Milo Yiannopoulos, aka Nero aka some real basic garbage in human form, got the boot from Twitter last night as a result of encouraging his racist and/or sexist and/or alt-right pals to go after actress Leslie Jones, who starred in the new Ghostbusters, aka the film sexist manboys wailed was ruining their childhood. Jones was subjected to more than a day of appalling abuse, Yannopoulos chortled about it like the troll he is and cheered his minions on, and Twitter finally decided he was a liability and permanently dumped his ass.

So, some thoughts on this:

1. Yiannopoulos and his party pals are now mewling about this being some horrible violation of free speech, so let’s recall that a) Twitter is not the US or any other government and b) is a private entity and c) essentially reserves the right to boot anyone from their service for whatever reason, so, really, waaaaaaaah, and also, no. Yiannopoulos still has a platform for his nonsense on Breitbart, aka where journalism goes to drill holes in its temple and then cover itself in its own poop, so anyone who wants him can go there (Please go there. Please stay there). He hasn’t been censored; he’s just been told to take a hike.

2. Yiannopoulos and his party pals will also want to claim this is about him being conservative, and again, no. There’s nothing inherent in holding to a conservative philosophy that requires one, in their interactions with others online, to be a raging shithole, or to encourage others to be the same. Millions of conservatives use Twitter every day without being raging shitholes. Conversely, there’s nothing about a liberal philosophy that means you can’t be a raging shithole; I just the other day muted a liberal turd over there because I didn’t want to be bothered with his smug dickery any further. Being an asshole is orthogonal to political philosophy. Yiannopoulos’ public persona is centered on being an asshole in order to serve a market of assholes. That’s pretty obvious.

3. When Yiannopoulos was booted off of Twitter, some folks wrenched their hands and said “But that’s what he wants! It’ll just serve his narrative of persecution!” Well, one, no, it’s not what he wanted. This is a fellow who, when given an opportunity to ask a question in the White House press room, querulously whined about losing his “verified” checkmark on Twitter. Being booted from the service is not an actual win for him. Two, of course he’ll spin it like a win anyway, because as with other dipshits of his sort, everything must always be spun as, not only a victory, but as a victory that is unfolding exactly to plan. Yiannopoulos could trip down a flight of stairs mouth first and he’d crawl himself up a wall at the landing, turn to you with a mouth full of broken teeth and try to convince you that he meant to do that. If you know that about him (and other dipshits like him), it becomes easy to ignore the “that’s what he wants” aspect and do what you need to do.

4. “But he’s gay!” Yes, Yiannopoulos is gay. He’s also an asshole who points other assholes at people to harass and terrorize them. He got booted off Twitter for the latter; the former doesn’t excuse it. Being an asshole is orthogonal to sexuality as well as political philosophy.

5. It’s good that Twitter punted Yiannopoulos, but let’s not pretend that it doesn’t look like Twitter did some celebrity calculus there. Yiannopoulos and pals had a nice long run pointing themselves at all other manner of people they didn’t like, for whatever reason, and essentially Twitter didn’t say “boo” about it. But then they harass a movie star with movie star friends, many of whom are Twitter users with large numbers of followers, and whose complaints about Twitter and the harassment of their friend get play in major news outlets, and Twitter finally boots the ringleader of that shitty little circus.

So the math there at least appears pretty obvious from the outside. You can punch down on Twitter and get away with it, but don’t punch up, and punch up enough to make Twitter look bad, or you’ll get in trouble (after more than a day). Is this actually the way it works? I’m not at Twitter so I can’t say. I can say I do know enough women of all sorts who have gotten all manner of shit by creeps on Twitter, but who weren’t in a movie and had movie star friends or got press play for their harassment. And they basically had to suck it up. So, yeah, from the outside it looks like Twitter made their decision on this based on optics rather than the general well-being of their users.

6. Which is a recurring theme with Twitter (and other social media services, but also, of Twitter): Not much gets done until the service looks bad, and then what gets done is cosmetic rather than useful. Don’t get me wrong, Twitter punting Yiannopoulos is a good thing; he deserved it and has done for a while. But Yiannopoulos didn’t get to the point where he needed the boot all by himself. He happily exploited the weaknesses of Twitter — weaknesses Twitter could have dealt with years ago — to become one of the service’s leading shitlords. And getting rid of the shitlord doesn’t mean the shitty little minions he gathered to himself still aren’t on the service and happy to continue their shitty ways. Which is fine if they keep to themselves; less so when they’re shitty to others, as they are likely to be.

