Epidode #22 of "Pirate Radio with Perry Slaughter" is now available, in which, in time for the 66th World Science Fiction Convention in Denver, Colorado, Mr. Slaughter intercuts speculative musical selections with radio interview snippets from his archnemesis and alter ego.

http://www.perryslaughter.com/podcast?id=22

See also slaughtercast.

Huddled in basement with dog, backpack, and brand-new iPhone given to me by Laura today, while tornado reportedly goes by outside. Thunder terrifying. Leg asleep from dog on it. Laura at work still.

I will have more thoughts to offer on this milestone later, but for now let me just say that my job has ended. Like a wounded deer it kept dragging on, but at long last, finally, my last day working steadily as the senior software developer and architect for (the fine and worthy) BenefitsCheckUp, my employers lo these past six and a half years, came yesterday. This has not quite sunk in yet (probably due to the fact that I'm a little punchy from working every day since mid-June—51 hours Monday to Thursday this week alone—which is also why you haven't seen much of me around these parts lately). I thought the day was never going to come.

Now I'm a full-time writer. (No pressure!) And as such, I'm of course going to procrastinate work on my novel for a three-day blowout with Laura at Lollapalooza. (Thanks, Shana!)

Epidode #21 of "Pirate Radio with Perry Slaughter" is now available, in which, in a probing investigation, Mr. Slaughter spins tracks attempting to penetrate musicians' strange propensity for starf— well, rather, for namedropping. It's not who you know, it's who you know of!

http://www.perryslaughter.com/podcast?id=21

See also slaughtercast.

albionidaho reports laptops and other items stolen yesterday from students in one of the Clarion West houses. Not a happy Fourth for them. I can only imagine how that would affect the Clarion experience for the theft victims, especially if there was work-in-progress on the machines. What can you do to help? See her post for more info.

If you haven't heard already, Paolo Bacigalupi was on NPR's Weekend Edition Sunday yesterday discussing his excellent collection from Night Shade Books, Pump Six and Other Stories. Way to go, Paolo!

Epidode #20 of "Pirate Radio with Perry Slaughter" is now available, in which, in homage to the greatest band of all time, Mr. Slaughter plays nothing like blues or Elvis, just somebody's Steely Dan cover songs. The girls don't seem to care what's on, as long as it plays till dawn!

http://www.perryslaughter.com/podcast?id=20

See also slaughtercast.

The only thing Ella loves more than an ice cube...

...is a whole bowl of ice cubes!

(more cool photos)

Shit piss fuck cunt cocksucker motherfucker tits.

Netflix is going to eliminate account profiles this September. If you don't know, that's the feature that allows you to maintain separate DVD queues under one account.

YMMV, but to me Netflix is taking a giant step backward with this move in terms of serving its customers. This feature was a godsend when they first implemented it. Until then, if I wanted to be sure I always had a Bill-movie on hand (as opposed to a Laura-movie or a Laura-and-Bill-movie), I had to work hard at managing my queue, moving a new Bill-movie to the top every time I sent a Bill-movie back. Profiles took all the effort out of that effort. I'm used to it now, and it pisses me off that they're taking it away and sending me back to the Stone Age.

Good customer service is about continually making things easier for the customer, not harder. It's about giving the customer good new stuff without taking good old stuff away. I hope Netflix has some killer features they're planning to roll out instead, because otherwise they've just made the first move that would make me reconsider how useful my subscription is to me. And they didn't even ask me first.

Just when you thought it was safe to come back to my blog, I'm going to start talking about Egypt again. I've been uploading more of our Flip Videos to YouTube, and here's one Laura took of me just after (as I've mentioned earlier) I emerged from my journey to heart of the second pyramid. She, of course, is conducting the interview from off-camera:

A few new video playlists are also available, including five short videos from around the pyramids and the Sphinx, and four videos from our overnight train to Aswan. (But not that video.)

It's not hard to understand why I got so caught up yesterday in the drama of the U.S. Open. Rocco Mediate is in his 40s, he's damn good at what he does, and he's had a little success in his twenty years in the game, but he's toiled in relative obscurity while watching younger, more prolific players rise up after him and dominate the field. Nonetheless, for a few holes there, he outplayed and even rattled the best player in the world, and it looked for a while as if he might actually pull out a once-in-a-lifetime victory.

