::CHECK ENGINE LIGHT::

My car went to the shop today, to have its "check engine" light diagnosed. It turns out there was a "main gas leak," so somewhere in the fuel delivery system, pressure was being lost.

The leak? My gas cap wasn't on tight.

I just spent $38 on half an hour of labor. For that.

(But a shout-out and mad props, yo, to Manuel Chrysler for not charging me the $68 computer diagnosis fee. Because I fully deserve some kind of Dumbass Tax.)

 
::RECURSIVE DECONSTRUCTION::

I would love to wear the "I Fuck Like a Girl" t-shirt peddled by Mighty Girl, because I would giggle the whole time. It's sold in men's sizes, too. So what is implied by a man wearing it?

It's like this: "That guy fucks like a girl. But he's a guy." (Deconstructive step A.) "But since he's a guy, and guys are all machismo and rugged, it suggests that fucking like a girl is ideal." (Deconstructive step B.) "But then it's not aligned with the idea of what 'like a girl' is all about!" (Deconstructive step C.) "But it's steeped in irony!" (Deconstructive step D.)

Ad infinitum.

It reminds me of playing "Opposite Day" as a kid. I think I was too smart for the game, because every time I would say something that was the opposite of what I meant, I'd immediately think, "But it's Opposite Day, so shouldn't I say the opposite? But then that'd be the real thing, and not the opposite. But then that's the opposite of the opposite, and I want to just say the opposite. Right?"

Yeah. I deconstruct like a girl.

 
::OKAY, LET'S NOT GO FOR IT! ::

Right. Moving on, then.

Things are definitely looking straight ahead. Which is where they probably should be looking.

 
::WAVE GOODBYE::

At Freebird's, the salads (and, I assume, less chilly leftovers) come in an octagonal takeout container. Embossed in the clear plastic top is the word "Microwarmable." Since when is being "wavable" such a bad thing?

 
::INTER-FACE::

My late lunch today took me out of doors, to my favorite spot at the museum. Near the old "Dallas Museum of Fine Arts" building entrance, huge limestone monoliths rest, begging to be made pedestals for a spell. I sat atop one, cross-legged, as I sipped soup and spooned applesauce. Done with business, I laid back, eyes closed, and drank in the clement sun.

Do you feel your skin? I cannot. When you're just sitting around, can you sense it, the way your vestibular system senses where your head, right elbow, or left foot is at any given moment?

I had a moment given, and the division between the air around my face and the skin of my chin, nose, cheeks, lips, and forehead became stunningly obvious. I felt my skin, as a three-dimensional surface. That border shape -- that interface -- was fragile, as if it were made of hardened light.

I opened my eyes, and in contrast to the blood-orange behind my eyelids, the sky's blue was more vivid than I'd ever experienced.

Ah, spring.

 
::LET'S GO FOR IT! ::

Okay, so things are really looking up. Whee!

 
::VIRTUOSO::

In the Great Hall outside my office, our exhibits department has placed our theremin. I love this instrument -- I own one and have grand designs of mastering it -- but its eerie, pulsating sound as visitors try it out is threatening to make the edge of my sleep fraught with noise. (For a while, I was segueing into dreams with the tropical bird-tweets of our Robo-Dino gallery as a soundtrack. Not good.)

Until today. Someone just walked up to it and played a perfect major scale. Up and down. Doremifasolatido. Beautiful.

And with this, I go outside for the quenching of my sun-thirst.

Things are looking up!

 
::SEEDY SOURCE::

Used CD stores are a boon. This afternoon while on a long lunch, I got my paws on the Vanilla Sky soundtrack, a Pottery Barn collection called "Summer in the City," and "Big Beautiful Sky," the new album from Venus Hum, a band recommended to me by my fabulous friend Doug (while riding the Peoplemover in Tomorrowland, no less) -- all for $20.

 
::MAKE LIKE A SUPERSONIC JET AND SCRAM! ::

Go NASA! Clocking in at over 5,000 miles per hour and Mach 7, the X-43A craft has set an all-time jet-powered air speed record. Link.

And on top of everything, it's pretty: Link.

