Title: Not Enough Octopusses


"Here is a smart alien on our planet. It communicates through color change. It's more closely related to us than aliens out there, but we don't generally put it in our stories. We can't talk to them. Maybe we're not smart enough. Maybe we're biased against critters without backbones. How would we start to communicate? What roles could they play in stories? Let's talk about the aliens in our own tidal pools. "
 Friday, 4:00-5:15 P.M.
 Senate B

M: Mia Molvray sf@molvray.com
doselle young crime@mindspring.com
Tom La Farge tlafarge@rcn.com
Ruthanna Emrys gordonr@iit.edu


Title: "The Ship Who Knitted, and Other Side-Effects of Transportational Intelligence "


"From the 'crippled-child-in-metal' ships of Anne McCaffery to the kilometers-long GSVs of Iain Banks, the sentience of ships is a long-running SF trope. For many of them, they seem to be perfectly content as hyperintelligent ferries or smart sidekicks, but is this what we think would really happen? What are some alternatives to this view, and what would it mean to have a transport that's as smart as you are? "
 Saturday, 4:00-5:15 P.M.
 Senate B

M: Maureen Kincaid Speller maureenspeller@yahoo.co.uk
Alexander Lamb alex.lamb@gmail.com
Helen Keeble helen.keeble@gmail.com
Ruthanna Emrys gordonr@iit.edu
Chip Hitchcock cjhi@comcast.net

So, sapient octopi and sapient ships.  Thoughts and comments on either subject, or permutations there-of, are welcome. 

My much smarter younger sister, who has a more excitingly stressful life than mine, is starting grad school at Columbia in the fall.  Since I know more people in the New York area than she does, I told her I'd put out feelers about housing and tips for finding it.  She's looking for something near the Morningside campus, or nearby in Brooklyn.  And cheap.  Housemates okay, as long as they're sane.

She wishes me to be explicit that she already knows about checking Craigslist.  (What she actually said, eyes wide, was, "What is this list of Craig of which you speak?"  If you know her, you know the voice I'm talking about.)

In addition to the unlikely possibility that someone has knowledge of an actual affordable studio apartment in Manhattan, she's also looking for things like, "Don't look in X neighborhood; none of them will talk to people with black belts in obscure Indonesian martial arts," or "All the leases in Y neighborhood turn over in July; you can get a better deal if you're willing to move in a month early."  Unsolicited advice is officially solicited.

P.436:

[Crichton uses the ideas of molecular manufacturing and uncontrolled replication.  Both ideas are originally from Drexler], ideas that have subsequently been refuted as implausible by some members of the scientific community itself.

[Did Feynman have any clue what he was talking about when he gave his seminal speech on the long-term potential of nanotechnology?]  Surprisingly, the answer to both questions has apparently been "no" as far as some commentators go.

Current real developments in nanotechnology offer exciting opportunities to advance the human condition; however, implausible ideas framed by some scientists only serve to influence the creative talents of science fiction writers, like Crichton, who then prey on the public's lack of knowledge of the current boundaries of nanotechnology for entertainment's sake.

As part of the follow-up to a strongly worded suggestion that I need more publications, soon, I'm putting together a theoretical paper on the influence of fiction on people's attitudes toward nanotechnology.  Alas, my general default is to read science fiction where the sciences involved are social--my familiarity with current hard SF is woefully behind.  Stross and Vinge are obvious, and of course I've already complained about Crichton.  I'm familiar with (and adore) Elizabeth Bear's books, many of which involve Sufficiently Advanced Technology.  What else should I be reading, or at least citing, as heavily contributing to people's visions/opinions of the nano-influenced future? 

Bonus points for books/stories that clearly argue for the positive or negative nature of the technologies, although I also need some relatively ambiguous worlds.  Bonus bonus points for popular fiction other than Crichton that includes nano components.