Yes, even hurt, Tiger Woods still could not be beat. But I don't think Rocco really lost yesterday. With good humor and grace under pressure, he showed the world that, even if he doesn't have the juice to fly steadily at Tiger's altitude, he always had the potential in him for one mighty leap that at least grazed that height. I admit it—I had to wipe my eyes there at the end. He won one for me, and maybe he won one for you too.

I'm happy to discover that you can watch the U.S. Open playoff live online at:

http://www.usopen.com

(And Rocco just made a hell of a tee shot on the third hole.)

This means I don't have to run back and forth between the office and the television.)

I wish Tiger Woods no ill, but I'm rooting for Rocco Mediate today in the extra playoff round of the U.S. Open. Even with Tiger hurting from his knee surgery, you still have to figure Rocco as the underdog. Can you imagine being practically over the hill (in golf terms), not ever have won a major tournament, and suddenly finding yourself playing one-on-one all day against the greatest player in the history of the game? It's just my opinion, but it seems obvious to me which victory today would be more meaningful to the winner.

Epidode #19 of "Pirate Radio with Perry Slaughter" is now available, in which, in celebration again of his favorite musical obsession, Mr. Slaughter spins a tasty set of cover songs for your listening pleasure, and poses a few puzzles for sharp-eared listeners along the way.

http://www.perryslaughter.com/podcast?id=19

See also slaughtercast.

It was a simple drive twelve miles north this morning to get to Skokie for Algis Budrys's memorial service. Laura was unable to join me so I went alone, and I found when I arrived at the funeral home that there was no one there I knew. Actually, I did meet Ajay's dear wife Edna back in 1985, but I wouldn't have expected her to remember that brief occasion all these years later.

I don't do very well in crowds where I don't know anyone—heck, I can get intimidated in crowds where I do know people—so I sort of slinked around at the back of the room, feeling somewhat like an intruder. Two display tables helped me occupy myself. One was covered with an arrangement of various editions of Ajay's books. The other displayed a selection of interviews with and articles about him, both from print sources and online. On a widescreen television ran a slideshow of photos of Ajay and his family.

The service began not long after I arrived, and I found a seat toward the back. There were fifty or sixty people in attendance, I would estimate, and the number of chairs for everyone was almost exactly right. A pastor spoke for a few minutes about Ajay's greatness as a husband and a father and a writer, and offered a prayer. Then she turned the time over to Ajay's sons.

Jeff shared remembrances and appreciations of Ajay he had gathered from people online over the preceding few days. Among the poignant, funny, and just simply factual snippets he read, I was startled to hear a line I had written in a brief post on Monday. Tim expressed his good fortune at being able to spend many of his adult summers with his parents' house as a home base, and shared an observation an associate at a Renaissance fair had made—that no wonder he seemed so even-keeled, with parents who had always stayed together. Dave recounted the last years and final days of Ajay's life, when despite setback after setback, Ajay had remained cheerful and become even more of a sweet man. All three sons credited their parents with giving them the space to do their own thing—as long as they did something. There was also much talk of Ajay's prowess as a bicycle builder and mechanic—the boys grew up having by far the best bikes around, at a time when 10-speeds were still exotic—and stories like the time he singed his eyebrows off cleaning bike parts with gasoline.

After the boys spoke, Edna offered a few words in tribute to Ajay's humor and wit. She also recounted how, when they were young and living in New Jersey and playing a regular penny-ante poker game with Fred Pohl and others, they would all pay their poker debts to one another first anytime a check for a story arrived in the mail.

Next the pastor opened the service to remembrances from anyone who cared to share them. We heard moving and amusing stories both, from people like the massage therapist who worked with him the last three years of his life, the neighbor who eventually went into politics with Ajay as a close supporter and publicist, the young man to whom Ajay was a surrogate father figure, the director of the Writers of the Future contest who had worked with him for 24 years, the friend who first met Ajay in the '50s in the Philadelphia Science Fiction Society, the younger cousin whose family were fellow immigrants, and more.

