::ADEMAS::

Twin supernovae
Go: Star light, star bright, star dust
Blinding implosion

 
::GOUPPANCE, OR COMEDOWNANCE::

I told my mom today, after hearing some wonderful news (along this vein) from my boss, that I'd be "finally getting my comeuppance."

Apparently, "comeuppance" means "punishment, or just desserts," so I've been using that word wrongly any time I use it to denote positive things that are deserved.

So, more details about this will come by the end of May, but my new appointment at work will -- as I foresee it -- be a commendation.

 
::NAY, BORE::

Just when things with my neighbors were looking spiffy (they took the mops and paint cans off our shared front porch and replaced them with potted flowers, and they put some plants and a tiki torch and some more flowers on my side, even), I'm awakened in the Wee Hours of the Night by a string of feet across hardwood floors and then a scream:

"You asshole, because its five o'clock in the fucking morning!"

I eventually got back to sleep.

But now I'm puzzled by this, because I've just woken up -- to an amazing dream, no less -- and it's just now five o'clock in the fucking morning.

 
::MISTER FRODO! ::

I watched Back to the Future Part II tonight. When Marty shows some kids in "Cafe 80's" how to play a shoot-'em-up arcade game, one of the kids looked familiar to me.

I backed up the DVD and -- yes! -- it was a 7- or 8-year-old Elijah Wood! Rock!

 
::MAKE A LITTLE BIRDHOUSE::

Driving northeast on Peak St. this evening, I looked to my right and saw a swallow, flying at the same speed and in the same direction as my car. For an instant, I imagined I was seeing it literally suspended in time.

A block later, it tipped starboard, and it appeared to fall backward into the past.

 
::WHEN TYPOS ATTACK::

On Fox 4 News this morning, they scrolled information and news links ahead of their end credits. One of them was for the Colon Cancer Alliance, and the title listed was "Color Cancer Alliance." Ouch.

I can see it now:

"I'm sorry, sir, but your results are in, and it turns out your chartreuse is malignant."

"Radiation is very effective on cancer of the cerise."

"We'll use chemo to blast that cancer right out of the blue!"

 
::TAG LINE, YOU'RE IT! ::

On a banner on the south exit of DFW Airport, it says, "Dallas / Fort Worth: The Where With All."

I like that a lot.

 
::PERFECT FOR HANDS-OFF LEARNING! ::

A new science museum has opened in Washington, DC. The exhibits are slick, the website is lovely, and the building is squeaky-new, but there's something missing. That something, ladies and gents, is fun. I mean, I love science, and this place looks pretty boring. (Though a film called Dark Matter sounds delightfully meta-twist-tacular!)

Check 'em out: Link.

(via Slashdot)

 
::A LITTLE TOO SPICY, PERHAPS? ::

As I perused the Kroger shelves last night for interesting meal ideas, I came across this. I had to buy it.

(And, no, I didn't mean to say I'd "come across" that product. Sick people!)

 
::SPHERE FACTOR::

The world's most perfect man-made spheres have been produced, for use in a gyroscope for Gravity Probe B. "Topped in sphericity only by neutron stars," they're made of fused and polished quartz coated in a thin layer of niobium. They're about the size of a ping-pong ball,and their tolerances are astounding:

"On its surface, the gyroscope is less than 3 ten-millionths of an inch from perfect sphericity. This means that every point on the surface of the gyroscope is the exact same distance from the center of the gyroscope to within 0.0000003 inches."

Link. And another link.

(via Astronomy Picture of the Day)

 
::SIGNS AND POOR TENTS::

You know your night's slumber sucked when the most restful sleep segment was between your alarm's initial ring and your five-minutes-later snooze alarm.

Hold on, kids, today's gonna be a bumpy ride.

 
::THOUGHT OF DRIVING TO THE STORE::

Faking orgasm is like sending yourself flowers.

It's a huge show, dazzling your spectators, but when it comes right down to it, you really didn't get any flowers, and the one who supposedly sent the arrangement is left out of the equation altogether.

