Chatty zombies

Quick knee update: Had an xray today, and it's healed enough I can ditch the brace.

Anyway, I was conceitedly reading my own stuff, specifically Echoes of Erebus today. I'm a little sick of zombies, I think a lot of people are. I tried to give em an extra twist in EoE, (most obviously with the 'demon' types) and I knew a section was coming up with 'normal zombies'.

I kinda dreaded it, and kind of expected to find myself skimming through it. Then HEY, it's talking! Yes, I wrote it, so I wasn't SHOCKED, but I'd forgotten about it, and was pretty pleased with the result.

They were walking to each other, sort of. They were talking via programming by our master badguy, who injected his ego and sense of humour into the banter. I then came to the realization that I am SO not a zombie writer. Sure, most of my zombies are the non-articulate moany-type, but the ones I have the most fun with aren't. I used to wonder why my books didn't fit in with ZOMBIE BOOKS.

One thing I considered was "My books are character driven, but now and then a few million zombies and/or nanites show up." Which... yeah.. I'll stand by that. Maybe I'm too fond of the type of zombies as shown in the simpsons on the occasional 'treehouse of horror'.

So, yeah, 'bout my knee. And Johnnicakes.

Minor thing first, anyone playing LittleBIGplanet 2 needs to go play my new level, Echoes of Erebus 1, http://lbp.me/v/xt2s1r/photos the first in a set of levels based on my latest book. More to come.

So, my knee.. It's pretty much healed now, but I've been meaning to do a blog with the whole thing for a while now. The less I'm in ye accursed brace, the less I'm interested, and have come to the realization that (as with most blog posts around the world) most people don't care about the details much either.

So here they are. :)

In the line of duty for my (new? Not so new now, I guess) job, I run (wheel) to the bank to get cash to refill the office petty cash box. The amount in total for a month is often... petty. But I, and Johnnicakes, a higher up I've never seen or spoken directly to* likes if the numbers all return to standard at the end of a month. This is not always easy. My 8 hrs a week, plus the boss out of the office a lot on appointments can make it hard to get signatures for things sometimes. Also, I'm marginally incompetent. :P

On my 2nd month making this trip, I tripped. If by 'trip' you mean that something on my wheelchair decided that the little cutout from a pedestrian triangle-o-crossing to the road was too bumpy. My chair decided to stop. My body did not. Out I go.

I landed on all fours. My hands were quite happy to be in my wheeling gloves. Kevlar n everything. No problem there. My knees landed in a very organized way, and no damage was immediately apparent. I knew there'd be bruising though.

For my dignity, I righted myself to be seated on my knees. It was a very purposeful looking pose, one that a person might do if they didn't want to sit right on a floor. Huh. Okay, now what? I never got the hang of getting myself into the chair from the floor. Not with the resources available to me here. A couple teenage girls across the street were looking at me. Oh look, resources!

"Uhm, girls? Help, I guess!" They made their way across, and one held out her hand as if I could just take it and be helped to my feet. "Heh, thanks, but I think it's going to take a little more than that." They were a little at a loss. I mean.. I'm not BIG BIG, but I'm not a lightweight either. And let's face it- your typical teenage girl is no powerhouse.

That's when from out of nowhere, two grown-ups showed up. One said she was a nurse, the other was just a big guy with a sufficient level of burliness.
I was soon (if not gracefully) back in the chair. The nurse kind of wanted to call me an ambulance, but I felt okay. More or less. Still shaken all the heck from the fall, shaken enough to last most of the day. But I had work to do. On I went to the bank. On the way back to the office, the skies opened up on me. It wasn't long before I was drenched. I was taking my time to find the best, smoothest way around any little obstacle.

When I was about a block and a half from the office, a happy homeless looking guy saw me and ducked around the corner. He was hiding, but VERY badly.WTF. Well, that's not a "I'm gonna mug you in broad daylight" kind of face. I made eye contact from under my hood, dripping wet.

He pops out and says "Oh! Sorry! I though you were uncle Pete! I was gonna surprise you!"

PETE?! For those of you unfamiliar with Maple Ridge's favorite homeless man, ole' Pete, is a quiet fellow who's been spotted shambling miles around. He's been in and out of the system, and most of the time when he's spotted, he's filthy as you could imagine, and often smelling as bad. A few years back, he lost his lower legs (as rumour tells us, frostbite) and is now in a wheelchair. But to the point-

I WAS MISTAKEN FOR PETE?!

