The SMS-Driving Test

"When you forbid things, people (especially young people) want to do them even more."

Smart words from Axel Druart, the European Project Director for Responsible Young Drivers. So he arranged a driving class for some young adults in which they were told they had to drive and text simultaneously, to get their licenses.

Here's the video. It's two minutes and fifteen seconds well worth watching. Heck, it's even funny.

"People will die" says one dismayed student.

Exactly.

Pass it on.

Eeek! Where's my phone?

I'm at a dance.  A good friend asks if he can borrow my cell phone.  Usually I hesitate on lending such personal things, because, well, you know -- they're personal. But this is someone I know and trust, so sure, I say, here.

I go back to dancing. Forty minutes later it occurs to me that I haven't seen him in a while.  I look around. No him.

Apparently he's left. With my phone.

With my phone.

I am suddenly struck by how weird it feels to suddenly have my phone, my link with all that I know and depend upon. All my security, my contacts, my information, ripped away from me like an underwater breathing tube.  With me underwater.

I take a few deep breaths, remind myself that it is not, in fact, a panic-worthy situation -- no breathing tube required. I remind myself that I was born into a time when cell phones were still the stuff of science fiction (though we knew they were coming), and tell myself it'll be all right.

And it is all right. I have my darling little device back in my hands in short order.

But I had no idea I was so, well, attached.

Eeek!

Win a free copy of my story

As previously reported on this media channel, Uncle John's Bathroom Reader is publishing my flash fiction story "Biggest Fan! Ever!" in their "Flush Fiction" anthology.  Just released.

In order to promote their anthology, Uncle John (and his pals) are providing one free copy to a fan of my choice.

Power. I'm telling you, it's the ultimate aphrodisiac.

So while I'm inhaling deeply and smiling slightly, you may want to toss your name in the hat.  How?  Simply comment on this post, or any post on this blog ('cause, you know, I can sort on date) by the Ides of April, the 15th -- oh, let's play by tax rules: April 16th.  I will select one fan (and/or commenter -- no need to adopt any label whatsoever) in a vaguely random and slightly unbiased fashion (amuse me, flatter me, make me want chocolate -- oh, wait, that last part's easy). I'll contact you if you're the winner.

I won't blog about you without your permission, this is not a fair contest, prohibited where illegal, no salesman will call, boxtops not needed, and your mileage will vary.

And don't be all whiny if you don't win.  Come on, guys. I have a lot of fans. Three, at least, not counting the cat.

Girl on Girl Action

Or...

What Girls Really Talk About

Until recently I'd never heard of the Bechdel Test, which, simply put, asks two things of a movie: 1) do two or more women 2) talk to each other 3) about something besides a guy?

Seems like sort of a low bar, doesn't it?  I talk to gal-pals all the time about things that don't involve guys. The nature of truth, the beauty of music, the best chocolate, and the damned rain. Cats, dogs, adventure, gardening, life, death -- topics besides boys seem plentiful to me.

And in a movie where you get to write the script yourself, this seems even easier. Think I'll try my hand at it.

Woman one: "Hey, girl!  How's it going?"

Woman two: "Not too bad. Just upgraded to Oneiric Ocelot and my desktop is screwed up, but I'm getting it to behave."

Okay, maybe not so typical But then, I'm a geek. How about this, then:

Woman one: "Hey, girl!  How's it going?"

Woman two: "I think I finally figured out how the multi-verse is elastic across variant deviations. All that meditation is finally paying off!"

Perhaps a touch off the beaten path as well. Try this:

Woman one: "Hey, girl!  How's it going?"

Woman two: "I just scored some Chipotle Taza and it rocks! This is  kick-ass chocolate, gal-pal.  Want some?"

"I'll be right over!"

Two women, no guys. Bechdel pass!

Communication, Well Said

It took me a few minutes to get this, and for a moment it seemed like too much work -- just tell me! -- but no: I was wrong, the artist was right: xkcd on communication

It Takes all Kinds

"...to make a world.'

But that's patently absurd. It doesn't take all kinds to make a world; it takes exactly the kinds we have, because -- take a look around -- we have a world.

