John Varley

And so I see also that the SF writer John Varley has died. He burst upon the SF scene in the mid-1970s with a series of stories set in a future in which various planets and moons in our system are colonized, dubbed the Eight Worlds. Sex changes for aesthetic purposes, and artificial environments for artistic purposes, were common. The most famous of these stories was probably "The Phantom of Kansas." Several of these were Hugo nominees, but they didn't win, which frustrated me; at one point I called Varley the best SF writer currently operating who'd never won a Hugo.

He did finally get a Hugo in 1979 for a story outside that universe, a searingly memorable one called "The Persistence of Vision," which resembled Arthur C. Clarke's Childhood's End in being framed as a hopeful scenario but which really comes across as a horror story. I once quoted, purely as an allusion without identifying it, the memorable last line of this story in a post about my relief after having had to be talking all day, and someone caught the allusion, to my pleasure. His two successor Hugo winners, "The Pusher" and "Press Enter█", both from the 1980s, were also stand-alones and searingly memorable, the former also with a killer last line, which casts a chilling air back over the whole story; the latter more openly a horror story from early on, with a surprisingly intense Luddite air. All three of these stories were excellent of their kinds, and are the Varley stories I remember the best.

He also wrote novels, of which I've read two and a half. As with many SF writers, he was better at short fiction. Also like many SF writers, he turned mostly to novels in his later years, and I know nothing about those later works.

I met him a couple of times in the early days, in passing at conventions. He was tall and looming, with a full mustache, and latterly a beard. His middle name was Herbert, and he was known informally to friends as Herb, which confused people who didn't already know that. One time when he had two stories in the same issue of Asimov's, he used "Herb Boehm" as a pseudonym on one of them, "Air Raid", a particularly gruesome story about (to mischaracterize it wickedly) rescuing passengers from an airplane crash, which turned out to be by far the better-known of those two stories. But he quickly reprinted "Air Raid" under his usual byline, and later expanded it into a novel, Millennium, which I read (it wasn't as tight as the original story), which in turn was eventually made into a movie, which I haven't seen.

Arthur D. Hlavaty

Arthur was an old friend of mine, in both senses of the word. I'd known him through apas from 1978, and we met in person a couple years after that. But he was also older than most of his cohort in fandom, having entered with a splash with his first personalzine in the spring of 1977, when he was 34, an unusual age when most neofans were in their teens or early 20s. He died a couple days ago at 83, after long illnesses.

Living at first in Westchester County, New York, and then moving to Durham, N.C., to attend library school, he was geographically far removed from most of the members of the apas I knew him in. When one of the apas ran a photo-cover, Arthur submitted a picture taken in a photo booth which made him look like a gnome tucked in a corner. I attended the collation, and as members perused the completed mailing with its key to the cover photos, I heard occasional cries of "That's Arthur?"

Without physical presence, it was the quality of his writing that made him a valued member of both our apas and fanzine fandom in general. He wrote long and thoughtful essays, many informed by his reading of Thomas Pynchon, Ayn Rand, H.P. Lovecraft, and above all the Illuminatus! trilogy of Robert Shea and Robert Anton Wilson, all of which he took as very interesting and provocative, but none of which he viewed without a skeptical eye. Arthur was also a great quipster, leaving fanzines littered with witty and insightful bon mots. Someone sent him as a joke some volumes of treacly moral tales for children called Uncle Arthur's Bedtime Stories, and our Arthur used that as a fanzine title for a while.

He was full of wit and bon mots in person, also, in a light textured voice with a trace of New York accent, when I finally met him at a convention. Without the gnome extension, he looked like this - a little later on, after his dark hair and beard turned white. Earlier than that, in 1983, I actually ventured down to Durham to visit Arthur at home. By this time he had acquired a permanent romantic partner, an English lit grad student named Bernadette Bosky, whom Arthur had first met in the pages of a Lovecraft-oriented apa. She seemed so perfectly matched for Arthur's distinctive character that some of those reading about her from far away doubted that she could possibly be real, and one of my goals in traveling to Durham was to be one of the first outside fans to meet her and confirm her corporeal existence.

