Flowermaxxing Friday

2026-May-15, Friday 14:43
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Posted by Athena Scalzi

That’s right y’all, you’re getting another flower picture! I know, I can hardly believe it myself, but spring is just turning out so beautifully here and I just feel so compelled to share the blossoms with you.

Today’s bloom is a peony (I think), from a peony bush along the side of the house:

A large, fully opened, beautiful pink peony flower.

I am thrilled to have another beautiful blooming plant in the yard, especially because it’s pink! It’s actually very close to where the wisteria is, too. Also this one is in the shape of a heart:

A peony blossom that has opened up in a way that it very closely resembles a heart. It pretty much looks just like the pink heart emoji.

That genuinely made me smile so much while I was taking the photo. Like, how cute is that.

I hope y’all are having a great start to your weekend, and that you see many blooms this spring!

-AMS

Hantavirus is Not the Next Pandemic

2026-May-14, Thursday 17:01
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Posted by Rebecca Watson

This post contains a video, which you can also view here. To support more videos like this, head to patreon.com/rebecca! Transcript: Hey there! Today I’d like to talk about a little known disease that I think just doesn’t get enough attention: hantavirus. Okay, obviously I’m joking. Thanks to our collective COVID-related PTSD, the entire world …

The Big Idea: Thomas Elrod

2026-May-14, Thursday 21:56
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Posted by Athena Scalzi

It can be hard to have solid opinions and identities when we live in a world of mixed messages and misinformation. With propaganda running rampant, how can we be sure if reality is really real? Author Thomas Elrod plays with this idea of a false reality in his newest novel, The Franchise. Tune in to his Big Idea to see how one man’s fiction may be another man’s reality.

THOMAS ELROD:

I think we are all a little fatigued by the long-running IP franchises on TV and in movies. Sure, we all had a good time watching Harrison Ford return as Han Solo or were happy to see Captain America wield Thor’s hammer, but lately? Eh? It all feels tired, as long-running franchises often do. Good thing Hollywood has plenty of other films and shows in development and we can look forward to some fresh stories in the coming years…

Okay, so there’s the rub. It certainly feels like not only will our big cultural mega-franchises not be retired, it is as if they can’t be. Too much of the shareholder value of Disney or Warner Brothers or Netflix is wrapped up in these very expensive properties for these very large corporations (always merging together into even larger corporations) to ever stop. They can’t. They have to continue generating revenue and growth.

What happens to culture if it can never stop recycling itself?

My big idea was this. I wanted to imagine a film franchise that just kept on going forever, kept expanding and looking for new ways to juice the IP. I was partially inspired by the failed Star Wars hotel, which tried to create an immersive storytelling experience for guests in Disney World, but which was too expensive and wonky. However, it’s not hard to see how Disney was using that experience to commodify LARPing and cosplay and other fan activities into something they could monetize and turn into content.

So I did the thing Science Fiction writers do and I extrapolated, imagining a Truman Show-esque environment where a film studio sets up a living set of a popular fantasy film franchise and populates it with people who have had their memories changed to believe they are real characters in this world. Plots are put into motion, writers and actors are hired to push the story along, and everything is secretly filmed. It’s pitched to fans as a limited-time experience, where you can sign up to have your memory temporarily altered so you can live in this world you love so much. Surely, nothing will go wrong!

The challenge as a writer is how to sustain this concept for the course of an entire novel and also how to build a real story out of it. This is always the problem with high-concept ideas. It’s one thing to come up with a hook, it’s another to create interesting characters and engage them in the twists and turns of an effective story that doesn’t become repetitive.

For me, the thing I held onto was the larger “What if” that this concept suggests, which isn’t just about intellectual property in Hollywood but about one’s identity in a world of misinformation. We all live in a kind of constructed reality, whether we know it or not, based on our sources of news, social media, entertainment, etc. We all know people who seem to live and exist in a totally different conception of the world than our own, and this is both baffling and frustrating. But we still have agency over our own lives, and if we want to spend our energy on, say, denying the efficacy of vaccines or insisting a fair election was rigged, to what extent does a person need to take responsibility for those opinions and to what extent is it possible (or ethical) to blame their misinformation reality on their beliefs?

This is a thornier question but also one which provided a way into the story, which very early on I knew was going to include many different character POVs, some from people who play a minor role in the actual plot but whose perspective ends up being different or interesting. Since some people in the story know what is really going on, some have partial information or suspect something, and some have their own views on what is happening despite possibly knowing what is “real,” the great gift of interior and perspective that fiction affords was my way to start building characters and story. My book would be about this confluence of perspectives, and what happens when they clash into one another.

Along the way there was lots of opportunity for light satire about Hollywood, deconstruction of modern fantasy storytelling, and a lot else, but being able to marry theme and structure was the key to making sure my Big Idea, my book’s hook, actually worked and remained interesting over 350 pages. It ended up being a blast to write, so I hope that comes across to everyone else and that they have just as good a time reading it.


The Franchise: Amazon|Barnes & Noble|Bookshop|Powell’s

Author Social: Website|Instagram|Bluesky|Threads

Read an excerpt on Reactor.

Suddenly, Irises!

2026-May-14, Thursday 13:52
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Posted by John Scalzi

Athena started the bloomposting yesterday and here is my contribution: the irises in our front yard, which are in their annual two-week period of blooming, followed by 50 weeks of just being green shrubs. Still, for those two weeks, it’s pretty great to look at.

The irises have come in nicely this year

John Scalzi (@scalzi.com) 2026-05-14T12:42:09.714Z

I of course can take no credit for these irises. Krissy planted them several years ago and tends to them annually; I just go out and take pictures of them when they’ve all popped. Still, I flatter myself that I take some fairly decent pictures of them. And then you get to appreciate them as well! So, please do.

This concludes our bloomposting for today, now back to our regularly scheduled programming.

— JS

The Big Idea: Sam Beckbessinger

2026-May-13, Wednesday 21:31
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Posted by Athena Scalzi

We’ve all got a beast inside us, waiting to be unleashed. For some, they never hold it back. For others, they keep it caged until it can be repressed no longer. Enter author Sam Beckbessinger, whose fury led to the creation of her newest novel, Femme Feral.

SAM BECKBESSINGER: 

My new novel Femme Feral didn’t grow out of a Big Idea so much as an emotion, or rather, the lack of one. 

About a decade ago I was walking around Cape Town on my way to a friend’s birthday. It was one of those perfect picnic-dress days, a spring-in-your-step song-in-your-heart kind of summer afternoon. Then I realised some dude was following me. I did the things all women do. Reached into my handbag and clutched my keys. Scanned for easy exit routes or an open shop I could dash into. Sped up my walk, but not too much, because you don’t want to over-react or trigger his prey drive. This wasn’t the first time I’d been followed, obviously, but something about this time was different. I wasn’t only afraid, I was furious. I’d been having a lovely day until this creep ruined it! And I found myself having a fantasy I’d never had before: that I could reach into my bag and pull out a gun, turn to him, and make him feel afraid.

This was a shock. I’ve never been an angry person. I hate guns and I loathe violence. So much so, I’ve wondered before whether something was wrong with me. Spend time with any toddler and you’ll see that fury’s a foundational human emotion, yet it’s one I’ve barely ever felt. I’ve been a lifelong good girl, empathetic, nurturing, forgiving – sometimes to my detriment. I started to wonder, what happens to feelings you never feel? Are they still there somewhere inside of you, hidden, waiting? Do they mutate? And when they do finally come roaring out, will they be uglier for having been locked away for so long? 