Insult to injury anyone? I got back to the office, dripping down the hall, and I made my way to my wife's office, where she and a co-worker share space. They saw me and both burst out laughing. "YOU'RE DRENCHED!!!" Thanks ladies. I didn't care too much about being drenched, I was still trembling from my fall.

Fast forward to the next morning. Getting dressed, I noticed.. yeah, my knee was swollen really bad. No shock. I went on with my day. Next morning it was less swollen, so I figured everything was okay.

Fast forward to six days after the fall. I'm at GF strong for an unrelated meeting, when I tell the tale of the fall. The physio gal I was there to see wanted a peek at my knees.

"Oh. Oh wow, that's really swollen! And the colour's no good at all!"
"Colour?" I hadn't noticed much, it's pretty dark when I get dressed, I guess.
"I'm just going to see if there's a doctor handy. Yeah, Doctor K is just across the hall."

Um. Doctor K? Did he try to kill James bond once?

Doctor K and his deep, awesome russian accent come along. He takes one look at my knee. "Ack! When did this happen?"
"About a week ago."
"ACK! No, no, no, no, no."

Soon enough, he'd called 911 on me. Sure, I'd been feeling bad for that week, and I threw up in the driveway once, but the whole house was combating the flu!... yeah, so maybe masses of misdirected pain might have been causing some problems too. Before the ambulance came, DR. K had lined me up with various unrelated medical tests that he figured It had been too many years since I'd been checked out.

I spent that night in the ER, had 3 various scans done of me and my knee, and was given WCB forms and a knee brace. (They try not to give casts to people who can't feel the affected area to avoid undetected pressure sores) This brace was only meant to prevent my knee from straitening out completely. Yeah, it wasn't my knee exactly that was broken, it was the knee-end of my femur that had a fracture. And I had to wear that thing all the time, except for showers.

While I was being carted around for scans in a bed, I got to see many old familiar ceilings that I'd seen in 2001, when I was hit. I got to appreciate the tiling more, as I was not on a morphine IV this time.

Now I'm down to only having to use the brace 'when my knee is at higher risk'... which.. Yeah, I'll be sure to tell my football coach. So, I wear it to work. Meh.

That's not my knee brace, but it's close. It's definitely not my leg.

----

*Johnnycakes. Johnny is the head beancounter of the organization. I fax things to him. I get emails form him asking for more. I was told his verbal english isn't so hot, and that I'm better off communicating via email. I'm pretty good with accents, but I find email better for businessy stuff anyway. The end result is that Johnny has become some sort of financial boogeyman.

Fill that form in right! Get that signature! Calculate the deductible correctly, or the wrath of Johnny shall descend upon us all! So where does the name 'Johnnicakes' come from? It's not his fault, he didn't EARN it for any reason. In the LBP levels based on Lifehack, I have a few silly spin-off levels focusing on tormenting the character "Jonathan Coll". His tormentor enjoys referring to him as Johnnicakes. As a result, whenever I utter the name "Johnny", "Cakes" slips out now and then. Thankfully, as I mentioned, I never see Johnny face to face.

Lest the wrath of Johnnicakes descend up us all.

I've been neglecting this blog pretty bad, but go listen to my interview!!

http://www.thegenretraveler.com/science-fiction/podcast-episode-21-attack-of-the-nanite-zombies/

It's about half an hour long, and ends up bringing in a lot of different topics. Kinda. It went really well, and came out on valentine's. I have a lot to blog about, and no time to do it! Broke my knee, got gotten by a job, blah blah blah. I'll have to tell those tales another time. Oh, did I mention yet I have a 2nd kiddo due in the summer? Eeeheeeheee!

Next entry- sooner, and more. Promise. Kinda.

Sandra Claus

Just a fun lil story for y'all. Oh, and in other news, I fell out out a wheelchair onto my face into the street, unknowingly broke my knee, and a week later, spent an overnight in the hospital getting zapped and assigned a brace. WHEEE! Anyway, on with the story.

Sandra Claus
By Joseph Picard

The rumble-ready heels of Sandra's black, studded boots resounded with determined thuds as she marched down the marble-floored hallway to her father's office.

The diminutive elf guarding the door was getting on in years, with leathery skin, and very little shine left in his buttons, or his eyes. He watched Sandra get closer and closer for some time. It was a long hallway, and Sandra was not an unpleasant sight at all. Her black leather motif didn't match anyone else within a few hundred miles, so she always stood out.