Twitter can do more to make it easier for users to route around awful people and to get them off the service if they won’t let themselves be routed around. Twitter’s been promising for years that they’re going to make better strides in this department — and is promising more in the coming weeks — and yet here we are in 2016 and still it takes someone with a number two box office film to her name and all her famous friends to get the service to do something it should have done long ago. Yiannopoulos is giant turd of human, to be sure. But Twitter did its part in letting him get that way. Maybe they should do more to avoid let turd buildup happen from here on out.

They say they’re going to do it. Prove it, Twitter.

What I thought of the new Ghostbusters: I liked it, and would happily rewatch it. It’s definitely the second-best Ghostbusters movie, and much closer to the original in terms of enjoyment than the willfully forgotten Ghostbusters 2. There are legitimate criticisms to make of it: the plot is rote to the point of being slapdash, the action scenes are merely adequate, and Paul Feig is no Ivan Reitman, in terms of creating comedic ambiance. But the film got the two big things right: It has a crackerjack cast that’s great individually and together, and it has all the one-liners you can eat. And now that the origin story of these particular Ghostbusters is out of the way, I’m ready for the sequel.

But what about the Ghostbusters being all women?!??!?? Yes they were, and it was good. If you can’t enjoy Melissa McCarthy, Kristen Wiig, Kate McKinnon and Leslie Jones snarking it up while zapping ghosts with proton streams, one, the problem is you, not them, and two, no really, what the fuck is wrong with you. The actors and the characters had chemistry with one another and I would have happily watched these Ghostbusters eat lunch, just to listen to them zap on one another. And in particular I want to be McKinnon’s Holtzmann when I grow up; Holtzmann is brilliant and spectrum-y and yet pretty much social anxiety-free and I honestly can’t see any sort of super-nerd not wanting to cosplay the shit out of her forever and ever, amen.

BUT THEY’VE RUINED MY CHILDHOOD BY BEING WOMEN, wails a certain, entitled subset of male nerd on the Internet. Well, good, you pathetic little shitballs. If your entire childhood can be irrevocably destroyed by four women with proton packs, your childhood clearly sucked and it needs to go up in hearty, crackling flames. Now you are free, boys, free! Enjoy the now. Honestly, I don’t think it’s entirely a coincidence that one of the weakest parts of this film is its villain, who (very minor spoiler) is literally a basement-dwelling man-boy just itchin’ to make the world pay for not making him its king, as he is so clearly meant to be. These feculent lads are annoying enough in the real world. It’s difficult to make them any more interesting on screen.

But this is just the latest chapter of man-boys whining about women in science fiction culture: Oh noes! Mad Max has womens in it! Yes, and Fury Road was stunning, arguably the best film of its franchise and of 2015, and was improbably but fittingly nominated for Best Picture at the Academy Awards. Oh noes! Star Wars has womens in it! Yes, and The Force Awakens was pretty damn good, the best Star Wars film since Empire, was the highest grossing film of 2015 and of all time in the domestic box office (not accounting for inflation. Accounting for inflation, it’s #11. #1 counting inflation? That super-manly epic, Gone With the Wind).

And now, Oh noes! Ghostbusters has womens in it! Yes, and it’s been well-reviewed and at $46 million, is the highest grossing opening for its director or any of its stars and perfectly in line with studio estimates for the weekend. Notably, all the surviving principals of the original film make cameos, suggesting they are fine with passing the torch (Harold Ramis is honored in the film too, which is a lovely touch), and Ivan Reitman and Dan Aykroyd are producers of the film. If your childhood has been ruined, boys, then your alleged heroes happily did some of the kicking.

I’m an 80s kid; my youth is not forever stained by a Ghostbusters remake, any more than it was stained by remakes of Robocop or Point Break or Poltergeist or Endless Love or The Karate Kid or Clash of the Titans or Footloose or Total Recall and on and on. I think most of these remakes were unnecessary, and I don’t think most of them were particularly good, or as good as their originals, and I question why film companies bother, aside from the “all the originals were made before the global movie market matured and there’s money on the table that can be exploited with these existing brands,” which is, of course, its own excuse.

