oh hell no

Squirrel vs Pole, Part IV

Last week got away from me. There was school to prepare for, a train trip to get a certain young fellow ready for, Sir Boxnoggin to finish settling into the household, and and and. I think I’ve finally recovered from Afterwar and a long, almost fruitless wait for a publisher to get their kittens and ducks in a row. So the epic fantasy is a go now, I can continue working on revisions, and the portal fantasy’s going to have to wait.

But I was telling you about the bird feeder pole, wasn’t I.

When last we spoke, Preggers McGee had whomped Batgirl and stuffed herself with birdseed. The remaining contents of both feeders was scattered all over the deck, and I was a trifle peeved.1 But I’d come across a strange idea on the internet many moons previously, and that brainwave can be described in one word.

Crisco.

That’s right. Vegetable lard. The baseform of Twinkie cream. One of the less ideal but still workable ways to get your mohawk to stand up in cold weather. Good old fry-your-chicken-in-vegetarian-grease.

“Mum?” The Princess knows that when I begin to look determined, something epic or hilarious (or both) is afoot. “What are you thinking?”

“Crisco,” I said, grimly. “I hear if you grease the pole, squirrels may not be able to climb it.”

“They might just consider it a sauce,” the Little Prince pointed out. “Like the hot-sauce birdseed.”

“Well, it’s biodegradable.” I’m not sure why I chose that as my defense, but I was on a mission. I grabbed a pad of paper towels, slathered a hunk of veggie lard onto it, and stepped out into the scorching heat.

Miss B, of course, had to come with me. Besides, it was after dinner, and she had unloading and prancing to do. Sir Boxnoggin had not yet graced us with his presence, but I’m sure he would have wanted to investigate whatever fascinating thing I was doing with something from the kitchen cabinets–i.e., food.

And I greased that fucking bird feeder pole.

Now, the blessed thing is metal, and it had been an above-90F day, so there was dripping involved. But I marinated the fucker. I greased the arches, the loops where plant-pots were supposed to go (the squirrels had put paid to that particular decoration choice) I even left a glob on top of the central pole so it would melt and slide down. Miss B sniffed, but she didn’t try a single lick.

She knows better. And she had business of her own to attend to in the backyard, once she figured out I wasn’t adding anything snackable to the lower portions of the pole.

Because, you see, I was just annoyed enough to leave the bottom half of the damn thing ungreased, just to draw the little bastards in. Not very sporting of me, I know, but the goddamn arboreal rats never play fair themselves. It was time to get a little of my own back.

Anyway, I got back into the air conditioning, heaved a sigh of relief, tossed the greasy wad of paper towel, and turned to find both children staring at me.

“What?”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” The Princess looked uncharacteristically worried.

“No,” I said. “But I’m pretty sure of one thing.”

That perked the Prince’s ears all the way to the top of his fuzzy head. “What?”

“It’s going to be funny.”

That cracked both of them up pretty good, and Miss B came prancing back up to get inside. Dinner was over, the trap was laid, and the squirrels weren’t going to be back until the next day.

At least, that was the plan.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Squirrel vs Pole, Part III

I have never outlined a book before; the most I do, about a third of the way into a particularly challenging project, is put some highlights in brackets further down the document to ignore when I get to those particular events. But apparently, there’s a portal fantasy with a love triangle in my head that wanted an outline, so I spent yesterday afternoon switching between housework and getting the skeleton of a brand-new trilogy out of my skull.

As procrastination and a “day off” goes, it wasn’t too bad.

Anyway, I was telling you about squirrels and Crisco.

When last we spoke, Preggers McGee (who, if she is not gestating, puts on a grand appearance of it) had shown Batgirl just how the getting of birdseed was done. Batgirl nosed at the falling seeds, casting nasty glances up the bird feeder pole, and Olsen Twins probably thought he’d gone to squirrel heaven, where manna in the form of No-Waste Birdseed falls from the sky.

I stared, mouth slightly open, and the Princess exhaled in wonder. The Prince flinched when Preggers’s hind claws slipped. “I don’t like this,” he said, darkly…

…right before said hind claws gave out, and Preggers hung from the heretofore-unplundered bird feeder, her back legs scrabbling for purchase. If you can imagine a furry, rage-spitting piñata made of arboreal rodent and scattering shrapnel far and wide, well, you’ve pretty much got the idea.

