Progress

Well. I'm on my last partial pack of cigarettes. All smoking items except for one ashtray which is sitting on the kitchen table where I can't see it for the pile of Ed's stuff, including that pack of cigarettes and my lighter, are in the back of the cabinet over the stove.

Today was a step down day. Half a cigarette, max, every hour at the minimum. Longer if I could do it.

I've managed just a couple of puffs every hour or so for the last few hours, and I'm making myself stand when I smoke. I would make myself go outside to smoke, but if i go outside into the cold it would be too easy to rationalize smoking the whole cigarette so that I wouldn't have to go back out into the cold as soon.

The hardest part so far is the psychological stuff. I'll reach for my cigarettes on the end table while I'm watching tv, and when I realize that they aren't there, and I'm not going to let myself smoke yet, the craving ratchets up about five notches, and I start twitching.

Tomorrow, I'm going to try for no cigarettes at all, but I'm not going to hate myself if I don't make it. I'm doing pretty good on cutting back (I was at a pack to a pack and a half a day, before I started cutting back) and that's definite progress. Besides, eventually, even with the strict rationing, that pack is going to run out.

Then I just have to stay in the apartment.

It doesn't all have to happen right now, and demanding that of myself would lead to frustration, anger, and failure.

As much as I would like to just flip a switch and never want a cigarette again, that's not the way it works. As long as I don't smoke more than I am at this point, I'm going to consider it a victory.

Considering the way my hands are shaking, just thinking about smoking now (it's been fifteen minutes since my last puff) I think it is a victory. It's progress, anyway.

Variable Star

Heinlein, ah, Heinlein.

One of my favorite writers of all time, the only author that I feel a need to collect all the works of not because I want to see the next part of the story (I do have a few that I collect because of the burning need to find out what happens next,) but simply because he wrote them.

I've read the majority of everything he ever wrote, with the exception of some of the short stories I haven't been able to find a copy of, and some of his political writings that likewise, I haven't gotten my hands on yet. I don't own them all, but the librarian at my high school had a running list of books to be begged, borrowed, or stolen from other libraries through interlibrary loan for me.

This, though. Wow. This book was supposed to be RAH, speaking from beyond the grave, through the medium of Spider Robinson.

I had some definite misgivings about it, to be honest. A Heinlein plot is simply not done justice by anyone but the Grand Master himself, and Robinson had only an incomplete outline and scribbled notes to attempt to do justice to a tale that stuck with Heinlein enough that he kept the notes, and kept trying to convince his editor to let him write it, even after it had been turned down.

My first reaction was complete indignation, when I first heard of the attempt. It was heresy, any tale not completed in it's entirety by RAH could only be inspired by the Grand Master, not carry his name as author, even co-author. Sacrilege.

Then I looked closer, and realized what the prize was. The plot was pure Heinlein, minus the ending, which was lost to history. Robinson merely had to fill in the blanks with the details.

Of course, nothing is ever that simple.

On to the book itself, now. Variable Star, as a story, is very good. Robinson is an excellent writer and the flavor of the book is one that is quite pleasing to the refined palate of a die-hard SF fan. The tone is part Heinlein, part Spider Robinson. It's written the way I imagine Heinlein would have written if he'd been born into our society today, wherein a few cuss words and vulgar jokes are nothing to get upset about.

Of course, Heinlein wasn't born into today's society, and his dignified way of putting across the dirtiest of jokes without once using a four letter word is signature. Heinlein had a grace with the English language that cannot be matched, only imitated.

Spider Robinson, thankfully, did not try to be RAH. He simply took a course plotted many years before, which Heinlein himself had never been able to sail, and took the journey, bringing us along for the ride.

The plot is very Heinlein, although I believe that Robinson could have made it more inclusive of the other Heinlein novels that tied into the storyline of Variable Star, if he'd wanted to.

The narration, the storytelling, is very Spider Robinson.

It's unique in the world. It is the last new bit of Heinleiniana. In a sense, it is a shame that it was corrupted by the touch of the hand of anyone other than the Grand Master himself, but if they had to resort to such drastic measures, Spider Robinson was the man to do it.

I cried when I finished it, mourning yet again what I had mourned as a young teen, that I would never be able to meet Robert Anson Heinlein and tell him personally how much light and enjoyment he had brought into my life, how much I learned from his works, and how very very much I appreciated those things.

His legacy is in the pages of all of his books, his steadfast belief that there are those among us capable of the fantastic acts, discoveries, and adventures that he wrote and shared with us, along with so many other beliefs and concepts that he communicated through his novels, which strike a chord in the most skeptical of hearts.

That legacy has been added to, perhaps not as he would have done it, but in sincere tribute.

A tribute which has the added bonus of being entertaining, and laugh out loud hilarious, as well as heart wrenching and tearfully touching.

