ext_49566 (
shiplizard.livejournal.com) wrote in
indeedsir_backup2007-10-03 06:28 pm
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
Entry tags:
Jooster in sci-fi
Long time lurker, first time poster, and if this has been pointed out before I apologize sincerely.
It's Jooster! In widely-read, professionally published sci-fi.
There is a sci-fi writer named Spider Robinson, whose writing I will not compare to a summer's day, but rather to a Reeses cup. His writing is sugary, without much merit and extremely self-indulgent. But it's also sweet and comforting and familiar, of at least adequate quality as candy goes, and at times you find yourself wanting to consume it in large quantities.
Robinson's characters bump elbows with such notables as Jesus (on a pogo stick, in fact), Nikola Tesla, and Robert A. Heinlein's cat, so this shouldn't have come as quite such a surprise.
I was craving mind-candy in large quantities, so I picked up one of his stories about Lady Sally's Whorehouse (it is a wonderous place where everyone is happy. An enlightened brothel run by a time-traveler from a utopian age. The narrator is a PI investigating a disturbance in the House, and being exposed to the wonders of enlightened sex.)
I hadn't read Lady Slings the Booze in at least two years, before I read Wodehouse or saw the BBC adaptations, and when I read through it this time, something that had always puzzled me before snapped firmly into place.
See for yourself: here, Joe Quigley is meeting just some of the varied staff of artists.
--Over huevos rancheros I met more of the staff. A stacked, short-haired blonde babe called Cat, stunning in a mauve bodysuit that fit her like a sheen of psychedelic persperation. A quite, darkly handsome guy in his twenties named Tony, who wore dark slacks, a net shirt and a single earring, and looked like the young De Niro. A sweet Chinese girl named Mei-ling, unselfconciously naked and built like a three-quarter scale model of Marilyn Monroe. A happy-go-lucky gal in a jogging suit whom everybody called Juicy Luicy who never stopped telling jokes, good ones. ... A tall greying gent named Philip, with the best body I ever saw on a guy in his fifties. He was dressed only in brief deim shorts and slippers, and most of the other artists, male and female, seemed to find reason to touch him a lot as the afternoon wore on. A pleasantly dignified bald old coot named Reggie, a good forty years older than Philip, wearing a splendid silk robe; he spoke (seldom) with a British accent, even more refined than Lady Sally's, and had an odd knack of seeming to walk without moving his feet, sort of shimmering along as if he were on greased wheels despite his advanced years. I kind o f wondered how much use he could be in a whorehouse, but I guess it's like they say: if you can't stir it, you can always lick it. And experience must count for something.--
But no, you cry. Certainly not. (Actually, I doubt you're crying that.)
But Mr. Robinson is never content to let his subtle homages remain subtle, and so he proves it, some dozen chapters later, while the main characters are in the cafeteria once again, discussing with Nikola Tesla how best to save the world from a pacifist terrorist.
In the most depressing way possible.
--Just then there was a mild disturbance at a nearby table. Reggie, the aged Brit I'd met on my previous visit to the cafeteria, was being braced by an agitated client. He was also a Brit, and nearly as aged, dressed expensively but in appalling taste; he might as well have been wearing a sign saying RICH QUEER. He had allowed his voice to rise in pitch and volume, and was close to hysteria. "But I mean, dash it all! I've lost Bingo and Tuppy and Sippy and Corky and Rocky and Biffy, all the Drones are gone, Aunt Dahlia-- even Aunt Agatha, impossible as it seems, turned out to be mortal-- I mean to say, old man, you're simply the only thing left on Earth that I understand.
Reggie didn't seem at all embarrassed; if anything there was compassion in his ancient eyes. "I'm very sorry, sir," he said gravely. "you know you are welcome to visit me regularly... but you must make your own way in the world now."
"But why?"
"Because, sir, I do not play that scene anymore. As the poet Wordsworth said, 'A Briton, even in love, should be a subject, not a slave!' I have come to agree."