“Oh, shit–” the Princess and I chorused, and Preggers McGee fell.

The Little Prince winced again, this time in sympathy. But Preggers didn’t splat on the decking.

Oh, no. Instead, this gravid squirrel curved in midair, as if to perform Batgirl’s signature cat-in-a-cartoon trick, and landed, with a thump that shook the entire deck…

…right upon Batgirl.

“Oh, no!” I gasped.

“HOLY SHIT,” the Princess weighed in at the same moment.

“BE CAREFUL!” the Little Prince yelled.

“…be careful?” the Princess enquired, a half-beat afterward.

Then the squirrels exploded.

Wigs came off. Heels went flying. Hair was pulled. Olsen Twins, seeking safety in distance, scurried away with a full mouth, squeezed through the deck railing, and ran up a handy fir trunk. Squeak-screams of “BITCH THAT’S MAH POLE” and “YOU ASSHOLE” echoed through the backyard. My fork clattered into my bowl, because both my hands clapped over my mouth. The Princess half-rose, watching with her eyebrows fully lifted.

“STOP IT,” the Little Prince yelled, thinking he could restore order through sheer volume or just excited, I guess. “MOM! THEY’RE FIGHTING!”

“I know, honey,” I managed to say, muffled by my hands. Had I more time, I might have warned him not to underestimate the hormones in even a pregnant squirrel, but there wasn’t a moment to make such an observation.

Because Preggers, slightly slower because of the extra burden in her swollen belly, was simply not having any of this bullshit. Not only had she landed on a convenient pillow, but she was motivated, which all added up to one thing.

She whupped Batgirl’s fuzzy ass.

Batgirl made for the same fir trunk Olsen Twins had scampered up, but Preggers wasn’t finished. She got hold of Batgirl’s tail and climbed the the other squirrel’s back like a rodeo rider crossed with Spiderman and lit with napalm. Birdseed flew, spattering the French door, and we all flinched in unison.

Batgirl finally escaped, and Preggers strutted around the bird feeder pole, chittering some version of “THAT’S RIGHT, MOTHERFUCKERS, I GOT A FAMILY TO FEED, DON’T FUCK WITH ME!”

“And she’s pregnant,” the Princess breathed, sinking back into her chair. “Wow.”

“I felt like that a few times, carrying you two.” I finally dropped my hands. The deck was a mess, coated with wasted birdseed, because the squirrels like the bigger bits and the birds don’t want to be on the deck floor cleaning that up with the Mad Tortie staring through said French door at them.1 That’s just a step too far for their little prey-wired nervous systems. “Jesus Christ, what a mess.”

“You know, you could probably move the pole…” the Little Prince said, nervously.

“That would mean they win,” I said, darkly. “I’ve got another idea.” We watched Preggers complete her victory laps and stuff herself with enough birdseed for herself and her passengers, then she scampered off into the dusk.

And I, once my pasta was finished, headed for the kitchen cabinets.


TO BE CONTINUED…

Squirrel vs Pole, Part I

Six planets are retrograde, the heat is giving everyone a short temper and rashes, politics are a never-ending hellscape, a publisher is expecting me to be on time while they drag their feet, irrational guilt is having a picnic inside my head, and even running in the cool of morning is bringing little relief.

It’s almost enough to rob me of any joy at all, even in things that are normally reliable like snoot-boops or chocolate. Dinner last night was grilled cheese, because neither the kids nor I could deal with anything more complex.

Sir Boxnoggin continues to settle in. The squirrels are furious with me over the Crisco–wait, let me back up.

Okay. So, after we re-stained the deck earlier this summer, I had the bright idea of putting bird feeders on a metal stand that had heretofore only held plants and windchimes. The birds found this new largesse acceptable, and it was nice to sit on the deck and read while flying dinosaurs pecked and chirped.

Then, of course, the squirrels found out.

So one evening, while we were all at dinner, the Princess looked up and blurted out, “Oh, no.” My head whipped to the side, and I saw a skinny, very agile, nervous squirrel we’ve since christened “Olsen Twins”1 attempting, with death-defying aplomb, to hold the central pole with its back paws while reaching the bird feeder with his front.

He failed. Spectacularly. Several times.

You know who did not fail? Batgirl.

