Ambrose & Elsewhere

1. I don’t want you guys to think I’m the clumsiest biker in the world. But I did take another tumble the other day. The thing is, my newish bike has much tighter brakes than the throwaways I’ve been riding for years, and when I brake in a hurry I tend to clamp down with the hysterical grip that was required for significant slowing on my older machines and that causes a certain lack of stability which has, on a couple of occasions, led to road rash.

Sunday was one of those days; I was slowing down for a stop sign, realized belatedly I was going to have to brake a little harder, and that’s when the bleeding started.

One never feels suave at these moments; I got up, dusted myself off, reassured a passing motorist that I was okay, and looked up to see the Dean of Arts and Sciences at my university rushing toward me with a concerned look on his face. Apparently, destiny had decided to strike me to the earth right in front of his house. I convinced him and his wife that I was okay, talked for a few moments about the beneficial impact of terror and suffering on the cardio rate, and eventually pedalled off, reflecting on the cruel vagaries of life.

The thing is, if had been the old Dean I wouldn’t have minded much. We didn’t know each other that well, and I confess that I had no particular thirst for his esteem. The new Dean is a pretty cool guy–knows Latin, of course, as the cooler deans do, studied chemistry as an undergrad, switched to English literature (especially Ben Jonson) in graduate school, has published on a wide range of stuff (including popular culture), has been a very popular teacher (especially for his Shakespeare courses), and has played Sherlock Holmes on occasion in local community theater. None of this would count for much if he were a jerk, but he’s a very funny relatable guy.

Oh well. I didn’t actually bleed on him. Thus I console myself.

2. In other news, the floor is open for Joe Mallozzi’s book club discussion of Blood of Ambrose, possibly the best sword-and-sorcery novel about a fire-immune alcoholic with some obscure form of scoliosis published this year so far.

A happy 4th to those who celebrate it; a great Saturday to all.

Someday we’ll be as good as Ray sang we were, and we’ll let America be America again.

I don’t think I’ve often posted three times in 24 hours–three times in a week has been a lot for me lately. But my narcissism sense of public duty compels me to point out that I’m interviewed in the latest Dragon Page: Cover to Cover podcast. It’s available in a couple formats on their site, and will eventually be on iTunes, although it wasn’t up there the last time I checked. There were some sound issues (at least from my end) and I said “uh” about fifteen thousand times, but I think it was a pretty good conversation.

Isn’t there a giant virus inside this thing?

Stardate 4307.1. Do not enter the zone of negative energy!

1. My Blog Gate post for the week is up. This one is about legends, the pirate queen of Ireland, phlegm and other types of humor.

2. Morlock may be immune from fire, but he has been Kindled.

I expected this to be all over my flist today, what with the densely layered genre refs (especially a great turn on the novel Dune around the 11 minute mark). But maybe people are paying more attention to things that are really happening. Which, on balance, is probably a Good Thing.

But for those who need a break, here’s John Hodgman (the Daily Show’s “resident Expert”, PC from the Mac commercials, etc) at the Radio and TV Correspondents Dinner.

As he mentions, Obama was his warm-up act, and the President did pretty well too. He’s no John McCain as far as telling jokes goes; he has trouble keeping a straight face. But the Rahm-vs-camel joke was pretty good, and there were some other nicely placed zingers.

1. Because it’s always Wednesday somewhere, if only in our hearts, I just put up my Blog Gate post of the week. It’s about whether Classical or Norse mythology has better monsters, which is a dumb thing to argue about really, except the other guy started it.

2. I tossed my melted mind into this week’s Mind Meld at SF Signal, the question being “What real-life city seems the most fantastical or science fictional to you?” No prizes for predicting my answer.

Here’s an Iran story I didn’t see on television (which has been beyond worthless in covering the aftermath of the election, if that’s the right word): the Grand Ayatollah Hossein Ali Montazeri has apparently come out strongly against the validity of the official results.

1. Happy Bloomsday.

2. Stately, plump James Enge was biking last night when he (i.e. I) realized something about being middle-aged. I don’t have any first wind anymore. As recently as my thirties (which is not too recent, I guess), when I exercised I would start out with a lot of energy, then flag after a while (15 or 20 seconds, perhaps) and finally get a second wind as endorphins or something kicked in. Now I don’t have that first wind: I’m groaning from the second I hit the road (or the rowing machine, as the case may be). If I stick with it, though, the second wind still comes along, as strong or stronger than it used to. If it ever stops showing up I think I’ll give up every pretense of fitness and settle down to becoming perfectly spherical, which is where my natural talents seem to lie anyway.

3. Who do I root for in this battle of dinosaurs, Berlusconi vs. Murdoch? I suppose it’s too much to hope for that they will plunge together down the chasm into the Reichenbach Falls.

In a recent and valuable appreciation of Lord Dunsany on Tor.com, Jo Walton issued the following pronouncement that sort of freaked me out.

Lord Dunsany wasn’t writing fantasy, because what he was writing was defining the space in which fantasy could later happen.

I think it makes sense to draw a line between the modern fantasy genre and the work in older traditions which has influenced modern fantasy. Beowulf and the Odyssey aren’t fantasy fiction in the sense that The Hobbit is.

But British writers had been writing straight-up fantasy for half a century before Dunsany started publishing. MacDonald’s The Princess and the Goblin or Morris’ The Well at the World’s End are fantasy in precisely the same sense that Tolkien’s fiction is, and they’re obviously part of a continuous genre tradition.

And this notion that genre-establishing work can or should be categorically excluded from the genre it establishes strikes me as inherently untenable.