Femme Feral grew out of those questions. It’s the story of a hypercompetent tech executive in her forties who thinks she’s going through perimenopause, but she’s actually turning into a werewolf. She doesn’t realise it, but once a month, she transforms into a violent beast who savagely mauls everyone who pisses her off in her waking life. The problem is, sometimes it’s the people you love who hurt you the most. Oh, also, there’s an obsessive monster-hunter on her trail – an eighty-four year old vigilante named Brenda who’s trying to find the creature that killed her cat.

The perimenopause part was fun to write, because that’s a joke about how the medical industry still somehow, in 2026, knows about as much about perimenopause as it knows about lycanthropy. When I wrote it, I was myself approaching forty, seeing the first signs of my own oncoming werewolf era (perimenopause usually begins earlier than most people think!). I can’t tell you how many of my friends I’ve seen go to the doctor to get help for a range of confusing midlife symptoms and instead of being given any actual help, the doctor suggests maybe they should try losing some weight. 

But the gorgeous thing about midlife is that it’s also – for many of us – the age our lifelong coping strategies begin to fail, and we’re forced to reckon with everything we’ve been repressing. Anger is an unacceptable emotion in women, so many of us repress it or transform it into something else. The beautiful thing about midlife, for many of us, is that our bodies no longer allow us to do that. Some of us have quite exciting breakdowns that lead to healthy realisations and overdue dramatic life changes; some of us lure our toxic bosses into an alleyway and rip their intestines out. Whatever a girl’s got to do.

This is exactly what I love so much about horror: how it allows you to speak the language of metaphor and play with our most primal emotions. It amuses me, too, that the werewolf is one of the most stubbornly masculine of monsters in our culture because we still find it impossible to imagine women as uncontrollably violent (there are some glorious exceptions, of course, from Ginger Snaps to Alan Moore’s “The Curse” to Rachel Yoder’s Nightbitch). 

Unlike my previous novel Girls of Little Hope, which I co-wrote with my friend Dale Halvorsen and which we carefully planned and outlined before writing a word of prose, the first draft of Femme Feral came out of me in a hot stinking vomit (almost like … it had been curdling inside of me all this time). The first draft was a half-formed hideous thing, which I then spent several years pulling into the shape of a novel. Many spreadsheets were involved, since control is my coping mechanism of choice. 

I had a blast taking a wild premise and then trying to work through the consequences very seriously. If you could rip someone’s head off, whose head would tempt you first? What would an NHS GP say if you told him that once a month you find yourself naked and covered in blood on the other side of town with no memory of how you got there? And the question that probably vexed me more than any other (and John Landis never had to deal with): how the heck is this beast roaming all around modern London without being spotted by CCTV?

The process of writing this story was deeply therapeutic for me. I’m not sure I’ve fully worked out exactly what I think about anger, but a novel’s not a polemic so it doesn’t require you to have an argument. It only requires you to have some questions, and then to get in touch with the parts of yourself that might be asking them. In my case, that was a furious beast I had been telling myself wasn’t even there. 

—-

Femme Feral: Amazon (US)|Barnes & Noble|Bookshop|Powell’s|UK 

Author socials: Website|Instagram

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Posted by Athena Scalzi

Spring is in full swing here in Ohio and it has been both very beautiful and very allergy-inducing. One of the more beautiful aspects is that there is apparently a ton of American Wisteria wrapped around my pergola by the garage, and I find it to be extremely pretty. See for yourself:

A beautiful blossom of the American Wisteria, purple and clustered together into almost hydrangea like shapes.

This particular bloom is more open and blossomed than the others, hence why I took its photo. Before they bloomed, they all looked like tiny purple pinecones. I had no idea that they would open up into these beautiful flower clusters. I’m absolutely thrilled these are wrapped completely around my pergola. I notice their beauty every time I leave my house.

Very grateful to have some pretty purple flowers around.

Have you seen American Wisteria before? Perhaps you’ve seen the wisteria in Japan before? Let me know in the comments, and have a great day!

-AMS

The Big Idea: Ada Hoffman

2026-May-12, Tuesday 15:10
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Posted by Athena Scalzi

When it comes down to it, all humanity really has at the end of the day is our stories. Telling stories around the fire is a tale as old as humans themselves, and author Ada Hoffman expresses the importance of these stories, and the importance of being human, in the Big Idea for their newest novel, Ignore All Previous Instructions.

ADA HOFFMAN:

When I tell people the premise of Ignore All Previous Instructions, they often remark how it reminds them of real life these days. In Ignore, the characters live in a space colony on Callisto where a generative AI company owns everything – and where making art or telling stories, without the AI’s assistance, is strictly not allowed.

Certainly there are parallels between this dystopian premise and my life in 2026 – working as an adjunct for a university computer science department where the people in charge keep yelling about the “pivot to AI” and how terrible it will be if we don’t all get on board.

But I wrote Ignore in 2023.

Publishing is slow, and novelists write about current events at our own peril. In 2023, I could see which way the tech industry hype train was going, but there was no way to know if it would still be going that direction three years later. I hoped it wouldn’t be. I decided to write the story anyway and see how it landed, because the topic was so close to my professional expertise and so close to my heart.

Another part of the novel, even closer to my heart and equally timely, was the problem of queer self-expression and book bans.

In 2023, I was at an early stage in therapy. I was just starting to think back, in ways I hadn’t allowed myself before, about how some of my experiences growing up had shaped me. This included a lot of things, many of them not germane to this post, but it also included the experience of growing up queer without understanding that that’s what it was.

My gut told me that I needed to write about these experiences – more urgently than I had ever needed to write about anything before.

In 2023, we were already seeing book bans and “Don’t Say Gay” laws. I didn’t know if that trend was going to continue for three years, either. I hoped it wouldn’t. But I couldn’t help but look at that news and think of my own childhood. I eventually did find words and concepts for what I was experiencing, although not necessarily in the healthiest way. The generation after me was given so much more, in terms of words and ways of understanding themselves. It galled me to see reactionaries trying to take that away from them again.

When I put these two urgently emerging problems together, I could see that they had one big thing in common. They were both, at heart, about the deep human need to express one’s own feelings – and a powerful movement that threatened to take it away.

AI writing is not an expression of the genuine heartfelt thought or experience of a human. If it is carefully prompted to express a human’s heartfelt thought, then the thought comes from the human, not the AI. Research shows that, the longer we use a generative AI, the less our own thoughts enter into it; instead, offloading our thinking onto an AI causes our own capacity for independent thought to atrophy. Given the fervor and urgency with which tech companies urge us to use AI for everything, one might be forgiven for suspecting that this atrophy is their goal.

Moreover, because it’s trained to predict the most likely continuation of a set of words, AI writing will always converge toward the most mainstream or most common way of looking at something. The mainstream of the training data – essentially, the whole Internet, plus all the published books that the tech companies could find – is not queer. Even without any deliberate censorship, the perspectives of queer people and other minoritized groups are less likely to be considered in an AI’s output. For the same reason, if the AI is deliberately prompted to represent a queer perspective, it will rely on broad averages and stereotypes – not the lived and felt experience of an individual human who is queer.

But in hard times like these, independent thought based on our own lived experience is exactly what we need. This is the skill that helps us to understand when something is not quite right, or doesn’t quite match the truth of our lives – whether it’s a structural injustice or something personal.

Ignore All Previous Instructions tells the story of characters who grow up caught in a system where their own thoughts and voices are not valued, and who find ways – determinedly and imperfectly – to tell their own stories regardless. If there’s one idea readers take away from the book, I hope it’s the beauty and power of storytelling in our own words – and the need to hold on to it in the face of an establishment which would rather our stories weren’t told.