Finally, after some internal wrestling, I stood up. You might not know it if you've heard me speak, but it terrifies me to talk in front of a group unprepared, especially a group of strangers. But none of Ajay's students had spoken up yet, and I thought at least one should. What I said, more or less, was that despite only really knowing Ajay for a few weeks during the summer of 1985, he'd had a profound influence on my early development as a writer, as he no doubt had on thousands of others. I said that what I carried with me was not just the serious lessons about writing that he imparted, but also the demented childlike glee in him that would manifest at the oddest times.

I recalled the epic water fights of our Clarion workshop, and Ajay squaring off against Damon Knight with water guns at our final barbecue. What dangerous opponents they were to any who crossed them! And I recounted a scene that is seared into my brain, how when Ajay spied a blue stuffed rabbit that seemed to show up as a Clarion mascot year after year, he got a demonic look in his eye, hissed, "I ... hate ... that ... rabbit!", and proceeded to bite, kick, and bludgeon it into oblivion. "If you knew Ajay at all," I said, "you can imagine what a startling sight it was to see him jumping up and down on that stuffed bunny."

What I learned from this, I said, was to try to remember to keep a spirit of fun about me, even when engaged in work what I consider to be serious work. I managed to get through my two minutes without resorting to a tissue, though it was a close thing.

After a couple of more remembrances, the mourners filed past the open casket one last time—Ajay looked about as good as anyone I've seen in that situation, with a very short, neatly trimmed white beard—before retiring to the parking lot. Edna thanked me for what I had said, which put me at something of a loss for words.

I had to be back home, so I didn't join the procession to the cemetery for the interment, but I trust it was as lovely and bittersweet a ceremony as the service at the funeral home. I will leave it to others to remark on Ajay's importance to the field of science fiction, but I can only remark right now on his importance to my science fiction. I'll never forget him because he was the first person to, with authority, give me serious reason to think I might really be capable of becoming a professional writer. In his curmudgeonly way, he told me I wasn't close to there yet, and he certainly let me know it was going to be a difficult process, with only a small likelihood of flashy rewards, but he let me know I had the potential.

One last thing I will never forget is how, on the last day of Clarion, Ajay brought to me a copy of the souvenir book we students had made with a selection of our stories, and almost shyly asked if I would sign it. Of course, all of us were signing one another's copies, like yearbooks, but there was just something in Ajay's approach to asking that made me feel like a king. I was seventeen, and he was a Golden Age giant, but he made it seem like those designations didn't matter. And they didn't.

Finally, for a little closure, clicking this photograph will take you to a Flickr set of my choices for the best pictures from our trip. Relax, there are only 148.

But if you want to see more, way more, you can sample this collection instead.

Here's an article about Algis Budrys that ran in yesterday's Chicago Tribune:

Tapped human side of science fiction

I'm going to head out to Skokie for the service Saturday morning.

[I've only written 12,000 words so far about the big trip, so I suppose there's no reason not to go ahead and slap on a few more and close this out.]

Our lame-duck tour company had, belatedly, offered us some options for our Cairo sightseeing pleasure on Saturday, May 31. We could have a tour guide, or a driver, or a tour guide and a driver, or we could do it all on our own using public transportation and taxis. After some hasty private consultation, Laura and I opted for a driver only. We figured it would be useful to have someone who could take us where we wanted to go, but wouldn't get in our way or try to drag us off on annoying consumer side adventures.

We set off on our adventure first thing after our buffet breakfast at the hotel (which featured the best damn fresh orange juice I've had in a long time). We had three items on our sightseeing agenda: the Citadel, Islamic Cairo, and Coptic Cairo. Well, two out of three isn't bad.

Things started off well enough. Our driver whisked us away to the Citadel, that ancient fortress city built up by Saladin to defend against the Crusaders. We were especially enamored of the Mohammed Ali Mosque, a grand structure in the Ottoman Baroque style—even though Laura's carefully composed outfit was not proof against being wrapped in a green cloak as we entered. Our small playlist of five videos from the Citadel complex will give you an idea what we saw there. Or, if you prefer to see only one, try this video of Laura in the courtyard of the Mohammed Ali Mosque:

We wandered the streets around the Citadel for a while before the appointed time to meet our driver again, and that's when we received our first real baptism into the game we came to call "Cairo Frogger." Simply put, that's the way you cross most streets—like the hapless videogame character, boldly striding into the street and progressing from lane to lane as you see opportunities open up. The streets around the Citadel provided us our training round of Cairo Frogger. The expert levels would come later.