If you're an RAH fan, and haven't read Variable Star yet, I urge you to find a copy. Just don't expect it to be Heinlein's ghost, commandeering Robinson's hands to type his own imaginings. It is, instead, a heartfelt honorarium, maintaining the underlying flavor of Heinlein throughout the overtones of Robinson's own personal talent and skill.

Crochet

The matriarchs of my family have always been what would be, these days, called "craft inclined."

My maternal grandmother was never without her knitting, she was always making blankets, and they were the best blankets in the whole world.

My paternal great grandmother had her quilting.

Mamaw used to do needlepoint, although she doesn't anymore.

My mom taught me to crochet when I was little. I remember, I'd been watching her mom knit for years, and I wanted to learn that. Farmmom, quite wisely, decided that it would probably be a bad idea to give me sharp knitting needles, and showed me crochet instead.

I've decided that over the break I'll be attempting to quit smoking yet again. The plan is to lock myself in the apartment and not go out until the nic fits go away, so that I won't be tempted to cheat and buy a pack. I've started cutting back, already.

I also picked up a crochet hook and two skeins of yarn, today. I'm crocheting a throw blanket, since I've been eyeballing the ones at Wal Mart. It's also a cheap and easy way to keep my hands occupied, and if I'd thought of it when I was at the Old Homestead last, I'd have grabbed the stuff I already had there, but I didn't.

I've got about two and a half inches by sixty five inches done so far.

Wish me luck, folks, I have a feeling I'm going to need it.

Men In Black Suits On Strike

We regret to inform you that Men in Black Suits has gone on strike.

Unfortunately my main characters flat out quit when they found out that I planned to have a pair of possessed pantaloons catheterize them.

They're now cowering in a corner of my psyche and won't speak to me.

I've been trying to get a therapist in to talk to them but none of them will even consider it without hazard pay since the last one wound up attempting to murder a toaster with a spork after the first session....

Ow

So, I had my Horse production final today. Test went well, it wasn't hard, and as usual there was a couple of questions that make me snicker (Including the one that, at the beginning of the test, we were told to write the answer in on the multiple choice question, because Marilyn's typist, who happened to be JJ, managed to not include the correct answer) I finished up and took it to the bottom of the lecture hall, skipped back up the stairs....

And Klutzed. I should know better than to hurry up stairs by now.

Tripped myself beautifully, and caught the exact corner of one of the stairs right on the middle of my kneecap.

The bruise developed fast enough that I've spent the last hour or so manipulating both kneecaps.

It'd be just my luck to fracture the damn thing and have it be one of my major injuries that just doesn't hurt that bad.

Luckily, I don't think it's damaged beyond the bruise. It's just a really impressive bruise.

I was due for a Klutz anyway, and this isn't as bad as it could have been. Last year I fell while climbing over a set of sweeps and banged myself up bad enough I couldn't walk upright for a week. Then there was the time I whacked my head while putting together Mamaw's solid oak roll-top computer desk, and nearly knocked myself out.

Sometimes I think I should walk around in a padded suit.

Men In Black Suits Part 2

Sam Sullvan eyed his clip-on ID card with disgust. Zee had sent to personnel, via his phone, a picture of Sam, horrified expression and all, clawing at his waistband. Since the badge had been delivered Sam had been trying to convince Zee to let him get a different picture.

“Oh stop whining, you get a new ID in seven months.” Zee snapped at Sam, his lip curling at Sam’s latest complaint that the picture made his waistline look thick.

“Seven months? Why seven months? And why doesn’t this stuff stick to my hands?” Sam Followed Zee into a small room, where Zee sat down at a computer terminal and began to surf the net.

“Because that’s when your probation period is over.” Zee logged into a website and began typing information into a form, which Sam didn’t see because he was too busy trying, once again, to peel the super slacks away from his waistband. He had flatly refused to don the shirt and jacket supplied to him, and instead donned the top half of the suit that he’d worn to his interview.

Of course, he’d worn a brown houndstooth jacket with elbow patches to the interview, which didn’t exactly go with the black slacks. He thought the jacket made him look scholarly. It really made him look like a man who wanted to look scholarly.

“And,” Zee continued, “It doesn’t stick to your hands because your hands are treated against it. Remember the fluid bath?”

“I thought that was a manicure.”

Zee blinked at Sam for a few moments and shook his head before turning back to the computer.

“It was a specially compounded semi-impermeable molecular wash, to keep certain chemical compounds from adhering to your skin. Like those compounds in the fabrics. And, oddly enough, peanut butter.”

“Peanut butter?”

“Yep, slides right off like butter off a hot knife.”

Sam wondered at this for a moment, then put it aside as unimportant, as he did so many other things that confused him.

“So what now? You erasing my life?” Sam peered at the screen, but didn’t have time to make sense of anything on the screen before Zee jumped up. Sam realized that he’d leaned in over Zee’s shoulder, with his hand around Zee’s shoulder, cheek to cheek.

