Aug 062013

I’ve shamefully neglected the books page on this blog. I’ve been reading, I swear.

I dragged a big red hardcover through the wilds of Montana, British Columbia, and Alaska and back again, reading it in motels and cottages and people’s homes. It is just exactly the perfect Marx biography for me, meticulously researched and laying out historical context in equal measure with family life.

In his student days, Marx buttoned his frock coat wrong and smoked cigars in public, and Jenny von Westphalen loved him, waiting for years while her young lover studied in Berlin. When they were desperately poor, exiled from country after country, she would pawn their chairs, her shawl, the children’s shoes, and their home was always open to revolutionaries and refugees, who wrote letters about how gracious and comforting she was. The book isn’t a love story between two people like the cover implies, because the family included Friedrich Engels and Helene Demuth (the ‘housekeeper’ who lived with the Marxes her entire adult life, including on the run) and was complicated. It’s a sprawling history of love, weakness, genius, politics, and suffering.

In Love and Capital, Gabriel chronicles the family from Marx and Jenny’s childhood through the decades until the murder/suicide of their last surviving daughter, in loving detail using letters, papers, articles, and occasionally reports from spies and secret police.

I was fascinated by how, after sacrificing for Marx’s genius not just upper-class luxury, but things like food and medicine that may have saved the lives of the children who died, they seemed to have done their best to raise the three surviving daughters as proper Victorian ladies to marry professional men and have well-off lives. All the privation and despair were worth it for Karl Marx, but the socialists, starving journalists, and con men the girls fell for couldn’t hold a candle to him. It must have been heartbreaking for Jenny to see her daughters marry their intellectual inferiors and start the same cycle all over again for so little.

My new least favorite person in history is Edward Aveling, long time partner of Eleanor Marx, the youngest daughter. He was a scoundrel and a dick, and in the end she committed suicide over him, prematurely ending a brilliant life of achievement.

The book is wonderful, with extensive notes, maps, pictures, and timelines. I highly recommend it for anyone wanting to know more about Marx, the 1848 uprisings, journalism, the Paris Commune, and personal life in the second half of the 19th century. Now I have to read Freedom and Necessity again.

Aug 062013

2013-07-22 19.26.52

[Steven Brust] and [Toni Brust] allowed my stuffed dinosaur and me to accompany them on their road trip to Alaska, July 2013. They wanted to surprise their friend Erik by turning up at the restaurant he’s opened in Skagway. Our trip was beautiful, glorious, and filled with rugged fucking wilderness driving. [Here’s my flickr set of pictures, and as usual, clicking through to read the captions will be half the fun.] Apparently I didn’t take any pictures on the way home.

On the fifth day of the road trip, we decided to take highway 99 instead of 1 or 5. The nice guy at BCAA who gave us a map in Vancouver opined it would be prettier.

It was pretty. It also had switchbacks, 13% grades, and terrifying dropoffs with no guardrails or barriers. We drove up and down mountains and saw waterfalls and forests and sunlit glades. I held the steering wheel hard enough that my shoulders hurt. Later that night, stopped at a Williams Lake motel to sleep and regroup, we smoked cigarettes outside at a picnic table and talked to some other travelers in the way that you talk to people stuck in the same place you are. They were experienced Canadian travelers and said no one takes that route.

So by then I didn’t trust British Columbia very much, but the plan was to get to Skagway, in Alaska, and if one is driving to Skagway, one drives through British Columbia.

We were, by god, going to get to Skagway.

The second BCAA office we went to, plunked in the middle of some wilderness but conveniently next to a Subway franchise, was a little more helpful and nudged us to cut up on 97, instead of going around to Dawson Creek and starting at the beginning of the Alaska Highway. I left that office in possession of a whole pile of maps. And guidebooks.

We made terrible time for many hours. The desolate wilderness of BC sure has a lot of traffic. I leveled up my “passing semis on a two-lane road” skill and got used to km/h. It was evening when we got to Highway 37, the 10-hour stretch of road that has nothing on it. NOTHING. Okay, almost nothing, but taking a gas can is strongly recommended.

Gas was going to work out fine. We’d make it to the Yukon around 4:30 am and either find a pay-at-pump up there or nap in the car until they opened.

So we drove… all… night.

The rest stops have names. Totally charming names, like “Rabid Grizzly Rest Stop”, where I peed at 2 am and wasn’t brave enough to stay out of the car long enough to take a picture of the sign.

