“Sir,” people address me in increasing numbers. Not “Hello,” but “Hello, Sir.” It’s the overwhelming whiteness of the hair, the bald pate, and the beard, I suppose. “Old-timer” is out of fashion, so I get “Sir.” I know this is supposedly a term of respect or something, but I detect a note of fear in it—that I might pass along some unwelcome wisdom or gas if they give me half a chance. I know my young wife, barely eligible for AARP and with a pitiful bit of gray to show for all her years on the planet, has an equal affection for “Ma’am.” I like a simple “Hello.” It makes me feel young, and you know how we old farts like to feel young.

My infrequent and brief postings of late are the result of a hamstring injury that is a literal pain in the butt. It has lingered for some time now, and I am learning to work (as I am writing this post) standing up. This makes me jealous of my computer time, and I’m about halfway through a new novel.  Blog and correspondence suffer.  Sorry to everyone.

Since I’m here, I must take the opportunity to rave about The Windup Girl by Paolo Bacigalupi. It’s every bit as good as all the reviews and awards would lead you to believe. The best sf novel I’ve read in years.