Fun Short Story from Carla Harker

Mme Harker wrote a brief and fun Christmas story, which she has graciously shared on her blog. I will share it back at you all.

“Captain Mollytibbles, we have a situation.”

I looked over the mounds of paper on my desk at Lieutenant Twinkle standing in the doorway. The bells on her red-and-white-striped uniform jingled merrily, but worry made her green face lime, and her pointy ears quivered above her red hair.

I swallowed a sigh. I was hours behind on the days’ lists already, and it was still morning. “What is it, Lieutenant?”

“We lost half the crop in field seventeen last night.”

I leaped to my feet in shock. “The teddy bears?” Not the bears! They were only two days from harvest.

Full text here.

Weekend Rundown

It’s Tuesday, and I’m still recovering from the weekend.

Friday went a little something like this:

Friend: Hey, are you busy tonight? Nine-ish?

Me: No, why?

Friend: Well, I’m getting married today and we’re having dinner. Want to come.

Me: !!!

I didn’t say “bang bang bang” or anything like that (UNIX geeks feel me there). That just indicates a bit of surprise. We went to Ame, at the St Regis in San Francisco. Somehow, he managed to swing the chef’s table on the Friday night before Christmas. Apparently he knew someone who was friends with the maitre d’. He has a wonderful wife, and she and I will be fast friends.

Saturday, the first half, I do not entirely wish to discuss. Suffice to say, hair appointments should not take five hours (despite how my hair is finally brown once more and not that menacing black it has been for so long). But by the end I walked out with my hair done in a very Victorian manner, which suited the event that evening.

Gaskell Ball. I arrived largely on time with my friend Crissy, dressed in all sorts of finery. I walked out singing I Could Have Danced All Night from My Fair Lady (yes, I have enjoyed musicals in my life, shush). There is still a blister on my foot. I only sat out a handful of dances. My hair was amazing during the polka.

Sunday I dashed off to Borderlands, and discovered that I really need to learn Mission. Books, followed by tapas. Despite the rain, this was a good start to the day.

After that was Jew Food. With a lost little puppy we decided to call Biscuits. He was a precious little thing, though his energy was obnoxious. I hope someone comes to claim him.

I guess I’m pretty boring. No fun stories to report. No cars on fire this time.

Plushgun

Plushgun – Maybe Tomorrow

As I’ve said time and again, I’m a sucker for things with a synth. This is light and fun with a good driving sound to it. Quite catchy. There’s a sincerity behind the sound that I rather miss.

On Cars, and Where to Park Them

I learned a valuable lesson on Saturday concerning where cars ought be parked.

I went to a Hot Drinks Party on Saturday, in San Francisco. Swanky little place with an incredible view, overlooking Folsom. I arrived unfashionably late, due to having spent the day at the Dickens Fair. Glogg and spiced cider was served. I partook.

I sat around awkwardly, as is my wont when confronted with a room of faces I’ve neither met nor been introduced to. I spotted a friend and clung to her, listening in on conversations.

Our host, Steven, called our attention by asking, “Is that a fire?”

I glanced to the kitchen, but he was staring outside. I shifted focus. Lo. Fire.

Across the street, directly in front of our gaping windows, a recycling bin caught fire. Nobody was certain how this was achieved, but the cardboard spilling out like an overstuffed bouquet blossomed orange on top.

“That looks really close to the car,” someone said. Don’t ask me who. “Think it’ll explode?”

“It’s really hard to make a car explode,” I said.

Steven ran off to call 911.

As minutes ticked by, the blaze grew, and I realized if one of us had run out there with an extinguisher when we first noticed the flames, there wouldn’t be a problem, but now it was far too late to help. I shared this observation with the group. “Entertainment through schadenfreude.”

“Is the car on fire?”

“The cabin’s all full of smoke, look!”

“There’s flames underneath it!”

“I hope they have good insurance.”

We watched the flames grow.

The fire truck eventually came, and promptly put out the fire. We cheered. They noticed, and waved. We cheered some more. One of the firemen brought out an ax and began smashing the windows. It was explained that occasionally, heat within will cause windows to crack and shatter. This was explained via the visual of columns of apartment windows shattering in a fire while residents fled the building.

The ax continued its work. The fireman took a swing at the windshield, but didn’t manage to break it. Just a large wound surrounded by spiderwebbing, purposeless.

