That is all.

The first option is absolutely engrossing, if it's the sort of thing you find engrossing, and can be done solo. The second option is... well, just read the link. A member of the MetaFilter message board posts a cry for help; over the next 24 hours, friends, acquaintances, and total strangers rally to keep two women from vanishing into god-knows-what. Astonishing, inspiring reading, and I only found out about it after the dust settled. I can't imagine what it must have been like as a MeFi reader caught up in events as they unfolded. It makes you wonder how many stories end differently right here in New York every week because the victims don't have a squad of internet people looking out for them.

What gave me pause? Well, it's the way in which I couldn't even get to the end of the chapter without saying, Oh no, we're not playing this game again, are we? The game being the one where someone has a piece of important information to impart that, because of communications difficulties (bad handwriting, something blowing up, an inability to get a moment to sit down and talk like grownups for just 30 seconds), cannot be imparted; and thus is the plot created, a long chain of missed connections and misunderstandings and oh my god I am going to reach right into this book and slap all of you until you sit around a table and calmly compare notes. Willis has employed this trick before, of course, and depending on your tolerance for this particular flavor of contrivance you may feel she does it very well: I loved her time-travelers-do-Victorian-travel-memoirs romcom To Say Nothing of the Dog, which is full of it, as is her time-traveler-free romcom Bellwether. There's even some of it in her wrenching debut novel Doomsday Book: somebody knows what's going on, and if only he could just relay it to the right person the book would be a hell of a lot shorter and less eventful.

But it does get irritating after a while, or perhaps as time has gone by and I have put more energy into telling stories myself it has become harder for me to ignore a big noisy machine marked PLOT DEVICE DO NOT TOUCH sitting in the corner of the room. And so when in Chapter 3 -- in which we see many, many people trying to get important information out of people they can't locate, because no one's ever where they're expected to be -- there's an extended sequence revolving around an illegible phone message that the surly roommate has taken but is unavailable to explicate, I had a moment of panic. But by the end of the chapter the roommate has been found and cajoled into translating and events have moved on. At which point I decided that Willis had been fucking with our heads and heaved a great relieved sigh. We'll see, I guess. I'm probably being way too optimistic.

Thinking about this sequence, though, revealed a bigger problem, or at least a big thorny weirdness, with the book. Because the narrative "now," the future era from which these time travelers are setting forth, is 2060, and people are still getting crucial, time-sensitive information to one another by calling their rooms and asking their roommates to leave a note by the telephone. It would seem that we're reading about a future in which nobody knows how to send a text message, in which nobody thinks to send an e-mail to all graduate researchers that says, "You will have noticed that we're rescheduling all your trips into the past on short notice, and here's why it has to be this way," in which it's impossible to ping your roommate with a simple WHERE R U? And that, in a novel published this year, is kind of nuts.

I think it's because we're looking at a future that is already nearly 30 years old. Willis's short story "Fire Watch," which established this continuity, was published in 1983, and Doomsday Book came out in 1992. And given the state of technology then, it probably never occurred to Willis that her future of 2060 needed to be mapped out via the ubiquitous smart phones and text messaging of 2010. (See also the dazzling future of 2001 in Carl Sagan's Contact, written in 1985: the big schmancy technology in that book is the wondrous "telefax.") Perhaps, having envisioned a world without such devices, Willis feels obliged to stick with her original set of tools. I know that trying to pull off such a retcon would feel like cheating to me if I were writing it. What do you think?

I rambled on at some length² about all this to one of my fellow singers on the crosstown bus after rehearsal. He asked if I intended to finish the book, and I probably looked at him like he'd lost his mind. I'm a long way from wanting to give up. But I sure as hell hope that actual communication starts to occur somewhere along the way. I'll let you know.

¹ More accurately, it's the first half of a novel in two parts. The second half comes out this fall. I had planned to wait for all of it to come out, or for the paperback of Vol. 1 at least, but then I found a cheap copy at the Strand and my resolve imploded.

² Yeah, yeah.

Clay and his partner of 20 years, Harold, lived in California. Clay and Harold made diligent efforts to protect their legal rights, and had their legal paperwork in place--wills, powers of attorney, and medical directives, all naming each other. Harold was 88 years old and in frail medical condition, but still living at home with Clay, 77, who was in good health.

One evening, Harold fell down the front steps of their home and was taken to the hospital. Based on their medical directives alone, Clay should have been consulted in Harold's care from the first moment. Tragically, county and health care workers instead refused to allow Clay to see Harold in the hospital. The county then ultimately went one step further by isolating the couple from each other, placing the men in separate nursing homes.

