Another knight of the Golden Age

RIP Arthur C. Clarke. I didn't read much of his stuff when I was hoovering up SF stories with the usual preadolescent enthusiasm, and I never cracked 2001, but damn if "The Nine Billion Names of God" doesn't have one of the most elegant closes of any short story ever. It was the kind of story that stuck in your mind, rousing echoes years later—"Hey, do you remember a story where, like, monks are trying to recite the names of God? And they hire a pair of engineers? Or am I making that up?" "No, yeah. It was next to 'Nightfall' in an anthology I had." "Oh right, the one about the planet with all the suns?" "And the fire? Right!" Then of course the corrupt president of Earth in "Babylon 5" was named Arthur Clarke, as part of Harlan Ellison's not-at-all-subtle series of references to classic authors (the evil leader of the telepaths was named Alfred Bester, and there was at least one other name dropped with the grace of a neon-green anvil). Dying at 90 in your tropical paradise doesn't sound like a bad way to go. [ETA from comments: Serialkarma's father called her last night to say, "I thought you would want to know that Arthur C. Clarke died tomorrow." Which, like Making Light's contribution, is a fine and proper epitaph.]

Dang, with all the excitement about Pi Day and going to see the National Geographic's amazing frog exhibit (waxy monkey frogs! Chinese gliding frogs! frogs by Leonardo, frogs from Mars!), I missed writing up the one event I wish I'd stayed in Texas to see: Bandera's Wild Hog Explosion. Hogs are an invasive species and do all kinds of damage, so there's very little love lost for them among country people, but the creatures are smart and dangerous enough that hunters treat them with a certain respect. None of which, it must be admitted, is evident in the idea of wrassling a squirming pig into a burlap bag, but at a guess the ensuing hijinks would be worth the visit. Add a beer and a Frito pie, and that right there is a good date.

Old love notes

In going back through some old e-mail, I rediscovered Slashdot's classic interview with Neal Stephenson. One person submitted the obvious question: "In a fight between you and William Gibson, who would win?"

Excerpt: "Gibson and I dueled among blazing stacks of books for a while. Slowly I gained the upper hand, for, on defense, his Praying Mantis style was no match for my Flying Cloud technique. But I lost him behind a cloud of smoke. Then I had to get out of the place. The streets were crowded with his black-suited minions and I had to turn into a swarm of locusts and fly back to Seattle."

Aw man, now I want to fight his brother.

No more Thomas Hardy!

Pride getteth in the way of taking the easy joke about the Beatles and my relief at finishing Jude the Obscure, so insert your own comments and take them as read. The plot, once it finally rambled into view, involved more angst: Jude and Sue wander around failing to get married, Jude's Pearl-esque spaceboy son from his previous marriage shows up and haunts them with his aged mien, hassles ensue regarding their growing family, freaky son kills himself and the other children "because we are too menny," Sue gets religion and goes back to the husband whose touch makes her flesh for to creep and makes a huge deal about how now she's a submitted wife and will actually have sex with him, Jude reunites with his scheming boozy wife Arabella, he never recovers his strength and dies while she's out gallivanting with the lecherous doctor, and the readers live happily ever after, amen, knowing that Hardy never wrote another novel.

I did, as promised, cleanse my brain with Making Money and a 1960 SF collection of short stories that I bought from a street vendor in New York on the strength of the cover art and the inclusion of Cordwainer Smith's brilliant "The Game of Rat and Dragon." I wasn't overly impressed by the Isaac Asimov "Ideas Die Hard," but I liked "Dead Ringer" for its pacing and "Volpla" just because. Someday I will find the poem that begins, "The owl and the pussycat went into space/ In a modified Jupiter C..."; it must be collected somewhere.

In other news, oh, what to wear to Oktoberfest? Die Ausgebürgerte offers a tip to da laydies. When I see "Die Dirndl-Trends 2007," I expect to see some Nordic futurewearz, but it turns out that the savvy Dirndl-trundler will not be plumping for PVC and chrome and quilted space fabrics this year. This year it's all about slumping around the walls of the pub and looking hopeful (or drunk). Next year? Who knows! Die clubben might be in.

Too much sameness is a fearsome thing

Apropos of Seesterperson's recent snugglings with a Seaside Heights lobstah lovah, and because everybody who has ever gone into a vague trance while listening to NPR ought to read it, I give you the wonderful, plausible, but as far as I know fictional account of events in one of New York's livelier districts. Ladies and generalmen, Paul Ford's "Chinatown."

Not convinced by that teaser? Fine, fine, you philistines and ingrates, take a sample paragraph.

"All we, the crowd, can see are kicking legs as the lobster holds her with his claw, eyestalks waving wildly. Men faint, knocking over stacks of cardboard boxes with a splash. Women scream. The daughter's mother runs to the lobster, but is thrown away. The father begs the lobster to relinquish his daughter. The lobster begins to scuttle to the river. The girl is screaming. Unless something happens, she will spend the rest of her life as a lobster-bride under the bridges. He will take her out to the bay and scuttle up to Maine, where he will rule as lobster king with her as his unwilling bride. It is a life of incredible suffering."