We’ve been thinking about replacing the 15-year-old Lesbaru wagon with a more commuting-friendly car and, as it’s about time for me to have my midlife crisis, I have decided that what we need is something more like the car our neighbors are selling:

1957 Chevrolet 210

Samwise is baffled, probably because he grew up in the wrong part of Michigan and thinks we should get, I don’t know, a modern newish car with good gas mileage and crumple zones and that. He’s being a total dick about this. I mean, I’d settle for an Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight or for a classic Cadillac!

 

I cannot describe the horror of this flashmob video that the Queen sent me, and yet I must — IÄ! IÄ!

 

Amanda already said quite a bit of what I was thinking about the stupidity of Michael Pollan’s recent article in the New York Times Magazine, though her main point is that if you’re writing for the NYT, you need to be fashionably ‘postfeminist’. That’s the nice version. Myself, I throw in a dash of cynicism that, having written a couple of books and needing a follow-up quick, Pollan has fallen back on the old back-in-my-day, world-going-to-hell-in-a-handbasket that is just so much more salable when it’s about the loss of June Cleaver’s home cooking.

Pollan’s column is a sad example of a very unpleasant strain of Slow Food thinking; the ideal cook is a boho Trustafarian with unlimited money and time for meal preparation, and to the extent that the average woman cooking for her family doesn’t fit that mold, it’s a personal failing on her part.

Mollie Katzen pointed out some of the dangers of this thinking in a comment about her original Moosewood Cookbook: everybody she knew was an artsy slacker or a grad student, who could easily adjust their schedules to drift in and out of the kitchen all day long if they had too.  The Slow Food movement is notorious for this kind of thinking, which you can understand in a grad student but is pathetic in a grown adult who can afford to buy hand-nurtured organic locally-grown zucchini blossoms.

And Pollan’s column combines this with a gobsmacking, unbelievably stupid paen to the fantasy that our grandmothers were the original Slow Food pioneers.  Yes, my grandmother raised, killed and butchered chickens. That’s because she was poor, and it was cheaper to feed them on scraps and garden bugs rather than buy them at the butcher’s, not because she cherished the flavor of organic, hand-reared poultry. She certainly used pre-prepared foods and canned things whenever she could, as this was the era of the Modern Kitchen and manufacturers who printed tons of recipes using their products. As grolby pointed out in the comments at Pandagon:

From-scratch cooking had long since been seriously encroached upon by the processed food industry by the time Betty Friedan wrote The Feminine Mystique. Which is to say that, by his definition, many people were already not cooking, and so laying any responsibility at the feet of feminism is historically incorrect and irresponsible.

I’m being a little unfair, in that there really is a segment of the Slow Food movement that wants healthy, delicious, sustainable food to be available to everyone, not just those who can afford to spend $10 on a tomato or who can spend six hours making dinner because the nanny and housekeeper are taking care of everything else. Pollan doesn’t appear to be part of that crowd. But then, they’re not the ones getting checks from the NYT.

 

Scalzi’s thread about what you need to give up to write (spoiler: screwing around watching TV and stuff all the time) got invaded by someone who is either a total emokid or a troll indistinguishable from one, blathering about how one must Suffer in order to create Art.

Naturally we all made like he was a piñata, but in retrospect, perhaps I was too hasty.  I woke up at about 2 a.m. today to discover that I have totally jacked my neck and my left arm from the shoulder to the elbow*, so with the help of a lot of ibuprofen I can manage to do things that don’t require me to raise my arms or carry anything over a couple of pounds in my left hand. In other words, I’m in fine shape to sit propped up in bed with a laptop and type. This means I am actually getting a little writing done, when the painkillers are working.

So, suffering = Art. When do I get my six-figure advance?

*No, I have no idea how I did this. No, it didn’t keep the kitten from purring directly into my ear like a buzzsaw and demanding to be petted. At two in the morning.

Jul 192009
 

I would have read it eventually since it’s by China Miéville, but since Bryan recommended it I moved it up the stack – even though I was a little concerned it would be even more baroque than The Iron Council.

Miéville, darn him and his talent, has written a police procedural, set in a city that lies alongside another city. Beszel and Ul Qoma are interlinked in places, sometimes even overlap, but they are separate nations – calls between them are mentioned as “international calls” – and the separation is enforced by Breach. Crossing over, or even perceiving, the “topolganger” city next door invites terrible punishment, and the citizens of both cities have developed an entire, almost subconscious culture of mannerisms, dress, colors and styles to tip the other off to “unsee” or “unhear” what is going on next door.

And he does this while hitting on many of the familiar tropes of police procedurals: a body found in a park, a police inspector pushing an investigation past mysterious and sudden bureacratic resistance, traveling to another country to team up with his foreign counterpart, and even a (rather pulse-pounding, actually) chase scene – which are all different, and fresh, because of the way they intersect with the separate doppelcities.

Highly recommended.

 

(Yes, I know I traditionally do reviews and media blogging on Sunday, but I was so darn busy cleaning and fixing up the house yesterday that Samwise actually stopped me to ask “You’re not about to go into labor, right?”)

This game was brought to my attention by Betsy, Hottest IT Attorney in Los Angeles. I saw it on the list at PegCon, but there are two kinds of people at cons: the ones who tend to shy away from rules systems or milieus they don’t know unless the listing says “beginners welcome/you don’t need to know anything to play,” and the ones who will show up at a game called “Jorune for Experts” asking hey, I’ve never played this before, what’s it about? I’m in the first category. In any case, Betsy is smart as well as hot, so when she raved to me about Dogs in the Vineyard‘s system I figured I would pick it up.

Continue reading »

Jun 272009
 

Since it’s Pride weekend -

When did you know you were queer? Or when, looking back, should you have figured it out?

Some people say they always knew; others figured it out later in life, very suddenly; some of us took a little while to get it all sorted.

I should have known one night when we were at home, for reasons I can’t recall watching the Grammies; I think that my grandmother wanted to see them, and we watched a lot more TV back before the Internets were around.

And then there was this video.

I vaguely remember my family arguing about whether it was a man or a woman – this was the Rust Belt in the 1980s, people, not exactly a hotbed of genderqueer awareness – but I wasn’t paying them any attention. I knew that I was enraptured by the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, even if it took me a long time and a lot of wasted effort to figure out exactly what that meant.

You?

Goodbye, Granny

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Jun 232009
 

My mother called me tonight – I already knew, I think, because there’s no other reason she would be calling me at well-past-bedtime Eastern.

Her mother, my grandmother, my last living grandparent, died in the hospital this morning. It wasn’t terribly unexpected; she was 95, she’s been in pretty ill health for a while and she’s been in the hospital. Still.

I don’t have a clever title.

 

The Queen, who a) believes her father to be a cruel tyrant with the sole motivation of making her life miserable, and b) hates cooking (up to and including microwaving a TV dinner), spontaneously made breakfast in bed for her dad on Father’s Day.

Okay, it was toast and Grape Nuts, but there was no sarcasm or eye-rolling involved. Best Father’s Day present ever.

 

Pros:

  • Cool architecture.
  • The bench is only slightly raised, instead of being higher than God as is not uncommon in many courts. Apparently the Justices do not have something to prove.
  • Their cafeteria food is actually pretty decent.
  • Marble, and plenty of it.
  • Just admitted Mythago to the Supreme Court bar.

Cons:

  • Supreme Court gift shop contains extremely limited variety of swag.
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