But after a certain and hopefully relatively early point in your life, you realize remakes are just a thing the film industry does — the first Frankenstein film listed on imdb was made in 1910, and the most recent, 2015, and Universal (maker of the classic 1931 version) is planning yet another reboot in 2018 or 2019 — and maybe you get over yourself and your opinion that your childhood is culturally inviolate, especially from the entities that actually, you know, own the properties you’ve invested so much of your psyche into. It’s fine to roll your eyes when someone announces yet another remake, tweet “UGH WHYYYYYY” and then go about your life. But it causes you genuine emotional upheaval, maybe a reconfigure of your life is not out of the question.

(Not, mind you, that I think these shitboys are genuinely that invested in Ghostbusters, per se; they’re invested in manprivilege and, as noted above, would have wailed their anguished testeria onto Reddit and 4chan regardless of which cultural property had women “suddenly” show up in it. This is particularly ironic with anything regarding science fiction, which arguably got its successful start in Western culture through the graces of Mary Shelley. Women have always been in it, dudes. Deal.)

The happy news in this case is that, whether or not this Ghostbusters reboot was necessary, it’s pretty good, and fun to watch. That’s the best argument for it. I’m looking forward to more.

Hey, you look like someone who could use some reading ideas going into the weekend. Here’s this week’s stack of new books and ARCs. What looks like you want to dig into it? Tell us in the comments!

I think the one at the top looks a bit like a “z”.

Because why not. 

WordPress informs me that this post is the 10,000th post on the site. I know that figure is inaccurate, since none of the posts from between September 1998 and March 2002 are on the site, and there were at least several hundred of those; likewise, the WordPress doesn’t distinguish between the posts I write, and the several dozen guest posts and hundreds of Big Ideas. But I suspect they all even out, more or less, in the end — subtract the Big Idea and guest posts, add in the missing posts from the beginning era of the site, and you probably end up with me having written 10,000 Whatever entries, more or less.

Which is a lot. I’ve been writing this blog nearly 18 years now — yikes — and 10,000 posts is an average of 555 posts a year, or one and a half posts a day (I didn’t always write write here daily in the early years, and lately I’ve been taking more weekends off). And while I’ve written close to 100,000 Twitter posts in since March 2008, which seems like a lot more, most posts here are rather longer than 140 characters. In short, it’s a whole lot of writing, for a really long time.

As I’ve noted before, and with no disrespect to my fiction work, which is great, harumph harumph, it may end up years from now that people see Whatever as my life’s work, and everything else I’ve done as incidental to it. Which would be ironic, as I by design make no money from the site. But, whatever. The future will decide for itself.

In the meantime, hey: 10,000 posts. It’s a lot. I’m curious to see if there will be another 10,000 before I’m done. Let’s find out.

And in the meantime, here. Have a picture of a cat.

My pal Monica Byrne (who is, incidentally, a fabulous writer), asked me the other day if I would consider myself an activist, and if so, would I call myself one publicly. It was an interesting question, especially since I’m at least partly known for having strong political and social opinions, and sharing them via this blog and other outlets.

My answer to her was no, I don’t really consider myself an activist. The reason I gave her was pretty straightforward: I’m too lazy. Which is to say that while I have my beliefs and principles and largely follow them (sometimes imperfectly), and will happily tell others what those beliefs and principles are, the sort of committed action that to me defines activism — and the continued proselytization for a belief that activism often requires, including the desire to inspire others to take moral action — is not something I usually undertake.

There are other reasons for this besides laziness, including work and the desire to have other interests in my life, but laziness really is a large part of it. Activism is work. I’m glad other people do it, and admire their effort. But it’s not something I put much effort in.

But you write here all the time on political and social topics! Yes I do. But this is not a blog for activism, it’s a blog for whatever I feel like writing — or, when I’m writing a book as I am now, what I have time for writing. The blog is like me; all over the place and a bit pixelated. This is not to say people I would consider activists only do activism. They do other things too, of course; the people who only do one thing all the time are (I would submit) maybe a lot to have to deal with. But I would certainly say activists commit more of themselves and more of their time to activism than I do. Blog posts and retweets do not an activist make.

After my chat with Monica on the topic, I came up with another reason why I don’t call myself an activist, which is that many of the causes I find myself agreeing on and writing about are ones that I don’t consider my primarily fight to fight. For example, for more than a decade, here and elsewhere, I was (and am!) a vocal proponent of same-sex marriage in the US, and I was thrilled and happy when it was made the law of the land. Was I an activist for the cause? Well, as a straight person, I’m not sure it was my place to be so. I can say I was active for it, surely. But declaring myself an activist for it (aside from the fact of the laziness mentioned above) seems sort of usurp-y. I didn’t need to be seen leading or directing the course of that particular parade. It wasn’t my parade to lead. I was just happy to march in it.