One agenda item down, two to go! But it was the next item that caused us problems. "Islamic Cairo" is a specific area of the city, filled with ancient mosques and markets. It's a common tourist destination. (We did not exactly realize it, but we were already on the edge of it.) But our driver did not seem to grok our drift. "Anywhere you look," he said, "that is Islamic Cairo. You want to see mosques. Anywhere you look, there are mosques."

Apparently the term does not translate well from English.

If we'd had a better idea what exactly we were looking for in Islamic Cairo, or maybe if we'd chosen guidebooks with better maps, we might have made some headway in this debate. As it was, we decided to curtail our mounting frustration and move on to the third agenda item. We figured we could always go back to the hotel, get some directions from the concierge, and take a cab to where we wanted to go later.

So it was that we skipped ahead to Coptic Cairo, where our frustrated driver parked and told us he'd meet us in an hour. The Hanging Church was marvelous, with elaborate cruciform woodwork all over the interior, and some of the more gruesome icons I've seen in a Christian church. Our driver had shadowed us from the car to the church, which creeped me out until I passed him lighting a candle and he sheepishly admitted to me that he was Christian and only got the opportunity to pray in church while squiring tourists around.

We saw some other cool stuff in the Coptic quarter, including the Roman Tower and the Church of St. George. In an underground market passage, as I was paying for a photographic print of a zeppelin over a mosque (possibly a Lehnert & Landrock bootleg, I'm not sure), I managed to knock a crocodile magnet off a wall and break it. The superglued croc is now stuck to our fridge.

After Coptic Cairo, we had our driver take us back to our hotel. We paid him and thanked him and sent him on his way. Then a very helpful fellow at the front desk assisted us in getting a taxi to the Khan al-Khalili, the ancient marketplace in Islamic Cairo we had hoped to see that morning. The taxi ride there was easy, and we spent an overawed hour getting lost in that complex, crowded maze of narrow merchant alleys. By now we had gotten pretty good at ignoring the hawkers' come-ons, so we actually had a fairly pleasant time.

Eventually we got hungry, so we found an attractive-looking cafe in a relatively uncrowded plaza and sat down for some coffee and falafel sandwiches. We chatted with a pair of tourists at the next table, and then somehow found ourselves wrapped up in a conversation with the owner of the restaurant. He was a distinguished-looking older gentleman dressed neatly in pristine Western business casual. He looked as if the heat did not dare touch him. When we told him how much we loved his falafels, he told us it had been his grandfather's restaurant, and that the place was listed in our guidebook as having the best falafels in Cairo. (Sure enough, it was.)

He also owned an import/export business, he said, and, as he was the designated collector of alms for the poor from the businesses of the Khan, he claimed to know all the merchants around. This was an assertion he proceeded to back up by taking us on a whirlwind backstreet tour of the marketplace, where he helped us acquire all the gift items that remained on our Egyptian shopping list. Alabaster, mosaic glass, saffron, hibiscus tea, he helped us buy it all—or in point of fact, purchased it for us from the merchants in question. Along the way, he led us up backstairs and through the dusty workshops of the artisans who produced filigreed silver and mother-of-pearl-inlaid wood and more. He slapped backs and shook hands all around, everywhere we went. He and I both sneezed and needed to blow our noses in the covered spice market, where a hundred exotic scents hung heavy in the air, puffed up from open barrels and burlap bags with the tops turned down in neat cuffs.

It was a magical hour, and at the end of it, back in the gentleman's own shop, he had all our purchases wrapped up for us, and we settled with him personally for the amount of 400 Egyptian pounds (a little less than 80 bucks, which still seems a bargain for everything we bought). He cadged an additional 30 pounds from us as alms for the poor, helped us find an honest cab driver to take us back to our hotel, and bid us farewell.

If we were fleeced, then we were fleeced with gentility and urbanity, and we were happy to let it happen. Laura still wonders why he singled us out. I look at Laura and I don't wonder.