I frowned. “Now that’s just mean-spirited.”

We continued our watching, until the fire department cleared out, trailed by the police. A decision was made to survey the damage, which I supported. After all, we’d watched the full process. It was our due.

Being on Folsom, near the Gordon Biersch on Embarcadero, scattered couples were walking down the street. The couple in front of our pack stopped to take a good look at the truck.

A very good look.

“Sir? Is this your vehicle?”

The girl stepped back, hands on her mouth. I turned away briefly, stifling a horrible laugh. (I’ve long since come to terms with the fact that I’m a horrible person and it’s time you do the same.) Her eyes were wide. He nodded, once, slowly.

“What if they’re in South Bay?” I asked our small group, in discrete tones.

Crissy stepped forward. “Are you guys okay? Will you be able to get back home?”

The girl stared at her, through a fog.

“We all drove up here from South Bay.” I pointed at the window we spent the previous hour glued to. “We saw the whole thing happen. We called the police. One of us can drive you back if you need.”

“I…” She pointed west. “He…” She pointed north. “We’ll take a cab.”

We nodded and backed away. No need to be a gawker. Not at that moment. Instead, we returned to the party, explaining what we’d seen. Conversation returned, and we casually watched the windows now. The boy put the girl into a cab and took a separate one.

Worst date ever.

“It’s incredible,” Crissy said at one point. “Crap like this happens, the city never even skips a beat.”

Never park next to a full recycling bin.

Amanda Palmer @ Bimbo’s 365

Amanda Palmer (whom you may know as the louder half of The Dresden Dolls) played the penultimate show of her American tour at Bimbo’s 365 last night with the Danger Ensemble.

I can’t speak on the openers. I wasn’t really there, and when I arrived, there were two women singing about global warming. I spent the time working on two whiskey sours.

But Amanda was a show. Understand what I mean when I say that. Most concerts simply feature a band playing. Occasionally jamming. Some crowd interaction. But this was a complete show. A magician performing card tricks in the manner of a busker pulled from the turn of the previous century opened the scene, warming the crowd with passable magic and bawdy behaviour. Neil Gaiman’s disembodied voice filled the room. A dancing troupe known as the Danger Ensemble adorned the stage in a manner simultaneously entertaining and unobtrusive. We lapped it up.

As I listened — I admit here that I’ve not had a chance to hear her latest solo work, save what’s been on YouTube — I felt a certain odd familiarity to the music. After awhile, she mentioned Ben Folds produced the album. Which explains everything. The moment she said it, I could hear Ben’s influence in the music. This isn’t to say she lacks her own style. More that I could hear his guidance on the record. Their styles are distinct, yet compatible. (My favorite Ben Folds song, Not the Same, for your reference.)

The last show is tonight, in Hollywood. If you have the chance, go to’t.

Notes from Poland, Part One

I know, I’m finally getting around to it. Leave me be. There’s a lot to type.

Wednesday, 11/19/2008

17:57 PST @ LAX, Gate 41

It’s amazing what a bit of water on your face can do for your mood.

Holy shit. I’m going to London. I need to do some reading on the city. Then, AIR. Remind me to thank Emily Jiang for the latter.

17:57 PST

I completely forgot about Cockfosters. On the Underground, there is a line called the Picadilly line. One of the final stops is Cockfosters. “This is a Picadilly service to… Cockfosters.”

I’m five.

18:18 PST @ LAX, Chili’s

Have just been notified by a trusted friend that I must visit 34 Travistock St, Covent Garden, WC2D7PB. Will make an effort, but I will get to London very late, and thus cannot make promises.

I’m getting a sammich.

18:26 PST @ Flyover Country

I forgot about airplanes and fountain pens. Or, to be more clear, air pressure and fountain pens. At least this round I remembered in time and didn’t coat my hands in black ink. That was a difficult bathroom venture to explain last time it happened. But I have my seat to myself and tea with milk and sugar. Life does me well, by and large.

What you cannot see, dear reader, that I describe in this note not in my original hand-written notes, is the stain of black spots soaking through multiple pages. Wait till you get to the bit where I spilled tea over it all. It may catch you by surprise.

Also, I made the horrible decision to see what movies were playing, to watch something while eating. They have Wall-E. All is lost.

18:45 PST

Holy shit, I think I just saw Snape as a woman. Over in 22F.

