Today is not my birthday (it is two days away) but Ron (who cannot keep a secret) surprised me with a PlayStation 2. We’ll set it up after we get the xmas tree (is it really a yule tree?) set up.
Tomorrow (12/7/03), gravity, friction and water will be my best friends. I’m off to Loon for my first day of snowboarding for the season. We’ll see just what 9 months of squats, leg presses and calf raises (amongst others) have done for my physical conditioning.
The word “stoked” barely suffices.
You know, I’ve noticed that not many entries in the blog are actually about science fiction. Curious…
By the way, my other best friends tomorrow will be my knee pads. 😉
So, this is what occupied Ron and I over the past few months.
I have a thing for dream cars. Not just you run of the mill supercars, nor your prosaic prototypes that broadly hint at upcoming production vehicles. OK, I admit, calling something like the Ford GT prosaic is not quite right.
Not that they aren’t beautiful. They are. They’re absolutely gorgeous.
Nope, I mean the weird, wacky , bizarre design exercises that, amazingly, are often rolling, drivable, technology testbeds like the Firebird I, II & III, the Buick Blackhawk, even this insane creation from Cadillac (Mr. Wayne will be driving himself, this evening).
Which brings me to the Tokyo Motor Show. Yes, the show was chock-a-block with all sorts of the aformentioned vehicles. But then there was this. And this. And this.
These are the kind of cars I’d buy in a heartbeat. Even the Habitrail inspired one.
Elliott Smith pissed me off royally on October 22, by killing himself.
But I’m over that now, at least enough to write about it. Or maybe just to acknowledge what a tragedy the whole sorry thing is. I mean, it was clear from listening to his work that he wasn’t the happiest person in the world, but I (you? we?) hoped he was working out some of his demons by penning what must have been some of the most beautiful, intelligent, aware and graceful songs (in English, at least) of the past decade. Perhaps in the past quarter century.
We’re talking about someone in the same league as Brian Wilson, Elvis Costello, Kurt Cobain, Paul Simon, Joni Mitchell…
And now he’s dead.
Goodbye Elliott Smith. So long and thanks for all the fish.
I’m about 1/2 way through Herbert and Anderson’s The Butlerian Jihad. This is tasty, tasty stuff. If you liked Dune at all, I recommend it.
By the way, Tangerine Dream is perfect background music for this book. We’ll see how well the next selection, Ozric Tentacles, works.
A random thought just occurred to me. I wonder if I’ll start getting far flung visitors now that two entries have contained the word Jihad?
So, today I’ve lost my mind. I went ahead and signed up for National Novel Writing Month. Throughout all of November, I’ll be writing. No time for editing. This is all about sheer throughput.
Rain or shine or snow.
The goal? 50,000 words by Midnight November 30th.
Somehow, this feels like the bravest thing I’ve done since leaving L.A. to go to grad school. The only way to up the ante would be to actually submit it for some editor to read. But first things first. It all starts with one sentence, one word, one character on November 1.