Batgirl is a rounder, much brighter squirrel. She shouldered Olsen Twins out of the way, shimmied casually up, and began to help herself from the feeders like a pole dancer bored by her athletic routine and eating Corn Nuts while hanging upside down.

“Son of a bitch,” I breathed, and the Little Prince began to laugh a trifle nervously.

We watched, our own dinner growing cold, as Batgirl’s back feet slipped. She hung from the feeder by all fours, lost her grip, and did an amazing catlike “let’s get our feet under us before we land” maneuver, landing with a thump that rattled the deck. Undeterred, she shimmied right back up, held the pole with her back claws, and proceeded to stretch like a Slinky while stuffing her face. Below, Olsen Twins cleaned up anything that fell, which is probably why he hangs around with Batgirl in the first place.

Finally, having stuffed themselves to the gills, both squirrels scampered off to digest their ill-gotten gains. The Princess nervously advanced the notion that perhaps bird feeders on the deck were a bad idea, but I shook my head.

“Oh, no,” I said, calmly. “Now it’s personal.”

“Shit,” the Little Prince muttered, and went back to his pasta.

The rest of dinner passed without event, and I went to Google determined to learn about squirrels and bird feeders.

The next night, things got a little…bizarre.




TO BE CONTINUED…

Eggs, Multiple Baskets

Today, I have placed my thumb upon my sword-guard, and there is an inch of blade showing. I am ready. READY, I TELL YOU. But that’s neither here nor there.

The Verge has a good article up about Cockygate and Kindle Unlimited. After a careful reading, I’ve made the decision to start taking the Anna Beguine books out of KU. It’s just not worth the risk of their algorithms suddenly deciding I’m doing something naughty. Basically, KU seems like a giant scam that other giant scammers are taking advantage of, and who suffers? Real authors, and readers. Fortunately I only have two books left in there, and the last will be free in October.

An object lesson in not putting all one’s publishing eggs in one basket, indeed. I’m glad I’m already conversant with

The only other news is that I have an appointment to take Odd Trundles to the vet today. He’s just…not himself. It’s not like him to turn his nose up at food, and the weight loss is marked enough that I’m concerned. So it’s loading him into the car today, always fun, and then the poking and prodding he’ll put up with because he is a sweet-natured pup even when he isn’t feeling well. I really could have done without a vet bill this month, but it’s a small price to pay for his goofy, lovely little self.

I’m tense and shaking already, hoping it’s something easily fixable. But he’s getting old for a bulldog, and his health has never been ultra-good. It’s hard when one of the furbabies isn’t feeling well; they can’t use human language to tell you what’s wrong. If it’s something severe I’ll be kicking myself for not taking him in earlier, if it’s something small I’ll be relieved and a little guilty at stressing him out by dragging him to the vet. And of course Miss B will be furious at being left behind, even if I ran her hard this morning to get her fidgets out.

You just can’t win most days, so I’m not even going to try. Just doing the best one can is enough.

Over and out.

On AFTERWAR: Research

Afterwar I began gathering supplementary materials1 for Afterwar in late 2015; work commenced on the book in earnest in March-April 2016. I knew I was going to write it, but not how it would be received or even if it would ever be sold. It’s too outlandish, I thought. I’ve been saying this is where Fox News and the like is going to end up for a decade and a half, I thought.

Much to my surprise, my editor at Orbit wanted the book with a white-hot passion, and since I trusted her implicitly to have my back–to let me write the book that needed to be written without committee interference from internal groups that would want it watered down–I went for broke. I tore my heart out, and ate the bitter organ whole, retched it free and did it again.

And I pestered. Goodness, how I pestered. Knowing more than a few vets, I bought drinks, bought lunches, went to coffee, peppered them with questions. “So…if you were running an insurgency in the American Southwest…okay, so how successful is asymmetric force really when you’re the boots on the ground…look, I need to know how far a Humvee can actually go in offroad conditions without refueling…so, what did it smell like? Really?…what’s the one thing you were always short of, in combat…?” You get the idea. I’d start out with questions, and then I did what any writer who wants to learn does.

I shut up.

Once people know you’re sincerely interested in them and their lives, they will talk endlessly, and with active listening you will find out more than you ever dreamed. At that point it was simply a question of who had the better bladder, since a loo trip not only breaks conversation but also breaks “the seal” and you have to pee every five seconds afterward. (Or so it seems.)