'Cause I've been waiting for permission to post the following (although half of you already know it from off-line conversations, anyway):

Nameseeker is pregnant.  She's surrogating for another couple, very dear friends of ours in New York.  The woman of the couple (B.), for complicated medical reasons, can't safely use her own eggs, so this one is genetically Nameseeker's and the man's (A.).  The plan is that after she's given birth, A will contribute genetic material so that we can have one of our own.  These are both going to be very open adoptions--we're planning to be aunts/uncles/back-up parents for each others' children, visit a lot and celebrate some holidays together.  We've been planning this for a while and all four of us are very excited.

Nameseeker is about four months along now.  I had not gotten it through my head before how much time and energy pregnancy takes up.  It's hard work--it's not something you do in the background.  It is sacred, it is terrifying, and I can't imagine having the chutzpah to force it on anyone who wasn't ready and willing.

Tangentially, are we and Nameseeker's parents the only people who follow the informal practice of fetal names?  Nameseeker and her siblings were all Rufus in the womb; this one is Nancy Bob Schroedinger.

Congratulations, unsolicited advice, and suggestions for how to succinctly describe the relationship between the legally original non-genetic parent of an adopted-out child and that child (raised and legally parented by another couple, and whom she has a close but not quite parental relationship with), all welcome.  If anyone knows the original word for the relationship between adults who've made a family alliance by virtue of cross-fostering, that would be useful too.

"Spices" are listed under my LJ interests.  Because, y'know, I like spices.  Garlic and nutmeg and vanilla, ajowan and fennel pollen and Australian wattle seed.  But you will not find out that I'm interested in "spices" by searching for that term under Interests.  You will not find out that anyone is interested in "spices".  Because, apparently, only racists would be looking for that term.

My god.  I forgot about LA.  It's been years since I've flown in during the day.

I slept for most of the plane ride, probably because I'd only slept for about 3 hours before getting on the plane.  I woke up, looked out the window, and wasn't entirely sure I was on the right planet.  Desert spread in brown folds to the horizon--not a single spot of green, and only a line of road, like a Martian canal, to suggest that tool-using sapients might once have existed there.

The desert ends with a hint of green and a few squares of cultivated land.  Then the mountains, great folds raised high and worn sharp and deep.  Pine trees and terraces, the occasional aberrant lake, and then the land drops and between the mountains and sea is a city where no city should be.  Los Angeles spreads across the plain and through every crevace.  When the oil grows short, or the water does, it will disappear into the desert--and still it's beautiful, in the way of things that can't last and may not have been entirely a good idea, but have the necessity and awe-fullness of good art. 

Just as I'm thinking that, of course, we drop a little lower and some of the sea-mist resolves into the brown cloud of smog that borders the city from above.  Still awesome, still beautiful, still ugly.  I can deal with LA from the ground, but from the air the contradictions are hard to resolve.


On a separate note, my fellow Kage Baker fans will appreciate my self-restraint.  Catalina Island is just off the coast of Long Beach, within view of the conference center:  Avalon rising through the ocean mist.  I am not going out there because the ferry does full-day trips only, and I can't miss a whole day of Psychonomics.  Nameseeker points out to me that most of the things I'd be looking for would be bad ideas to find anyway.  It's still hard to resist.  I'm not going up to Hearst Castle, either, for much the same reason and with much the same regret.

Ghosts and Simulations is now up on Strange Horizons.

Hopefully I will be able to post soon about the reason I haven't posted since September.  All good stuff, but not entirely mine to explain yet.

Day 7 was just breakfast and lunch--omelet and leftovers, respectively.

The Challenge was worth it for the things discovered alone--same-day corn, farmers' market potatoes and garlic, etc.  It's also left a distinct impression on my eating habits in the week since I supposedly finished.  Some of this is good, and much of it is inconvenient.  I have a whole new appreciation for flour, salt, olive oil, and cinnamon.  I definitely wouldn't want to eat purely local on a long-term basis.  On the other hand, most of the things that can be found locally are better that way. 

