telling me I need to turn that bag of carrots in the fridge into carrot juice tomorrow.

Blogger Brad Edmonds on the glory of liverwurst:

As usual, Italians remain the most accomplished dead European males with regard to food, the glory of liverwurst notwithstanding.

By the way, for those of you playing along at home, I  have finally managed to listen to enough David Bowie to annoy even myself, having been through every album I have until I couldn't stand it anymore, and all the erratic bits that have collected from here and there, and a good number of singles and concerty things on Youtube.

I am attempting to drive out the compulsion with Enya. It may be working. It may not be working.

But to present you with the spoils of my gathering, if you haven't already seen this link on stillsostrange's journal, and you are of any persuasion that might find tight leather pants on a gyrating middle-aged white boy entertaining (for whatever reason: we don't judge), you should really watch this concert video for "We Prick You." 

I particularly like the gesticulations between oh, about 1:01 and 1:45 on the clock, and the hand gestures that go with my favorite line in the song: "All the little fragile champion boys / Dripping on the end of a gun."

Talk about your arresting imagery.

And this is the most cheerful pop song about graphic horrible death I know of. It's always sort of effectively shocking when he does that Vegas lounge singer croon thing in the midst of a description of insanity and eventual inevitable suicide. 

Also it's a really good video.

I should warn that I can forsee circumstances in which these might be triggery for some viewers, as there is, well, not surprisingly, imagery of suicide and violence in both.