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You're not the only member of the walking wounded in this house
1. Arisia. I am very, very tired, but I am counting it a success. Panels, readings, chantey sing, objective evidence indicates they all went well: and all of them were fun. Plus the usual attractions of a convention, people and books. Discussion at the Shakespeare panel reminded me of Lev AC Rosen's All Men of Genius (2011), which I found in the dealer's room immediately afterward; when it turned out I needed a slightly larger purchase (note to self: remember checks), there was handily a small paperback of Jim Butcher's Dead Beat (2005) at the same bookseller's stall. The next afternoon, I found the hardcover of Phyllis Gotlieb's O Master Caliban! (1976), which I hadn't actually realized existed. I got my mother an Edward Gorey T-shirt. I did not spend nearly enough time with ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cucumberseed. Saturday night, I had dinner with assorted Kesslers and no luck ordering a Bunny Hug (note to self: remember absinthe); Sunday night I bailed on parties and rather too late at night made dinner from a recipe off the Guardian. I met marlowe1 on panels and ajodasso for the first time in person; I got a sticker for the London Calling party and had goat curry with a slightly different assortment of Kesslers tonight in Teele Square. I sang Skin Horse filk with awhyzip. I expect to feel like trains fell on me tomorrow. Tonight, just moderately sized trucks. It was a good con.
2. Downton Abbey. I am enjoying the series, but the pacing is already troubling me—I understand the show isn't interested in being the Foyle's War of World War I, but it's the second episode and we're already in 1917. Given how much I'm told the war was the shadow on the horizon of the first season, it shouldn't be slingshot through in seven episodes. It's producing a weirdly compressed effect; there are several clear storylines moving forward, but we've had three instances now of subplots introduced and resolved within the same episode which I expected to become, if not long-running, then at least more than blinks in the thread of the show. (All three were fleshing out character and setting, not romantic suspense. I can't be the only viewer who prefers history to soap.) And it's been indicated that the PBS broadcasts are being trimmed slightly from their ITV originals, which is completely useless to me. I really don't want to have to wait for the DVDs. You can do that with anything. I will still (as one does) tune in next week and hope the season pulls itself out of second-novel syndrome, but it is reminding me why I do not watch as much television as I read books.
3. Hats. I promised these tostrange_selkie, so blame her for any diminished opinion you may have of me. What my grandfather formally left me was the original Cibachrome print reproduced by Erzebet on the cover of A Mayse-Bikhl. Possibly because no one else wanted them, I have also inherited some of his hats: most notably a black lamb astrakhan and a wolf hat. They are vintage. The wolf hat—by which I do not mean the hat a wolf would wear, or a wolf-resembling hat, but a hat made out of actual wolfskin—almost certainly dates from the fifties, but my mother believes the astrakhan originally belonged to her grandfather, my great-grandfather Noah. All photographs were taken around one in the morning on Sunday, after my longest day of programming, hence the thousand-yard-stare. The wolf hat sheds on everything.
Fig. 1. In which I wear the astrakhan and a not too punch-drunk expression, although the pose may be unintentionally stylin'.
Fig. 2. The wolf hat makes its appearance.
Fig. 3. I cannot believe there is a wolf hat on my head.
Fig. 4. There was also this flat cap.
(Fig. 5. Bonus wolf hat. This is not some kind of Soviet joke: the wolf hat does wear you.)
Bed.
cucumberseed. Saturday night, I had dinner with assorted Kesslers and no luck ordering a Bunny Hug (note to self: remember absinthe); Sunday night I bailed on parties and rather too late at night made dinner from a recipe off the Guardian. I met marlowe1 on panels and ajodasso for the first time in person; I got a sticker for the London Calling party and had goat curry with a slightly different assortment of Kesslers tonight in Teele Square. I sang Skin Horse filk with awhyzip. I expect to feel like trains fell on me tomorrow. Tonight, just moderately sized trucks. It was a good con.2. Downton Abbey. I am enjoying the series, but the pacing is already troubling me—I understand the show isn't interested in being the Foyle's War of World War I, but it's the second episode and we're already in 1917. Given how much I'm told the war was the shadow on the horizon of the first season, it shouldn't be slingshot through in seven episodes. It's producing a weirdly compressed effect; there are several clear storylines moving forward, but we've had three instances now of subplots introduced and resolved within the same episode which I expected to become, if not long-running, then at least more than blinks in the thread of the show. (All three were fleshing out character and setting, not romantic suspense. I can't be the only viewer who prefers history to soap.) And it's been indicated that the PBS broadcasts are being trimmed slightly from their ITV originals, which is completely useless to me. I really don't want to have to wait for the DVDs. You can do that with anything. I will still (as one does) tune in next week and hope the season pulls itself out of second-novel syndrome, but it is reminding me why I do not watch as much television as I read books.
3. Hats. I promised these to
strange_selkie, so blame her for any diminished opinion you may have of me. What my grandfather formally left me was the original Cibachrome print reproduced by Erzebet on the cover of A Mayse-Bikhl. Possibly because no one else wanted them, I have also inherited some of his hats: most notably a black lamb astrakhan and a wolf hat. They are vintage. The wolf hat—by which I do not mean the hat a wolf would wear, or a wolf-resembling hat, but a hat made out of actual wolfskin—almost certainly dates from the fifties, but my mother believes the astrakhan originally belonged to her grandfather, my great-grandfather Noah. All photographs were taken around one in the morning on Sunday, after my longest day of programming, hence the thousand-yard-stare. The wolf hat sheds on everything. Fig. 1. In which I wear the astrakhan and a not too punch-drunk expression, although the pose may be unintentionally stylin'.
Fig. 2. The wolf hat makes its appearance.
Fig. 3. I cannot believe there is a wolf hat on my head.
Fig. 4. There was also this flat cap.
(Fig. 5. Bonus wolf hat. This is not some kind of Soviet joke: the wolf hat does wear you.)
Bed.
no subject
Thank you!
People have been recommending Jim Butcher to me for ages now, so I'm thinking that may be the next series of books I tackle now that I have all manner of down-time.
Most of my thoughts about The Dresden Files are here (post and comments) with fan-related addenda. Basically, I don't think he's a great writer—he started with a throw-together of urban fantasy clichés and then sort of bootstrapped his way into three dimensions along with his protagonist, meaning there are certain immutable facts about the world, like its metaphysics, that are just a mess—but he's improved visibly with each book and he's almost at the point where he can really pull off the complex emotional effects he's started to aim for. I don't know if the language will ever be more than serviceable, but at least it's serviceable with a high proportion of quotable lines. The secondary characters are terrific; Butters is the one I imprinted on, but I've become fond of Thomas and Molly as well. There's an astonishing pull of and then what happened? I wouldn't bother with the first book, though. If I hadn't been actively invested in getting to the later ones, it would have stopped me cold and permanently.
If you want actually, painfully good urban fantasy, you want to read Tim Pratt's Marla Mason.