The thing I enjoyed most about the Challenge was non-factory farmed meat.  I really don't want to go back.  This is slightly awkward, as I can't actually afford all-local-free-range-organic.  Both Nameseeker and I need regular meat for mood maintenance, so we're not about to go vegetarian.  However, I have been experimenting with less-meat options, and more vegetarian meals--it's possible that we can afford a diet with better-quality meat, but less of it.  So far I've managed to go a week without buying conventional meat, but this has involved a certain amount of freezer-raiding, plus a convenient sale at Whole Foods.  I've been experimenting with a cooking style that's a bit different than what I'm practiced at, and we'll see how that goes.  But replacing the factory-farmed stuff in our diet with local-free-range-organic has definitely become a long-term goal.

On a more purely aesthetic level, several sorts of processed food have stopped looking edible to me.  This is probably healthy, but definitely awkward.  For example, prior to the challenge I generally grabbed a Lender's Bagel on my way out the door in the morning.  They didn't taste like much, but they woke up my metabolism and that was all I needed.  Now, after a week of omelets, my body wants real food in the morning--except that I don't want to keep getting up early to make eggs.  So far I've been baking something breakfasty on the weekends and using that for breakfast--the last of the cornbread first, and coffee cake this week. 

-Local flour and cornmeal can be found in Dekalb.  This is our third attempt at flour, and actually seems to be successful.  It's also the cheapest of the options, so will save us a great deal of trouble next time.
-Local oil is sometimes available, from the same place that makes the flour.  Unfortunately, it was not available today.  Another thing that will be useful for next time.  (Relevant to a learned-thing mentioned in the comments earlier--you need to add oil to your peanuts in order to make peanut butter.  Who knew?  Don't answer that.)
-Sugar is awfully good when you haven't had it for a week.

-Whole, fresh-ground wheat flour is not the same thing as all-purpose flour.  They cannot be properly substituted for each other.  Also, sifting whole wheat flour... good luck. 
-The Heritage Prairie Market rocks.
-It is possible to get same-day corn in Dupage County.  Even though if you ask the vendors at the farmers' market, and then refuse to buy corn picked the previous day, they look at you like you have two heads.

-why my ancestors were obsessed with schmaltz.  Unfortunately, I have also used it up.
-that not all my cats can be trusted with venison scraps.
-that salt is more useful than one might think, at least if one is me.

The Green City Market has challenged people to try and eat only locally grown and produced food for a week. "Local," in this case, is Illinois and the bordering states including Michigan. Since the average item on the average American plate comes from 1500 miles away, this is quite an improvement. I had about four acceptable items in my pantry before Saturday's Farmers' Market.

The challenge officially started on Monday. We started a day late, due to a cream shortage and the need to use up leftovers from weekend guests. We'll go an extra day to make up for it. We started Tuesday evening, because obviously evening is when you start strange week-long diets.

I wanted to like this movie. In fact, I did like this movie while I was watching it, and for several hours afterward. Then I made the mistake of thinking about it...

( Spoilers... )

Warning: unusual levels of kvetch ahead. Proceed at your own risk.

I really shouldn't be complaining. I'm at the Cognitive Science Society conference, which is cool in and of itself since I usually don't get to go. There's an actual philosophy panel in a couple days, if I can survive that long, and many nifty-looking papers in between.

And the conference is in an honest-to-gods arcology. If you haven't read much Niven lately, it's basically a giant building with everything in it--living quarters, restaurants, shops, fitness center, and even semi-reliable simulations of the outdoors. If you don't spend a lot of time at professional conferences, you probably assume that this is one of those food-pill-esque ideas that were a little too sterile to make it to the actual future. In fact, they exist, they just happen to be built around conference hotels rather than apartment buildings. The last one I stayed in was in Kansas City. The hotel was of a fairly standard size, but was connected to another hotel by a long walkway full of shops etc. There was a waterfall in the lobby of the other hotel. The Gaylord Opryland is of an entirely different caliber.