Reggie's client stood up. "Blast the poet Wordsworth! In fact, dman the man, and his heirs and assigns! No, hang on a minute-- wasn't he the cove who worked that wheeze about a thousand pine tables?"
"'And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, and near a thousand tables pined and wanted food,' yes, sir," Reggie agreed.
"Well, there you have the thing in a nutshell!
Reggie looked pained. He took a deep breath and said patiently, "I can only repeat my suggestion that you form a liason with Master Henry or Mistress Cynthia."
The man's shoulders slumped. "Not the same," he said. "You only made me surrender one garment at a time. And they won't let me talk. Oh, very well, I suppose there's nothing left to say." He spun on his heel and headed for the door, face contorted with grief.
Reggie's face was still impassive... but a single tear was trying to solve the maze of wrinkles that led to his chin. "Goodbye, Bertie," he said, so softly that I'm sure the guy never heard him.
No one had exactly been staring, but suddenly the conversations in the room were more animated.--
Passages transcribed from Lady Slings the Booze, Baen paperback, pages 130 and 253-254.
It's Jooster! In widely-read, professionally published sci-fi.
There is a sci-fi writer named Spider Robinson, whose writing I will not compare to a summer's day, but rather to a Reeses cup. His writing is sugary, without much merit and extremely self-indulgent. But it's also sweet and comforting and familiar, of at least adequate quality as candy goes, and at times you find yourself wanting to consume it in large quantities.
Robinson's characters bump elbows with such notables as Jesus (on a pogo stick, in fact), Nikola Tesla, and Robert A. Heinlein's cat, so this shouldn't have come as quite such a surprise.
I was craving mind-candy in large quantities, so I picked up one of his stories about Lady Sally's Whorehouse (it is a wonderous place where everyone is happy. An enlightened brothel run by a time-traveler from a utopian age. The narrator is a PI investigating a disturbance in the House, and being exposed to the wonders of enlightened sex.)
I hadn't read Lady Slings the Booze in at least two years, before I read Wodehouse or saw the BBC adaptations, and when I read through it this time, something that had always puzzled me before snapped firmly into place.
See for yourself: here, Joe Quigley is meeting just some of the varied staff of artists.
--Over huevos rancheros I met more of the staff. A stacked, short-haired blonde babe called Cat, stunning in a mauve bodysuit that fit her like a sheen of psychedelic persperation. A quite, darkly handsome guy in his twenties named Tony, who wore dark slacks, a net shirt and a single earring, and looked like the young De Niro. A sweet Chinese girl named Mei-ling, unselfconciously naked and built like a three-quarter scale model of Marilyn Monroe. A happy-go-lucky gal in a jogging suit whom everybody called Juicy Luicy who never stopped telling jokes, good ones. ... A tall greying gent named Philip, with the best body I ever saw on a guy in his fifties. He was dressed only in brief deim shorts and slippers, and most of the other artists, male and female, seemed to find reason to touch him a lot as the afternoon wore on. A pleasantly dignified bald old coot named Reggie, a good forty years older than Philip, wearing a splendid silk robe; he spoke (seldom) with a British accent, even more refined than Lady Sally's, and had an odd knack of seeming to walk without moving his feet, sort of shimmering along as if he were on greased wheels despite his advanced years. I kind o f wondered how much use he could be in a whorehouse, but I guess it's like they say: if you can't stir it, you can always lick it. And experience must count for something.--
But no, you cry. Certainly not. (Actually, I doubt you're crying that.)
But Mr. Robinson is never content to let his subtle homages remain subtle, and so he proves it, some dozen chapters later, while the main characters are in the cafeteria once again, discussing with Nikola Tesla how best to save the world from a pacifist terrorist.
In the most depressing way possible.