Ignore All Previous Instructions: Amazon|Barnes & Noble|Bookshop

Author socials: Website|Bluesky

Read an excerpt.

The text is not the product

2026-May-12, Tuesday 13:19
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Posted by Lisa Herzog

Academics, especially in the humanities, produce texts, and they teach students to produce text. This is a standard assumption, often taken for granted, and maybe not too surprising in times in which productivity is a supreme social norm. Think of the relief – by students and faculty alike – when a text has been submitted before the deadline. Think of all the praise for writers and texts that goes around in our fields (“prolific,” “rigorous,” “accessible,” …). Think of the proud social media posts with a pile of books fresh off the press (I’ve been guilty of that myself).

Generative AI, for all its problems, has one virtue: it forces us to rethink that assumption. The ease with which AI can spit out seemingly coherent text, or help rewrite a few convoluted sentences into elegant prose, has been perceived by some academics as a threat to the very meaning of our professional existence. “I feel like one of those coal miners must have felt when it was already clear that the mines would be closed soon,” a colleague recently said to me.

I want to resist this idea – maybe out of a desperate desire to cling to my professional identity, but with what I have come to think of as an important distinction: texts as products, or texts as means to something very different.

There may be situations in which texts are really products in and of themselves. I wanted to provide examples (certain types of cheap fiction writing? user manuals? the small print in contracts?), but the longer I think about it, the harder I find it to come up with examples that would really fit. We treat texts as products; they get bought and sold (think of everything around copy right and IP). But in reality, texts are almost always something else. Here is an incomplete list of what texts can be:

  • a means for communicating certain facts or ideas,
  • a means for communicating that one knows certain facts or ideas,
  • a means for helping others solve problems,
  • a means for establishing a certain formal status, e.g. by defining or shifting or excluding legal liability,
  • a means for establishing a certain informal status, e.g. by claiming authority over certain ideas,
  • a means for establishing social bonds, e.g. ingroup and outgroup relations,
  • a means for transferring emotions,
  • a means for opening up one’s soul to another human being.

 

Depending on what it is that a text is actually meant to do, it is more or less appropriate to use AI (and by the way – if we had less IP on certain texts, we could do much more with good old copy+paste, for many practical purposes, and would not need AI). Around some things, legal or social norms will probably change (Is it okay to use AI to write a birthday poem for grandma? Will proud authorship claims be made about prompts rather than final products?).

Back to academia, and the doomsaying about the humanities that my colleague expressed. The “product” of a course is not the stack of essays that lands in our inbox, or on our desks, at the end of it – and that might be corrupted by the use of AI. The point of a humanities education, I would argue, is not even to “produce students who can write good texts.” The point is to produce human beings of a certain kind: who understand certain things, who have certain forms of knowledge, who have certain skills such as critical thinking and creativity – and who, as a byproduct, can write good texts.

The availability of AI tools forces us to rethink what it is that we want to achieve with our pedagogical methods. Enter (drum roll) – the “Dublin descriptors.” If you work in European academia and ever had to set up a new program or get an existing one reaccredited, you’ve probably come across this list of words that are meant to describe what students learn (here, for example; for specific programs one then needs to then specify them at each level, and show how each element of the program contributes to the overall goal). When I first came across them, I found this a tedious bureaucratic exercise. Many traditional pedagogical strategies, after all, are meant to achieve a combination of them, e.g. knowledge about a certain classical text and critical exegetic skills and the ability to formulate arguments and exercise judgment. But in times in which AI requires us to rethink many traditional forms of examination, this exercise is actually quite useful for thinking about what one wants to achieve in one’s teaching (and which pedagogical strategies and form of examination fit with those goals).

It is a widespread fallacy that by using AI, students can learn faster. Another dean of my university (let’s be graceful and not mention the discipline) recently said in a meeting that students could use AI to let it summarize “500 pages of text” for them. But why should an employer want to hire graduates who have just read the AI summary of these 500 pages, rather than actually having worked through them? How would such a student later contribute to *expanding* knowledge in the relevant field, by thinking creatively about what is already known and by asking the right questions about what is still unknown? This will still require the cognitive process of going through the 500 pages and understanding them.

The hard work of suffering through such learning processes cannot be replaced by AI. They include many emotional side effects – enthusiasm frustration, triumph, disappointment when the sense of triumph turns out to be premature, etc. From that pedagogical perspective, insofar as writing is part of it, it is very much the process of writing and rewriting that matters, the reaction to feedback, the refinement that comes from someone saying: “I don’t understand what you mean.” It is no accident that learning has almost always been organized in social settings.* You need peers to go through these processes together, and someone to guide and motivate you when things don’t go as smoothly as you would wish. I very much doubt that AI will take over that deeply human role of pedagogy; certainly not for younger children, but probably also not for the young adults we typically teach at universities.

And then there is a last thing over which I’ve recently been mulling a lot. A key point of a good text, written by a person, is that it expresses a sense of that person standing by the words they wrote, of taking a stance because it matters to them: because they want to correct what they see as a fallacy or wrong position, because it is connected to certain interests or values, because they care.

AI, in contrast, cannot care about anything because it is a machine and not a person, it has no vulnerabilities, no dignity, nothing that could be hurt. Insofar as it sounds emotional and engaged, it has copied that tone from texts written by humans who were emotional and engaged. Despite that copying, all too often – at least in the experiments I did with AI so far – it often sounded incredibly bland and indifferent, producing bullshit without accountability. I often couldn’t help thinking, about its tone: a privileged kid, a bit drunk and therefore overconfident, who grew up knowing their daddy will pay for the lawyer to get them out of whatever nonsense they produce with their indifference to truth….

Learning to write, as a human, also means learning to understand what one cares about, and what one is willing to take a stance on. It means learning to weigh one’s words, in written even more than in spoken contexts, because the words are there to stay (the same holds for spoken words that are recorded, of course). The texts may come to contribute to defining who one is, or at least how others perceive one’s public persona. There are still many settings in today’s world, in which what you write can get you shunned, or unemployed, or even killed. In such cases, it takes bravery to stand up for one’s words – and yet it is precisely this courage that often leads to text that really matter.

Maybe it is this attitude, the virtue of truthfulness and the courage to find the right words for what one really thinks, that our ways of teaching students should focus on much more? Then we can be quite sure that no AI will ever replace us.

 

 

 * I very much enjoyed reading this text about the social nature of human intelligence.

Raising the Roof

2026-May-11, Monday 23:58
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Posted by John Scalzi

In the further adventures of home renovation, the back deck has been laid and now the roofing is being put up, for shade and to keep rain off the deck. It’s looking.. pretty good! There’s more to be done, obviously. But it’s coming along nicely.

— JS

Creature From The Pit [3]

2026-May-11, Monday 11:22
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Posted by Unknown

In the black and white era, Doctor Who was simply one more piece of BBC drama. Not necessarily the greatest drama ever written; certainly not the greatest special effects; maybe not even the greatest cast. But the actors mainly portrayed Thals or Space Agents or Alien Ambassadors in the same way they would have portrayed Ancient Britons and Greek Noblemen in an historical play. By the time we get to Creature From the Pit, this is no longer the case.

