Chris Willie Williams

Here's another post I half-started and never finished: "I recently read Jim Butcher's Storm Front for the first time, and Seanan McGuire's upcoming Rosemary And Rue, and all of the Sookie Stackhouse books (which formed the basis for True Blood on HBO), and I enjoyed them all, but I've also started bitching to my friends about how I'm really ready for a fantasy novel about a competent, confident protagonist who's in control of a situation, someone who isn't suffering and stumbling and just barely, desperately hanging on by the skin of the teeth. I know that's less dramatic, but damn, would it be a nice change of pace. I think what I really want is something like Steven Brust's early Vlad books, the ones before Vlad got all whiny and helpless and do-nothing. A protagonist who's dashing and devil-may-care. Bonus points if it's a woman."

The day after I wrote that, I got to the next thing on my to-read stack, which was Diana Gabaldon's Outlander. It's like someone specifically selected this book for me as the thing that would satisfy my current itch. I've been hearing about these books for years, and noticing them the way I always notice fantasy series that make the NYT bestseller list, but I'd held off on them out of fear that they'd turn out to be jumped-up gushy romance novels, and because the whole "modern person accidentally falls into the past / another dimension / a magical fantasy realm / etc." is one of the many fantasy clichés I'm tired of. But I'm really enjoying this book, in large part because of its density and realism. The fact that it has a confident, capable female protagonist is just a bonus. (And just because she isn't desperate and nearly dead all the time doesn't make the book any less dramatic.) So is the fact that (so far, at least) she has concerns that go well beyond how dreaaaaaamy the leading man is. So is the fact that (so far, at least) she's standing on her own two feet and making her own decisions, without simultaneously being portrayed as some sort of grunting, clenched-teeth, action-hero man-with-boobs.

And it was kind of gratifying this morning when a total stranger at my gym — a solid, focused-seeming reasonable-type lady — saw me reading it on the elliptical and stopped to chat happily about how much she loved the series and how often she wound up staying awake until 2 a.m. while devouring it.

So I hope this doesn't go downhill from here, but at the moment, it's kinda like I griped to the universe, and it answered me with the book I wanted. Thanks, universe!

The flight to Dublin was uneventful, as nighttime transatlantic flights should be. We landed Wednesday morning, bleary-eyed but ready to bum rush the city.

We took a double-decker city bus to our hostel, rocking back and forth and praying we would have some clue when our stop came. Once we found our hostel and stored our bags, we set off on a long walk down the river and across the city.

In many ways, Dublin could be a town from the 1800's. It's dotted with mid-level red brick buildings and anachronistic smokestacks. On the ground level, it's more modern, with Burger Kings and Subways and all the other trappings of a cosmopolitan society. But Dublin maintains an unpretentious sense of history. It's a real, old city chugging along and trying to stay relevant - not a souvenier shop.

One thing we've barely found in Dublin is Irish people. I'd been led to believe that the city would be stuffed with four-leaf clovers and leprechauns begging for spare change. Instead, it's barely even green, and the inhabitants are from all around the world. In that sense, it's a lot like New York, a melting pot, almost anonymous except for the Irish translations displayed on every sign.

But it's not New York. The people are friendlier and go out of their way to help you. The streets are wide and veer off in creative directions, and the River Linney glides through the center of the city, giving it a sense of openness and freedom.

Amazingly, it's more expensive than New York. I don't know how anybody can afford to live in Dublin. Earning a euro (about $1.45 American) must be a major accomplishment; and it has to break an Irishman's heart to blow it on 1/4th of a slice of pizza. Stan bragged tonight, "I'm rich, I have three euros!" I countered, "Great - that'll buy you two euros."

From our hostel, we headed towards the river and began a long walk through Dublin on a gloriously sunny day. The river is strewn with fancy bridges, and we crossed and re-crossed at will.

After a while, we saw a sign for the Original Jameson Distillery, and I demanded that we go. It's a tourist trap, but sufficiently historic....and if I am going to spend seven dollars on a tiny shot of anything, it's going to be Jameson.

Of course, we got shots. Remembering the countless times I've sipped shots and gotten flack for it, I pounded this one back - and the bartender gave me flack for not sipping and appreciating a fine whiskey. Given my sudden foggy-headedness and the satisfying burn in my throat, I'd say that I appreciated it just fine, but she wasn't one to argue. I still love Jameson, but I'm juat fine now drinking it in my own town. They're too touchy about it here.