None of them asked what my book was actually about. Most of the time I had introductions from other people they’d served with, and once word got out that I was trustworthy, gentle, and genuinely interested in their experience I had more contacts than I could ever plumb and the social credit to spend on slightly more outré questions. “Say you’re behind enemy lines and on your period, what’s the planning for that?2 How common is diarrhea in combat?3 If you could only take two weapons with you to operate in unfriendly territory, which would you? What kind of coping mechanisms have you seen others use under combat stress?4”

My other research was not so nice or so enjoyable. I’ve spent years reading about the Eastern Front in WWII, and about the occupations of Ukraine and Poland by several successive totalitarian waves. It’s been an interest of mine since reading Antony Beevor’s Stalingrad because, I thought, there was no way I would ever write about something so brutal and horrific. Having something to read that, even though awful, wasn’t grist for the story-mill, was necessary in order to give my brain a break.

Perhaps the Muse was precognitive, and prepared me well beforehand. Authoritarian and totalitarian regimes follow the same damn playbook, with only small adjustments for culture and territory. Plus, I had taken a bath in American Civil War history, and still picked up logistical and other studies, just on the principle that it’s always good to know how an army will feed itself on your home territory.

Everything I’d been reading and thinking about for years crystallized. Afterwar took on a life of its own.

And then, the election happened.5

I saw the beginning stages of my private nightmares playing out in realtime. I don’t think I’ve quite recovered from that, but I had other problems as well.

Not content to reflect current events, Afterwar was about to get blindsided by publication woes as well.

To be continued…

Poster Beware

Add one more reason for me to delete my Facebook and never look back: the proliferation of scammer feeding grounds packed with vulnerable people. Just take a look at this horseshit going down in FB-town, my friends:

Facebook, by making desperation so easily searchable, has exacerbated the worst qualities the treatment industry. A word-of-mouth industry with a constant supply of vulnerable and naive targets who feel stigmatized and alone is a scammer’s paradise. Facebook does have tools to report groups that are abusive, but given the murky definition of patient brokering, Facebook’s legendary lack of transparency, and the fact that it already went to a lot of effort to promote the earlier incarnation of Affected by Addiction, which Mendoza himself admits was a deceptive marketing scheme, Facebook hardly seems like a good arbiter. (Cat Ferguson, for The Verge)

Now, if FB had some transparency, or some motive beyond profit, I might be willing to cut them some slack. But they don’t, and I’m not. Facebook exists to monetize your desperate loneliness for ad companies, and it’s a fishing ground for other scammers looking to do the same.

Caveat emptor, indeed.

Morning Irritation

I was reading this piece in Current Affairs about Jordan Peterson (who sounds like a right git, really) and sheer irritation managed to roll me out of bed. Not so much at Peterson–I was married to a man whose verbosity others mistook for a higher grade of genius than the one he possessed for multiple years, and was mostly amused by the experience.1

What irritated me was this assertion:

Another part of it, though, is that academics have been cloistered and unhelpful, and the left has failed to offer people a coherent political alternative. (Nathan Robinson, Current Affairs)

Academics have not been cloistered and unhelpful, they’ve been systematically robbed of a reasonable living and saddled with make-work instead of being paid decently to teach. The “left” does have a coherent political alternative, it’s called don’t be a dick, and its simplicity is only part of the reason why plenty of asshats nitpick with it or shut their eyes and scream “la la la la, I can’t hear you!” Plenty of people want to be dicks, plenty of corporations want academics so busy trying to pay rent and feed themselves that they can’t fulfill their actual function, and pretending otherwise on either count makes you part of the problem.

Bloviating proto-fascists like Peterson are chump-change a dozen; they come in and out of fashion like the tide. I’m not even mad about it anymore, I just roll my eyes when yet another misogynist, racist, verbose jackass starts gathering converts who really just want an excuse to piñata-pin their insecurities on someone else and pick up a stick. I am irritated with the assertion that “the left” doesn’t have a coherent alternative. We do, it’s just that “don’t be a dick, for God’s sake” isn’t something the vast majority of selfish “conservatives” want to hear.

TL;DR: Peterson is yet another asshat on the self-help gravy train, and “don’t be a dick” is actually a coherent political platform.