22:37 PST @ Somewhere North of Winnepeg

A woman who was Canadian–and thusly knowledgeable on the subject–once told me there was nothing north of Winnepeg. “Canada may be the largest nation in terms of land, but the country stops at Winnepeg.” I look out the window, and I see nothing.

In all fairness, it’s pitch black, so I shouldn’t expect to see anything. But I doubt daylight will remedy that.

A little under six hours to London. I should sleep, but I tend not to be able to. And I want to finish AIR. I wonder what book I should pick to keep me company in London.

Took some allergy pills this semi-kind man in the seat behind me offered. He’s a strange one, distinctly from Manchester what with his accent and all. Claimed he was unwell to get the aisle seat, but his being ‘unwell’ is a mood issue and I feel he was a bit dishonest on that front. Ah, well. Hopefully the pills knock me out.

23:23 PST @ Still Over the Frozen Wastes of Northern Canadia

That wasn’t a typo.

I’ve just confused ‘eldricht’ and ‘ersatz.’ As a fan of Lovecraft, I clearly I need sleep.

Also, I need to use prevaricate, but not that way. No, the other way.

Thursday, 11/20/2008

12:12 GMT @ Over Kennilworth, England

I have spilt tea over it all. I’m sure it was only a matter of time. We’re to be landing soon, and then off to the Picadilly line. They say it’s 14C. That’s actually quite warm. I suspect the heavy coat will be too heavy.

I’ll wait to call mother until I’m at the hotel.

The weather is miserable and grey. It explains so many things, really.

12:37 GMT @ Over Greater London

The sleep I got was passable. I can survive until 22:00 local, I think. The pills certainly helped, though I’d love a proper, restful sleep. I hope Gravy is okay.

I remember when the trans-Atlantic flights had one screen at the front, a projector, a tri-color projector, and if you didn’t like the movie you slept. Things are much fancier nowadays.

The flaps on the wings are moving like some great breathing thing.

12:46 GMT @ HEA, Taxiing

Nobody claps on landings anymore, either.

13:57 GMT @ HEA, Bus Stop 11

I’m at the bus stop, leaning against the post, watching dutifully for the bus to roll up. It’s called the Hotel Hoppa (yes, I know, it’s precious) and it will take me from Point A to Point B without forcing me to think about it too much, which my travel-addled brain appreciates. I stare down the road as my training indicates, to my left, and am startled out of my skin as the bus slides up behind me, coming to a plaintive halt off my right shoulder.

England. Cars on other side. Right.

The weather is quite nice. Not too cold. Though I’ve probably damned myself by saying that.

Finished AIR on the flight. Moving on to CHOKE.

14:36 GMT @ Park Inn Heathrow, Room 2616

Here’s how you know: there’s cricket on the telly. Which reminds me of a guy in college we used to call Sticky Wickett. But that’s another story altogether.

Holy hell. Aljazeera. And hey, exchange rates are pretty good right now ($1.50 = £1).

14:52 GMT

Wow. Aljazeera is actually quite a good news network.

??? @ Park Inn Heathrow, Room 2616

Shit. Did I just sleep two hours or fourteen hours?

16:45 GMT @ Park Inn Heathrow, Concierge

“Excuse me. Can you tell me the date and the time?”

The Concierge looked up from his computer. He doesn’t believe he heard me correctly. “I’m sorry?”

“Date and time? The sleep I just got was too restful for two hours and I’m … I’m concerned, that’s all.”

“November twentieth.” He spoke slowly, as if speaking to an idiot. I’ll grant him that. “Four-fourty-five in the afternoon.”

“Thank you.” I hung my head in shame and tottered off to my room.

17:37 GMT @ Park Inn Heathrow, Concierge Desk

I once more walked to the desk, but a bit better off this time. Hair brushed, face washed, and looking and smelling a bit less like I’d fallen off a freight car. “How do I get to the Underground from here?”

New concierge. “B’parn?”

Uh… “I’m sorry?”

“Eyseh b’parn?”

Oh fuck. My concierge is Bob Walker from Hot Fuzz. “I want to get to the Underground station at Heathrow, but I don’t want to pay for the Hoppa again.”

“Aryes. L’m gitumep der fer yeh.”

He’s getting something for me. I got that. At least I think I got that… oh. A map. “Thank you.” Gitumep. Get a map.

“See, dare’s dacoch dere, cross der streetchar? Take enyer dees lions.”