They weren't finished there: to pay for the bills, the county decided that Clay and Harold's house and all its contents would be auctioned off. And three months later, Harold died, alone.

Read more at the website of the National Center for Lesbian Rights. Thanks to Towleroad for the tip.

Anyway, you can't go to BoW without stopping at the cupcake counter. Or I can't, anyway: it's run by the fabulous Cupcake Cafe people. You can keep Magnolia Bakery's vapid and oversweet efforts -- the only reason people eat them, far as I can tell, is because they saw them on Sex and the City. For my money, CC's dense cake and heavenly buttercream frosting whomp MB's efforts into next week. And that's without mentioning how totally beautiful their creations are to look at. Almost a shame to eat them, almost.

I told a friend about my visit -- okay, I gloated about it -- and he asked, "Did you take a picture for that website?"

"What website?"

"Dudes with beards eating cupcakes."

No, I didn't, for the record. Maybe next time. But I was pleased to note it as an addition to an emerging internet meme: blogs entirely devoted to juxtapositions of three things. The other two sites I've seen are Selleck/Waterfall/Sandwich and Bea Arthur/Mountains/Pizza, which offer endless collections of weird surrealist landscapes. Dudes/Beards/Cupcakes doesn't have the others' zen-bouquet quality; instead it feels more like somebody's personal fetish run amok. It's noteworthy, I think, that they're all tumblr blogs, but whether that tells us something about tumblr or the state of web culture in general I'm not sure. As to the inevitable why? In the words of Xeni Jardin at BoingBoing, "Because INTERNET." And that's the best explanation we're likely to get.

On the one hand, it's a spectator sport, in which a bunch of women who, in many cases, have only been playing the game for a year or two, go like hell and take no prisoners. Imply that this is some sort of silly cheesecake thing and they will fuck your shit up. And there's real strategy going on beyond the body-checks, and it only takes a few minutes to appreciate the rules enough to start seeing that. But on another hand, it's also a spectator sport with a tremendous sense of humor -- I mean, how can you not love a game where players are expected to make up awesome skater names? How can you not cheer and scream yourself raw for Ginger Snap, and Carmen Monoxide, and Donna Matrix? And Joy Collision? And Beyonsláy? (For my part, my heart belongs to Em Dash. As her entry in the 2010 souvenir program states, "There's a new serif in town." Word.) And we ate hot dogs, and the people-watching in the stands was superlative, and the jeerleaders (yes) were great.

Consider joining us at the May 22 event, at which the Queens of Pain take on the Manhattan Mayhem.

Thomas Osborne, editor. London: 1745. First edition currently available from Charles Agvent, bookseller.

DOCTOR WHO USED 'SHOCK' THERAPY TO 'CURE' GAYS UNDER INVESTIGATION FOR SEXUAL ASSAULT OF DOZENS OF MALE PATIENTS

I was very happy to see that I was not the only person who had a "Wait, David Tennant did what?" moment there.

In other news, I'm still looking for work. Perhaps I should offer my services to Towleroad as a copy editor.

I should probably include a line just below my name that describes what I do and thereby jogs the memory of the recipients when they draw it from their pockets and wallets and whatnot. The obvious text would be something like WRITER • EDITOR, of course, but I am this close to going with SUPER GENIUS instead. Because what says professional competence better than a reference to a 58-year-old Warner Brothers cartoon?

To wit, Operation: Rabbit, 1952. Yes, the card the coyote presents at the start of the picture just says "Genius," but this line is a deathless classic of Western drama, and I defy you to say otherwise.

Plus, Bugs's take to the camera at 0:17 is Chuck Jones at his best.

We're in Vieques, Puerto Rico, staying with friends in their house high atop the hill. From the table where we eat breakfast on the patio you can see both the Caribbean and the Atlantic, each of them that stunning shade of blue that you never believe when you see it in photographs. It has been sunny and breezy all week and I have acquired a suntan in February. In February! Word on the street is that there has been some sort of cold-weather event back in the States; I guess we'll find out upon our return late tomorrow night.

There is a great deal of good food to be eaten in Vieques, from schmancy multicourse meals to here-I-just-pulled-this-little-banana-off-the-tree. I have put a sizable dent in it.