When Sandra reached the elf, he only came up to her hip. She glanced down with no particular affection nor disdain, and stopped chewing her gum for a moment to ask, “Hey, beef jerky, is my dad in?”

The elf looked up with tired eyes. “Beejeeki, Ma'am. You've known me since I was born, please call me by my name, properly.”

Sandra sighed. Her stresses were not Beejeeki's fault. “Sorry, Beejeeki. I should be nicer to those who age.”

Beejeeki gave a forgiving smile. “I have done that, haven't I? I suppose with all the outsourcing, I should consider moving on to the Grey Havens in the next couple of years. But yes, your father is inside, waiting.”

“Thanks, Beefy. You know he'd be lost without you, right?”

Beejeeki smiled wider with a soft chuckle. “He might manage without me, I bought him a blackberry.”

Sandra smiled back, shaking her head slowly. “And who's going to teach him how to use it?”

Leaving the elf deep in thought, Sandra went inside. There, behind his desk, sat the old man, going over the yearly lists. Dozens upon dozens in his hands, spilling off of the corners of his oak desk, and along the floor. “Hey pops! I heard you got a new blackberry! How's that working out for you?”

Santa looked up, only now noticing his daughter coming in. His glasses slid down his nose a little, as they seemed trained to do. “Oh! Yes. Well, yes. Beejeeki said that he heard it would help me to organize things somehow, but in all honesty, it just tasted like a regular blackberry. If there was any magic to it, it hasn't kicked in yet.”

Sandra smirked, and sat down across from Santa. Her smirk was wiped away when she noticed the little present on the desk, labelled 'To: Jimmy'. “Oh. This. You were serious.”

Santa gave a hearty “Ho, ho!” and nudged the present further towards Sandra. “You're a big girl now! It's high time you learned the family trade. It's time to give giving a spin!”

She stood and picked up the bread-box sized, green-wrapped box in one hand. Instantly, by the power inherited from her dad, and a little magic some elf imbued into the wrapping, she knew were Jimmy was. “So what, do I carry this around until Christmas eve?”

Santa sighed. “It's the twenty-seventh, honey.”

“I have some time, then. Remind me in a couple hundred days.” Sandra took the box under her arm, and turned to the door.

“No, dear,” Santa said, “It's a late delivery. Jimmy was in a coma until this morning.”

Sandra sighed. “Wow, laying it on thick, huh?” She closed her eyes, and focused on Jimmy's whereabouts.

Santa nodded. “You can do it? I know it's not heavy, but do you need a reindeer to get there?”

“I know how to teleport,” Sandra huffed, “I'm two hundred, stop treating me like a kid.” She punctuated with a little pop form her chewing gum. She laid a finger aside her nose, and was gone in a blink.


When the world reformed around her, Sandra was mere steps behind a bus stop shelter. There was snow on the ground, in scraggly patches. The air was cold, and she regretted not grabbing a jacket before she came.

On the bench sat young Jimmy. Jimmy had the sense to have a jacket on. He looked about twelve years old. Maybe a little old for this, but Sandra didn't care enough to judge. She stepped out where she could be seen, and held out the present unceremoniously. “Merry belated Christmas, kid.”

Jimmy furrowed his brow and looked Sandra up and down. “What?” he said, showcasing the eloquence of a typical tweener.

Sandra rolled her eyes and sighed, still holding the gift out towards him. “Yeah, yeah, it's late, but I don't think I'm to blame for that. I guess you're looking pretty good, all things considered.”

His expression showed growing confusion. “I don't really take presents from strangers, you know. Who the heck are you? That could be a bomb, or you're planting evidence on me, or who knows what.”

Sandra let her gift-bearing arm droop down. “Now I know why dad just drops these off while you little snots are sleeping. Look, I'm the real deal, alright? Watch.” she put her finger by her nose again, and rolled her eyes as she disappeared.

She was soon before her dad's desk again, gift in hand.

Santa looked troubled. “What h-”

“I'm negotiating.” Sandra said before disappearing once again.

“Negotiating?” Santa asked the empty room, “Negotiating to give a gift?”

Sandra appeared in front of Jimmy again. “Ta da. Now take your present.”

Jimmy was impressed, but seemingly not eager to take the present. “I don't know if I should take it. I probably don't want it anyway.”

Sandra gasped with exasperation. “Then why did you ask him for it?”