People sometimes talk about “bad acting” (often when they want to close down a discussion about a particular show’s merits and demerits.) I am not sure that I know what bad acting means. I can spot people who are not acting, say in village hall pantomimes or school plays. I can identify very good acting: that’s usually the kind which doesn’t seem to be acting at all. Some modern young thespians can convince an audience that she is just improvised “the quality of mercy” on the spot and that no-one has ever spoken those lines before. But when people speak of "bad" acting I think they are more often talking about wrong acting: acting which doesn’t seem appropriate to the scene or genre or story that they are currently watching. Anyone capable of getting cast on the professional stage or prime time TV is perfectly capable of doing their job. And their job is to do what the director tells them. 

"Bad" acting is an artistic decision. 

At the end of Episode One, K9 is apparently dead—killed by giant carnivorous tumbleweed. Lalla Ward has been to the Royal College of Speech and Drama. I assume that if the director had said “I want you to convince us that a much-loved pet has just died” she would have been able to make a decent fist of it. Not necessarily an Oscar-winning performance that leaves audiences in tears, but something which convinced us viewers that she felt a bit sad. She would not have clenched her fists, crossed them across her breast, and said “Good BOY K9!” like a Blue Peter presenter offering a gold badge to a Cub Scout. Nor would she have wave her hands in a similar gesture while plaintively crying “Okay, NINE — Kaaay-NINE” without any human feelings at all.

Granted, Lalla is giving her lines to a tin box. And granted, although this was the third of her stories to be shown, it was the first to be filmed, so she is still finding her feet in the role. She’s delivering lines that were written for Mary Tamm before she has developed her on and offscreen chemistry with Tom Baker. But this is not an amateur trying and failing to appear grief struck. In six months time she will be doing Ophelia alongside Derek Jacobi and Patrick Stewart.

We know that K9 is not dead; and she knows that we know that K9 is not dead. And we wouldn’t care all that much if he was: the Doctor could presumably whip up a Mark III version in the TARDIS workshop. It’s never completely clear if we should think of K9 as a person or a piece of hardware, in any case. Romana spends are fair chunk of this story brandishing him like a phaser. There is not much point in attempting pathos: stylised theatrical camp is the way to go. Lalla ward is doing panto-grief because panto -grief is what the director wants her to do.

There is a similar artificiality to the scenes in which Romana is imprisoned by Torvin and his bandits: but these scenes embrace the theatricality much more effectively. In theory, it could all have been quite terrifying: a group of cut-throat robbers threaten to murder a vulnerable young woman. But of course, we know that this is the one thing that is not going to happen: and crucially, Romana knows it too. The bandits are one-note, comedic figures—almost Pythonesque in their silliness—and their prisoner treats them with complete disdain. While they quarrel about who is in charge, speculate about the value of her clothing, and wonder if she might have a metal leg, Romana tells them off like a supercilious school mistress 

“I am not used to being assaulted by a collection of hairy, grubby little men. I don't intend to get used to it, either. Sit down."

Of course, we don't believe a word of it: we aren't meant to. We don’t believe that anyone, however clever, could cow a group of thugs into submission by force of personality. We don’t believe that anyone, however stupid, could be bluffed that easily into blowing a whistle and summonsing a dog-shaped plot device. And we quite definitely don't believe the comedy bandits would really kill anyone, even after taking a card vote on the question. 

But that’s what makes the scene so watchable. Romana and the bandits don’t belong in the same story; and they both know it.
 

It is certainly regrettable that when actors are called on to play avaricious thieves, they reach for a Yiddish-Cockney accent out of Oliver Twist. But I would probably not put it any stronger than that.


Imagine a world where City of Death had been filmed, not in Paris, but in London, with men in berets on bicycles with onions on their handlebars passing by, while women bought huge loaves of bread? We would have known that it was not Really Paris; but then we knew Destiny of the Daleks was Not Really Skaro. Would it still be a classic story? Would it still be the same classic story? 

There is a black and white episode in which the Daleks and the TARDIS materialise at the top of what is very, very obviously not the Empire State Building. How would that scene have worked if they’d flown William Hartnell and Peter Purves out to New York? But conversely, how would Tom Baker and Lalla Ward’s banter about flying have come across if they’d been in a BBC studio standing in front of a sign saying Tour Eiffel : Etage Trois and not at the top of the actual real life Eiffel Tower?

Imagine a world where Creature From the Pit had the glossy production values that were going to arrive in Season Eighteen. Or, better: imagine it with the special effects budget of New Who. A massive CGI Erastos that really looks like a house-sized brain? Tentacles that undulate and wriggle and don’t remotely suggest a man’s john thomas? ILM quality shots of him flying off in a proton powered space egg? 

And while we are at it: imagine the producer had told John Bryans (the bandit leader) to drop the silly accent and remove the fake beard?

Imagine, in fact, that Graham Chapman had walked on and told everyone to stop being so silly.

Would a silliness amputation leave us with a decent, intelligent bit of science fiction that we don’t need to apologise for? Or would it just spoil the fun? 

Most of us are pretty sure that giant green alien amoebas don’t really exist: so would Tom Baker talking to what is obviously a three dimensional animation really be more “believable” than Tom Baker talking to what is obviously three men in a bag?


And then: imagine Creature From the Pit filmed in black and white, circa 1966. An artefact from a monochrome world where men wear ties and none of the Beatles are dead. Every scene in a studio; every background painted; the Creature portrayed by a puppet on a very visible string, which never appears in the same shot as William Hartnell apart maybe from a giant tentacle that emerges from just outside the frame. But the same script: exactly the same script, allowing perhaps for the lead actor's idiosyncratic improvisations. (“An astronomer, rather, astrologers, you say, my dear boy, dear oh dear.")

Would it sill be far too silly? Or would it be poignantly, nostalgically, touchingly of its time?

Is the silliness of Creature From the Pit the accidental result of deficiencies in the production? Or is it intrinsically there in the script? Is the silliness something we put up with to get at the nugget of science fiction that it contains? Or is the silliness the very thing that keeps us coming back each week?

Somewhere buried at the bottom of the Pit is a perfectly good tale. The planet Chloris is almost entirely forest; with only a single metal mine. The planet Tythonis has lots of metal, but not nearly enough plants to feed all the house-sized chlorophyll munching amoebas who live there. A trade agreement seems like a no-brainer: but Adrasta, who owns the mine, imprisons the trade ambassador in order to maintain her monopoly. In retribution, the other giants brains of Tythonis throw a neutron star at Chlrois. They have no way of recalling it once it is launched, so the Doctor, Erato the Alien and the non-evil Chlorisians have to work together to stop it. Adrasta could have been a quite canny, if callous, plutocrat; but she is mainly characterised by her habit of shouting “seize them” and “kill them” at everything that moves. The first three episodes are essentially light-hearted horror pastiche: genitals aside, the Creature’s Pit is an impressive, dark, bone strewn domain of evilness. But we transition into a space opera much too quickly: the entire Doc Smith routine about neutron stars and aluminium shells is dried and dusted in the last fifteen minutes of Episode Four. I don’t know if I believe that The Pit can have become a site of superstitious dread if the ambassador has only been held there for fifteen years. And I am not sure if I can so easily forgive the Creature for killing all those people because he didn’t really mean it. He wasn’t eating them: he was trying to make friends. He honestly thought that rolling on people and squashing them to death was just how humans communicated. The effects sequence in which Edrasto weaves his shell around the star is one of the least special ever to appear on Doctor Who. But there is something rather endearing about the way in which the whole scheme is put in jeopardy because the Monty Python bandits have pinched the alien’s proton drive. (They seem to be able to get in and out of the palace with astonishing ease.)