We wandered further, until the people disappeared and the area was infused with the smell of poo. Then the odor abated, and every tourist in Dublin converged, along with us, on our destination: the Guinness Factory.

Built in the 1700's, the Guinness Factory is almost a city unto itself, one tall, greying brick building after another. It's a historic spot, a tourist goldmine - and they make a beer I crazy enjoy. It's win-win-win.

These days, the Guinness Factory is set up as though Disney created an exhibit on alcohol - and I mean that as a compliment. It's frighteningly well done. We led ourselves through the tour, complete with waterfall and oversized "sandbox" filled with grains. TV screens and colorful exhibits explained the beer-making process step by step, treating it as though Guinness was printing money or manufacturing cancer medication.

On the fourth floor, we entered the beer "testing" room, which was packed with teenagers. At first, I thought, "These kids can drink like I qualify for social security." But then I realized that the age limit is 18 here - and even that didn't stop families from bringing their toddlers to marvel at the beer-making process. No, little Seamus, not till you're eight... But I'm at least eight, so I tested the beer a few times. It all checked out.

For all the weirdness of a massive tribute to beer, the tour was fascinating and user-friendly, from the first floor through the complimentary bar on the seventh floor, where families drank and admired a stunning 360-degree view of Dublin. The factory is a solid value and a fun, frendly time - even for the wee ones.

After that, we walked all the way back to the hostel and crashed for a while. Since then, we've eaten unbelievably bland "chips" (french fries) and had one more beer at a bar that features riverdancing every night (it's impressive and scary at the same time). Drinking is one Irish cliche we were happy to indulge; I'm sure the real, hard-working citizens of Dublin looked at us like we were alcoholic Neanderthals.

Because it's so low-key, I'm wondering how much Dublin will stick with me. But it's vibrant and relaxing at the same time, just fun to exist in. Stan thinks he could spend a lot of time here, and I see where he's coming from. And it's possible - merely possible - that spending 24 hours here isn't giving me a complete impression. In any case, I'm glad we visited. Now onward to Belfast.

Posted via LiveJournal.app.

a michelada sounds delicious right about now.

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Hee hee, Sense And Sensibility And Sea Monsters. Just announced. I did a full write-up with press-release excerpts and a link to the book trailer (man, I hate book trailers, but this one's kinda fun) for the AVC site, so I won't reproduce it all here. And I still haven't even read Pride And Prejudice And Zombies. But I'm already wondering what the next one will be. Emma And Mummies?

My father is an excellent gardener, and could grow enough vegetables to keep up fed all through the winter. Turnips are amazing because they are root vegetables and so if you pick them and put them in soil in the cellar they last for ages and ages. For more information about turnips, see every day of my childhood.


(store!)

I do not know where my head is at these days. I also don't know where the game is. But wherever the game is, my head is not in it. I had about six months straight of weird energy out of nowhere: I ate healthily and minimally, joined a club and worked out almost every day, walked two miles home for fun on a regular basis, went new places and tried new things, made wacky plans, started reading voluminously again after a couple of years of lacking the energy or focus, started a new hobby, reorganized my house and my life, bought new clothes, and generally got things in order.

Now that energy has deserted me, and I feel like I'm flailing through soup most days. If it's depression, it's a very mild version. I don't hate myself and feel like everything is worthless and awful, I'm just tramping through routines without any taste for them, or any will to change. I crave sugar half the time, and want to sleep the other half. I'm staying home nights, and not getting anything done when I do.

And I'm not finishing things. I've started half a dozen minor posts here and not actually completed any of them, even though some of them only needed to be a couple of lines long. Others were stories at the time, but now could be reduced to only a couple lines long, because they don't matter any more. Here are some of them:

• On July 3, Cass and I went downtown with chairs and sat on the Adler promontory and watched the fireworks about two feet from the steep drop-off into the harbor in back of the Shedd Aquarium. The fireworks were awesome, but I think better yet was that it was a perfect night, and we just sat and talked for hours, something we don't generally do enough. Around 10:30 a weird bird I'd never seen before started circling the area, coming to hang out within a few feet of us, then flying up and down the harbor, occasionally fishing. It looked like a penguin-seagull hybrid. According to my bird books, it really seems like it was a thick-billed murre, which I'd never heard of before. But if so, it was a zoo escapee or it was really lost, because those are Newfie birds that just don't get to Chicago. Still, everything I've read about murres emphasize their penguin heads and diving style, and everything else that looks remotely similar in the books has a bright orange or yellow beak. The books say there wouldn't be a murre in our area, but as my mom's fond of saying, animals don't always bother to read the guidebooks about them.
  