What this is really trying to say is something more like: "I wish to believe that the world requires for its very existence all the weirdnesses that people manifest so that my own hidden (or obvious) weirdnesses might be not only acceptable but necessary for our mutual continued existence."

In other words, I'm necessary. My aberrations are of value to the world. My dark corners are positively meaningful.

Wishing doesn't make it so. But here's what I think is true: it takes all kinds to cover the permutation space and to explore the infinite variety of the many ways there are to be human.

Well, okay. Maybe that works. Now that I've rephrased it.

Guess I'm one of those kinds.

Words to a Grieving Widow

There are no good words. None at all. So we hugged.

"I'm sorry," I whispered in her ear. "So sorry."

"I know," she replied softly, not letting me go.

"I know you know," I said back quietly. "But I have to say something."

"I know," she said, still hugging me.

It was a bit funny and a lot heartrending. Nearly twenty years we'd been friends,  she and her recently departed -- lost? died? exited stage left? -- husband.

Who was irreverent and affectionate. He used to call me "darlin'". He was a damned good writer and one of the few I've known who I wanted to write with.

In fact, mere months ago we started riffing on a story we wanted to write together, about a PI who was following this guy who kept flubbing ornate assassinations. The story was about how, after a while, the PI became fascinated by and sympathetic to the guy he was following, and as he started to understand his motivations, began to even help him -- help him fail, that is. It was a good premise, funny, and just the sort of thing that Mark could make come alive.

It was a good time. A good memory.

So what do you say to a grieving widow? What words can do any good in the face of a pain so great it is neither bearable nor escapable? There aren't any. Not a one.

But you have to say them anyway.

I'm sorry.

So sorry.

My brain. I think I'll keep it.

Sometimes I'm really impressed with my brain. Counter to expectation as the years go by my noggin seems to be performing better and better. All sorts of improvements, like remembering names and doing calculations more effectively. Nothing huge, mind you, but noticeable performance upgrades upstairs.

The other day I'm motorbiking around town and I'm caught in a sudden drenching downpour with ambulances screaming around me. I finally reach my destination, go inside, strip off my dripping protective gear, and sit to make a call. I'm chatting away on my cell to a business acquaintance and as we're talking I'm looking through my bag to make sure I have all my things with me because frankly it's been a little hectic today and a lot wet and I realize with a shock that I don't see my phone anywhere.

So I dig through my bag again, but, no, it's not there.

I'm holding back panic. Where could I have left it? On the phone my acquaintance is still talking but I know she's got to leave so I don't feel bad saying, "listen, I've got to go. I can't find my phone."

"Oh, okay," she says, but she wants to finish up a few things, so she's still talking.

I've reached full panic mode now and so I desperately search my bag one more time.

And then, of course, it hits me.

"Oh," I say. "Phone. In my hand." My brain, I realize, needs a break. "Okay, now I really have to go."

I hang up. The other fellow in the office politely refrains from comment but I see him smile. I'm less than perfectly impressed with my brain at this moment, though it's not like I can just threaten it with replacement if it doesn't shape up. I laugh and take a long, grateful look at my phone.

At least now I know where it is. The phone. My brain? Not so sure.

Babies and Kittens Venn Diagram

I was at brunch the other day with some friends and their cute little baby. We're all cat lovers so the subject of kittens naturally arose and a discussion of similarities and differences. There's a lot to say about this--some of it unpleasant and sticky-- but here's the gist of the conversation.

Babies and Kittens: Differences and Commonalities

Babies & Kittens Venn Diagram

 

A Fine Time

Where have I been?  What have I been doing?  Yes, it has to do with chocolate. You guessed correctly.

I went to SF for the Fine Chocolate Industry Association's semi-annual meeting. I'm going to say more about the content of the event, especially what really got my attention, in the near future, for some magazines and newsletters that have asked me to report. (Notice how important I make myself sound there?  It's a knack.) In the meantime, a few impressions about going to an industry-oriented rather than consumer-oriented chocolate show.

I'm learning terms-of-art fast. "Fine chocolate" is not when you say "oh, wow -- this chocolate is fine, man!" Not quite. The FCIA defines fine chocolate as having certain elements including origin, production practices, ingredient quality, and final presentation. In some ways, the only way to be sure what fine chocolate is is to taste it and decide for yourself.