Likewise for women’s issues, or issues involving people of color, or trans issues, as examples, all of which I’m interested in, and have opinions on, but which ultimately don’t have me as their focus as a white cis male. I have an ego, to be sure. But I don’t think I need to pull attention to myself in these fights. I’m happy to stand with, not in front of (and hopefully not get in the way of, which could be a thing if I’m not paying attention).

Which brings up another point, which is that very often activism seems to come out of the well of having no other choice — that in some cases if you’re not an activist, you’re going to get steamrolled by the dominant culture. And, well, you know. I’m pretty much aware that in the US, I’m in the dominant culture, and quite bluntly I get to pick and choose what political and social issues I get to be involved in, and how deeply. And when I get fed up, I get to say “later,” and go write or play video games or just disappear. I have the luxury of engagement, or not. I suspect that for a lot of folks, to declare myself an activist when I can bail whenever I feel like it would be exasperating.

(There are activist issues not specifically related to racial/gender/sexual identity, of course — tech and politics and religion and so on and so forth, where your average white straight male isn’t necessarily pulling focus. Very few of these engage me to the extent that activism on the subject calls to me.)

I’d note that this is all about whether I would consider myself an activist; other people might have other opinions, either in a positive sense, or in a negative one. Surely every time someone labels me a “social justice warrior,” for example, they pretty much implicitly accuse me of being an activist, and one for issues they don’t like. And three things here: One, I don’t mind; two, fuck ’em; three, it still doesn’t make me an activist in my own mind.

If someone else wants to consider me an activist, for whatever reason, I couldn’t stop them if I wanted to, and I don’t. I do hope whoever they are, they know I’m destined to disappoint them somewhere down the road. I’m inevitably going to fail whatever standard they have for activism, in no small part because I’m not even achieving my own standard for it.

Again, it’s not to say that I’m not often engaged on many issues. I am. At the end of the day, though, to my mind, what makes an activist is commitment to a cause and the commitment to change the hearts of others, and possibly the course of history. I’m happy to speak my mind and if my words make people think, and sometimes even think differently than they did before, then that’s great. But I don’t know if that’s enough to consider myself an activist for any one cause. I think I’d have to do more than I do. And who knows? Maybe one day I will. We’ll see.

First: Look! Here’s Spice! Looking very much like she’s walking away from a movie explosion. She’s not. But the explosion is very much implied.

I’ll note that every time I post a picture of one or the other of the Scamperbeasts here, someone generally says, “Wow, they’re not kittens anymore.” They’ve certainly grown up quite a bit. However, I personally feel that you can call a cat a kitten for their first year of life, which means the Scamperbeasts get to be kittens until around September 6, which is the day they were born, give or take a day or three. So enjoy their technical kittenosity for another two months, folks.

Second: I’ve been informed that Redshirts has been nominated for a Geffen Award this year, which is the major Israeli SF/F award, in the category of translated science fiction. Neat! Other nominees in the category include Neal Stephenson, Ann Leckie, Charlie Stross and Ted Chiang, which is a fine cast of writers to probably lose to. Congratulations to all of them.

(BUT WAIT SCALZI I THOUGHT YOU SAID YOU WERE TURNING DOWN AWARD NOMINATIONS THIS YEAR — I am, but Redshirts was originally published in 2012, so, you know. I’m fine with that.

YES BUT WHAT HAPPENS IF THE END OF ALL THINGS IS NOMINATED YEARS FROM NOW FOR A FOREIGN LANGUAGE AWARD — Then I’ll direct that the award, if won, be given to the translator of the book, because they will have earned that award, don’t you think? There, that’s sorted.)

I was there earlier this year, for the first time longer than the time it took to get from one side of DFW to the other. I had a fine time there with friends and fans, and made some wonderful memories.

My heart is there today.

I’m done with this week, I think. See you all on Monday.