  
• I spent an enjoyable evening recently playing this ridiculously adorable little online shooter, which takes the currently hot idea of achievements and upgrades to its logical extent — you have to earn points to upgrade everything about the game, including the title screen, the save system, the achievements system, the sound, the graphics, and even the copyright info. The actual game, once upgraded, turns out to be no big whoop, but the actual purchasing of the game components with game points is surprisingly fun.
  
  
• I hate one of our local librarians, a cranky, nosy, obstructionist lady who goes out of her way to put bureaucratic barriers in people's way, and only shows signs of cheer when she's telling a kid she can't check out books because she doesn't have documented proof that the uncle who signed off on her library card is her legal guardian, or telling someone with a question that she couldn't possibly take time to answer him because she's far too busy with other people. She seems to hate people, her job, and the world, she's about as nasty to everyone as she can get away with, and she's criminally slow. Here's the bizarro thing: I've discovered that the ruder I am to her, the nicer she is to me. When I got pissed at her over the denying-a-child-a-card thing and spent our whole transaction glaring at her, she wanted to chat about my books. If I approach her civilly and try to talk to her while checking things out, she glares or sniffs or pretends I'm not talking, but if I glare through her and answer her questions with irritated grunts and never make eye contact, she always chats me up. It's the weirdest thing.
  
  
• Most days, I take the last express train south. And most days, I wish I hadn't, because there's always the same driver, a heavily accented woman who insists on supplementing all the pre-recorded announcements with her own, which are repetitive and piercingly, painfully loud. I cringe every time she speaks. I don't know if she just makes a point of cranking the PA all the way up, or the speakers are just really powerful on this train, but every time she talks, it hurts, and I want to find her and hit her until the hurting stops. LADY WE CAN SEE IT'S A PURPLE LINE TRAIN YOU DO NOT NEED TO ANNOUNCE IT TWICE AT EVERY SINGLE GODDAMN STOP.

So yeah, nothing too exciting going through my not-in-the-game head. I keep wondering if I should try something dramatic and different to get myself out of my rut, but I've been on a lot of vacations lately and have had a lot of fun and shouldn't be rutty at all, so maybe I just need a really long nap to refill my energy reserves. Say, three or four days in bed.

My mom's church does the right thing!

I sat down here to harvest my pumpkins in Farmville before they go bad and tell you about the All-Star Game, and my softball game before that tonight. Somehow before I got the window open to do this, I got to thinking about how some people in my acquaintanceship weren't too happy to see me align myself with fat activists, and fat activism, not entirely unlike how, before that, Barry, for instance, wasn't too happy to see me aligning myself with the lesbians, with the lesbianism. (I was like, dude, how slow can you be for a smart guy? The lesbians rule! As does the lesbianism. I mean, too bad for you, I'm sorry, you can't play, but you're not gonna talk me out of it.)

I'm not sure how I got onto that idea. Trying to trace the thread. Holly used to be a keeper of the thread, which she would (to the great amusement of the droppers of it) hold up literally in the air, its imaginary self. I think maybe I got onto it because I was thinking how the blog is more in my inner circle than is facebook. It's closer to my heart. I'm more me here. Particularly with respect to matters like the fat thing. This is one way you can tell the fat thing is a more radical thing than the lesbian thing. It's touchy in different ways. Touchy and touch-and-go.

Reminds me again of the concentric circles of "we" among the oppressed. (That was the biggest thing I learned while studying sign.) (It was huge to get that, finally.)

Anyhow, this livejournal space is a different sort of space from fb, mainly because lots of people don't know about it, particularly strangers from high school and such, but even people I've just become acquainted with. It's a more intimate virtual space I play in. And I dunno. Stuff like that.

Isn't it weird, the different relationships these places have with us, on some scales of intimacy? And they do their fluctuating.

So tonight I had a softball game, which was a good softball game. We lost again, to the halfway house women, who are the other most sucky team in our division, which is the lowest division of women's civic softball in these parts. We two most sucky teams play each other both this week and next week, for it is the playoffs, and while the other teams "duke it out" (as the team email told us), we'll be playing for the one-step-above-the-basement. Or for the basement, as the case may be.

