Oh, cat, don't fly away again. My head's killing me.

The process of becoming a Lyft driver and thus contributing to the destruction of civilization continues. Drove to San Francisco, met with my "Lyft Mentor," a very cheerful young lady whose cel phone cover matched her blouse; she clearly loves driving for Lyft, and signed me off (valid Driver's License, check; proof of insurance, check; car works, check). We even did a "test delivery" where she gave me an address to drive to. "Do you use Google Maps or -- ?" she began to ask, but stopped, awe-struck by the built-in GPS in my wonderful car. The GPS is named Navi, and sounds just like the character from Ocarina of Time.

Next step is the criminal background check. If they miss the panda-smuggling, I'll be a Lyft driver in days!

---

In other news, I submitted my Hugo awards ballot last week just before the final deadline. Why was I voting for the Hugos after years of inaction on that front? Sad Puppies. Rabid Puppies. You can get a fairly good explanation here.

If you're like me and too lazy to click through, point is, some right-wing nutcases felt that the Hugos were going to too many women and dark people and homos (sometimes all three in one writer!), so they "gamed" the system, and filled up most of the slots on the nomination ballot with work done by themselves and their allies. People were outraged, mud flew, and I thought, what the hell, I sent in 40 bucks to be a "supporting member" and vote on the final ballot. A lot of people did just that (around 1400), with the intention of stopping the Puppies nominees from getting any awards. But, hey, I thought, I'll be fair, and I'll read the nominated stories -- maybe they're good in spite of pleasing the teabaggers.

And now I'm angry.

Every one of the right-wing slate nominees stinks like a skunk poop cracker with Munster d'Alsace on it. On them. Each one in a different way. Which is worse, because if they'd all stunk in the same exact way I would have given up and imagined throwing my e-reader against the wall (I wouldn't really do that, it's my second e-reader, I sat on the first one). After 13 of the damn things (aliens who conquer earth but are taken in by a simple trick! ghosts who realize Jesus can still save them! sentient war machines who read their user manuals aloud to us!), I'd had enough, and only bothered with the first 8 pages of the last one, which has a sentient war machine reading its user manual aloud to us, but stopping long enough to let us know that a mob had broken into the United Planets capitol building and lynched all the do-nothing bureaucrats and this was A GOOD THING. I think I've done my due diligence.

I'm mad at the Puppies because they nominated crap, and I had to read it. Had to. Lord knows there's lots of "conservative" SF & fantasy out there, and it often wins awards (Lois McMaster Bujold springs to mind, but of course she's a woman), and these pups couldn't find anything of value. I have never voted for NO AWARD with such gleeful relish.

On the other hand, because of all this, I did read the Goblin Emperor, which I might never have done without the froo-frah. I'm grateful for that -- it's a great book, it wasn't on the Puppies shortlist, and I voted it first place among the novels; also nominated for Best Novel and also recommended is Ancillary Sword, but read the first book in that series first. So, read those 2 novels, avoid the Hugo-nominated short fiction this year, and if you need a ride somewhere, I may be your guy!

After I clear the criminal background check.

Today begins "interestingly." Last night, I notice that the little signs are back on the side walk. NO PARKING 7AM-5PM JANUARY 21, 22, 23 they say, with the sweet sweet promise that the repaving, only half completed in November, will finally be finished... but it means I need to wake up in time to move the car, so I think I'll go out for breakfast instead of doing my normal oatmeal at home.

Castro Valley is an adorable little enclave here in Alameda County, and has several good breakfast spots, of which I pick the one by the Albertson's, because when you order bacon there, you get BACON, thick meaty slabs of it, and not the 2 or three you'd get at Denny's, but 6.

About 15 minutes in, two old farts plop down at the table right next to mine. This is 'open seating,' mind you, they could take any place in the nearly empty dining are, but they plop down right next to me. I have a waffle to conquer, so I pay no attention to their chatter until one fart asks the other, "Did you hear that asshole on the TV last night?"

(For non-Americans, last night was Barak Obama's State of the Union address.)

"Yeah, disgusting," says Fart Number Two. "Bastard just giving everything away to poor people." I contemplate the hours of stimulus-response therapy that the Fart endured before he learned to say "poor people" instead of "the coloreds," and I smile inwardly.

"Geez, yeah," ripostes Fart Number One. "What, now if you're poor you don't pay ATM fees? I swear, poor people have it so easy." I laugh inwardly, as Mr. Obama's speech challenged idiots like these to try being poor themselves if they think it's so easy, but the Farts clearly are not content-oriented.

This was free entertainment for me, until their conversation changed. "You saw about the San Mateo Bridge, right?"

(For non-Bay Area people, there was a protest on the San Mateo Bridge a few nights ago; the protestors parked their cars to block the bridge, the protest being against police violence and societal acceptance of same.)

"Hell, yeah, those creeps. Police went too easy on 'em. Shoulda just thrown 'em over the side of the bridge. Or shot 'em..." I forget if this was Fart Number One or Fart Number Two.

Something snaps in me then; I could enjoy their stupid, nasty blather, but now they are advocating murder, they are seriously loving the idea of killing people for dissenting. I call the waiter over and asked if I could move to another table farther away. "Sure," says the waiter, and carries off my waffle plate. I pick up the other plate (eggs and precious bacon), and do something I rarely do. I do under no obligation to explain the reason I wanted to move, but I do it.

To the Farts I say, "I really don't want to start my day with your hatefulness." They look a little taken aback. I'm pretty sure they spend the rest of the morning talking about the horrible dirty hippie. I have an impact!

---

Three points I really need to add to this sad but inspiring story:

1. The Farts had also been talking about their union benefits, benefits they would lose should Republicans get their way, benefits that Barak Obama is protecting. Such is life in the irony-free zone.
2. Fart Number Two, commisserating with Fart Number One's litany of Obama sins, nods and says, "We got a revolution coming, that's for sure." Oddly, he's right.
3. The bacon really is incredible. All stories should end with bacon being incredible.

"Rep. John Shimkus (R-Ill.), who will seek the Energy and Commerce Committee chairmanship, maintains that we do not have to worry about climate change because God promised in the Bible not to destroy the world again after Noah's flood."