Here’s the thing: I’ve been pulled over by the police before, mostly because I’m speeding, but at least once because of a broken tail light. When I’m speeding, I usually know that I’ve been speeding, so when the police officer asks me if I know why I was pulled over, I say “probably because I was speeding. You caught me, write me up.” I do it because I know there’s a good chance he’ll be so tickled by me not even trying to evade the ticket that he’ll just let me off with a warning. One time I was speeding on the freeway, and when the cop pulled me over, I asked if I could speak to him outside the car. He allowed me to get out of the car, and when he did, I leaned in close and said, “the people with me in the car have not stopped arguing since I picked them up. I need a break from them. Write me up, and please, take a long time doing it.” The cop laughed, didn’t write me up, and chatted with me for about five minutes to give me breathing space from the squabbling in the car.

I have never once been afraid of being pulled over by the cops in my car. I have never once been afraid of the cops when they have approached me for anything. It does not occur to me to be afraid of the cops. Why would it? When I have been pulled over by the cops, the worst that will happen to me is that I will be cited for speeding — which is, when it happens, an entirely fair call on the part of the cop, because I usually was speeding. I have literally been pulled over by the cops with an actual skinhead neo-Nazi in my car — and there’s a story for you, long and complicated, and mostly aside from the point at the moment so I’ll skip it for now — and the neo-Nazi was literally biting his tongue so he wouldn’t scream fuck yooooooou, PIIIIIIIIG at the cop at the top of his lungs. I sat there and chatted with the cop about me speeding, and he let me off with a warning and I went on my way, neo-Nazi with bulging neck veins apoplectic in the passenger seat beside me.

So I repeat: I have never once been afraid of being pulled over by the cops in my car. I have never once been afraid of the cops when they have approached me for anything. It does not occur to me to be afraid of the cops.

Nor, I rather strongly suspect, does it occur to anyone who looks like me — white, male, visibly part of the mainstream of American culture — to be afraid of the cops. The only time we are afraid of the cops is when, say, we’ve got a dime bag and the car smells of skunkweed. Or when in fact we’ve had more to drink than we should have. Or we have that unlicensed gun poking out from underneath the passenger seat. Basically, when we are doing something that’s against the law, and we can get in trouble for it, and the cop would be perfectly within their rights to take us to jail for it.

This is why, I suspect, when so many people who look like me, white and/or male, and visibly part of the mainstream of American culture, hear about a black person being gunned down by a cop, in their car or out of it, immediately go to “well, what did they do to deserve it?” Because, in the somewhat unlikely event of one of us being arrested by a cop, much less gunned down by one, we know damn well that dude did something stupid to warrant the cop taking that action. My own lived experience of 47 years, and the lived experience of nearly every other person who looks like me that I know, confirms that fact. I’m not going to get stick from a cop unless I did something to get that stick.

Now, here’s what I know so far about Philando Castile, which is what anyone at this point knows: This 32-year-old guy who worked at an elementary school and who had no police record* was, with his girlfriend, pulled over for a broken tail light, and was in the act of complying with police instructions and volunteered information to the police officer that he had a gun, which he was licensed to carry, when the police officer shot him. It’s not a huge stretch of the imagination to suppose that the reason Castile told the police officer he had a firearm was so the officer wouldn’t see it, panic, and shoot him. But it didn’t matter, and he was shot anyway, and died. He died, by all indications, despite doing exactly what he was supposed to do — complying with police instructions, and doing what he could to defray any potential problems.

I have been pulled over by the police. I have had a broken tail light. I have complied with police instructions. And while I don’t travel with a firearm in my car on most days, if I had one in the car and was pulled over, you’re damn right I’d let the cop know about it, especially if it was on my person. Why wouldn’t I? I don’t want to give the cop any surprises. And I am just about 99.9% certain, in that situation, if I were doing all those things, I wouldn’t suddenly find myself shot, dying in that car.

But then, I’m white, and Philando Castile wasn’t.

I posted this tweet last night, about the announcement that Philando Castile had died:

And the first comment was from a guy just like me, white, middle-aged, clearly in the mainstream, who responded, “Jumping to conclusions again, John? Maybe we need more time on this one. Guy said he had a gun and reached inside his coat.”

Leaving aside the data point that according Diamond Reynolds, her boyfriend was reaching for his wallet in compliance with officer instructions, and leaving aside the data point that she maintains that Castile was informing the police officer about the gun so he would know it was there and presumably not be alarmed by it, all I said was one simple word: “Jesus.” Shock that Philando Castile died. Nothing else — I didn’t comment on whether I thought the shooting was justified or not. I didn’t comment on the color of Castile or of the police officer. I didn’t make a statement on who was at fault, or of my general feelings about police, or of anything else. Just, “Jesus.”