Later, after my visit, Arthur and Bernadette were joined by Kevin Maroney as a third for their romantic triad. I'm not the only observer who's frequently pointed at them as proof that such a relationship can be stable and permanent. Then they moved back up to Westchester, whence Arthur had originally come, and settled in a house in Yonkers they called Valentine's Castle (Valentine was the name of the street). Here they became much more personally active in fandom, going to conventions especially the ICFA in Florida. I never got to that, but I do cherish having introduced my own B. to all three of them at Nolacon in 1988. Meanwhile, they had founded their own apa and held private conventions for its members; and many people came to see them at home, including me. I think I stayed over twice, and I met their pet rats, which were actually quite cute and had rat-pun names.

I got to know both Bernadette and Kevin as individuals, but Arthur was always there, though receding in the background a little as age-related illnesses began to take over. I'm sorry that physical problems of my own prevented my attendance at a big party they held a couple years ago. And now Arthur is gone, but at least we still have vivid memories of him, and his fanzines to read.

pulling up

Sean Duffy wants passengers to dress up for airplane flights, like they used to do in, I guess, the 1950s. OK, I'll do that if the airlines will resume treating passengers as they did then: in the way of diners in fancy restaurants, or passengers on luxury cruises. Then it would be appropriate. As it is now, it would be ludicrous.

He also wants them to exercise while waiting for their flights. In their dress clothes? RFK Jr demonstrated pull-ups while wearing a dress shirt and a tie, so I guess so. Especially from a man who's been known to pose shirtless.

That kind of exercise I wouldn't do, though, however dressed. I have never been able to do a pull-up, not even when I was a scrawny little kid, and I was a scrawny little kid. The other boys in the phys ed class, who could all execute a dozen without breaking a sweat, would stare in disbelief as I strained and strained and was not able to pull my head, let alone my chin, up to the bar.

I was also the slowest runner in the class. I was proud of getting the highest score in the 50-yard dash until I realized what that meant.

And DT wants visitors to the US to declare their social media use. Yet another reason to discourage visitors from coming here. My answer to that one would be a big MYOB. It doesn't say what counts as "social media," and lists I've seen usually don't include blogging platforms. Other than that, I've rarely indulged. I've left occasional comments on YouTube videos. I've been persuaded to get accounts on LinkedIn and Discord, both of which I've found pretty useless. I've never used Facebook or Twitter, but at least I've seen them and know what they are. Most of the rest, the likes of TikTok, Instagram, Pinterest (which I had to extract from a list as names I'd heard before), I've never seen and don't even know what specifically within the realm of social media they do. I may have been told but I can't maintain a memory of something that has no referent for me.

registering a car

The dealer where I take my car for servicing now wants customers to go online to make service appointments. The last time I tried doing this, on the old system, it got terribly confusing and I gave up and went back to phoning, which has its own difficulties, as there's not always someone available to answer the phone.

But the new system is much clearer about making the appointments, and I did so successfully, but getting to that point was difficult. I had to create an account, which involved confirmations both by text and by e-mail, and then I had to register my car on the system. First they asked for its Vehicle Identification Number, which is a long alphanumeric thing. I had to go downstairs, our to the car, and grab the registration on which the VIN is printed. OK, that done, now it asks for the current mileage and estimated number of miles driven daily. Back down to the car to get the current mileage.