--Just then there was a mild disturbance at a nearby table. Reggie, the aged Brit I'd met on my previous visit to the cafeteria, was being braced by an agitated client. He was also a Brit, and nearly as aged, dressed expensively but in appalling taste; he might as well have been wearing a sign saying RICH QUEER. He had allowed his voice to rise in pitch and volume, and was close to hysteria. "But I mean, dash it all! I've lost Bingo and Tuppy and Sippy and Corky and Rocky and Biffy, all the Drones are gone, Aunt Dahlia-- even Aunt Agatha, impossible as it seems, turned out to be mortal-- I mean to say, old man, you're simply the only thing left on Earth that I understand.
Reggie didn't seem at all embarrassed; if anything there was compassion in his ancient eyes. "I'm very sorry, sir," he said gravely. "you know you are welcome to visit me regularly... but you must make your own way in the world now."
"But why?"
"Because, sir, I do not play that scene anymore. As the poet Wordsworth said, 'A Briton, even in love, should be a subject, not a slave!' I have come to agree."
Reggie's client stood up. "Blast the poet Wordsworth! In fact, dman the man, and his heirs and assigns! No, hang on a minute-- wasn't he the cove who worked that wheeze about a thousand pine tables?"
"'And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, and near a thousand tables pined and wanted food,' yes, sir," Reggie agreed.
"Well, there you have the thing in a nutshell!
Reggie looked pained. He took a deep breath and said patiently, "I can only repeat my suggestion that you form a liason with Master Henry or Mistress Cynthia."
The man's shoulders slumped. "Not the same," he said. "You only made me surrender one garment at a time. And they won't let me talk. Oh, very well, I suppose there's nothing left to say." He spun on his heel and headed for the door, face contorted with grief.
Reggie's face was still impassive... but a single tear was trying to solve the maze of wrinkles that led to his chin. "Goodbye, Bertie," he said, so softly that I'm sure the guy never heard him.
No one had exactly been staring, but suddenly the conversations in the room were more animated.--
Passages transcribed from Lady Slings the Booze, Baen paperback, pages 130 and 253-254.
no subject
no subject
It had always made me sad, before I knew who the characters were, but knowing made it worse.
no subject
Also, Spider Robinson's name inspired the naming of Spider Jerusalem (see icon) who is also on crack.
no subject
Although it would explain Jerusalem's beef with the church of Tesla.
(And everyone knows that the personality of Mr. Jerusalem had to have been a little inspired by comedian Bill Hicks.)
no subject
And Jerusalem's totally got some Bill Hicks in him. And of course, Hunter S. Thompson (and a heaping dollop of Internet Jesus himself).
no subject
no subject
no subject
"Keep yourself clean and bright; you are the window through which you view the world."
And Apollo scoffs and moves away.
Also, Two Dangerous Ideas he showed an inkling of thought.
(That blond one. Not much going on upstairs, is there?)
no subject
no subject
no subject
Actually, no, I was hanging my head and trying not to giggle at the idea of Jeeves in a brothel. Because, oh, it's a brain-twisting thought. Sure, Jeeves would be useful for running it, and probably wouldn't actually look down on the occupation (apart from the way that he's more of a social snob that Bertie himself and clearly has strong ideas about what is and is not acceptable) but... yeah, that's a thought that keeps bending my brain.
The man's shoulders slumped. "Not the same," he said. "You only made me surrender one garment at a time. And they won't let me talk.
*sniggers so much*
Thank you for typing this up. I don't think I'd be bothered to read the whole book but these scenes certainly brightened my day.
no subject
I have a hard enough time with that one Jeeves "autobiography" where Bertie ends up marrying Bobbie Wickham and Jeeves retires to tell stories at Mr. Mulliner's pub. I want some kind of late-in-life reconciliation fic where they go, "Screw it, the kids are grown and the aunts are gone and people can go boil their heads."
no subject
no subject
(Especially against what's essentially fanfic that's getting the writer royalties. That kind of thing seems like dirty pool, somehow, even if it's got the estate's stamp of approval - I guess because the fannish "fic should be freeeeeee!" thing is a big deal for me. Cameos or tributes are one thing; ripoffs are another. So I tend to approach things like, oh, the Jane Austen sequels with a certain amount of bristling anyway. Doesn't mean I can't be won over, but my immediate reaction is usually "Faugh! I've read better in fanfic!" YMMV.