(via Wired News)

 
::GUMMY BARES ALL::

Wow! Soaking a gummy bear in water overnight does some fantastic things! Link.

(via BoingBoing)

 
::FUTURE ME::

If "to future" was a verb, this site would enable you to future yourself. You can send yourself an email on a future date, to check up on your resolutions or your relationships or your rememories.

They've also got archives of others' letters to themselves. Some are dorky: "How long is your hair now GIRRRL?" Some are sweet: "I hope you're still married to Kai, he adores you like no one else." Some have hacked the system, sending emails to others: "Hey, it's Tony, your boyfriend from 2003. I don't know if we're together anymore, but I hope we're both happy."

Some are trying to be profound: "All I'm asking for is a little respect, maybe a moment of silence for your fallen PastMe, who is no more and who sacrificed so much for your freedom." And some are succeeding: "All my promises are tautologies."

I plan to future myself, though I'm not sure how future I'll get, or what I hope to remind myself. I will not forget the things I've figured out, how I feel about people, or why I am so unique.

I wish the site enabled you to write email to the past. Now that would be useful.

Link.

(via BoingBoing)

 
::INTERNAL SUNSHINE::

I saw Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind last night. Its imagery was breathtaking, and I was particularly touched by the blurrily nostalgic feel of Joel's childhood memory. Raindrops fell from the handles of an old bicycle; tears fell down my cheeks. A young Joel dried the big banana seat with a cloth; I smeared my tears away.

 
::IDLE THREADS::

I'm in the midst of preparing for a science-meets-quilting event (yes, as lame as it sounds), and in my search for the chemical makeup of water-soluble (disappearing) thread, I found a guy who's selling the material -- polyvinyl alcohol in solid form, if you must know -- as a "Water Soluble Swimsuit" medium.

Sick!

Link.

 
::TOYING WITH YOU::

Note to Santa (or maybe to the Easter Bunny, or to whatever gift-diety sleighs, hops, or comes to me by any other means of locomotion): I want some Magnetoids. A lot.

(via BoingBoing)

 
::LESSON BEING LEARNED::

I flipped a coin into a well, the head and tail spinning as I looked away. I don't know where it landed, or how long it took to fall, or if it still dances on the well's edge.

I want my wish back.

 
::ALL THE PAGES WERE BLANK::

"I am walking
Out in the rain
And I am listening to the low moan
Of the dial tone again
And I am getting
Nowhere with you
And I can't let it go
And I can't get through...

The old woman behind the pink curtains
And the closed door
On the first floor
She's listening through the air shaft
To see how long our swan song can last

And both hands
Now use both hands
Oh, no don't close your eyes
I am writing
Graffitti on your body
I am drawing the story of
How hard we tried

I am watching your chest rise and fall
Like the tides of my life,
And the rest of it all
And your bones have been my bedframe
And your flesh has been my pillow
I am waiting for sleep
To offer up the deep
With both hands

In each other's shadows we grew less and less tall
And eventually our theories couldn't explain it all
And I'm recording our history now on the bedroom wall
And eventually the landlord will come
And paint over it all

And I am walking
Out in the rain
And I am listening to the low moan of the dial tone again
And I am getting nowhere with you
And I can't let it go
And I can't get though

So now use both hands
Please use both hands
Oh, no don't close your eyes
I am writing graffitti on your body
I am drawing the story of how hard we tried
Hard we tried
How hard we tried..."

-Ani Difranco, "Both Hands"

Yes, you always will deserve me. I have unbounded faith in you, Ciro.

 
::IN WONDER, I WONDER WHAT HAPPENS NEXT::

No, not a big shift.

A depression of CAPS LOCK so that everything I think is LOUD AND INSURMOUNTABLE.

 
::IF LIVING IS SEEING, I'M HOLDING MY BREATH::

I'm off to Disney World tomorrow!

But before then, a big shift...

 
::BUBBLE RAP::

I've just spent some time unpacking an old stereographic camera, projector, glasses, and slides that a donor sent us. The items were swaddled in bubble wrap of various gauges, taped with packing tape, then whelmed in styrofoam peanuts.