We like playing these folks. They're the grungiest team. They're so much looser and varied and dykey, however many dykes may be among 'em, than, for instance, the church team that has dominated our little division --- Grace. Grace actually plays in two leagues, so right there they get more practice than we do, as we don't practice. Plus they're all neat and wear pink and look respectable. I like them, too, don't get me wrong. They were so good as to keep playing with us once the ump walked with almost half of our time left because we were behind by more than the mercy margin. One of our players---the statuesque Jen, who is smart as the dickens and has a beautiful DNA tattoo that goes from one of her shoulders to the other, in all its spiralling glorious color, by wrapping itself around the top of her back and the back of her neck--- no, wait, it wasn't her, it was Heidi, who wasn't here this week, but who is the proponent and instigator of a bit of infield razzle-dazzle, with another teammate, with whom she was doing this little switch-aroo of positions between pitches--- yes, Heidi, on that occasion with the mercy ruling, just jumped up and volunteered to ump in the place of the game-calling ump, who stood by and watched while Grace and we continued to play and enjoy ourselves for another inning, at least. That was one of the best parts of the season.

But the Home of New Vision women, or the Homers, as I've heard them call themselves, rather cheatingly, but okay they can have that, they are our kind of opponents. There are two of them who share socks during the game. I suspect you don't know what I mean by that right off. I mean they have two pair of striped jockette socks, the white knee socks with two colored stripes around them---they have two pair of these of different stripe colors, and they each wear one of each. One red and one blue, I believe it is. This is an excellent style variation, and it connects them on the field in an interesting way. Tonight one of the Homers had a bright blue bandaid on her cheek. A big fat one, like when a kid gets a bigger cut than just a papercut, maybe. It had some kind of cartoon characters on it or something. I never got a close look at it. But it was funny, and stylish, in a distinctive sort of way.

We may be having a wrap party of sorts at the intentional community--- cohousing, actually--- at which two of our teammates reside. That'd be groovy. There's talk of kickball at that function. Did you know Rec & Ed does kickball? They do. Or so I heard. It's hard to strike out at kickball. I don't think anyone ever does. Kickball was one of my favorite games as a child.

I also coulda whooped your ass at tetherball, even if you were my brother who was 2 years older and much taller. For the brain is mightier than the how tall you are. And I developed a technique. Which I developed. I did not read about it in a book. I was not coached to it. There was no freakin' internets yet, not even as a glint in Al Gore's eye. This was the Lisa A. Ncsofhaojes (name disguised to protect the not-so-innocent) Tetherball Technique.

But I digress.

Oh, I reached base twice tonight. Just FYI.   :o]

Thank goodness Ryan Howard didn't reach base in the bottom of the eighth tonight, trying to put the Nat'l League, behind by one run, ahead, with very little game left to go. That was the ballgame moment, tension-wise-speaking. McG was over here, to pick up eggplant recipes, of all things, that Bert gave us, after we all waxed poetic about baba in the driveway the other night. She watched the game with me, gamely, as a nonbaseball person, and it was good to have somebody to watch it with. And she got a bit of a reward, when the President did his inning in the pressbox, announcer booth, whatever they call that place the two or sometimes three people who aren't as good as Jon Miller unless one of 'em's Jon Miller sit. Yes, Barack Obama was there---Barack Obama, American League fan, whose first name I sometimes like to pronounce as they do on the BBC, in their perverse "We still call it Burma godsavethequeen" way: BEARuck.

But I digress.

The American League won. I enjoyed how they were wearing their pant legs and some catches and that one guy's beautiful two-tone stained bat and that the American League won, and that that now means something since they've been doing this World Series home field advantage thing, and other things too. I enjoyed watching with somebody. Apart from when the Red Sox did their thing recently, and when Detroit knocked off the Yankees in that glorious ALCS, I haven't done much sports watching on my own. Not with much enthusiasm. And it's much more fun to have that enthusiasm.