If you want to say that Creature From the Pit feels like a pantomime, by all means do so. Certainly the series has become more consciously camp since the departure of Phillip Hinchcliffe. Li-Sen Cheng (in Talons of Weng-Chiang) may have been a dreadful racist caricature and Jago and Litefoot were very broadly drawn indeed: but back then no-one is giving self-consciously ironic performances. You can’t imagine Adrasta making the speech about joining the ancestors in the Jade palace; you certainly can’t imagine Torvin and Edu having the conversation about not being so bally brave when it comes to it.

Perhaps it was an accident; the death of a thousand gags. Perhaps the other actors were forced to deliver broader and broader performances in a desperate attempt to make themselves visible in the face of Tom Baker’s ego. Perhaps the Fourth Doctor’s schoolboy flippancy infected the rest of the cast. But perhaps this was the direction that Williams and Adams honestly thought the show should travel in. The BBC largely caved in to Mary Whitehouse’s complaints about the Doctor Who being too frightening and violent for children. If real horror has been prohibited, then artificial horror may be the only direction left for you to go in.

A good script with a silly cast? A good cast doing the best it can with an irredeemably silly script? A post-modern take on the cliches of Doctor Who, or a genuinely terrible Doctor Who story? Script editor Douglas Adams first novel was climbing the best-seller chart: perhaps silly, absurdist science fiction was precisely what we wanted at the time.

This is the latest of my ongoing commentary on the Tom Baker era of classic Who. If you have enjoyed it, it would absolutely make my day if you click on the link and pledge £5 a month to my Patreon. It's that easy. One little click. You know you want to.  

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Posted by Hannah Forsyth

Last week Australia’s central bank (Reserve Bank of Australia, RBA) raised interest rates. Again.

Political economists have been talking for decades about the RBA’s tendency to redistribute wealth from the bottom upwards. But now it seems most people understand that the latest interest rate rises requires ordinary people to hand over more of their cash to their bank, to get it out of circulation and bring down inflation.

Asking whether superannuation or taxes could also be used for the purpose of reducing interest rates, the ABC pointed out that interest rates were not always the way inflation was managed. They published an article asking ‘Would you rather hand over an extra $300 a month to your bank or the federal government?’ – suggesting that this might even be an option.

Rightly, the ABC points to the place of government in setting up this structure. But history shows that for all that government is nominally in charge. Well. You might have noticed that banks are fairly powerful. Government v bank doesn’t always mean the government wins…as we will see.

Battle of the Banks

I recently published a review of Bob Crawshaw’s Battle of the Banks, which is about the role of the media in what nearly every historian agrees was a controversial (sometimes seen as just plain mad) decision on the part of 1940s Labor Prime Minister Ben Chifley to try to nationalise Australia’s banking sector.

We have a number of accounts of this fairly notorious episode in Australian history. This one might be the most rollicking. Here is my review, though you probably need institutional access to the Journal of Australian Studies to read it. Yell out if you can’t and I can send you a pre-published version.

The basic story of the battle of the banks is this:

  • The Curtin/Chifley governments had been able to use the banking system( especially the ‘People’s Bank’, the Commonwealth Bank of Australia, which was owned and operated by the government as a central, merchant and trading bank) to help finance Australia’s participation in the Second World War.
  • They now sought to use similar measures to enable them to finance Post-War Reconstruction, which among other things included a very substantial housing program, which they said would fulfil all the dreams of ‘Mrs Australia’.
  • To do this, there was a new banking Act. Led by what is now NAB, the commercial banks challenged the Act in the High Court. Based on a bit of the constitution about money moving across state borders as a foundational goal of federation, one of the provisions of the Act (requiring local government to bank with the Commonwealth Bank so that the flow of cash would help finance housing) was deemed unconstitutional.
  • Evidently pissed off, Chifley called a Cabinet meeting where it was agreed that since this Act was bust, they would nationalise the banks.

At this point nearly every historian (including Crawshaw) declares this to be ‘rash’, as if Chifley just thought it up out of pique and somehow bulldozed cabinet into this crazy plan.

But in fact bank nationalisation has been Labor policy for several decades.

Populist Money Movements

In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the labour movement developed a serious skepticism about the banking sector.

Historian Peter Love wrote an excellent book a while back now about populist opposition to ‘the ‘money power’, which grew as banking became more influential in the development of Australian capitalism.

Peter Love shows they way this movement helped cohere working class activism in the face of multiple crises, especially the bank crashes of the 1890s and the 1930s Great Depression.

In the 1920s, opposition to the ‘money power’ also coalesced into a politics attached to Douglas Credit. This was a (kinda wacky, in retrospect) idea that a new kind of money could be distributed as as a kind of ticketing system. This would guarantee consumer demand on one hand, and redistribute national wealth on the other, rather than allowing historical power blocs to accumulate more, while others have insufficient money to purchase what they need. It is a precursor, in some ways, to both MMT and a universal basic income.

In the 1920s when ideas and practices of banking, money, economics and politics were still a little more up for grabs than they now seem, the labour movement’s anxiety about the money power helped give Douglas credit political potency. The political party linked to the idea made some progress in the 1930s.

During and after the Great Depression, the idea that we could fix things by issuing currency differently took such hold that it grew into a key reason (on the surface at least) for a Royal Commission into the Monetary and Banking Systems in Australia, commencing in 1935 and reporting in 1937. Reading the report and the submissions from banks, one gets the impression that Social Credit was the public reason for the Royal Commission. Underneath it – at least to my (fairly cursory…SO FAR) reading – was a desire to consolidate data about banking to see what sort of regulation and coordination the sector needed in the wake of the Great Depression.

I wrote about this recently for Griffith Review.

Banks are a utility

A decade or so before he was in government, Labor politician Ben Chifley was one of the commissioners on the Royal Commission into the Monetary and Banking Systems.

The final report of the Commission (1937) includes a dissenting report by Chifley. In it, he describes the way that banking has become more important in the past half-century or so.

Emerging in modern form as a partner of the state, helping facilitate fiscal policy, in other respects banking was a marginal industry on the edge of international shipping. It was crucial to that, though, providing the money needed to ship (say) you wool clip to England to meet a contract. In return for this service, banks took a cut, known as the ‘discount rate’. This was core business to such a degree that some 19th century banks didn’t even accept deposits. That wasn’t what they were there for.

Beginning with the 1851 gold rush (I think), this began to change in Australia. Becoming buyers and sellers of gold set them up as deposit-holders because a deposit was the better way to pay for gold.

And slowly, slowly – too slowly for some farmers and small business owners – they also became providers of business credit.

So in 1937, Ben Chifley looked at this system and saw that nothing could happen in the economy without the banks. It was a utility. In my Griffith Review piece I likened banking-as-utility to sewage. It is essential, but also full of shit.

That time Australia nearly nationalised all the banks

As a utility, Chifley thought that (a) nationalisation was best, but in the absence of that, what with how all the other commissioners were more conservative and were never going to back nationalisation, (b) banking profit rates should be seriously limited. Chifley had some specific suggestions, but the commissioners did in fact agree that the government could consider limiting bank profits.

For Chifley limiting profits would ensure government had the cash it needed to do stuff and/or money was circulating in the economy where it belonged (a key factor during the Great Depression to be sure), rather than flowing relentlessly into the coffers of the banks’ rich shareholders, redistributing national incomes straight into the pockets of the ‘money power’.

We should briefly note that the situation Chifley saw has only intensified. Since bank deregulation, home loans are the big asset on banks’ balance sheets. These are created from nothing (kind of), secured against the ever-rising value of real estate. They are like a vacuum, created to hoover up wages.