Top four favorite bits of driving in the BC wilderness at night:

4. The unpaved 8%-grade switchback, behind a semi, in the rain.
3. The bit of shoulderless road approaching a Metal Bridge Of Terror ™ that dropped straight down on either side into unfathomable depths and didn’t have any lines painted on it.
2. Not seeing any bears, moose, caribou, or other wildlife. Well, there was a fox, but I mean “vehicle-eating bone-gnawing” wildlife.
1. During the whole four hours of total darkness, we saw the first hint of the sun coming back at midnight-oh-two.

I got to drive with the full moon over one shoulder and dawn-fuzzed mountains over the other. Crossing into the Yukon Territory and hopping onto the Alaska Highway, I felt like a giant. Accomplished, you know?

Five hours on the Alaska Highway, then you turn south just before Whitehorse and you’re in the Klondike, which is a totally alien landscape of unspeakable beauty. You can feel how far you are from home, with mossy glacial rocks and bright pink fireweed scattered everywhere. When there’s water, it is often such an icy turquoise color that you look around for the title of the SF novel you must be on the cover of.

Skagway was fun, and I find I don’t have a lot of words for it. The laundromat’s soap vending machines were empty. The food was excellent — “chicken and waffles” doesn’t adequately describe a waffle with bacon thyme maple syrup topped by a breast and leg of chicken that was smoked and then fried.

Notable bits of the trip home included knowing damn well that the way we timed leaving town would mean driving back down Highway 37 in the dark and doing it anyway, feeling kinda guilty when my back hurt enough that we stayed overnight in Tacoma, and Montana doing its level best to murder us, as per the following list:

1. Wildfires. We breathed a little smoke but weren’t in danger.
2. Deer. Driving into St Ignatius at dusk, I figured there might be deer (especially with nearby wildfires) but there were three separate incidents of the little bastards running right into my road, leading up to the last one, which apparently just headbutted the car and ran off, but we thought we’d killed it and stopped and called 911 before we determined there was neither damage nor deercorpse. I drove even slower after that.
3. Hailstorm. I’ve never driven in a hailstorm like that before. It was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever been behind the wheel for and I honestly have no idea how we stayed alive in the zero-visibility long enough to get to the shoulder, while golf-ball-sized chunks of icy slush pounded us mercilessly. After that, we stopped at a truck stop where I had eggs and wine and a panic attack while the next hailstorm passed over us.

Anyway, then I was pretty much done driving. We arrived back in Minneapolis, where we closed out the road trip with an Egg McMuffin, which had a good symmetry for me since that’s how I like to begin a road trip, but we actually started out in the afternoon.

Miles driven: 7,384
Lessons learned: Very few

Wikipedia links of interest: [Hells Gate] [Lynn Canal] [Hwy 37 (and bonus material from the gov’t of BC)] [Klondike Highway] [Bear attacks] [Gold Rush]

Our route through BC: From Vancouver, north on 99 until it reached 97. Then north on 97 to Prince George. West on 16 until 37, then north on that. When 37 gets to the Yukon it meets the Alaska Highway. West on that to the Klondike Highway, then south to Skagway. In truth, the Alaska Marine Highway (an extensive system of ferries with staterooms) might have been easier.

Jul 052013
I don’t blog often enough and sometimes I miss the old livejournal days when I’d just post a bunch of links from Ian’s emails, so below are some things from today.
  • [Smoke]: I’ll let a different comment in that thread describe this lovely fic: “I recall a BtVS fic wherein Glory’s minions sit around a cafe, wearing berets and smoking Gauloise cigarettes, discussing the fact that god is dead.” (I got to read this out loud today and lo, there was squee.)
  • [On the price of Peach’s castle]: I like that they compared it to WoW property values, a good 25 points worth of geek cred there, but then they referred to her security as “a bunch of plumbers,” and security in the Mushroom Kingdom is the toad guys, duh. There are a couple plumbers who help out (couple as in TWO, not a bunch), but they’re not palace security. So they lost eleventy hundred points on that. (Awfuck, am I nerd-gatekeeping with this remark? I hope not. Fun fact: I think I applied for a job at that website once.)
  • This [article on Cracked about very sexual products marketed to little girls] broke EVERY PART OF MY BRAIN. EVERY PART. I am typing these words with the twitchy bits of autonomic nervous system that still had phantom electrical impulses in them. (I hope autonomic is the word I wanted, but it might not be, and if it isn’t, you can’t blame me because for real how much scientific vocabulary skill do you think you’re going to get from said impulses?!)
Jun 282013
creeper mermaid

creeper mermaid!