And the first comment, from a white, middle-aged, mainstream dude, is reaching for a rationalization for the cop for shooting Philando Castile.

The most charitable explanation I can give for that fellow is what I mentioned above: For him, and for me, and for the folks who look like us, the only way we’d get shot is if we were doing something that would get us shot.

But I also know, with high levels of certainty, that someone who looks like me merely informing a cop that we have a gun would be unlikely to get us shot. I mean, hell. Aside from anything else I’ve mentioned here, I live in rural America. You think a non-trivial percentage of people here don’t have guns on them? Even when they’re pulled over by cops? It’s also worth noting, as I say the above, that the racial composition of my county is 98% white. If my neighbors or I get pulled over and inform a cop, in the process of complying with their instructions, that we have guns, we’re very likely to live. Not everyone can say the same.

I’m not saying the fellow who made the comment to my tweet is racist. He’s probably not, any more than I am. But we live in a racist society, and some of that racism gets exhibited in how our police forces deal with us. I have a very different experience of the police than my friends and fellow citizens who don’t look like me. It’s an experience different enough that while I understand intellectually that there are people who are afraid of the police, just as a default setting, and it’s something I see again and again as minority friends of mine vent and rage on social media, I still can’t feel it. I am not afraid of the police. I never have been. I have never had to be. I probably will never have to be. That doesn’t mean that my friends are wrong.

The police officer who shot Philando Castile wouldn’t have known that Castile had no police record, worked in a school and was by all indications well-liked in his community but even that is placing the burden of exculpation on the man who got shot. In the same situation, pulled over with the same broken tail light, telling the cop the same things, with the cop knowing exactly about me as he did about Castile, I still don’t get shot. Of that I feel certain. Nor should I be. Why should I be? Even if you hate the idea of people being able to conceal carry weapons, if someone is following the law, they shouldn’t be shot for carrying that weapon.

The cop made a threat assessment and decided to shoot. A man is dead for it, one who, by all indications, complied with the officer’s instructions and acted to keep the officer aware of his situation, so there would be no surprises. And I know that because the man is dead by the cop’s hand (and by his weapon), there will be people, many of whom will look like me, who will look to find fault with Philando Castile, with what he did or said, something, anything, to justify the shooting. And it’s possible that what we know now is not the complete story, and that Castile did do something, anything, that made the cop in question shoot to kill.

But, two things here. First: would that something, anything, be enough to kill me, if I did it? I would like to bluntly and rather racistly suggest that the standard for policing in this country not be how the police treat black men, but how they treat white men, and specifically, white men like me, me who has no fear of police because he has never had cause to fear the police, and never been made by the police to fear them. By all indications, there was no reason for this police officer to fear Philando Castile any more than he would have to fear me. We know this now. But in the moment, I suggest in the same situation, I would still be alive where Castile is dead, and we need to ask why. The officer who shot Castile may not be racist any more than I or the fellow who commented back to me on Twitter likely is. But we live in a racist society, and the ambient racism steeps into each of us whether we acknowledge it or not.

Second: If you’re one of the folks looking for something, anything to excuse the shooting of Philando Castile, as a matter of intellectual honesty you should consider the possibility that you’re wrong, and that Castile, in fact, did nothing to warrant his death, and that the officer shot him, needlessly. And when you entertain that notion, you should also ask yourself why Castile is dead anyway. If your answer to that question is entirely devoid of anything having to do with the fact that Philando Castile was a black man, you should probably try again.

I am not afraid of the cops. Never have been. Probably will never have to be. That is a luxury and privilege not everyone gets to have. I’m glad I have it. I want more people to have it, too. We’re not there yet. We can’t pretend we are.

* Update: 3:46pm: NBC News is reporting Castile was pulled over numerous times since 2002 for various traffic violations, including speeding and driving without a muffler. They note: “All were for misdemeanors and none were for violent crimes.” Another NBC-affiliated reporter pipes in re: the traffic violations:

So, hey, here’s something that should make at least some of you happy: I’m putting out a story collection through Subterranean Press called Miniatures: The Very Short Fiction of John Scalzi. Just as the title suggests, the eighteen pieces that are included in Miniatures are very short — the longest is a smidge under 2,300 words — and most of them are (surprise!) humorous. If you’ve seen me on book tour, you’ve probably heard me read from some of these pieces. I’m very excited to share them with you all in print.