Last night we went to Puerto Mosquito¹, said to be the brightest bioluminescent bay in the world. It was -- well, heck. It was a warm, tranquil body of water that glowed when you swam in it. I drifted along, watching my arm hairs twinkle and my feet generating swirling plumes of ghostly blue light, beneath a sky crammed with stars (and Mars, presently in Cancer²). When the tour group returned to its kayaks and paddled back into the shallows, we startled a huge school of shrimp, which shot off in all directions through the water like bottle rockets. So it was pretty freaking awesome. Thank you kindly, Pyrodinium bahamense.

The thing I am likely to remember most about Vieques, though, is not the luminous water or the shining stars; it is not the hours spent doing blissful nothing by the pool. It is the damned roosters.

There are a lot of chickens on this little island, particularly among the households that live outside the urban(ish) concentrations. And they make a lot of noise. Suburban boy that I am, I had always thought of roosters as making noise at sunrise. You know, like in the movies: they sleep at night, they get up with the sun, they do their cock-a-doodle-doo sun-salutation thing for a couple minutes, then they go about their business. This turns out to be a lie. Roosters in Vieques, PR produce their roostery chorus twenty-four seven. Sometimes, like now, it's almost subliminal, rising gently from the countryside in a gentle call and response. Other times, it gets a little more raucous: the first time I heard it, I would have been willing to believe that a bunch of local 9-year-olds were just down the hill somewhere and had decided that you know what would be really fun? To impersonate roosters, really loudly, and to go on and on for a good 20 minutes. Or what the heck, maybe for an hour. And other times they ratchet the racket all the way up to 11. No, to 12. Or maybe 14. Seriously, at about 3 Tuesday morning it was like the Roosterocalypse, like every damn bird on the island was crowing its lungs out within 20 yards of the house. Maybe atmospheric conditions meant that the usual cacophony rose up from the lowlands particularly well; maybe every damn bird on the island was just under the window. I don't know. But Don and I started to laugh despite that we'd just been awakened by roosters in the middle of the fucking night, because you would not believe how loud it was. And of course, once it gets that loud, the local dogs all start barking as well, and it takes a good while before the dust settles. So, yeah. Roosters. Who knew?

I have finished two cracking good books this week: Iain M. Banks's Matter and Margaret Ronald's Wild Hunt. Maggie was a classmate of mine at Viable Paradise³ and she's hugely talented and funny besides and everyone should read her stuff. Go throw money at her.

Anyway, I'm headed back out to the pool now. The "big island" is visible again today, after a couple of days where it vanished in the haze -- I'm told there was a volcanic eruption in Montserrat that is at least partially to blame -- and I'm going to go stare at it for a while. Cheers.

¹ They don't call it that for nothing. The trip from the shore to the mooring buoy? Ay, dios mio. The bugs were as big as your head and vicious vicious vicious.

² I have never been more thrilled with GoSkyWatch Planetarium than I have been this week. So very worth your $9.99.

³ Submissions for 2010 open now! Deadline June 30. Can't recommend it highly enough.

Skywalkers in Korea Cross Han Solo

EDITED TO ADD: Okay, so we backdate the award to three years ago May. The general assertion stands.

This post will also serve as a test to see if Google Reader notices that the feed it seems to prefer (RSS 1.0, index.rdf) has started updating again. (My spring redesign broke it.)

UPDATED: Okay, Google Reader has figured it out at last, and I've also figured out why GR preferred the oldest of the three flavors I set up, way back when. I'm still curious to see who's subscribed; I believe we will very soon be eliminating the RSS1.0 and Atom feeds, though, and going with a single standard. (Now that all readers seem to handle all standards equally well, there's no reason to maintain multiple feeds.)

This is the high school my niece and nephew will attend someday. Clearly, they will be in good hands. (Note to self: Research, then assertion. Oy.)

But if you want to read the story now, you can: it's online as part of an interview with Julian at SFGAM.com. (It's also on Julian's site, but it's locked up in a Flash lump and I can't link to it from here.)

Things I learned about appearing at the Ed Sullivan Theatre last night:

1. The studio is tiny. I guess it would have to be, to fit into your television.
2. It is cold in there. I mean, you hear that sometimes from the guests or whatever. But they don't mention that it's chilly enough for the air coming out of the ventilation system to turn into fog that gently drifts down from above.
3. You can try to be blasé about these things, but eventually the realization that you, a random choir geek, are singing rock and roll on television for an audience of about 20 million people hits you, and at that point what D describes as "my big shit-eating grin" becomes inevitable. Despite the fact that you cannot hear yourself sing at all over the sound of the band and you're just taking it on faith that you're hitting your marks.

Man, what a gas. Although at that temperature, it nearly condensed into a liquid.