Strangely, miraculously, the puffy-font S's yeilded to my reach, swirling around in the box, sticking to my black cashmere sweater sleeve. Lowering my hand into the styro-depths to probe for more pop!pop!-packed goodies, I was taken back to the Ball Pit, that giant-bowl-of-Trix-esque experience that failed to disappoint.

(One of my early sex fantasies actually involved a Ball Pit -- how amazingly weird would that be?)

 
::ABREAST::

Tuesday night treated Dallas to an amazing show of mammatus clouds. As I bounded down the huge staircase in front of the museum, the sky, to couch it in Mardi Gras terms, asked me for some beads.

Mammatus clouds are round, dangling cloud formations, and that evening they baskingly caught the setting sunlight. They looked like the inside of a white balloon must look when someone grips it in one hand. They looked like sno cone domes stuck to the cloudy roof. They looked too sharply defined to be cotton, too fuzzy to be marble. They looked like unpainted styrofoam planets.

I sat out on my roof for a while, taking in the rare meteorological sight. It was a delightfully unframed experience, being outside the window. I saw a plane streak by, and I thought about how amazing this had to have looked to its passengers.

Later, they became less smooth, acquiring an almost cauliflower-like texture, similar to this, and the fissures became blurred, the sky's breasts veiled in a flimsy sheer balconette bra.

The thunderhead drifted slowly to the east, and as I noted this, a Mobile Mammography truck passed by; I giggled at the synchronicity.

The eastward motion was the exact opposite of Stabbing Westward. It was slinking eastward.

 
::OPEN TOED::

Last night, for the first time in many months, I stepped into the dark and felt warm. The night air held on to me, coating my skin, and I realized I'd forgotten what it felt like to have no heat lost to my surroundings. The breeze and my skin rested at equilibrium.

To celebrate, today is my inaugural sandal-wearing. There are black leather straps criss-crossing my feet, and my painted toenails say hello to my patio, my car, my underdesk. They're a soft metallic pink, which means they are cold -- when I stepped out of the shower this morning, they were pearlescent white -- "Mood Polish" indeed exists, and I am one of its believers.

 
::NO PROBLEM, MONDRIAN!::

The Mondrian Machine lets you frolic in primary-colored geometries -- of your own design!

Sort of.

Link.

(via Kottke.org)

 
::LIGHT MOTIF::

LiTraCon is "light transmitting concrete." It reminds me of Ulexite, the "television stone," but it's manmade.

It's got the compressive strength of concrete, but with optical glass fibers running parallel to each other within it. I love the look of concrete in certain interior applications, and this erases the problem of dullness, drawing some amazing design-silhouette possibilities.

The tree shadows? This woman? That hand? They're transmitted through concrete.

I've never had such yearnings for an entire wall of any material before. Mmm, except maybe Aerogel.

Link.

 
::THIS KOBE ASSAULTS YOU IN A GOOD WAY::

Monday night is cheap burger night at Humperdink's. I split a Kobe Steak Burger with nummy homemade potato chips (just $10 instead of the usual $12) with my partner in dine, and it was The Best Burger I've Ever Had, with apologies to Dad, a la the Sonic commercial.

Do yourself a favor and go there on a Monday.

(Their strawberry spinach salad with walnuts and lemon-ginger dressing is also extraordinary.)

 
::DYE ANOTHER DAY::

I dyed my hair red on Saturday night. I used a Feria "Power Red" OTC product, and it bragged on its box about its "Power Boost Technology." I, ever the scientist, donned my powdered-rubber gloves and began to meticulously follow instructions. Snap top off Bottle A. Unscrew lid of Bottle A. Open Bottle B. Add B to A. Add C to (A+B). Add Power Boost to (A+B+C). Re-affix lid of Bottle A.

Power Boost, I will now add, is a tube of gel, and looking at its ingredient list, I see that it consists solely of water and red and yellow food coloring. "Aha!" I thought, "That's why they tell you to rinse, shampoo, rinse, shampoo again, rinse, and use a dark towel."