He wrote down some numbers while my brain parsed what he said. Dacoch. Da-coch. The coach. Coa– oh. Bus. “How do I get to the stop from here?”

“Ah, jes cross de street der en worlk detchway.” He pointed left, emphatically.

Cross street and go left. Okay. “How late do the busses run?”

“De wun-el’vn an de tu-eychy-foiv ar twinny-fur oars.” He wrote a neat little “24” next to two numbers he’d written earlier: 111 and 285.

I smiled, the best I could give at the moment. “Thank you.”

18:52 GMT @ Picadilly Line

Hah. Cockfosters.

Hah!

20:28 GMT @ A Cafe Nero Near Picadilly Circus

Have stopped for nosh. I’ve walked through Picadilly Circus, Lancaster Square, Chinatown, SoHo, and up and down Regent Street. I think I like SoHo the best. London strikes me as a foreign town. Many accents, many languages, on the street, in the tube, behind the counters.

Earlier, I was stopped and asked for directions. This may seem like nothing, but it happens everywhere I go. Often enough, anyway, that it stands out to me. I don’t know if I look particularly competent or approachable or something. If it’s the latter, then I need to further cultivate my prickly exterior, lest people get the wrong idea and think I’m nice.

20:28 GMT TEXT (Jason) I gots you!

20:44 GMT TEXT (Me) You can reach all the way over here? Have you secretly been Mr. Fantastic this whole time?

20:44 GMT TEXT (Jason) Hm, apparently. Where are you?

20:45 GMT TEXT (Me) London.

20:46 GMT TEXT (Jason) Huh. I’m a fucking wizard.

20:59 GMT

Returning to the hotel. London shuts down too early for me. I think every city in the world shuts down too early for me. Don’t people understand that true consciousness only starts after 8pm?

21:39 GMT @ Picadilly Line, Hammersmith

Finished CHOKE. Forgot to bring another book with me. I think the hotel is willing to supply me with tea. I believe it’s some sort of law here.

Mind the gap.

22:21 GMT @ HEA, Bus Stop #20

Found out another friend of mine is doing the retarded thing and marrying. I don’t get it.

One of my favorite bits of going to Europe is watching the news. It’s such a different perspective from America. We never hear things about companies opening up shop in middle eastern nations, because for us that whole region is comprised of “the enemy” (unless it’s Israel).

Aljazeera has some pretty incisive reporting, I have to say. Their willingness to challenge what people are saying blows me away. It’s a level of journalistic integrity I don’t see elsewhere. For instance, that whole mess about Palin’s lack of intelligence (or basic competency) during the elections. “Oh, we knew,” the networks said, “and now that the election is over we’re free to tell you.” Really? Now that it no longer matters you can report important fucking information? Good fucking journalism, assholes.

Ahem. Sorry.

Also, pirates in Somalia. I had no idea. Some Greek freighter been captured since September and I don’t catch a blip of it? I didn’t even know pirates were a problem in those waters.

22:55 GMT @ Park Inn Heathrow, Room 2616

Note to self: UK Plugs != Continental Europe Plugs.

23:29 GMT

Last time I was in Europe, the first trial handled under the Military Commissions Act occurred, and it took two days to convict the guy. Today, five men are freed from Guantanamo Bay, having been held without charge for seven years.

And there’s something going on with US Troops in Iraq. Other than the obvious.

Next post to come when I type it.

White Apple Tree

White Apple Tree – Zombies Can’t Dance (better version available through their MySpace, as well as their song Snowflakes)

I found these guys through the friends list of Versant (who really need to release a full track already). Sorry there’s no youtube vid, but the only thing I could find was a live version of Zombies Can’t Dance, wherein the lead’s voice was startlingly reminiscent of Blake Schwarzenbach. I suppose you’ll have to deal with hearing the streaming elsewhere. Sorry.

Another Office Convo

Internet is down at home. I’ll be a little while in posting my logs from Poland. In the meanwhile…

Coworker: [picks up keyboard and shakes it violently]

Me: o.O

Coworker: It wasn’t listening to me.

Me: Hm. Well. In my limited experience with technology, I’ve found shaking it rarely works in your favor.

Coworker: That’s just what I do, with things that don’t listen to me. I give it a good shake.

He shakes the keyboard again, demonstratively.

Me: Ever heard of Shaken Baby Syndrome?

Coworker: No.

Me: You will.