That evening, after stashing our booty at the hotel, we played several harrowing rounds of Cairo Frogger in the process of hunting down a place to have dinner. On a pleasant side street that for some reason had a series of signs advertising Activia running down its grassy median (I guess even Egyptians need yogurt that makes you poop), we found a restaurant called Prestige and took a table at the sidewalk. Over the course of about three horus, we drank fruity drinks, ate a small pizza, and smoked some shisha (watch us toke up here and here), while colorful Cairenes filled in the tables all around us. Altogether, it was a fine and civilized way to close out our Middle Eastern adventure.

We knew that Friday, May 30, as another long travel day, was going to suck. We just didn't know yet how badly it was going to suck.

Over dinner the evening before, Ra'ed had broken the news to us that there would be yet another change in our travel plans. It seems the tour company had not booked our return tickets on the morning ferry to Taba soon enough, and the earliest ferry with berths still remaining would not be until 7:00 pm. That would get us to Taba far, far too late to make any bus that would reach Cairo at any remotely reasonable hour.

The solution foisted upon us—dreamed up by that same favorite benefactor of ours in Cairo who only days before had failed to get us from Hurghada to Sharm al-Sheikh by boat—was overland travel. It seemed fairly straightforward, if tedious, on the face of it. Ra'ed would drive us back to Aqaba, hand us seventy American dollars, and drop us off at the border crossing to Eilat, Israel. Once in Israel, we would take a cab to the Egyptian border, where a driver would be waiting to spirit us south to Dahab to catch our bus.

It sounds so simple, doesn't it?

As it turned out, the crossing into Israel went just fine. There was only one dicey moment, when a large and scary immigration officer demanded to know the origin of my family name. ("I—I don't know," I said. "We're American or Canadian on both sides going back two hundred years." Now, I do know that my roots stretch back to England, Scotland, and Wales, but who can recall that when confronted by a hulking Israeli soldier who probably thinks your name sounds Aryan? Laura, obviously French in extraction, had no problem.) This, by the way, was the only man among all the border personnel we encountered on our adventure in Israel. The women were generally much more pleasant.

Once we made it through passport control, a border guard hailed a taxi for us, and we were on our way. The cab driver sped us through Eilat, pointing out with pride such consumer temples as Zara and Club Med. He seemed a little offended when I asked him if his accent was French, but I think I managed to smooth it over by saying we knew Israel was like our home in New York City, full of people who've migrated from all over the world. At the Egyptian border, the driver charged us $25 American. I gave him a fifry, and he gave me back 50 shekels in change. (Two shekels to the dollar!)

Our exit visas ended up costing us, much to the amusement of the woman at the exchange desk, 50 shekels plus 20 dollars plus 2 dinars. That meant our transit had cost us, thus far, approximately three dollars more than the travel company had spotted us at the outset. And there was still one more border left to cross.

Leaving Israel was perfectly pleasant. We crossed the long barren stretch of pavement between Israel and Egypt and entered the Taba border station. In all innocence, we strolled right up to the Egyptian passport control officer, handed him our passports ... and were denied entry to Egypt.

Let's back up over a week, to the day we flew into Cairo. The very first person to meet us there was a travel facilitator from our tour company. His job was to provide immigration with a "guarantee" for our stay in Egypt—proof that our travel was all prearranged and would be supervised by the company for the duration of our time in country. This allowed him to purchase our fifteen-dollar entry visas for us. Without such a guarantor, the only way for us to enter the country would have been for us to acquire visas at an Egyptian consulate before leaving the U.S.

The passport officer at Taba pointed to the visas in our passports, which had been closed out when we left Egypt for Jordan two days earlier. "If you don't have a company here to purchase your visas," he rather impatiently explained, "then you can go back to Eilat and apply for visas at the consulate there."

Of course, it was a Friday, and in that region of the world the weekend is Friday and Saturday. The consulate in Eilat would not be open until Sunday.

"We were probably in a rush, and missed our tour guide," I said. "We'll go back and find him. Sorry."

It turns out that in our hurry to reach passport control we had strolled right past a small group of tour guides inside the border station. We went back to them and asked which of them was from our company.

Ahem. None was.

The tour guides were as helpful to us as they could be, though. They got on the phone to our accursed travel agent in Cairo, who, when the cell phone was passed to me, seemed utterly mystified that we hadn't been able to waltz through the border like Fred and Ginger. "You don't need another visa," he said.

"Um, yes, we do. Now, where's the guy who can get it for us?"