The Power Boost seemed to me a psychologically-required additive. My guess is that consumers were miffed by the not-so-red appearance of the (A+B+C) mixture, so the folks at Feria decided to include it in the formula. I was very pleased to mix the ingredients together; C was (superfluous also, I think) a fragrance. The Power Boost was responsible for a disturbing red tint to my scalp, eartips, and forehead; fortunately that disappeared.

The final color is strange; it appears burgundy in one light, neon red in another, and deep auburn in another. Is this what "prismatic color" means? I'm not sure I'm a fan. Ah well, I wanted a change, and I got one. I've been told it's "becoming." I'm worried that my cache of lipstick shades will clash.

My nickname at work is now "Scarlet O'Hair."

 
::PROSAIC JUSTICE: OR, MUSINGS INSPIRED BY AN EMAIL::

When I find it difficult to describe something, I resort to poetry. It's somehow easier to string words together into feet and lines and stanzas than it is to engineer them into structured sentences. In my perfection-driven world, it's kind of cheating -- taking the easy way out. I'm often faced with images that spark around in my mind and are too ethereal to commit to real, full-on sentences (see the Fog Project and "And the Red Light" for examples). Poetry, I said to my correspondent, was like the fake orgasm of writing: "I've had enough with this, and I'm ready to have it over with."

Though the aptness of my metaphor was questionable, I kept going with it.

I do not have as much disdain for poetry as I have for "faking it" -- I will "resort" to poetry but never to the latter -- but building a great sentence out of the perfect words (or having one built for me) is a powerful experience. (Here's where the metaphor falls apart; taking in good poetry, to me, is as good -- maybe better than -- reading prose. Yet I continue, restricting the faking-it to the process of writing poetry, not to poetry itself.)

Then I thought about non-free -- restricted -- verse. Sonnets. Renga. Haiku. Are they the bondage-games poets play? Instead of the hard-to-finish-off lover that free verse entails, they are instructive and demanding lovers:

"Overlay the sound of that word with that one over there."

"Twist meaning just a bit -- yes, like that."

"Only seventeen."

Each has a discernable beginning and end -- a body onto which the words are kissed.

My next poetic effort will be with a worthy bedpartner. A clarity pyramid, maybe. Or a tectractys. Maybe I'm feeling a little curious and will check out a kyrielle. (It'll not be a limerick, that I assure you.)

 
::AIR SUPPLY::

I've become enamored of Air lately. "Mike Mills," an instrumental piece, is immersively sublime.

(To Austin, my source for this loveliness, thank you. )

 
::PALINDRAMA::

From the Amazing-Things-People-Can-Do-with-the-Assistance-of-Computers Department: "2002: A Palindrome Story" is a 2,002-word palindrome written by Nick Montfort and William Gillespie. Assisted by a program called Deep Speed, they produced and published this feat. Admittedly, it's kind of bumbly to read, but it does have a plot. I'm awed: Link.

(via GrandTextAuto)

 
::I CAN DIG IT::

Seen this morning on an apartment complex sidewalk:

A moist pile of sand, dappled with water-craters and marked by shoe-soles, rests in the middle of the concrete. Small ridges and canals are laced through it in a pattern. About a foot away, a die-cast metal model of a green bulldozer slumbers, blanketed in drifted sand.

I step around this landscape, respectful of its status as a kid's Spring Break Work in Progress.

I played similar landmoving games as a kid. Fascinated as I was -- and still am -- with waterfalls, creeks, and rivers, I would landscape-engineer a sublime and faux mini-river in the side of a hill in my back yard. I'd dig its rough shape, first, then embellish it with islands, boats, greenery, and, as a grand finale, a waterfall. The waterfall would be a multi-drop affair (a la the Triple Lindy springboard dive featured in Back to School), and I'd spend hours meticulously crafting its majesty.

When the formation was complete, the water hose would make its appearance at the watershed, and I'd direct my little brother to open the faucet at three-two-one-zero. I'd watch, transfixed. The brown water formed chocolate-milky rapids and picked up the boats which became rapt in its current. The islands almost always immediately eroded away, much to my chagrin.