The hotel is built around three giant atria, each full of tropical gardens and larger than most normal hotels. There's a small riverboat that takes tours through the Delta Atrium. The expensive rooms look out over the gardens, and the stores and restaurants scattered among them; an impish-feeling guest could have dropped a water balloon on my head while I ate dinner last night. My room, of course, looks out over the parking lot. This is fine by me, because I'm already sick of the gardens, having wended my way through each of them at least twice since last night trying to find affordable food. I have stayed in overflow hotels that were closer to the action than my room is to the actual convention halls. I am also tired of the stores, which are every last one full of tacky kitsch and/or souvenirs for the Grand Ole Opry. And the restaurants all look wonderful, but the cheaper ones are closed for renovations. The thought of explaining to my boss why I had gourmet food on her dime five nights running is somewhat unnerving.

Also, I miss the actual sky. Some time today, this will probably drive me outside, where it is in the 90s and the air is fit for swimming.

I know I ought to be more adventurous, and I'm sure I'll feel better once the conference starts. But all the same, I'm looking forward to going home.

Chaucer has a worse Rorschach Effect than Rorschach. Except that I can write and speak like Rorschach (even if it's not a good idea), but I can't spontaneously produce rhyming couplets in Middle English.

Also, reading in a language that you don't know, but know anyway, is very strange. If I hadn't already believed in the implicit acquisition of linguistic rules, I would now.

It's been way too long since I've posted, so you get a recipe for venision.

Background: One of Nameseeker's co-workers enjoys hunting deer. His wife, however, does not enjoy eating deer all that often. We, on the other hand, like venison a lot, but don't hunt. So the co-worker gives Nameseeker spare meat from his freezer in exchange for brownies. About the third time this happened, I realized that venison was no longer a once-a-year-must-get-this-perfect treat and I could afford to experiment. The following is the result. It's a non-recipe recipe, which is to say that I didn't write down how much of anything I used.

Take one venison shoulder (this one was about 3 pounds). Cut away the fat and cut the meat from the bone. You should end up with a bunch of tenders ranging from itty to the size of half a boneless chicken breast--in our case, just enough to feed two. Cover with a marinade of:

olive oil (a lot)
red wine (a lot)
balsamic vinegar (not nearly as much, but enough to taste)
honey (a little more than the vinegar)

The honey should be as dark and as good-quality as you can get. I used wildflower honey from the Madison farmer's market: the color of molasses and almost more savory than sweet. Trying to find more things to do with this honey was the major impetus behind this recipe.

To the marinade, add:

garlic
ginger
clove
cinnamon

I used dried and powdered of all these, to spread the taste around as much as possible. But you could use fresh easily, and doubtless to good effect.

Marinate for an hour and then saute the meat, using a little of the marinade for sauce. Be careful not to overcook the small pieces.

I liked this better than any of the venison recipes I've tried from any of the game cookbooks we own. The sweet and gamy tastes combined nicely, mellowing each other. And I was able to control the doneness of the meat better cut into tenders than when I've tried to roast a whole shoulder in the past.

The Chicagoland Meet'n'Sniff will meet at my house on Sunday, June 10th at 12 PM. Bring your goodies to sniff, share, and trade. The not-yet-enabled are also welcome. Please bring a
snack to share.

We're in Lombard, about 2 blocks from the Metra station; parking is also available. E-mail gordonr at iit dot edu to RSVP and get directions.

Cross-posted to Sin and Salvation, and cross-posted by bifemmefatale to the forums and BPALanonymous.

We got back from Wiscon early last night. Walking around the block after dinner we wondered, where were the cicadas? They had just been emerging as we left on Friday. Where was the overwhelming racket we'd been promised? Had we missed them? Don't worry, our neighbor assured us--they're out, they just take a couple of days to learn how to sing.

This morning, they've figured it out. The oldest trees are covered with cicadas. The silhouettes of trunks are raggedy with them even from the other side of the yard, even from my second story office window. Now I can hear the high-pitched chirr outside, rising and falling over Stan Rogers' baritone.

If they did this every year, I would probably find it annoying. But every 17 years? That's automatically cool. They're a mark of permanence and regularity, and the failure of the suburbs to triumph entirely over nature. They're a common experience binding everyone who hears them.

It is, of course, entirely possible that in a month I will be somewhat less enamoured.