Author: corwin

Site administrative account, so probably Corwin, Felix or DD-B.

Fourth Street Fantasy Convention

This is a reminder to everyone who might be interested that Fourth Street Fantasy Convention is approaching.  For those who don’t know, this is a small convention (100+ people) heavily oriented toward writing and writers–I sort of made it up back in, I think, the late 80’s so I could hear smart people argue about problems I was having.  The theory is that anything that is about writing is also about reading; “How to Read Better” has always been an unstated discussion topic.

What distinguishes Fourth Street from most conventions are two things: 1. A very high percentage of professionals (writers, editors); and B. Strict single-track programming with lunch breaks, so everyone can be at every panel (and, of course, continue the arguments from one to the other).  It used to be that did the programming; lately it’s mostly Alec Austin with help from Tom Whitmore and me, and I’ve been delighted by how things have gone.  I have learned stuff.  I think it has helped me write better; I know it has helped me get more out of my reading.

Check out who will be there (John Scalzi, Elizabeth Bear, Will Shetterly, Emma Bull, &c &c)

It’ll be in Minneapolis, June 22-24, and for actual, useful details, go here.

I’d love to see all of you there.

 

 

Casting the Whedoneseque Vlad TV show

This from Twitter over the last few days.  We’ve decided that it should be an HBO or Showtime series, written, produced, and directed by Joss Whedon and his Usual Suspects, staring:

Vlad: Alan Tudyk

Loiosh: Robin Williams (I know he’s not a Whedonite.  But)

Cawti: Summer Glau

Sethra: Gina Torres

Sticks: Nathan Fillion (the part would have to get much bigger)

Daymar: Ron Glass (edited)

Kragar: Sean Mehar

Morrolan: James Marsters

Aliera: Felicia Day

Norathar: Eliza Dushku

Zerika: Sarah Michelle Geller

Lady Teldra:  Morena Baccarin

Melestav: Adam Baldwin

ETA Noish-pa: Anthony Hopkins

The Demon: Mark Sheppard

Sethra the Younger: Jewel Staite

Mario: Chiwetel Ejiofor

Now, of course, if they manage to get Firefly back, all bets are off.  I’d rather see that happen.

 

Too Many Danes

By Rex Stout

 

When the doorbell rang at the old brownstone on West 35th Street, I was already in a lousy mood.  We had just finished the Beltham embezzlement case, and it was Friday, and I had wanted to celebrate by spending the weekend with Lily Rowan.  Instead, Wolfe had insisted I finish the paperwork.  I knew he would have no interest in a case, in any case, what with what we’d just been paid, so I made up my mind that, whoever this was, he was getting in to see Wolfe.

The man on the other side of the glass was young–I’d say in his early twenties.  He was slight, but seemed athletic.  When I opened the door, he said simply, “Mr. Nero Wolfe?”

“No,” I said, “I’m Archie Goodwin.  But if it’s a case, I can take you in to see Mr. Wolfe.  He’s just down from visiting his orchids.”

“His–?  No, never mind.  Yes, I’d like to see him about a case.”

“Then come in, Mr.–”

He handed me his card as I took his coat.  I looked it over–expensive printing, gold lettering.  I guided him to the leather chair.  Wolfe looked up, glared, started to speak, but evidently put it together, because instead his lips pressed together into a thin line–or as thin a line as he can manage.  I handed Wolfe the card.  He glanced at it, glared at me, then turned his attention back to our guest.

“Very well,” he said.  “How can I help you, Mr. Hamlet?”

“I want you to prove that my uncle killed my father.”

He wagged his finger.  “I will do no such thing under any circumstances.  Should I agree to take the case, I will endeavor to discover the truth.”

“That will be fine.  As a retainer, I can–”

“Excuse me, I haven’t said I’d take it, yet.  Now, what makes you think your uncle killed your father?”

“His ghost told me,” said Hamlet, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world.

Wolfe glared at me.  “Pfui,” he said.  He started to say more, but then stopped, and a sort of malicious glint came into his eye.  He turned to Hamlet.  “That is very interesting,” he said.  “It is getting rather late.  Perhaps you could stay to dinner and afterwards Archie can get all the details?  Archie, tell Fritz we will be having a guest.”

No way around it, I was beat.  I got up and headed to the kitchen to tell Fritz that something smelled rotten in the office.

 

[Sorry, folks.  I just sorta had to.  Next, Pamela will demonstrate how Shakespeare would have written Plot It Yourself.]

Health report

About three weeks ago I developed a toothache–lower left canine.  Thanks to Will and Emma, I found a really, really good dentist.  Good people, good doctors, and there is an especially hot dental assistant.  The canine seemed fine, but the four front teeth next to it Had To Go.  I got what’s called a “flipper” (I named it Dolphin, of course) to replace them.  Unfortunately, the tooth didn’t stop hurting.  It’s been getting worse.  Usually, it’s fine as long as I’m upright, but when I lie down, it is very very painful.  This, of course, means an inability to sleep.

A few days ago it reached the point where the drugs (percoset, motrin) weren’t helping.  We finally decided that Something Had To Be Done.  We rejected referred pain, sinus problems, heart complications.  However healthy that tooth seems, it had to go.  So I scheduled an appointment with a dental surgeon.  I got up to go in on Thursday, walked down the stairs, and couldn’t catch my breath.  I should have known things were going to go wrong when Hot Dental Assistant didn’t want to out with me.

Fuck.  The term is, “congestive heart failure,” and you don’t want to fuck around with it.  The only sane thing to do is skip the dentist appointment and go into the ER.  Right?  Yeah, but, the tooth HURT.  So I went to the oral surgeon.  The oral surgeon, being smarter than me, sent me to an urgent care, where they did an EKG and decided it looked sort of marginal, and sent me to an ER, who checked me in.

I spent Thursday night at Nicolet Park Methodist Hospital.  Now, you may say that Mr. Wesley and the other Methodies are over rightous, but they make a fine, fine hospital.  The staff was wonderful, taking more than good care of me, and, while they couldn’t make the tooth stop hurting, they never stopped trying, or stopped caring.

So, yeah, there was fluid in my lungs.  They got my heart stabilized, and let me go last night.  Corwin, Dee, Carolyn, Aliera, Toni, and Martin all showed up, as did my friend Betsy, and Will.  Was wonderful to feel so supported.  Summer Glau didn’t call, but that was probably because she was busy.  Or else because she’s never heard of me.

Last night, for no reason I can think of, my tooth stopped hurting.  I got 11 beautiful hours of sleep.  Today, the tooth hurts a bit, but nowhere near where it was.  I dunno.  I guess I’ll talk to the dentist on Monday.

I’m now on more drugs: something to keep my heart beat regular, and a mild diuretic.   I’m told I could use an operation to insert something into my chest that will shock my heart if it goes into, uh, I don’t remember.  Ventrical a-fib, maybe?  But it’s supposed to keep me alive.  I can no more afford the operation than I can pay the hospital bills I just incurred, BUT….

I met with a social worker, who seems confident she can get me heath care–enough to help with those bills, and get the operation, and fix my teeth, and even deal with the fucking polyp in my nose that’s been making life interesting for several years.  This is very, very good news.  I am actually feeling hopeful.

Maybe I’ll ask Hot Dental Assistant out again.