But the waterfall -- the waterfall was the (ironically downfalling) climax. Usually packed with fluid momentum, the water would power over the first drop. Its breeze would shake the pine-needle palm trees I'd added along the side of the sluice, and I'd hold my breath for a beat. The second drop had its own charm, usually involving a strategically-placed rock or two. And the third drop, the highest and most magnificent, would often make me break out in self-aggrandizing applause.

Why play God by orchestrating Barbie-Ken houseplay? I had the power of gravity, lots of dirt, and a water hose on my side. What more could a scabby-kneed, freckle-nosed girl ask for?

Hats off to you, dozer-truck kid. May your constructions and deconstructions bring you the joy mine did.

 
::GEEK LOVE::

Mike Johnson proposed to his ladylove by presenting her with a PC casemod, an elaborate 'do made up to look like a wedding cake. However, the girl, Rachel Tolliver, doesn't sense the sweet gravity of what he's done. She's so unimpressed, so unruffled -- so unappreciative -- that I want to grab her by the shoulders and yell, "My God, woman! Can't you see that you have an amazing geek who wants to marry you and did it by sluicing his creative juices into a pool of detailed homage to you? Shut up about how you feel 'special' because your proposal is being 'written up in books and magazines.' Concentrate on him! The ring he designed for you! How what he did is a perfect distillation of his self!"

But I'm not bitter.

Link.

(via Wired News)

 
::IN SULTAN::

I just read a blog post about Jayson Blair which includes the best insult I've heard all year:

Douchenozzle.

Link.

 
::GOLD TO AIRY THINNESS BEAT::

This morning's air holds flitty bits of shorn grass which catch the horizontal sun and gleam yellow.

Ridley Scott would be proud.

 
::RED ROVER::

This one's called "And the Red Light."


I happen upon an unfamiliar landscape
with an unaccustomed quietness.

My wheels tread heavily in the briny mud,
easing their payload on and on again.

The blank grey sky
touches the maroon-cragged ground.

And the red light
turns green,
and I take the opportunity
to speed the Chevy Tahoe
across Mustang Island
and spirit away to the ferry.

 
::KEYNOTEWORTHY::

During his keynote speech to the Informal Science Educators Association of Texas, Tommy Darwin mentioned that he was not going to use PowerPoint for his presentation. This ruffled the feathers of many an informal science educator: "Why not?"

"Well, it's more interesting for you if I talk, drawing on the board every once in a while."

"But... PowerPoint is so useful!"

By this point in the dialogue, thoughts of Edward Tufte's railings against MacroHard had percolated on my cortex into a frothy, delicious head. The next words out of Dr. Darwin's mouth were:

"Have any of you heard of Edward Tufte?"

I yell, "Woo!" (Indeed I have: Here, here, and here.)

"He's been known to say that power corrupts, and PowerPoint corrupts absolutely. As an advocate for good design and communication, I steer away from it because I think - I hope - you would rather see me deliver this keynote to you than simply email it to you as an attachment."

Sometimes, I feel so ahead of the game that the Pop-O-Matic die-roller is just a blip on the horizon.

 
::A BRUSH WITH DESTINY, A.K.A. AN INSATIABLE ORAL FIXATION::

This weekend, I purchased a Mentadent White & Clean toothbrush. According to its package, it "helps give you clean, noticeably white teeth." While the verdict is still out on its production of noticeable white-ness, I have a few raves (and one rant):

Within and under the bristles, there's a "whitening ribbon," a zigzag of rubber designed to "help stain removal." I can't feel it as I brush, but its presence is comforting. To my fingertips, it's a substantial and tacky, and I can imagine its efficacy. I passed up other whitening doohickeys -- some Play-Doh-Fun-Factory-esque plus shapes, some stubby cylindrical nubs -- for the ribbon, mainly because on the back of the brush head, the rubber ribbon shape was fed through, seemingly more integral.

The brush boasts "micro-fiber cleaning bristles." I don't believe this. Micro-fiber? No way are there Buckytubes on my teeth. I suspect the commoner's idea of "micro-fiber" is anything a magnifying glass can't fully elucidate.

Heh, who am I kidding? The commoner's idea of "micro-fiber" is "really small fiber."