“I didn't ask for anything.” Jimmy replied. Of course. He'd been in a coma.

“Well, literally for pity's sake kid, what do you want? We're pretty well loaded back home.”

Jimmy stared at Sandra, and thought, and stared, and thought. “Lift up your shirt, so I can see em!”

Sandra's eyes went wide with a scowl, and she crossed her arms across her front. There was only one thing to do, if she was going to do things right. With a slight quivering of rage, she extended a hand, then a forefinger, pointing squarely at Jimmy. She yelled out loud enough to be heard a block away. “Naughty!!!”

“Lady,” Jimmy said, trying to hold back laughter, “If you are who and what you say you are, you've got to check your info. I don't think you can label me naughty. I think I'm out of your jurisdiction. I'm Jewish.”

They stared at each other in silence for a few long seconds. “Great.” Sandra finally said with a patient, even, yet punchy tone, “Happy Chanukah.” Sandra 'nosed' her way back to her dad's place.

“Pops. Did you happen to notice that Jimmy's Jewish?”

“What?” Santa said, looking up over his glasses again. He put down the current list he was checking, and called toward the door. “Beejeeki. Are you still out there? Could you bring me the file on Jimmy Anderson?”

Beejeeki's voice rolled in through the doorway. “Sir, anticipating possible troubles given Sandra's inexperience, I placed the file in your top left drawer.”

Santa smiled. “Ah! I doubt even a whole basket of blackberries could do that!” Santa cheerfully replied, “Thank you, Beejeeki!”

“Yes,” Sandra added dryly, “thank you for the heartwarming vote of confidence.”

“Not at all.” Beejeeki said with a smile in his tone.

Santa pulled out the promised file, and rolled it open. “Hmm. Hmm. Jimmothy Van Anderson. Born to... and.. hmm. Yes, yes, right here, I think his Catholic baptism sort of speaks to not being Jewish. Sandra dear, I think little Jimmy's been having... a little fun with you.”

Sandra crossed her arms over her front again and grumbled quietly, “The little snot would sure like to.”

Oblivious, Santa cheerfully encouraged Sandra. “Now, now, go back and tell him you know better. Don't be so hard on the lad, he's very young, and can be forgiven some foolishness.”

“Young compared to us, Yes,” Sandra said, “but alright. I'll give it one more go.” Sandra checked that she still had the present, and popped back over to Jimmy. “Wow, kid, you're still here? Bus service sucks here, huh?”

Jimmy smirked. “Oyvey.”

“Can it, Rabbi Anderson. I looked up your file. You're Catholic. Now take the damned present.”

“Rabbi Anderson?” Jimmy questioned.

“Fine, fine, you're not a Rabbi, but the point is, you're not Jewish, Jimmy Anderson. And you're darn lucky I didn't mention your little request to dad, or you'd be choking on coal right about now.”

Jimmy looked stunned, blinking for a few moments while looking for words. “Who's Jimmy Anderson? I'm Jimmy Bernstein.”

Sandra grimaced at the present clutched in her hands. Some one had messed up the recipient enchantment on the wrapping. With a smile that looked more like a grimace, she gently put it down next to Jimmy. Jimmy Bernstein. “As I said before. Happy frigging Chanukah. If you'll excuse me, I have an elf to eviscerate.”


Inspired by Alvin the Chipmunk meeting Mrs Claus, Dr. Who's daughter, and Regan popping by to visit me.

Cold Nos summons Regan Grier

I found out today that cold Nos conjures Regan. When I'm getting to know my characters, I ... not-so-intentionally create a bit of an imaginary friend to talk with, about things in their world.

Apparently, while Regan was 'with me' for Lifehack, I was in the middle of my Nos binge. Since then, I've had a Nos here and there, but generally, they'd spend a couple hours in my backpack before I got home with it, maybe left it on the desk for a day or more, and by then, it was very not-cold.

Today, my beloved bride brought me home a can of the stuff, and I broke it open fairly quick to help fuel a tedious session of cutting little bits of santa-themed bits of paper of my daughter's pre-school.

The smell of it reminded me of why Nos was no longer my favourite kind of energy drink. Nos may also be short for 'noxious'. The scent that still manages to heighten anticipation a little, so I took a sip.


Ding! Regan popped into my head, clear as a bell.