 
::LYRE, LYRE::

I would love to hear the following couplet as lyrics in a song:

"It wouldn't bother me
For you to hot 'n' bother me..."

Damn, that would rule.

 
::HEAVY PET PEEVES::

.: Paper towel dispensers in restrooms mounted so high that, in order to reach the lever, you have to reach above shoulder height, making the very water you're trying to dry off run down your arm and into your sleeve.

.: Picking up plastic grocery bags through the wrong hole. (You know, the smaller, not-quite-forged-through ones designed -- I guess -- to make them stronger?)

.: The low-carb trend.

 
::MEANING::

A mean is an average. So, "to mean" is to bring something towards its average amount. So if one engages in "meaning," they are nudging something ever closer to its most common value.

Words have meanings. Are those "meanings" simply the top of the bell-curve of definitions? Like "evenings" are the evening-out of day and night?

These are the minutiae for which my neurons fire right now.

 
::WHAT'S THE OTHER HALF, THEN? ::

On a t-shirt worn by an adolescent girl: "50% SINGLE."

Huh? Is she bi?

 
::STRUNG THEORY::

I am surrounded by people who make me think. They make me theorize. They make me wonder. They make me smile. They make me want. They make me better. They make me fly in my dreams. They make me connected. They make me grateful to be who I am and where I am.

 
::SICK AND/OR TIRED::

I'm under the weather.

And by "weather," I mean a drizzle of snot, a funnel cloud of throat soreness, a hail of phlegm, a lightning-storm of fever, and an atmosphere of fatigue.

 
::URBAN FAME::

Fox 4 News at Nine just aired a story about blogging, interviewing some DFW bloggers. Part of their story was a screenshot of DFW Blogs, which keeps a blogroll of recently updated sites. I saw Iridesce Sent near the bottom of the screen.

I was on TV!

 
::LEET::

I've got a Gmail account! Since my Yahoo account has been hovering at around 80% full for the past three months, I need to uncork it a little. I love Gmail's interface.

I am especially glad to see that "iridesce" is available as a username. Now "Iridesce Sent" can make a tad more sense. So, here we are, world:

iridesce at gmail dot com

 
::Y TAMBIEN::

Grab gravity now
Twist the stars, quartets of light
Spin, supernova

 
::TEA SING::

Tonight, I had what was arguably the best cup of tea I've ever had. The tea itself (honey lemon ginseng green tea) was nothing particularly spectacular; the method of sweetener delivery, however, was particularly spectacular.

First, I added honey to the tea by squeezing it from the bottle. (Some of it dripped onto the lip of the mug, and I marveled at how quickly the viscous fluid became runny.) I stirred it, and frustrated with how non-sweet the tea still was, I debated adding more honey. At that moment, though, I lifted the cup to my lips and took a sip, and my mouth was flooded with sweetness -- I had sipped from the edge of the mug where I'd dripped the honey.

Thus inspired, I coated a fingertip with honey and lined the rim of the mug with its amber stickiness. My next sips pleased me to no end.

It was as though the tea had only become real when it passed over the mug's lip and between mine.

 
::MAG-NEATO! ::

So. I got them. Magnetoids. And they're every bit as fun as I imagined.

Especially when I store them in my back pocket and they come into contact with metal things. God, I never realized how much metal my ass rubbed against in the course of a day.

 
::MOULIN BLEU::

“Check it out, Dad – a dying tree that grew through a windmill! Well, a windmill tower, at least; there aren’t any blades.”

A moment passes.

“Isn’t that poetic?” my dad asks.

“What?”

“Well, that windmill was probably pumping water. Thanks to that water, some seed dropped from a bird’s mouth – a bird who sat on the windmill’s frame – and a tree began to grow. Many years pass, and eventually the tree grows tall and wide, so much that it interferes with the motion of the windmill’s blades. And the source of life for the tree is prevented from pumping any water, so the tree dies. See, poetic.”

My dad astounds me sometimes. I love him so much.

