A tweet from Stephen Fry reminds me that today is the tenth anniversary of the death of Douglas Adams, author of “The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” and one of the best nature books I have ever read, “Last Chance to See”.

I still have trouble articulating exactly why Adams meant so much to me. I discovered the “Hitch-Hiker’s” trilogy when I was in high school, and fell in love instantly with its whimsical absurdity. I watched the BBC series, bought his Infocom text games (still have ’em!) and of course read everything that had his name on it.

In the world before the Internet, that meant blindly waiting for long, long stretches of time with no idea what was happening next. Adams wasn’t the speediest author, and his work came in dribbles. (“I love deadlines,” he famously said. “I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.”) But when something finally did arrive, it was always worth it; even the lesser “Hitch-Hikers” books had moments of brilliance, narrated in Adams’ wonderfully calming voice.

I got to interview him in 1992, when “Mostly Harmless” brought him to Toronto for the Harbourfront Author’s Festival. We had lunch, actually, at the Harbour Castle, and I remember being barely able to formulate a question. There was so much I wanted to ask him that I very nearly vapor-locked.

We started with the kakapo, and everything was fine. He was a wonderful inteview — generous with anecdotes, and willing to bounce all over the breadth of his career as my brain burped up other bits of ephemera.

I suspect this wasn’t the first time Adams had found himself speaking to a goggling 24-year-old, though. I’d like to believe he knew the almost seismic impact he’d had on his young readers; imagine what it’s like for a kid who’s grown up on Ray Bradbury, Arthur C. Clarke and Frank Herbert to suddenly realize that science fiction didn’t have to be dry and intellectual; that it could be wry and lively and even a little demented, and still carry philosophical weight and engage with big ideas.

Douglas Adams let me see the world differently. I’m so lucky to have had the chance to tell him so in person. If you haven’t read any of his stuff, well, now you have something to do today.

The following is not a paid advertisment. Honest.

I’m heading to New York for a junkety thing — about which more later, obviously — and flying Porter for the first time. Tiny little plane, yes, but thus far the experience has been terrific.

Got to the Island airport ten minutes after stepping out my front door. Shot through security (okay, bad word choice, but you know what I mean) and was in the lounge in about four minutes. Now I’m just waiting for them to call my flight. Flying out in the early morning probably helps the experience immensely — there’s NOBODY here — but damn, this is preferable in almost every way to the Pearson/Air Canada experience. No exorbitant cab fee (or attendant fears about delays on the Gardiner, 427 and/or 401, no jostling for position in line with a hundred other people, and security officers who aren’t frazzled from the meat-grinder experience of processing an infinite number of people.

Just a calm, coordinated operation. I’ve done a lot of flying in the last few years, and now I get why people complain about Pearson. Yes, there’s an economy-of-scale thing going on, but it could be so much better.

I’m just saying, if one has to fly into Newark, one should at least be able to start that journey from a calm, comfortable place.

Catch you later!

Stephen King is stalking me. Or more specifically, Classic Steve — the guy whose books I devoured in the late 1970s and early 1980s, and whose book-length dissertation on horror literature and cinema, “Danse Macabre“, had a major impact on the way I approach criticism.

Seriously. No sooner do I learn that Warner is releasing a new Stanley Kubrick collection on Blu-ray this spring — which would include his flawed but fascinating adaptation of  “The Shining” — than out of the blue, a reader of my MSN DVD column e-mailed me because my explanation of the obligations of the sequel reminded her of “Danse Macabre”, and then I wander over to the AV Club and found that the latest installment of its ongoing Better Late Than Never series has Keith Phipps picking up “The Stand”.

It’s a great read, and took me immediately back to my own experience as a kid reading King when I was probably too young to do so. (I remember reading the paperback version of “Night Shift” — the one with the cut-out front cover — on the bus home from grade school; I couldn’t have been older than eleven.) It’s pieces like this that make me melancholy for the experience of reading “The Stand” for the first time … and then rediscovering it in the expanded version a decade or so later. I was 22 when that came out, and I had time to devote myself thoroughly to books that ran more than a thousand pages. In contrast, I’ve had “Under the Dome” sitting on the shelf for what feels like a year now. Haven’t even opened it.

Maturity sucks sometimes.

I’m not sure if you guys have noticed, but I’m doing a lot less posting than I used to do on Saturdays and Sundays. I think it’s a side effect of being on the Twitter; marginalia and passing thoughts go there, and items that require more than 140 characters are saved for the blog.

Also, there’s the fact that I just don’t have that much to say on weekends — when I’m not taking Dexter for epic walks in the hopes that he’ll behave himself for a few hours on our return, I’m usually powering through the week’s DVD column, or watching something, or both. This weekend, for instance, the Human Rights Watch festival is taking up the majority of my attention.

Don’t worry, I still have every intention of keeping up the weekday schedule, and when there’s something to post on a Saturday or Sunday, I’ll certainly post it. But right now someone is scratching at the door. Again.

See you tomorrow …

I’ve been a fan of Faith Erin Hicks ever since I discovered her delightful graphic novel “Zombies Calling” on the shelf at the Silver Snail back in 2007. Thanks to Twitter, I’ve discovered she’s been writing and drawing an equally charming comic strip, The Adventures of Superhero Girl, for The Coast out in Halifax. It’s about a superhero who is also a girl, just like it says on the box.

On this very cold, very quiet Tuesday, I recommend you curl up with the Internet viewing device of your choice and enjoy. (She’s posted 29 strips thus far; it really doesn’t take that long to get through them. Even if you’re at work.)

And if you have another five minutes, check out this marvelous Wolverine one-shot, which makes me wish Darren Aronofsky would hire her as a script consultant before it’s too late.

You know how some mornings, you throw open the blinds and all your plans for the day just fall over dead? Yeah, this was one of those. Took Dexter out, bought a scone, came back home and watched him watch the snow accumulate. Probably won’t accomplish much more than that.

Oh, and this is something: I’m supposed to talk about the Golden Globes on CTV News Channel hit tomorrow at 9:15 am, which means driving out to Agincourt at 8 am. I assume the roads will be clear by then. If not, things will be awfully awkward when my slot comes up …

That’s Dexter’s ear at right. It’s his first snow day with us — and possibly ever — and he spent about twenty minutes investigating every flake.

Eventually we went out and bought a shovel. It’s been that kind of morning.