Don't even get me started on Wake Up, Sir (http://www.amazon.com/Wake-Up-Sir-Jonathan-Ames/dp/0743230043).)
no subject
no subject
no subject
But I guess it mostly comes down to me not really being able to like the protagonist, who's got none of Bertie's innocence or sweetness to leaven the self-indulgence. The, um...what would you call it, "bawdy/un-PC speculation and reflection"?...wouldn't have wounded my delicate sensibilities in any other kind of narration other than Bertie-voice, but it was so clearly Bertie-voice Ames was doing that...SQUICK and lots of ranting on my part to innocent bystanders about Bertie being unappreciated.
It also bothered me a bit that the plot had, like, no structure and just kind of wandered. I love rambliness if it's suited to the rest of the style, but if you're poaching from Wodehouse of all possible writers, you might want to give plot structure a whack. *sigh*
All in all, not my particular brand of vodka. But at the same time I wouldn't exactly classify it as BAD, not on the order of The Sexual Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, say.
I'm actually kind of curious myself, if anyone else around here has read it and what they thought of it.
no subject
I sort of want to check out Wake Up, Sir!, but I feel a little miffed at its existence, because, like, here are all these women writing awesome pastiches, which are also sexy, 'cause, slash, and we're here sticking below the radar, and I mean, poor
I mean, I'm not saying anyone in this community necessarily *wants* to fly above the radar and make money off their slash, but, it's like, why does this guy get a free pass and others don't, you know?
no subject
To be fair, I reckon Wake Up, Sir and Ask.com probably got permission from the Wodehouse estate before going ahead and profiting from the character, possibly rendering some kind of royalties as well. The issue isn't necessarily sexiness or homophobia, it's greed. ^_^ Not that that makes it better, or anything, but we are definitely living in a transitional era for publishing and the idea of what intellectual property really means. I'm staunchly on the fannish side myself, of course, and I was really pissed off by that C&D against
But a lot of people who're still holding the strings are working according to the old paradigm, and I get that. What really pisses me off are the writers and artists who do the ripoffs - like, again, the five million writers cashing in on the public domain for Austenmania* but also the ever-so-literary types who get away with "reinterpretations" because they're doing it as part of some kind of neo-deconstructivist whatever. Some of these works are good, and some are sucky, but it always strikes me as the same kind of idiot snobbery you get with "literary" writers using SF or fantasy elements in their books while continuing to turn up their noses at genre fiction. That's been changing a lot over the last several decades, and it's still changing, but fandom's still on the fringes and there are no doubt a lot of fireworks to come over the issue.
* Mind you, I liked the original Bridget Jones, which was in some ways the watershed for that trend, but I liked it largely because it was so very tongue in cheek and Bridget herself was something of a crazy fangirl. And Jasper Fforde's Thursday Next series...I suppose the most important thing here (aside from the whole profit - y or n? issue) is being able to admit what you're doing and not take it all too seriously.
no subject
Oh, you said it, you said the bad words!!
no subject
no subject
'But they're so old.'
Oh, nonsense. They're palling around with the Callahans, age is not an object.
no subject
no subject
The thing is, I started reading Spider Robinson in high school. And read that scene without the foggiest clue who it was, although I did wonder. And then got into J&W around seven years later. And now am rereading that passage, and it is blowing my mind.
Thank you for that!
...OF COURSE they don't separate for good! That would be too, too cruel of life.
no subject
And all will be well. :)
no subject
You're a kind person. ♥
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Yis. I completely agree. <3
no subject