 
::ANALOGUE::

One of the happiest sights I experience relatively frequently is the rainbow of a sunset reflected on a glass building while backdropped by a dark eastern sky. Thursday evening, I saw the same thing, remixed with rurality: The sunset’s red-to-blue was mirrored on a tall new grain silo.

 
::HEY, THAT’S MY BIKE::

Painted on the side of the Roswell Bicycle Shop: “If you pedal it, we peddle it.”

 
::TEX-(NEW) MEX::

Through the constant hail of filled-to-pop bugs on the windshield, the land scaped before us:

.: A white-painted tyrannosaurus rex made of old gears and machine parts roared.

.: I wanted to strum the farmland’s fine perspective-line crops.

.: Dozens of silver windmills, mounted on a ridge, sliced the air (though it disconcerted me, for some reason, to think that the wind was performing the action – that the gusts were pushing on the blades, provoking the knife-threats).

.: Farms with large-scale sprayers fascinated me. The center of the field holds the fulcrum, the water source from which a wheeled arm radiates. The arm had motored wheels, each geared differently so that the center ones went slow and the edge ones went fast. Every five to ten feet there was a sprayer spigot. The spigots further out on the radius of the device were spraying noticeably more water than those towards the middle; it took some pondering for me to realize that because they covered a larger circumference than the interior sprayers, they needed to spray more water per unit time to equate (aquate?) the water per unit area. They too had been geared differently, as it were.

.: I received a lesson in oil well engineering from my dad. His field experience provided fodder for my curiosity; I remembered the ant-like pumps, nodding their formic acid into the ground, from my childhood, but I never learned how they actually worked. I learned that the 4- to 5-inch-wide holes are drilled over a mile into the ground. I learned that the wells push water into the oil to force it to float up to the surface. I learned that there are many configurations to the pump and counterweight system – anything from a bench-pressing praying mantis to a see-sawing hammer (as I saw). I learned about “mud loggers,” who record data on the “mud,” or pieces of rock, sediment, and soil pushed up with the boring (no, not as in “uninteresting”) chemicals. I learned about the division of gas, oil, and water that comes up through the pumps. I learned about the drilling process for wells, and the upkeep, and the retirement. The best part came when two of my favorite roadside visual attractions were connected. I noticed that some oil wells had tall ridges of dirt near them. “I know what that’s for,” my dad challenged, “Guess.” So I puzzled it aloud. “Displacement from drilling?” No. “A wind barrier?” No. “Gravel for a driveway?” Un-no. My dad laughs, “You don’t know how close you are!” So I keep thinking. “Oh, Summer, you’re looking right at it!” I was stumped. Eventually, he broke down and told me. “They’re put there so that the sprayers can clear the height of the oil well.” So they were indeed driveways. Good stuff.

 
::BACKSPACE::

Passing through downtown plaza of Brownfield, time rewound and pushed play to show us a scene from 1950’s rural Texas. Structures were old and browned by the sun. A chipped, wind-seared sign demarcated the City Typewriter Store, and dangling beneath it was a smaller, cleaner sign advertising Computer Parts and Service.

The old drives in the town center were paved with bricks, and when we continued west towards New Mexico, an odd quiet surrounded us. I realized after that sudden silence that we were now on fresh-paved highway instead of the clicking, cobbly Main Street.

The typewriting times had ceased.

“Please Return!” a sign pleaded in the town’s final whispering block.

 
::RURAL FAME::

You know you've arrived when you visit a Wal-Mart SuperCenter in a small town and three children recognize you and say hello.

You know you've arrived when in the middle of a science presentation a kid raises her hand and says, "Were you Kimmy from 'Full House'?"

You know you've arrived when a science teacher sees your show and approaches you afterward, trying to set you up with her just-graduated-from-college, tall, chemical engineer son who wants "a strong, independent, smart woman."

I'm leaving Roswell today, for obvious reasons.

 
::AREA 17.5::

It rained from a clear sky yesterday, just east of Weatherford.

Stopped for dinner, a full-on rainbow arched across the southwest horizon. Kids at the fast-food joint where I dined followed the spanse with their fingers, drawing the least sad frowns I've ever laid eyes on.