In addition to fourteen previously-published stories (including the Sidewise Award-nominated “Alternate History Search Results”), the collection includes four never-previously-appearing-in-print stories: “Your Smart Appliances Talk About You Behind Your Back,” “Important Holidays on Gronghu” and “The AI Are Absolutely Positively Without a Doubt Not Here to End Humanity, Honest,” all of which were written exclusively for this collection, and “Morning Announcements at the Lucas Interspecies School for Troubled Youth,” which I performed at W00tstock a few years ago but never put into print. Fixed that! Also, several of the stories were previously published in rare and/or hard-to-find editions. This collection makes them much easier to find, read and enjoy.

I’m also super excited to say that Natalie Metzger, who created that fabulous image of me riding a churro-corn that you see above, is providing art for the book — both the cover and illustrations for each of the stories. I asked for her specifically because I think her sense of whimsy and humor match the pieces in Miniatures perfectly, and happily Subterranean Press agreed. Natalie and I met during Westercon this last weekend to chat about her illustrations and I couldn’t be more pleased by the ideas she has for the book. You’re going to love them.

Subterranean is releasing Miniatures in a signed, limited print edition of 1,500, which means every copy will be signed by me — no need to hunt me down for an autograph. Those will be $40 each. Or you can get a lettered and leatherbound edition for $250 (there will only be 52 of those). So yes, the print editions will be collector’s items. Pre-ordering would be advisable. Subterranean will also be releasing an electronic edition (pricing to be determined later, but cheaper). And yes, before you ask, there is very likely to be an audio edition, and I will get you more details on that when it comes available. Heck, there’s going to be at least one foreign language edition, too, so it’s got that going for it as well.

Miniatures is going to be a ton of fun in a small package, and I can’t wait for you to see it.

They are, from left:

• The Hungarian version of Redshirts, with a fairly awesome cover;
• A proclamation from the Ohio House of Representatives congratulating me on my Governor’s Award and telling me that by all indications I’m pretty nifty, which is cool;
• The SF Masterworks edition of Always Coming Home, by Ursula K. Le Guin, for which I was honored to write an introduction.

And I got another dozen books or so from other folks, which I will be showing off a little later in the week, you know, as I do.

And how, you ask, was Westercon 69? Well, I had fun, at least! All my panels went very well, and at my reading I’m happy to say that I got my family and fellow GoH Bobak Ferdowsi involved:

We were all reading from a new, never-before-presented short story called “The AI Are Absolutely Positively Without a Doubt Not Here to End Humanity, Honest.” It went pretty well; my daughter was particularly good in the part of Destructor, Ender of All Humanity.

Plus, at Westercon, we had donuts!

So, yes, we had a pretty good time. Hope your July 4th long weekend was also a good one.

Just in time for Canada Day and the 4th of July, here’s a fine collection of new books and ARCs that have come into the Scalzi Compound. Which of these would you like to spend a long weekend with? Tell me in the comments!

I’m here in town for Westercon 69, where I am a guest of honor, doing panels and readings and signings and loungings about and eatings and sleepings. If you’re in the Portland area, you should come down for the weekend, especially as it is very likely for my reading I will be reading new work that no one else has ever heard ever in the history of ever. So there’s that. Plus, every other thing about this convention that will be super cool. So come on down.

 

As part of my Los Angeles Times critic-at-large gig, I was asked — and answered — the perennial question: What is the Great American Novel? And not only did I answer this question, but so did eight other of the critics-at-large, in the process suggesting a number of books that make for an excellent reading list. You can check out all the books — and the reasons they were suggested — from here, or if you’re just interested in my piece, it’s here.

If you have a recommendation for the Great American Novel not suggested by us, feel free to put it into the comments.

And what I want to say about July is:

Hey, I’m still not done with the books, so I’m probably going to stick to the semi-hiatus schedule a little bit longer. It seems to be working reasonably well for me, and in particular trimming comment threads back to two days has made things substantially more manageable (it seems to keep in check the folks who like to draw out threads purely for argument’s sake). And the schedule hasn’t kept me from popping in and saying pointed things when I think they need to be said (see: political discussions over the last few weeks). So, in all, it’s been pretty congenial to my working life.

So: Let’s just assume that until further notice I’m going to keep this schedule. When will that further notice be? Well, the books have to be in by the end of August, so: Probably then. If they get done earlier, then earlier.

Thanks.

Hey, you like books? I like books. Here are some books and ARCs that recently came to the Scalzi Compound. Which of these is calling your name? Tell me in the comments!