So Chifley’s attempt to nationalise the banks in the 1940s was not such a mad plan as it seems in retrospect. It not only reflected longstanding Labor policy, but it also embodied Chifley’s 1937 observation that banking was the sewage system of the economy: public (economic) health depends on its effectiveness, and a focus on very high profits was likely to fuck up its very purpose.

From the people’s bank to the bankers’ bank

The commercial banks success at overturning the postwar reconstruction banking Act they didn’t like emboldened them further. Bank nationalisation was of course a much bigger step and Crawshaw shows that (as well as secretly funding Robert Menzies’ campaign) they went after Chifley using every propaganda tool they could muster, making it a good case study for Crawshaw’s media-savvy eye.

Spoiler alert: Chifley failed. The proposal was that banks would be compulsorily acquired at the commercial rate independently assessed and where every bank worker would keep their job at the current pay rate or better. But in the anti-communist moment, the banks were able to leverage wider dissatisfaction with Chifley to ensure he would not be elected and that their fella, conservative visionary Robert Menzies, would be.

Chifley’s opportunity was gone. And the banks now felt themselves to be unstoppable.

While they were on a roll they decided to go after the Commonwealth Bank, known then as ‘the people’s bank’.

The commercial banks really, really didn’t like that this central bank also competed with them as a trading bank. Just like Rupert Murdoch doesn’t like the existence of the government-funded national broadcaster, the ABC, they felt that the Commonwealth Bank had an unfair commercial advantage.

So, the pressure mounted until the central bank and the trading bank roles were separated. The Reserve Bank of Australia was established as the central bank in 19t60, separating out this goal from the Commonwealth Bank.

Whatever else they may be, we would hardly describe either the Commonwealth Bank or RBA as a ‘people’s bank’ any more. And the power of the banks, not to mention their incredible annual profits, has certainly not lessened – even after another, much more scathing, Royal Commission in 2017-18.

57

2026-May-10, Sunday 15:46
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Posted by John Scalzi

I’m fifty-seven today, and today is the first birthday that I can actually say that I can really feel I’m getting older. I have an arthritic knee now, which if I don’t take medication for will remind me that it’s arthritic; it’s also the first thing with my body (other than occasional seasonal allergies) that I habitually have to take a pill for. On the cosmetic level, the structure of my neck has begun to collapse, and while some of that has to do with the fact I’m carrying more weight around than I have before, I suspect that even when I get down to a more comfortable weight for me (this is on the “to do” list for my fifty-seventh year), the lack of structure will still be there. My already very thin hair up top has become even thinner. I have started wearing cardigans.

On the other hand, my career is going great, my family is terrific, and I’m married to the best human I know. I see friends often, I travel all over the place to see people who are happy I’ve come to where they are, and I get to do with my life pretty much what I’ve ever wanted to do. Is that all worth the arthritic knee and the collapsing neck structure? Well, here’s the thing: At this point in the game, the arthritic knee and collapsing neck structure would be happening anyway, regardless of the circumstances of my life. On balance, I have very little to complain about on this, my fifty-seventh birthday, and much to be happy for and grateful about.

So that’s what I’m going to focus on. It’s a good day where I am, and I hope it’s a good day where you are, too. Happy my birthday to you! And many more!

— JS

Hey, “AI” Still Sucks

2026-May-08, Friday 18:44
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Posted by John Scalzi

Your occasional reminder that "AI" is shit: Every assertion in this "AI Overview" of the question "What coffee does John Scalzi drink" is wrong. I don't regularly drink coffee (and never black) I've never had black sesame jasmine cream tea, and I don't hang in coffee shops. Don't trust "AI" ever!

John Scalzi (@scalzi.com) 2026-05-08T16:24:42.334Z

I still ask “AI” questions about me from time to time, just to see what it knows about a moderately notable science fiction author and whether it will still make up things when it doesn’t know something, and as of May 8, 2026, the answer to each is “not as much as it thinks it does,” and “it definitely will.”

As always, I remind myself: If it knows this little about something I know very well, think of how little it knows about things I know nothing about. It literally cannot be trusted with anything factual (because, one again, it doesn’t know facts, it just knows what is statistically likely to be the next word), and thinking that can be is an actual intellectual hazard and fault. Don’t be the one who does that.

— JS

Creature From the Pit (2)

2026-May-08, Friday 20:03
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Posted by Unknown

Pantomime is a uniquely British form of theatre. Unlike Morris dancing and the Mummers’ play, it’s a living, popular tradition, as opposed to one curated by revivalists. Plenty of theatres only remain in business because the annual “panto” season is a guaranteed money-spinner. The BBC reckons there were 260 professional pantomimes in Britain in 2025.

So what is a panto? If you are from outside the UK you may find it hard to understand what all the fuss is about. It’s an annual Christmas entertainment for children; based on fairy tales like Cinderella or Jack and the Beanstalk or folk tales like Robin Hood or Dick Whittington. The storyline plays second fiddle to song-and-dance numbers, pie-in-the-face slapstick routines and “Who’s on first?” skits. Each tale has its own cast of stock characters: almost anyone in England would know that Cinderella’s father is called Baron Hardup and Aladdin’s mother is named Widow Twanky. Cinderella has an entire subplot about Buttons and Dandini that was entirely unknown to the Grimm brothers. There is no fourth wall: all the characters are aware of the audience the whole time, which leads to much raucous audience participation:

“Have you seen the Sheriff, boys and girls? Well if you do be sure and….”

“HE’S BEHIND YOU!”

Oh: and it does weird but entirely innocent things with gender. At least one of the older female characters will be a “dame”--a man in women’s clothes--and the heroic male lead or “principal boy” will often be played by a young woman.

One particular characteristic of a good panto is that it shifts effortlessly between genres and registers. In that respect it’s not unlike Gilbert and Sullivan, and indeed the later, MGM Marx Brothers movies. Although the show will be very broad farce, the protagonists—Cinderella or Aladdin or Prince Charming—will tend to deliver their lines relatively straight--playing romantic romantically and heroic scenes heroically. The giant might be a man on stilts; or a large pair of legs disappearing into the flies; or just the tallest actor the management was able to hire—but Jack will tend to dead-pan his reactions, even if his mother (“Dame Trott”) was making scatological innuendos about patting the cow in the previous scene.Even the smallest members of the audience aren’t remotely scared; but the scenes with the bad guys are played as if they were frightening. Babes in the Wood has largely vanished from the repertoire, because stories about child abduction are no longer thought to be very funny, even if everyone knows the kids are going to be saved by Robin Hood before the curtain call. Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs can present difficulties in this regard: the trick is to create a narrative distance between the darkness of the fairy tale and the silliness of the performance. You might have an affable comedian saying “Boys and girls, I am the Huntsman, and my job is to kill Snow White! Do you think I will? Do you think I will?” Walt Disney played the heroine’s “death” for pathos, but the panto dwarfs often engage in comedic howling and bawling. I once saw one Warwick Davies essay the role of “Doc” and deliver an excellent speech beginning “Oh, if only this were a stage play, or perhaps even a classic movie, like, say, Return of the Jedi or Willow, which always have happy endings, but this is real life….”

Tolkien once saw a production of Puss In Boots that used smoke and lighting effects to transform a mouse into an ogre in front of the audience. He said that it was ingeniously done. But he added that if you could have convincingly effected the transformation, then either the audience would have been terrified; or they would have been baffled, as one sometimes is by a conjuring trick. They certainly wouldn’t have believed that they had seen actual magic. Fairy tales require secondary belief: special effects simply provide spectacle. This was one reason that he thought that a movie version of Lord of the Rings would be a terrible idea.