"Well, hello there, Regan."
"Hey dork. You gonna make that flash cartoon with me in it soon?"
"Yeah yeah, Regan. I don't have a ton of time these days."
"Aw COME ON, I'm a star, I need to get out!"
"You've been 'out' for a long time, miss."
"Ha, oh bloody Ha. Seriously, I'm stuck in your head, and there isn't even cable in here."
"Oh shush, I gave you cameos in two books now. It's not like you never get out."
"In one of them, I came off sounding like a total whiny bitch, and the other cameo was a little depressing, like that whole friggin book. Where's my X rated Alisia-wrestling book??"
"In your head Regan, just in your head."
"But if I'm in YOUR head, that means the X-rated Alisa wrestling in also in YOUR head."
"...... you just blow my mind. Or folded space. Or something."
"So.... porn for me?"
"Shut up, Regan."

That said, it was nice of her to visit. I've been busy enough with life in general, that my writing has gotten into a slump. My lack of homework for the writing guild, and my lacklutre chapter for a potential new book.. well... meh. Anyway, Regan's visit gave me a tiny morale boost, and maybe some new direction.

I'd also been meaning to blog about my recent adventures in public transit, big downtown hills, appointments to plan my next wheelchair, and TWO universities that have been using me as a guinea pig. But it's just not as interesting if you're not the one getting jabbed for blood. I accidentally signed up for 2 studies, thinking "yay for science"-

- but didn't plan on 3 hours of commuting in either direction, much less both studies wanting me in the same weeks. And GF strong. And of course work. Thank goodness for my mum, who's been doing a lot of babysitting. I haven't seen a ton of my own lil gal lately. I'm 'almost' done with the science. Yay. At least they like throwing some money at me.

The Newest of the Old Ones

I'm now writing two books at once. I'm a hypocrite. I've spoken against (typed against) writing two novels at once, but in my defence, the case I was hardest on was a friend who was writing like three books at once, which took place one after the other, giving rise to potential linearity confusion.

My two projects MIGHT take place in the same world, (I'm not decided on that... they're so far apart in any timeline that there's no reason to link them, and no reason to expressly separate them,) but they can't confuse each other. I think. I hope.

I'm not writing to any target, I have no aims whatsoever of finishing a new book for VCON this year, so I'm kind of taking it lazy.

Project one is the one I've previously mentioned, I think... a modern urban mystery/comedy about a man (The Serial Bleeder) who leaves artistic graffiti using his own blood, the gypsy who supports his mostly harmless aims, and the office cog who gets wrapped up with them.

The other is a scifi/fantasy with a very blurry line between the two. It takes place in the far flung post-apocalyptic future, which has been ravaged by (among other things) a virus that managed to kill off all of humanity, except for the redheads.

Now, do I mean, THIS kind of redhead?

Or THAT kind? Given my track record, I suppose you suspect more Jessica-like results. In fact, I think my worldwide redhead survivors will run the gamut. Maybe in opposing camps.

The protagonist is a non-redhead character I've written about before, although the perspective of time has changed them, as experience will do. The tentative title is "The newest of the Old Ones", but I'm not 100% married to that.

Excerpts from both projects may make it to the blog in the near future.

Drivers suck. The car kind, not the computer kind.

Three lanes of traffic stopped at the crosswalk for me. Kindly, lawfully, and all that good citizen stuff. I'd waited for the traffic to stop before heading forward.

When I got to the fourth lane which was empty until that moment, someone, (seemingly sitting clueless in the third lane about why 3 lanes of traffic would all stop at once) whipped around and shot right towards me. I braced for impact and held up an arm in defense. (Because that's worked out SO well for me in the past! Pfft.) The lady stopped just in time to touch my forearm with her grill.


Ironically, she had a disabled parking pass dangling from her rear view mirror. I bet she has a really noticeable limp on rainy days.

I glared at her and looked away when she looked like she was going to try to roll down a window to start conversation. There was no point, she knew how she was being an idiot.


It was very tempting to pull out my arm-rest and smash out a headlight, but I resisted. I got on the sidewalk and started onward.


A lady yelled at me from 3 lanes over. "Are you alright?" A sweet old lady pedestrian caught up soon after, and asked the same question, adding in a "That stupid f****** b*****." She's didn't seem the type to have a foul mouth, but then again, neither did Betty White.


I've had issues with drivers hitting or nearly hitting me four times off the top of my head. The one that put me in the wheelchair was a 50/50 fault The other three were pure driver idiocy of extraordinary proportions. I never got a licence before my accident because I didn't trust myself with a few tons of glass and metal. How about everyone else?