Because everybody needs some Bugs Bunny

One of my all-time favorites.

*geeky giggle*

My friend Alan Baxter enlightened me about using QR codes, which I had been hitherto ignoring because I did not have a smart phone. But now I have one, and suddenly QR codes SO MATTER TO ME.

Use the camera on your phone, along with a QR-code-reading app (I'm using i-nigma, which was free), to find out what this says!

(If you don't have a smart phone or some sort of desktop app to read the code, the solution is in the first comment.)

Writin' Rations™ — Chili coconut mushrooms

This meets the Writin' Rations™ criteria: quick, easy, (relatively) cheap, good for you, VERY tasty, and not too cleanup-intensive! (It has the added benefit of being suitable for nearly everyone's diet, being wheat-, dairy-, and meat-free.)

About a pound of mushrooms, wiped and sliced

2 tablespoons peanut oil

one good handful shredded coconut (preferably the kind without sugar; Americans, do your best)

1 teaspoon chili sauce of your choice, but use one that's kind of chunky, not like Tabasco (ours is pretty nuclear; if yours is wimpy, use a little more)

Fresh coriander LEAF (not seed), aka cilantro (I go light on this, because I only like it in small doses, but you do what you think best)

1/2 cup soy sauce

1/2 cup coconut CREAM (not milk)

1/4 cup brown sugar

1. Heat the oil in a big pan and fry the coconut until it's just starting to turn brown.

2. Add the mushrooms and cook until they're quite, quite done. (Don't make the heat TOO hot, or the coconut will burn.)

3. Add the chili sauce, coriander leaf, coconut cream, soy sauce, and brown sugar.

4. Stir and heat, heat and stir, until it all makes a lovely sauce.

5. Serve over rice.

Total time: about 20 minutes. Start the rice right when you start wiping and slicing the mushrooms, and it will all be done pretty much at the same time.

The Facebook page for The Death of Albatross

I foolishly forgot to mention on my previous blog post that there is a Facebook page for The Death of Albatross. Please go and "Like" it! This not only helps spread the word about the show, but also lets you hear when there's show-related news (for example, when tickets go on sale and how to get them).

Get out your date books/diaries!

It's official: my play, The Death of Albatross, is definitely going ahead as part of this year's Sydney Fringe!

The tiny town of Albatross is as good as dead, its factory silent, its homes empty. Two couples are all that's left — and they're not speaking. A young bureaucrat with one last chance to get them to sell up is having second thoughts. Will their secrets keep them enemies, or can they work together at last to save Albatross?

Performance details:

Thursday, September 8		6:30 p.m.
Friday, September 9		6:30 p.m.
Saturday, September 10		2 p.m. and 6:30 p.m.

Venue: The Reginald Theatre at the Seymour Centre.

Presented by The Sydney Fringe and Moonburn Productions.

Rough and ready writers (only slightly a gender rant)

My attention has been drawn by the Twitterverse to an article the thesis of which is that men don't read because authors are too — well, the writer doesn't use the word "effeminate," but that's clearly what's implied. The writers whom the author yearns for are those hard-drinking, hard-riding, hard-shooting, hard-loving men — men — of literary legend: Hemingway, Byron, Thomas (as in Dylan), Vonnegut, even Christopher Marlowe (killed in a bar fight and maybe was a spy). There's no denying that these writers have their appeal as writers, and perhaps even as role models (God help us).

There's also no denying that men as a rule are very, very, very unlikely to read women authors if they can tell from the cover that the authors are, in fact, women (or even remind them of women). And there's no denying that this is a gender-based issue that comes from the systemic and systematic devaluing of women's voices and perspectives, no matter what they are saying or how they are saying it. And I deeply and emotionally agree with all those who say that all people should be at least given a truly fair hearing, and that currently that's impossible, but we need to take whatever steps we can to make it so.

But there's another point that can be drawn here (perhaps less important, but still interesting): is it that we writers have lost the knack of exuberant, robust, extravagant living? Do we travel with not quite enough money in our pockets? Do we march through the streets shouting protest slogans? Have we ever hit something as hard as we could? Slid along a rope down a 50-meter cliff? Gone camping in freezing weather? Clung desperately to a runaway horse? Pulled an airplane out of an incipient, and possibly lethal, spin? Engaged with the world in all our — and its — physicality and boldness?

I know a number of writers who do (and I will admit to having done all the things in that list). But I also know a lot of writers who don't. I'm not saying it makes their writing any less gorgeous and skillful. But can any writer afford to spurn out of hand any experience that might make their writing braver and more immediate? Would Jack London, say, have been as good a writer if he hadn't lived the intense life that he did? Can getting out there and letting yourself be more than a little bit physically uncomfortable deepen your writing — no matter what gender you are?

No, really. Start planning that camping trip right now. Just one night. Not too far from home. Go, rain or shine. Bring a notebook. See what happens.

The Doctor is correct.

You know how it's always really kind of implausible that the Doctor (as in the guy in the TARDIS in Doctor Who) keeps saving humanity and gushing about how jaw-droppingly marvelous we earthlings are, how glorious and magnificent? Even though he's got all the power and nobility of purpose and morality and all that? And you know how you've just been watching the news right before Doctor Who comes on and it's all full of things that tell you just how miserable and spiteful and vicious and banal humanity is, and so you sit there listening to the Doctor go on and on and you think, "Yeah, right"?

The Doctor is, in fact, correct.

Yesterday I went to a choral concert called "Illawarra Sings" ("Illawarra" is the name of the region in which Wollongong sits), part of the Illawarra Music Festival. It gathered a sampling of area choral groups, of which there are stunningly many in the Wollongong area (is it that Aussies love to sing in groups, or is it something about Wollongong?). One of Margaret's school vocal groups (she's in several, of course) was one of the ensembles.

One of my "always makes me start to cry" things is seeing kids do brave, skilled, and spectacular things. This particular choir singing yesterday is the anyone-who-wants-to choir at the school (in other words, no auditions). So you'd think, wouldn't you, that they'd be a bit ragged? No, indeed! Right on the money. Complex harmonies. Counterpoint, too. They even did a bit of choreography for one of the songs. The sound was bold, even thrilling, and profoundly touching.

There was also a group of Cook Islanders (of whom there are a significant number in Wollongong). Beautiful, bright Polynesian harmonies, sung with verve, sparkle, humor, and tremendous, elemental energy. They were also clearly having the time of their lives up there.

The second half of the concert was a performance by the Spooky Men's Chorale (about whom I have blogged before). Deeply funny, very smart, self-deprecating stuff, very skillfully sung.

And after an afternoon like that, I am convinced: any species that has the power, vision, and optimism to produce such amazing music is jaw-droppingly marvelous, glorious, and magnificent.