It's a social thing, baseball. I got away from it when I was no longer around people who followed baseball. Lotsa lesbians don't follow men's professional sports, even when/if they like the sport being played, and like watching it be played. But baseball is the poetic sport. Baseball is a leisurely sport. Baseball is all that shit George Carlin said, and then some. Baseball makes you forgive, or want to forgive, the aesthetics in something like Field of Dreams. Baseball makes you want to like Field of Dreams and take care not to see it too much cuz now that you hate Kevin Costner, it already feels like a miracle he can't retroactively ruin Bull Durham for you. He can stink it up just a tiny bit, but it's immune to him, as is the whole church of baseball. I dunno. It's a cultural product, it's a capitalist ploy, it's a flag-waving arena of despicability, it's sexist, it smacks of the kind of loyalty that fascist nationalists enjoy, and it plays out class warfare for us, in some ways, thus helping keep us from playing it out in other more effective ways. There's a whole lot wrong with it. But I have enjoyed this cultural product with people who have mattered to me, and it has been not just a social MacGuffin but a framework for emotional release and simple, broad bonding through the arbitrary hoo-ha of fandom, and I do hate the Yankees, and you know how the hate thing and me--- I'm right there with you politically, hating, but personally it doesn't come so easy. And the certainty of hate, the purity of hate, these are cathartic forces. I love to hate the Yankees because they are the constructed sum, in the baseball world, of so many things I hate in the "real" world. No doubt you're not burning with the desire for me to run down the list, if you're still reading this far into these sentences. But if you want to see me go off on something, and you haven't seen me go off on that (already so many times you're sick of it), I'm available, free of charge, to detail for you what is evil about the Yankees.

I align myself against them.

Except I decided Mario Rivera could get the last three outs tonight. I made a modified exception for him, on this occasion, cuz it helped (in very un-Yankee style) the whole team, which in this case was the whole league, finish off the game.

Now I wonder whether any of you find it even near as interesting as I do to hear about why people like certain players in certain sports we watch on television. To hear what they like. I like it very much, when I shut up long enough for them to tell me.

Bedtime now. Last night was maybe 5 hours, if that. That's not enough. Not for nights in a row, like this.

Parental Notification Law May Finally Take Effect In Illinois

You all remember Michael Jackson died?

There has been a lot of media crap around since then about that guy.

You want to see something really good and really poignant about it instead? My friend Sarah Louise (Sally Bloodbath on livejournal) made a really wonderful comic about her memories of MJ, and it is a refreshing, good thing.

I am just telling her as I write this that she needs a website, because that is the truth, the lady is talented. You should tell her so, because I am hounding her to get on it.

Check out her recent interview on Everything is Wonderful.

When I got back from Russia, I declared that I had "the travel bug" - that it wouldn't be long before I again left the United States. Perhaps I overstated things. I tend to do that, every single second of my life.

But tonight, 48 short months later, my buddy Stan and I are leaving from Newark, New Jersey, and tomorrow morning, we will land in Dublin, Ireland. From there, we are headed to Northern Ireland - home of hundreds of explosions in the 70's and 80's, but only one this week- and then Scotland, England, France, Holland, and Germany. All this in ten days.

Is it realistic? Hell no. I should not be allowed to plan trips. Maybe I could have scheduled stops in South Africa, Japan, and Narnia while I was at it. And all in six days instead of ten.

But we're doing it. Stan is a good sport for trusting me, especially since everything is on his credit card.

When I was in Russia, I managed to update this journal every day, using a typewriter, two cans, and a piece of string. In Europe, it should be easier. I will do my best to keep you all updated on our adventures, or our plight, depending.

I hope everyone has a great week and a half. As they say in Europe - actually, I don't know, I left our Lonely Planet guide back at my apartment. But I'll find out soon.

Posted via LiveJournal.app.

really enjoying chicago summer so far, lots of free things goin' on, free outdoor shows and art things and eating popsicles on the stoop etc etc





also really enjoyin the new bibio album it is all over the place
bibio - ambivalence avenue
bibio - jealous of roses

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Death Squads, Cheney, and American Standards

In June, my family took a 10-day drive through America's Southwest, from San Diego to Las Vegas.  Being a good son, I showed up for 4 days of it.  It was an amazing time.

As of yet, I haven't journaled about the trip, but I posted some awesome pictures here:

http://picasaweb.google.com/Ben.Marlin/SouthwestTripJune2009#

I love the library. Renewal status
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This summer, I will be appearing at two events (but only one of them in person)

One:

As Shaenon has pointed out, "The Cartoon Art Museum of San Francisco (www.cartoonart.org) is organizing "Monsters of Webcomics," a showcase of cutting-edge webcomics work." Some original art will be on display there for this show from August 8 - December 6, 2009. My original art is small and looks exactly the same on paper as it does when it is posted online, so prepare to have a reaction that is blasé. But then look at the amazing line up of talent they have otherwise and prepare to be amazed!



Two:

Vancouver! Are you going to be in Vancouver on August 23rd? So am I! Robin Bougie posted this one. Pretty cool, I haven't seen the west coast in a while, but I miss the mountains.