I won't detail the further phone calls and mounting anger and frustration we experienced over the next couple of hours, stymied at the border as we were. A driver was waiting for us on the far side of the crossing, but he wasn't authorized to make the kind of guarantee required by Immigration. A helpful and friendly tour guide explained to us apologetically that there were guides who could be bribed to provide such a guarantee, but that his was a reputable company which could not assist us in that regard.

Eventually our nimrod in Cairo called with a brainstorm. "Do you have e-tickets for your flight out of Cairo?"

"Yes."

"You have your flight itinerary handy?"

"Yes." I had taken to a certain measure of curtness in my dealings with him.

"Take it to the passport control officer. Explain that you've been in Egypt already, and you need to enter again in order to leave."

Next to the currency exchange, there was an office marked "Immigration." The door was open. I shrugged, and Laura and I walked over to peek through the door. Inside was a tall, stern-looking man in an immaculate white uniform seated behind a desk. His hair was steel-gray and receding, and his nose was a thin curving blade. I sat down, laid the itinerary before him, and explained the situation—adding that our travel agent in Cairo was an obvious loser with a camel and a donkey for parents. (Okay, maybe I only said I didn't know why their man wasn't there.)

The immigration officer said, carefully, "I am only immigration officer. I am sorry, I can do nothing. But perhaps I have possible solve for you."

He went on to explain, as the reputable tour guide had, that certain companies would provide guarantees to tourists for a fee of $35 American. He pressed a button and went to the door. After a moment a fellow appeared in the doorway. The immigration officer raised his hands, palms forward. "I am only immigration officer. I know nothing of these things."

To truncate a long story, the man at the door wrote out a travel guarantee for us, purchased two visas from the bank, walked us through passport control where the same officer who had denied us entry stamped our visas with a cynical smirk, and walked us outside to the parking lot beyond. That's where I forked over 380 Egyptian pounds, the equivalent of 70 bucks—30 for the visas, 40 for the grease.

And that's what it took. We were back in Egypt.

And hopping mad.

We met our driver and set off south in his van. It was now 1:00 pm. We had missed our 12:30 bus from Dahab. The next bus would leave Dahab at 2:30. It was a two-hour drive from Taba to Dahab. By now we were impervious to terror on tortuous, twisting desert highways. Our driver got us there in ninety minutes. We barely had time to pee, and then our bus was off and rolling.

It was a large, comfortable coach-style bus, but with no restroom on board. We tried not to drink much water for the duration of the ride. We'd been told the trip would take six hours. Actually, it took eight. Having traveled south down the coast of the Gulf of Aqaba, we then drove west across the Sinai Peninsula, back north up the coast of the Gulf of Suez, and then through the tunnel back underneath the Suez Canal. There was one rest stop in the middle of all this, but it was only a quickie so the men on the bus (Laura was the only woman) could have a smoke and pee in the sand. I held it, in solidarity with Laura.

Here, Laura interviews me on the bus:

We reached Cairo at 10:30 pm. Our guide Shiko was there at the bus station—had been, for a couple of hours—with a van driver. Our dear friend the travel agent was waiting to meet us at the hotel. Believe me, when you haven't peed for eight hours, the man who put you in that situation is is the last person you want to find standing between you and the nearest plumbing.

The idiot didn't even realize that we had another full day in Cairo ahead of us. He tried to tell us that our van would be there at five in the morning to take us to the airport.

Okay, let's fast-forward past the discussion that followed. It was past midnight by the time we managed to get rid of the tour people and get settled in our room. That's when Laura and I set out in search of food. All we had eaten since breakfast seventeen hours earlier in Jordan was a banana apiece and some of those crumbly chocolate-creme sandwich cookies that come in a tube. I had spotted a sidewalk cafe a couple of blocks away on the way to the hotel that looked inviting, and it wasn't difficult for us to walk there. Our waiter was funny and nice, and I ended up eating a dish called koshary, sort of a kitchen-sink affair built from lentils, chickpeas, tomato sauce, rice, pasta, chunked meat, and assorted other ingredients. It damn well hit the spot. Laura had chicken shawarma, and we took turns feeding bits of meat on the sly to the two stray cats that prowled up to our table from beneath a parked car.

It was a good way to close out an interesting but ultimately shitty day.