Lots of talking online today about [harassment at cons]. I did some tweeting but thought I might be more coherent with paragraphs.

I have been creeped on at cons and at parties. Guys (offhand I can’t think of any that weren’t presenting male) who got into my personal space, made inappropriate comments, hugged for too long, or just treated me like less of a person with less of a mind. I’ve never had an incident that I consider reportable, but (at least for the past few years) I’m comfortable pointing out this behavior and the people in question to my friends.

People with that pattern of behavior tend to 1. escalate, test boundaries, escalate more, get away with wrong things before moving on to escalate to horrific things and 2. carefully present themselves in a really personable way to non-targets. The behavior is a system and it increases their social standing to give them more credibility. Listening and believing and reporting help identify creepers who always do this so that action can be taken against them.

In the past when people have told me their stories about harassment, I haven’t always responded the way I wish: listening, believing, evaluating how I can help. Sometimes I’ve been good, others not so much. The right course of action is to always believe someone who reports being a target of abuse, but I will be honest and say there have been times I haven’t done that.

Now I will be more honest: I’ve been the bad guy. At a party once, I outrageously violated someone’s physical consent. It horrifies me that I did that. I’ve also made people uncomfortable with my jokes, my words, and sometimes my revealing outfits. I don’t want to make people uncomfortable. I want to learn how to do better, how to be a good part of fandom, building and enjoying safe spaces.

Many of us have done incorrect things, made other people uncomfortable and so on. For me, taking a hard look at what I’ve done to other people and trying to learn from it helps me when listening to other people’s experiences. To put that backwards: being in denial about doing bad shit can mean trying to justify the same bad shit when someone else does it.

I want to be a safe and caring person to report to, even if the bad guy is my friend. I want to know when I screw up. I want people who aren’t serially, escalatingly abusive to not act they are, because not everyone who fucks up is that way, but to someone on the receiving end of some harassment or assault it doesn’t make a fucking bit of difference if this is everyday behavior or an isolated incident, it still feels horrible.

I don’t have good answers to the problem of convention harassment other than, hey, let’s keep speaking up, always listen, and work like hell to make safe spaces.

Jun 272013

I’m going to type this here on my blog, in the hopes that I STOP telling this boring non-story to people I end up talking to in Minneapolis.

When I was a kid, my family moved from 35th and Pillsbury to 33rd & 34th. If you know south Minneapolis, that might mean something to you, and if you don’t, well, just know that we moved from one neighborhood to another — crossing two neighborhoods into a slightly more affluent one while we were at it.

So in 7th grade I learned, not only to use the city bus system, but to not mind transferring at an ugly intersection. Dad drove me to school, and I took the 18 to Lake St, 21 home. That didn’t even go on very long; it was a stopgap measure while I finished the semester at one school before moving to a trimester at a new one.*

The point is, a couple years later, my friend Lori got me a job at Jubilee foods, 50-something and Chicago (Kowalski’s now?). So I was 15, and after school I went to work, and after work I took the bus home. I took the 5 and transferred at Lake St. At 9 or 10 pm. Until Dad found out my bus route, and then that was a problem, because back in the day** Chicago and Lake was, um, a little rough.

YET again… if you’re familiar with Minneapolis, you know this.*** The thing is, the fine city has worked very hard on gentrification at that particular spot. The giant department store has been rehabbed into condos and a great place to buy Oaxaca-style tacos or falafel. It still feels the same, because I never felt scared there in the first place, and Uncle Hugo’s is still around, and I bet I could still find an old lady garage sale with ’60s gay porn novels under the shoe box full of doilies, but also one doesn’t feel even a little at risk of getting caught in the cross-fire of a drug dealer and a passing K car.

It only feels a little strange to pass by these parts of home. Gentrification shifts the problems elsewhere.**** It can be an ugly concept. For me, though, so long as I stay the fuck away from Uptown, this city feels alive. It has changed in the last ten years, but mostly in ways that improve it.

I love it here.



* Chiron Middle School, behind the Basilica on Hennepin, if you’re interested, and no, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t exist anymore.

** I’m 32, so please adjust “the day” accordingly relative to your own, thanks.

*** If you’re not, just trust me, but if you’re from, like, NYC, London, or LA, or whatever, no, it wasn’t *that* bad, and I’m admitting it here so you won’t feel obliged to one-up me on childhood-bus-stops-that-put-us-at-risk-of-violence.

**** Today (literally today) you’d get a good sense of where the problems get shifted to by driving around and taking note of where trees from last weekend’s storms are still crashed across streets. HINT: NOT NEAR EDINA.