Now, how to estimate daily mileage? I don't have a regular driving schedule, like commuting to work. Some days I do local errands, some days I don't go anywhere at all, some days I go up to the City for a concert. Aha, I know how I'll do this. Below my odometer is a useful figure showing the approximate number of miles driveable on what's left in the tank. I know that, when it's full, it'll say about 350 miles. I always buy gas from the same credit card. If I go through the statements for this year, which are conveniently in one place, I can count up the number of days between fillings (which I usually get when it's down to about 30 miles). Average out the number of days, divide that by 320, and there's the answer, which turns out to be about 25.

concert review: Harmonia California

I've been to a number of concerts by this nonpro string ensemble, conducted by Kristin Turner Link, and today was another one. They did a very nice job with Corelli's Christmas Concerto, and acceptably with Grieg's Holberg Suite. The other major work on the program was a tonal but astringent suite by a turn-of-the-20th composer named Mieczysław Karłowicz. The program said it was his Serenade No. 2, but I think they meant his Serenade, Op. 2.

reading and eating

Our Mythie book-discussion group held its annual Reading and Eating meeting in the back room of the same Irish pub we've used the past two years. Three people showed up who hadn't been to the pub before, and one regular wasn't there (we saddled him with one of next year's discussion meetings anyway), so we had nine people instead of the previous seven. Hurrah.

Looking for something easily edible for lunch, I had the fish and chips. So did several others.

One of my readings came from a collection of letters to the Times of London. I was heartened to read that in 1949 a reader wrote in to protest a figurative use of "literally," and that this was followed over the next couple of weeks by nearly a dozen other letters recounting favorite examples of this, of which "Clemenceau literally exploded" (during an argument) and "for five years Mr Gladstone was literally glued to the Treasury Bench" were the funniest. You can use "literally" this way if you want to - it's a free language - but you have to expect that people will laugh at you and mock your clumsiness at writing.

As usual for a Saturday, the radio on the way up was emitting the weekly Met opera. This time B. recognized it right off. It was La Bohème.

why I wouldn't attend an arena concert

As for the music, the low-frequency kick of the bass - amplified by the subterranean setting, contained within SoFi's steep sides, and ricocheting off the E.T.F.E. roof - was crushingly loud. It penetrated to the bone. A friend who'd joined me ... retreated from the volume and sat in a chair next to the congealing remains of a spread of wings and sliders, her head in her hands. I sought refuge in the suite's private bathroom.

- John Seabrook, The New Yorker, 12/8/25

And this was a Beyoncé concert. Beyoncé. Not a heavy metal band or anything like it, the sort of thing I wouldn't listen to regardless of the volume.

I would not have sat with my head in my hands or sought refuge in a bathroom. The moment this assault on the sense of hearing began, I would have stood up and walked right out of the stadium. Then, if possible, I would have gotten in my car and driven home.

The one time I actually heard a performer in an arena was back in the '90s when B. was working for AMD and they were riding high, so Jerry Sanders rented the local hockey arena for a big corporate party and put Faith Hill in it. The sound wasn't as bad as the above description, and the music as such was not at all objectionable, but I lasted about two minutes.

on campus

So first I was listening to Rachel Maddow's podcast on the mysterious death of Senator Ernest Lundeen in 1940 and his connection to Nazi propagandists, and then I read Wikipedia's article on the America First Committee - which wasn't founded until just after Lundeen died - and saw a photo labeled "Students at the University of California (Berkeley) participate in a one-day peace strike opposing U.S. entrance into World War II, April 19, 1940."

I attended UC Berkeley myself 35 years later, so I was curious as to exactly where that photo was taken. I couldn't enlarge it more than this, but that was almost enough to read the signs on the shops at the far side of the photo. The sign on the corner building reads "Sather Gate Inn."

Aha. Sather Gate is a symbolic gateway on the bridge over Strawberry Creek. It's now well inside campus, but I knew that it was once the entrance to campus. Before 1960, Sproul Plaza, which leads from the edge of campus at Bancroft Way up to Sather Gate, was an additional street block of Telegraph Avenue, which now terminates at Bancroft. And the west side of that block, where the Student Union and Student Center which now stand there were built in 1960, had shops. This must have been the Sather Gate end of that block.

But wait! There's a street sign reading "Allston Way." Allston? Allston is a street in downtown Berkeley off to the west. It's that far north of Bancroft, but it didn't go up to Telegraph. Or did it?