“Let’s get one thing straight here, and I do mean straight,” Zee began heatedly. “Agency policy frowns on romantic engagements with other agents. And I do not welcome advances from the same sex.”

“What? I’m not gay, dude.” Sam was flabbergasted.

“Bull. I don’t care if you’re gay, straight, or polka dotted, as long as you don’t hit on me.” Zee had backed up and returned to his chair, and wasn’t looking at Sam at all.

“No, I’m serious, I’m not gay.”

“Fine, whatever. Just don’t blow in my ear anymore.”

Sam stiffened indignantly and walked across the room to lean against the wall and glare at Zee. Zee, meanwhile, ignored Sam’s glares and continued with… whatever it was… on the computer.

After a few minutes, Sam began shifting his weight from foot to foot. The longer he stood there, the faster he shifted his weight.

Zee looked up at Sam and narrowed his eyes.

“Are you… Are you doing the potty dance??”

“I’ve been trying to figure out how in the hell I’m going to use the bathroom in these things!”

Zee smirked at this news.

“Bathroom is down the hall on the right.”

“You aren’t going to tell me, are you?”

“Nope. Have fun.”

Men In Black Suits

So, some of my mental meanderings, mentioned in the last post, brought me to wonder what would happen if the Men In Black were less supermen, and more average Joes given entirely too much power. Thus, is a short story born. Here's the first part. Ya'll let me know if I should continue or not.

“It’s time to put it on.”

“Huh?” Sam Sullvan had only been recruited by this “agency” about five minutes ago, and already they had him confused. They had a nice benefits package though, and he’d been bored.

“The last suit you’ll ever wear.”

“That sounds ridiculously like something out of a science fiction comedy movie. Admit it, it’s the last style of suit I’ll ever wear. And not even that. You said I get two weeks a year paid vacation, and I might want to go to a nice dinner.”

“No, it’s the last suit you’ll ever wear. It’s structure bonds to your skin on a molecular level. You’ll need to shower with a dryer sheet from now on.”

“Ha ha very funny.” By this time Sam had stepped into the slacks and was buttoning them, since the other man, who had introduced himself as Zee, had made no move to leave. Sam didn’t have much problem changing clothes in front of others anyway; he’d played football in high school, and always thought fondly of the showers in the locker room at Milton J Burbank Senior High School and Auto Repair.

“You think I’m joking? Try to take the pants off.” Zee smirked at Sam in a very disquieting manner.

Sam dropped his drawers with a flourish. Or, he tried to. Instead he broke a nail on the waistband and cursed while he inspected his manicure and wondered if Chow Ming could get him in to fix the ragged thumbnail.

After a moment, Sam realized that the slacks were still firmly attached to his hips, and he gaped at Zee in horror.

“Told you so. Now put the shirt, tie, and jacket on. Don’t put the socks on yet though, we’ll need to treat your feet before you do.” Zee pulled a small device out of his pocket and started tapping on it, hmming at intervals.

Sam, meanwhile, was picking at his pants. Literally. They felt like normal high quality suit slacks, on the outside, and his hands didn’t stick to them, but he couldn’t peel so much as a thread away from his hips.

“You have got to be kidding! I am not putting any more of this stuff on! Why in the hell would you make something like this anyway??” Sam was becoming more hysterical by the second, and Zee wasn’t helping. Instead of helping Sam take the possessed pants off, he was leaning against a locker, holding the small device up at different angles, and snorting with laughter.

“Because, we asked some of our unofficial friends for a fabric that would never wrinkle, never tear, never stain, and be wash-and-wear. Unfortunately they were a little confused on the concept of wash-and-wear, so we got this.”

“But why would you keep using it??” Sam was near to tears by this time, and he hadn’t even wondered how he was going to use the toilet yet.

“Because, those of us who started this thing are stuck with it, and it’s funny as hell watching the new guys. Feel lucky, Vee always went commando, said it was breezier.”

“Went? If he’s stuck in these things he still does.”

“Unfortunately Vee had a small psychotic break after six months with the agency. He was working a case at a strip club, and… well… it was messy.” Zee brushed his hands down his sleeves and checked his cufflinks, not looking at Sam.

“Huh? Never mind, that’s not important, I’ll figure it out later.” Sam eyed the small device which Zee had once again pulled out and begun tapping on. “So, I guess you guys have all kinds of freaky technology, considering the suits and all.”

“Pretty much.”

“So what’s that thing? Some kind of molecular de-atomizing spectral analyzer?”

Zee looked at Sam like he’d just super glued his hand to his genitalia, on purpose, and was loudly extolling the virtues of having one’s hand permanently attached to one’s “pride.”

“Nooo,” Zee said slowly, “it’s a smart phone. You know, a PDA and cell phone in one?” Zee held the device up and showed Sam the screen.

“So what was all that pointing it around at different angles before?”

“Oh, just trying to get the best picture for your ID.”

“What?!?”