Now: very many Doctor Who fans, if asked what went wrong with Season Seventeen, would say that Graham Williams allowed the show to turn into a pantomime. And I think it is clear what the two formats have in common: the ignoring of the fourth wall; the highly stylised and theatrical acting; the villains who you boo and hiss but are not remotely frightened by; dark and serious stories presented as lighthearted comedy; and special effects where disbelief has to be “not so much suspended as hung, drawn and quartered.”

But surely, you can't blame Graham Williams and Douglas Adams for that? Doctor Who was like that from its very inception? 

Oh no, it wasn’t.



The Big Idea: Jill Rosenberg

2026-May-07, Thursday 18:43
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Posted by Athena Scalzi

While it may seem like fantasy is as far from the real world as possible, author Jill Rosenberg suggests that indulging in fantasies and fiction actually connects people instead of isolating them from reality. Dive in to the Big Idea for her newest release, Now I’m Photogenic and Other Stories I Tell Myself, and see if our desires are really just human nature.

JILL ROSENBERG:

People often think of fantasy and the imagination as ways to escape reality, but I think there’s a more complicated and fraught relationship between the two. What we long for, the ways we wish to escape—this grows out of our real experiences of the world. But the reverse is true as well: our “real” experiences are colored by our fantasies. 

We might, for example, wish to be an Olympic-level athlete, as one of my characters does, but this wish highlights the absence of her athletic talent, which may not have shown up as an absence if she’d never longed to be an elite athlete. That feeling of absence and desire drives her behavior, which changes her reality, and the resulting experience changes her understanding of herself and what she really wants.

Our imagination can’t free us from the world because our imagination is made from the world.  But it can alter the way we see things and what feels possible. The first story in my collection is called “The Logic of Imaginary Friends.” This is where I present this big idea most directly. A single mother is left lonely and longing when her eleven-year-old daughter goes to sleepaway camp for the first time, so she reunites with her imaginary friend from childhood.

It’s great at first, until one imaginary friend is not enough, no matter how she morphs him in her mind to meet her shifting needs and desires. The fantasies are fun, but not satisfying, and she begins to feel that she’s choosing this fantasy life over her life with her daughter, but does she have to choose between the two?

As a child, I used my imagination to revise reality. Every Thanksgiving I’d feel so excited for my cousins to visit. I’d imagine myself gregarious, irresistible, rehearsing all of the interactions I’d have, writing their dialogue and mine. But when they arrived, I could never be that person or get the response from them I wanted.

Later that night, however, I could rewrite the dialogue to be more plausible but equally thrilling, given what actually happened. That was always my favorite part of the holiday, alone in my room, taking what happened and transforming it into the holiday I longed for. But the bigger the gulf between my fantasies and reality, the less I was able to enjoy the fantasies or the reality.

It’s this competing desire that compelled me to write these stories: the desire to be known, seen, recognized and special, to connect with those around us, and the desire to hide what makes us unique, to pretend we’re no different from everyone else.

On the one hand, my characters are often reminding themselves of their freedom. Maybe they really can be anything they want to be, but when they try to do it, out in the world, it’s not so easy. They can’t control reality or other people’s responses the way they can control their fantasies. But the more they shy away and hide from the real world, the more that fear of reality infects their fantasies, or, in the surreal stories, the events of their fantastical lives. As a result, their fantasies and their lives get weirder and worse. 

Of course, my strange characters and the unusual things that happen to my characters all stem from my own strangeness and my unusual thoughts and experiences. In my real life, I do not always feel like showcasing the ways in which I deviate from the norm, but I am happy and proud to put my strange and unusual characters out into the world because I do think that fiction shows us new and different ways of being. 

The role of fiction, even surreal fiction, is to bring us closer to the experience of being a human in the real world. That marriage between—and tension between—dream and reality is what I find most thrilling and ultimately satisfying in both my writing and my life.


Now I’m Photogenic and Other Stories I Tell Myself: Amazon|Barnes & Noble|Bookshop|Powell’s|Watchung Booksellers

Author socials: Website|Instagram

Read an excerpt of one story from the collection: The Logic of Imaginary Friends

Getting Decked

2026-May-07, Thursday 00:52
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Posted by John Scalzi

The current state of the new back deck: In progress!

The astute among you, who also remember anything about the previous deck, will notice two differences so far. Most obviously, those tall posts, which will serve for framing a roof, and rather less obviously, the new deck is going to be flush with the patio door where the previous one had a step down. Why did it have a step down? Because, apparently, why not. Krissy decided she could do without the step down so here we are. This will mean that the stairs from the deck to the walkway will have one more step, but this is a choice we are ready to make.

I think it’s looking good, although when it’s done we’ll have some further decorating and landscaping choices to make. This is the way of all home improvements.

More updates as warranted. Expect at least a couple more before it’s all done.

— JS

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Posted by Athena Scalzi

One of my friends recently told me she’s pregnant with her second child, and as much as I love nice cards I knew I wanted to do something a little more for her, so I asked her to tell me what baked good she was really craving. She answered muffins, and my muffin making journey began.

Though she never specified what kind of muffins she wanted, my mind immediately went to a coffee cake type of muffin. In my experience, coffee cake always hits the spot, and there is virtually no one who doesn’t love cinnamon and brown sugar (shout out to the one person I know who is allergic to cinnamon). I just needed to find a good recipe for such muffins.

In my search for coffee cake muffins, I came across this video, showing banana coffee cake muffins:

I knew this recipe was the one. Banana bread vibes enhanced by cinnamon brown sugar streusel?! Yes, please!

Looking at the recipe, it’s very interesting because it uses butter, neutral oil, eggs, and sour cream. So you already know we are in for a MOIST muffin. Especially with the addition of the bananas.

Honestly this recipe is very good for a casual home baker, as there’s nothing weird or hard to come by on the ingredients list. I only had to go buy sour cream and bananas, everything else I had on hand. Though I did use the very last of my flour and brown sugar for this, so sadly I will need to replenish those on my next grocery trip.

Anyways, let me tell you, this recipe is super quick and easy and these taste so flippin’ good! They were so good that I decided to make them again, and this time document it for y’all. So technically this was my second time.

Here’s the ingredients lineup:

King Arthur Unbleached All-Purpose flour, Domino dark brown sugar and granulated sugar, Nielson-Massey vanilla, Kerrygold unsalted butter, two bananas, Daisy sour cream, two Vital Farms brown eggs, baking powder, baking soda, and cinnamon.

If you’ve got a keen eye, you’ll notice I left the oil out of the photo. That was an accident, so just imagine a tall bottle of Crisco Vegetable Oil in the photo. Thanks.

The recipe says to make the streusel first, and I have no arguments against that, so I did! The first time I made it, my butter was cold and cubed like the recipe says, but the second time it was definitely not as cold. But the streusel turned out fine, in my not-so-expert opinion:

A bowl full of crumbly brown streusel. Looks like wet sand, really.

You want your streusel to kind of be like wet sand. At least, that’s what I’ve heard in the past. I covered this with a tea towel and put it in the fridge while I worked on the batter.

The first step of the batter is to mash the bananas and mix in all the wet ingredients. Finally a recipe that adds the bananas to the wet ingredients instead of making you add them at the end. Lookin’ at you, Joy of Cooking.

It says to mix until smooth and glossy, and that’s looking pretty glossified to me:

A bowl of beige sludge with a whisk in it.

For both times I made these muffins, I actually did not melt the butter fully. It was just very, very soft butter, not liquid. So, melt if you want, but I don’t think it matters too much. Everything whisked together super easy!