Oh, drat.

You can tell you're on the road to nerd-dom on a subject when you not only realize that there are people who know far more than you do but you can name them. Want to dive into a passionate and convention-challenging view of chocolate? Visit c-spot.com and take a look around. I learned a lot there.

FCIA was held in a downtown San Francisco hotel with big blue windows and no free wifi. (I notice these things). There were at least a dozen tables of chocolate-related displays including equipment, molds and of course chocolate, made by both big suppliers and artisans. I did my best not to get sick from too much of a fine thing, mostly succeeding, but in large part by squirreling samples away for later, which turned out to be a really good idea.

If I've had 10 samples, I'm unlikely to be able to distinguish the same details with the 11th. But if I taste it later, after I've had a chance to recover, I might well detect nuances that I missed before. Takeaway? If you do chocolate tasting, do it again and again (oh, drat) to see if you have the same impressions of those bars later.

I was surprised that only water was offered to cleanse palates between tastings. Chocolate melts at body temperature due to the wonderful properties of cocoa butter, chocolate's fat content.  When I'm tasting at home I drink weak green tea because warmth helps clear things up and the tea flavor doesn't seem to me to interfere. Cold water doesn't work for me. Maybe I just need more sophistication.

Speaking of which, I felt very sophisticated when I sampled nibs and the chocolate made from them to see how the tastes connected. I wasn't sure, so I had some more -- a habit I am trying hard to break.  Taste, not gobble. Because you can have too much fine chocolate. Yes, you can. Chocolate contains theobromine, phenylethylamine, seritonin and lots of other compounds that interact with the body in ways we don't quite understand. I like my theobromine high as much as the next chocolate-gal but but too much gives me a buzzing feeling that is not exactly pleasant.  It's not caffeine, but it's a stimulant, and too much is -- too much.

But I found it delightful to be surrounded by people who know too much about chocolate. I got to ask all the questions I've wanted to ask about genetics and processing and the industry, all while tasting some of the best chocolate around.

It was a fine time.

An Adult Adventure

Don't look up.

This week I did an unusual thing: I went to a shopping mall.

I had decided that now that I was (okay, arguably) an adult, there were certain garments that I needed to have to seem more like one. The specifics aren't necessary, and you won't be getting them; you just need to know that I don't like shopping and I don't like malls. I had to talk myself into this trip.

Actually, I had to bribe myself. "Come on," I said. "It won't be so bad. Look, get the stuff and I'll buy you a coffee."

Ooooo, coffee. Well, okay.

When dealing with Self, I've discovered, It's important to know what bribes to use.

A cacophony of color hit me. A veritable riot of sounds. Exciting words jiggled everywhere. "Sale!" "Sale!" "Sale!" I found myself pulled to things I didn't realize I needed, fingering items I didn't want, nodding at how good the deals were.

As if I had a clue. It's easy to cut something by 50% if it's already twice what it should be, right? Are these prices good? How much does this cost to make? What's the store's overhead?

Do I even need it?

All these sensible questions fled my mind as the mall's indigenous spell infused my brain. I flitted from storefront to storefront. Look at this! What a deal! I could take these home! We'd be so happy together, my things and me!

Oh. My. God.

I shook my head like a large, wet dog and almost bumped into someone.  Navigating in a mall is, I realized, not like walking a sidewalk. You're not going somewhere, you're -- browsing. Consuming. Like a goat. A bit of this, a bit of that. Dreams of satisfaction and delight sparkled everywhere, like neon flowers calling me to feast.

But now I'd seen the game for what it was. The spell was -- mostly -- broken. I kept my gaze resolutely on my destination. Or on the floor, when things got bad.

Ooh, pretty!


Focus! Ignore those things! Deny them!

When I was done at last, I dashed out the nearest mall door and was free! Lost, but free.

Then I went to find (very good) coffee to pay off my bribe. We had a lovely cup of dark brew, myself and me, to celebrate our daring escape. So brave, so free. So adult.