The only thing I hate is its handle. I got a red one (because the bristles and "whitening ribbon" were in shades of soothing blue), and the red rubber grippy-texture is startlingly like the stuff under a mushroom roof. Its wide ergonomicity also means that I can't fit it in my toothbrush holder. Damn.

(All said, a gleaming thank-you goes to Chad, my Partner in Raiding the Wal-Mart Dental hygiene Aisle and Fine Purchaser of Gum. Note: I put the hyphen in "white-ness" so I didn't annoy him any more than I already have.)

 
::REASON #243 I LOVE MY BOSS::

When I walked in today after being gone for three days and dreading my return to the grind, my boss says, "Welcome back, traveler! You must be pooped out!" (The oddness of "pooped out" made me grin.)

"Yeah, a little."

He replies, "Want to go home and sleep?"

And he was serious.

Thank you, Paul.

 
::HEARD MENTALITY::

In the way to and from Port Aransas, I listened to a book on tape. The novel I heard was Chuck Palahniuk's "Lullabye." Unabridged, it was 7.5 hours long.

(Knowing that I read much faster than the spoken word makes me agitated -- there's no way I'd've finished the book in that amount of time if I'd been reading it. I guess overcoming the inertia of living outside a book's world for a while is hard to do.)

I couldn't've been happier with my choice of novel, though. Palahniuk's writing is self-referential, great for the non-audio learners like me; he employs mantras and revisits and parallel constructions in a way that loops my narrative conscious and keeps me remembering. The story stays in my active memory. Every time the narrator, Carl Streator, describes a character's suit, he uses the same construction. It's not (color); it's (rampantly detailed color description). See:

"The suit she's wearing, the skirt is fitted to her hips. It's green, but not the green of a lime, more the green of a key lime pie. It's not the green of an avocado, but more the green of avocado bisque topped with a paper-thin sliver of lemon, served ice cold in a yellow Sevres soup plate. It's green the way a pool table with green felt looks under the yellow 1 ball, not the way it looks under the red 3."

Yum.

Listening to it, I was one of "these sound-aholics, these quiet-ophobics" to whom the narrator refers.

 
::MISS GUIDED::

On the tampon/maxipad vending machine in the ladies' room at the UT Marine Science Institute, it says, "Freedom of Choice!"

Um, if you need the products supplied, that issue is moot.

 
::THE LONG WAY::

Today I drove from Port Aransas to Dallas. 'Twas nine hours of exhaustion and Tahoe-induced claustromania. When darkness fell, though, the border between inside and outside blurred (because inside the vehicle, it was dark, too), and my surroundings blossomed:

Just as Counting Crows's "Einstein on the Beach" rounded the lyric, "One more sun comes sliding down the sky," I spied a shooting star to the north.

Lines of semi trucks, slumbering for the night with their amber marking lights blazing, looked like constellations on the side of the road.

A band of clouds arched across the dark-dome sky and looked arrestingly like the Milky Way.

 
:: ...AND A HARD PLACE::

This evening's sky was the sharp interface of two fluids: water and air.

I was under sparklingly clear water, and the clouds swirled together, letting in enough sky-light that they appeared to be the surface of the ocean. I looked up at a whirlpool, and ten minutes later it became an undercurrent of breaking waves at the shore.

 
::THE MAN STAYS IN THE PICTURE::

A frail black man in a tattered suit walks along the one-way street. He carries a large picture frame on his shoulder, his right arm bracing it at one corner. I imagine that he was once the portraited man, and that he has escaped the confines of the frame, shuffling his new way through the world.

 
::STICKIN' IT TO THE MAN::

I saw School of Rock last night, and it enjoyed me thoroughly. I'm a sucker for talented kids.

In quasi-related news, I got my check from the CD Minimum Advertised Price Antitrust Litigation. I am now $13.87 richer. This money will not bulk up my music collection, no way, no sir. I will use it to pay back folks for blank CDs! Wink wink!

I leave to get some professional development tomorrow - at the Informal Science Educators Association of Texas conference in Port Aransas. Whee! It will rock!