Thursday various

Deja Tues

At the start of the new year, I made a sort of unofficial, unspoken pledge that I would post something here every day. (Beyond the occasional assortment of links, videos, and random song lyrics.) But some days, there just isn’t that much of anything to report.

I mailed off my entry in the Geist Postcard Contest this afternoon, and tonight did a very tiny bit of work on another short story that’s been sitting on the back burner for awhile. Right now, I’m watching the second episode of Monty Python: Almost The Truth and thoroughly enjoying it. (Seriously, I defy anyone not to at least giggle a little at this sketch.)

And that’s about it.

Thursday various

Monday various

  • Maybe I’m just still bitter that my family stood on line for several hours to see this when it was new — and missed out on Journey into Imagination (at the time a personal favorite and which is what we originally thought we were standing on line for) — but come on, the return of Captain Eo? Really?
  • I’m always dubious about lists of new slang words. They inevitably seem like they’re just a joke on whoever is compiling them — “can you believe what I got that reporter from the Guardian to believe?” — or like somebody’s just gotten corrugated ankles, gone to goat heaven, and started making things up. [via]
  • Graham Greene once entered a contest to parody himself. He came in second. [via]
  • Sketchy Santas. Parents, do you really want your kids sitting on these men’s laps? [via]
  • And finally, speaking of which, Jack Bauer’s making a list and checking it twice…

The science fiction of cancer itself

I’m currently reading Lorrie Moore’s stunning short story collection, Birds of America. This morning on the train, I read “People Like That Are the Only People Here,” which I’d actually read once before, I think in my freshman fiction writing workshop. It can be a tough story to get through because of its subject matter, pediatric cancer, but it’s a masterful work. (It won the O. Henry Award for Moore in 1998.) Here’s a small bit:

Sifting through the videocassettes, the Mother wonders what science fiction could begin to compete with the science fiction of cancer itself — a tumor with its differentiated muscle and bone cells, a clump of wild nothing and its mad, ambitious desire to be something: something inside you, instead of you, another organism, but with a monster’s architecture, a demon’s sabotage and chaos. Think of leukemia, a tumor diabolically taking liquid form, better to swim about incognito in the blood. George Lucas, direct that!