In the recipe, it says to mix the dry ingredients in a separate bowl and then fold into the wet ingredients, but why not make this a one bowl batter and just throw the dry ingredients in right on top of the wet, and then mix? Makes more sense to me. Here’s the completed batter:

A big bowl of beige batter!

I always use cupcake liners because I hate trying to get muffins unstuck from the pan, plus my pan is kind of not in incredible shape. It’s seen better days, so liners it is.

The recipe says to fill the cups halfway, then add a layer of streusel, then pour more batter and finish off with a top layer of streusel. So here’s the tricky part. How do you know how much streusel to use on the half-cup-layer to ensure that you have a decent amount in the layer, but also ensure that you don’t use too much and make it so the top layer is weak? You have to prioritize the top layer’s condition, but make sure there’s at least some in the middle.

Honestly, my line of thought is to have a decent crumble, but make sure you’re not completely covering the batter. Like you want to be able to see the batter. Then, when you do the top layer, that’s when you cover the batter completely and make it a very full layer of streusel that can’t be seen through. So here’s the half layer:

A dozen half full cupcake liners topped with some streusel.

See how there’s like, a good amount of crumbles in there but you can still clearly see the batter through the spaces? Here’s the top layer:

The final state of the muffins before baking. Each liner is full to the top and has a bunch of streusel on top.

Almost no batter visible at this point. I used every crumb of streusel in the damn bowl (ignore the streusel crumbs in the middle parts of the pan). These were ready to bake.

One interesting thing about this recipe that I haven’t really seen before is that she says to bake them at 400 degrees Fahrenheit and then reduce the temperature to 350 after five minutes, without opening the oven door. How intriguing! I don’t think I’ve ever done that before. Regardless, I listened and reduced it to 350 and baked for 13 minutes since it said 12 to 15.

They come out a little ugly, but they smell incredible:

A tin full of baked, golden brown muffins!

The streusel sort of just melds into the top of the muffin instead of being a defined layer on top, so they just kinda look bumpy and weird. But I promise they taste damn good. Look at that crumb!

The cross section of the soft muffin, presenting a moist crumb and golden brown exterior.

These are super soft, moist, flavorful muffins with a delish crunchy, sweet cinnamon streusel topping. There’s cinnamon in the streusel and the batter itself, so you’re getting a lot of warm flavor here. The banana is an enhancement, not a detraction.

I gave the first batch to my friend like I mentioned, and she told me they were “AMAZING” and “insanely good” and literally told me to come back and get one immediately so I could try it myself. Thankfully, I had enough ingredients to make a second batch shortly after, and now y’all can try it for yourself.

Some of the muffins from the first batch had a weird issue of sinking in a little bit on the top in the middle, but the second batch didn’t have that issue. Not sure why.

Anyways, this recipe is going to be one I return to often. These are perfect just to gift to friends and family, or have on hand for a morning snack with your coffee. I highly recommend giving them a try.

Do you like banana bread or coffee cake better? Would you try this delish combo? Let me know in the comments, and have a great day!

-AMS

The Big Idea: Andrew Dana Hudson

2026-May-06, Wednesday 16:01
[syndicated profile] scalziwhatever_feed

Posted by Athena Scalzi

While we all know that technically our lives could end at any moment, sometimes that fact can feel far away. Author Andrew Dana Hudson brings that little known fact into the spotlight in his newest novel, Absence. Come along in his Big Idea as you think about what you would be leaving behind if you were to suddenly, mysteriously, become absent.

ANDREW DANA HUDSON:

What if people could disappear at any moment? How would the world adapt?

We were a year into the pandemic, and I was riding my bike, trying to get out of the house I’d kept myself cooped up in since the previous March. I found myself thinking about the weird pseudo-raptures that had shown up in pop culture over the last few years, like the “Thanos Snap” in the Avengers movies, or the “Sudden Departure” in The Leftovers—big supernatural events that impact everyone all at once. Where were the slow, crawling, banal supernatural disasters? Metaphysical catastrophes less like the rapture and more like the pandemic, or climate change: complex, unfolding, uneven, during which people have to go on living their lives despite unprecedented circumstances.

I got home, got off my bike, and wrote what would become the first chapter of my novel Absence. In this world, people are vanishing into thin air—with a loud popping sound—but it isn’t all at once. It’s one by one by one. Sometimes there are spikes, but mostly it’s ambient. It can happen to anyone, any time, which means everyone is wondering when it’s going to happen to them or their loved ones. Some fear it, others ignore it. A few are eager for it, for wherever people go when they pop. There are fakers and scammers and conspiracy theorists. A few tired bureaucrats try their best to manage the situation. We develop new norms and institutions and infrastructure, without ever ceasing to feel that it’s all so strange.

For me, writing this book was a way to process and capture in fiction the looming dread that I’d felt over my shoulder ever since the first COVID lockdowns. It was existential as much as epidemiological. A fear that an invisible force could reach into my life and take away someone whose presence I’d relied on.

Of course, people have always been mortal, fragile. We’re all a heart attack or a car accident or a well-placed meteor away from being out of the picture. But during that first pandemic year, that inherent human fungibility felt much more present in daily life and public spaces. And when people did get sick, they often disappeared, into quarantine or ICU intubation or, in a few places, mass graves. Death became both more and less present in our lives, and that was something I wanted to explore.

So what would you do? How would you live if you or the people you care about might be gone tomorrow, or the next second? And how would we as a society cope if we couldn’t rely on everyone showing up every day to do the jobs that keep all the economic gears turning together?

In Absence, drivers vanishing on the highway cause enough crashes that solo car travel is discouraged, and pilots popping mid-flight have travelers feeling safer on trains. Theater productions need extra understudies. A lot quickly becomes automated. People try to keep an eye on each other, because the worst thing is to disappear without anyone to tell your loved ones you’re gone. Trust in institutions erodes—which we’ve seen happen in our world too, but here is supercharged by the impossible-to-explain nature of this supernatural phenomenon.

When I started, I thought I was writing a short story. Instead, I found this premise just kept on giving me new wrinkles to explore, and so I kept writing, until I had a whole novel with a twisty mystery and a messy X-Files–style romance. And lots of jokes, since as dark as it was, 2020 was the funniest year of my life. Everyone was suddenly online together, riffing about the many absurdities of our new situation and flailing government. I spent half my days in group chats, laughing at bad memes until I cried. Tragedy and farce were all rolled up in one.

It’s always bothered me that we never got vaccine Mardi Gras, a sudden moment in which we could all hug each other and dance together without fear. We just got more unfolding, more arguments, more slow disaster. For me, exploring this big idea and writing this book eventually provided a lot of that catharsis I’d looked forward to.

My initial big idea turned out to have a lot to say about COVID culture and how we’ve been frog-boiled by climate breakdown, but also about how uncertain and contingent life is and has always been. We tell our family and partners we’ll always love them, but often it doesn’t work out that way. We make plans and then throw them to the wind. We think we’re on solid ground, and it turns out to be so much quicksand. That’s just part of being human. Finding meaning and companionship despite all that is the challenge we wake up with every day, each day perhaps the last before something makes us pop.


Absence: Amazon|Barnes & Noble|Bookshop|Powell’s

Author socials: Website|Instagram|Facebook|Threads|Substack

Richard Dawkin’s Claude Delusion

2026-May-06, Wednesday 13:33
[syndicated profile] skepchick_feed

Posted by Rebecca Watson

This post contains a video, which you can also view here. To support more videos like this, head to patreon.com/rebecca! Transcript: Look, I didn’t want to talk about this topic. I thought it was really funny, but also really sad, and I’ve taken so many victory laps in the past few months that I’m honestly …

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