These Things Happen

Once upon a time, in a land far far away, I took a cantaloupe-sized green egg away from a father whose kind has been unchanged for some 80 million years.  I was nervous, because he weighted nearly as much as I did, and had claws far longer and sharper than mine. And besides which, he was a parent and I was only hoping to be one with his stolen child, which I imagined gave him an advantage.

But he was confused, new to the game, not really that concerned, and I stepped past him easily enough and took the small pipping green egg, this hatchling critter who, when she was finally free of the hard shell, fit easily into the palm of my one hand.

I raised her inside for months until she was big enough, then outside in a greenhouse. She was beautiful, of course, and smelled fabulous to me, with my mother's eyes and nose.

When I left that far-off land, I left her in the care of both new human parents and the parents of her own kind. Knowing she was well was enough.

She died today, at five and a half years old.  It happened suddenly, mysteriously, in her sleep. These things happen.

Having recently been through the death of a beloved fur-child that was not sudden, not mysterious, and not fast, I do see the advantages in this quick transition.

And yet, and yet. It is not all that much easier.

But these things happen.

Snot Funny

I'd like to be able to say that aside from this particular habit, Kitty is a loving, generous and intelligent creature.

Not quite. Kitty is demanding, touchy, and temperamental.

Like most cats, Kitty naps. Unlike most cats, when she wakes she shakes her head vigorously, sliming everything in the surrounding area. We're not talking a little spray here, friends, but amounts of wetness that lead one to first wonder where she keeps it all inside that tiny head, and second where a towel might be. I usually say something loud as well.

So I decide I've had enough. It's time for the vet. As I reach for the phone, I imagine the exam in my mind. I have a very good imagination.

The vet says, "Well, she seems healthy enough.  I wonder if it's allergies."

Uh oh. I know more than a little about allergies. I know what comes next.

"Does she do this after anything in particular?" the vet asks. "What do you feed her? You might want to consider trying a new food, see if that helps. Give it a month or so and check back."

"Okay," I say. "We'll give that a try."

And there it is: the vet visit has taken place in my mind. No need to schedule or stuff Kitty in a box for transit. Quite convenient.

So I switch Kitty to some new and expensive cat food. (Not in my head, no, but thanks for checking.) High protein, low carbs, and no grains. As the (yes, imaginary) vet suggests, I give it a few weeks.

A few weeks go by and by golly Kitty is no longer a snot machine. She still shakes her head but nothing goes flying. Now she's merely demanding, touchy, and temperamental.

I'm impressed. Points to my imagination. Well done. Have a kitty treat.

The Main Stream at Last

I was raised on science fiction and fantasy and when you're raised in a fiction genre you often aspire to stay there. It's what you know, after all. Across the years, my stories have been published only in SF&F--books, anthologies and magazines. Until now.

Yes, friends, I have just sold a story to a mainstream publication, one I have been familiar with for decades, that I would never in my wildest dreams have imagined would one day contain my fiction within its colorful covers.

I've just had a story accepted for Uncle John's Bathroom Reader "Flush Fiction" anthology. (Do note the small pun in the title of this post; I'd be so disappointed if you missed it.)

Uncle John has bought my 1k story "Biggest Fan! Ever!" for this upcoming anthology. I am particularly amused because this is satire taken from my experience with SF&F fans. Which would all be a lot funnier if I could share the story with you, which of course I can't because it's not yet published.

But when it is I will announce it on my publications announcement mailing list. Do join if you'd like to be informed.

Thinking about the SF Ghetto that I have (momentarily) escaped (I know my place) brought me to this intriguing article, which starts with two very nice quotes, one of which has long been a favorite of mine. From Bruce Sterling's preface to  Gibson's Burning Chrome:

If poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world, science-fiction writers are its court jesters. We are Wise Fools who can leap, caper, utter prophecies, and scratch ourselves in public. We can play with Big Ideas because the garish motley of our pulp origins makes us seem harmless.

This quote always makes me feel warm and fuzzy about my little ghetto. And a little proud. Big Ideas! Harmless! Hah!

The Prince of Cats

For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?

And what is it to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?

Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing.

And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.

And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.

--Kahlil Gibran

Splendid journey, my Beloved. Dance and sing in grace.