With a little searching, I found a 1942 map of campus online (click on the image to enlarge it). And sure enough, what is now a pedestrian pathway tucked between the Student Center and the creek was then a street which bore Allston's name. The low-slung building behind the cars parked on the street must be the university YWCA shown on the map.

So this photo must have been taken from a perch up on Sather Gate (on the right side of the photo above), facing southwest (the map has east at the top). Here's a current photo taken from within where the crowd was in 1940, probably from about where the flag is, facing in the same direction. That's the Student Center cafeteria, The Golden Bear, in front, where Sather Gate Inn used to be, with the Student Union looming over to the left.

I find it fascinating to compare the 1942 map with a current map of campus. Many buildings built, some demolished (including the old Chemistry Building whose cupola is the only surviving relic). The chemists who were creating plutonium at about the time of the old map were working in the then-new chemistry building, Gilman Hall, which still stands: there's a plaque by the door of their lab.

The other thing I should note about the current map is the note "Closed for Construction" just below Bowditch Street near the right-side middle of the map. That's where People's Park used to be.

smell of

Reading a news digest gives me my only glimpses into worlds like those of National Review, a contributor to which complained, "The U.S. has some of the greatest and most interesting cities in the world - New York, Chicago, San Francisco - and, over the last five or so years, almost all of them have become unpleasant to walk around in thanks to the ubiquitous smell of weed. Truly, it is everywhere - including, most distressingly, wafting through open-air restaurants and sidewalk cafes."

Really? In my college years, I hung around with people who smoked marijuana, though I never partook directly of it myself, so I know what it smells like. And I haven't encountered it lately in San Francisco, which I visit frequently.

The writer finds the smell of marijuana to be noxious, and I won't dispute someone else's personal tastes, but for me the smell is not particularly objectionable, in fact pleasantness itself next to the truly toxic, hellfireish stench of tobacco. Which used to be everywhere and completely inescapable. But, thanks to cultural change and anti-smoking laws, I haven't had to smell any, certainly not more than momentarily, for about 20 years. And I could go much longer than that.

how it went down

FLUNKY: Mr. Secretary, there are still two survivors from the boat we attacked, clinging to the wreckage floating in the water.

PETE HEGSETH: I want you to kill everyone.

FLUNKY: Everyone?!?

PETE HEGSETH:

AI Al

The Guardian has a long story about the development of artificial intelligence - and since much of it is going on in Silicon Valley and that's where the author did his research, it's full of Silicon Valley local color, focusing on the CalTrain line that many take to commute to work - I've commuted on it myself in time past.

But don't take it too much on trust: it's not "a short walk" to the Stanford campus from the Palo Alto station. Try to walk to the center of Stanford, where the work is going on, from the train station and you're in for a big surprise as you tromp for over a mile along the path paralleling a road running straight along a line of palm trees through a grove of oak and eucalyptus, the garish front of Stanford's Memorial Church growing faintly larger in the distance as you walk. You're on the Stanford campus, yes, but you're not there yet. This is why the university operates a shuttle bus line from the train station.

One thing the article doesn't mention is that the 101 freeway between Silicon Valley and San Francisco, another major commuter route, if one less drawing to a reporter from the UK where people are more likely to take the train, is littered with billboards with cryptic messages from AI companies. And almost every single one of those billboards is printed in sans-serif type. As a result of which, the initials "AI" look as if they say "Al" as in Al Gore or Al Haig.

This is annoying. I've started pronouncing it that way in protest. Whenever I see it without periods ("A.I.", which nobody uses) and without serifs, I'm saying "Al," the personal name.

2. Oh ghu, is this ever true.

3. Bruce Schneier, computer security expert, reports on a movement to ban VPNs. He doesn't tell you what a VPN is. If you Google VPN, the first entries and the Al responses don't tell you what a VPN is either. Eventually there are articles that do say what it stands for, but the explanations are aimed at people who already know what it means.