As I drove ever westward, a dark bulk of a cloud occluded the sunset until suddenly the slumbering dragon peeled his eye open to let a sliver of red-orange sun through.

 
:: ...GONE! ::

I even did it without all the "Going... Going...?" nonsense.

 
::ET PHONE WORK! ::

Call my work number. You'll be glad you did.

 
::OUT OF THIS WORLD (OKAY, FINE - OF THIS CITY)::

Beginning at 4:00 PM today, I'm out of town. I will be in Roswell, New Mexico for the Goddard Days Rocket Festival, at which I'll be a performer. I will be staying here (I know, it looks kinda sketchy). My dad is tagging along to assist in driving and general sciencing. He will also serve to fend off alien abductions.

I don't think I'll be able to access the Internet at all. This uncertainty is truly frightening to me. I will miss putting the "sent" in Iridesce Sent.

I get back Saturday afternoon.

I will miss you, my friends. If you need to reach me, my cellphone's outgoing message (as if I'd leave a shy or reserved message, sheesh!) will list a phone number at which I can be reached.

I self-importantly imagine many of you singing the glorious end of this song to yourselves:

"It's a cruel (it's a cruel!)
Cruel summer (leaving me!)
Leaving me here on my own..."
-Bananarama, "Cruel Summer"

Be good, kids.

 
::BUSTLING::

A woman rides her bike in the Old Town Shopping Center parking lot. She is approximately fifty pounds overweight. She wears low rise jeans and a cropped t-shirt. And, she's showing about three inches of buttcrack.

Her tight jeans act like a corset for the globes of her buttocks, pushing the heaving tops of them up and over the waistband. When she hits bumps in the concrete, the fat jiggles, and I'm reminded of a Scarborough Faire bar wench.

Next, she turns toward a bike rack to stop in front of -- get this -- a tanning salon.

 
::COOLEST THING EVER::

"Internet Anagram Server" has an great anagram: "I, Rearrangement Servant."

 
::TODAY::

A 65-year-old married man said to me, "You're so -- efficient. And helpful. And also, cute!"

 
::SCOUTING::

A chubby Cub Scout trods beside his corpulent, waddling mom. Spontaneously, he begins to skip. And I don't mean run-of-the-mill skipping. I mean, feet-a-foot-off-the-floor, like-it's-going-out-of-style, for-the-sheer-joy-of-it skipping.

Later, I approach him: "Hey, I saw you skipping before; I love that you skip!"

His face brightens. "Really?" He takes my arm. "Would you like to skip together?"

Of course, I did, and we jigged through the galleries a bit.

"Okay, I need to go. I'm Manager on Duty today, and I have a lot of things to do."

"Awwww..." He puts his arm around my waist and looks petulant, in that non-petulant way only a Cub Scout in full uniform can.

"Sorry. But you have to keep skipping!"

"You're right." And he jubilantly skips away, joining his mom in the next room.

 
::TO AND FRO ZEN::

I'm blowing this popsicle stand at 5:00 PM.

I don't care if the popsicles are melting. I don't care if they have melted and are congealing into a Froot-Loopy patina on the floor. I don't care if the freezers have busted and are filled with gooey, rainbowy oceans, wooden sticks adrift on them like shipwreck debris.

I will be out the door and down the stairs and across the street and on my way home. And I will enjoy not having to peddle these damned frozen confections.

Until 8:30 AM tomorrow, at least.

 
::NOT-SO-RANDOM QUOTES::

"Less is more or less more."
-Y_Plentyn on #LinuxGER

"Less is more work."
-Design Within Reach wall

"Less is more work, and more fun!"
-Jeff Koenig

 
::ALMOST FAMOUS::

Three things I really wanted to buy tonight at the Main Street Fort Worth Arts Festival and didn't:

.: A necklace/earring set made of fluorescent red, pink, orange, and green "pearls."

.: An art print with a field of stars in the background and a pile of planets in the foreground. Its midground featured dapper men and women sifting through the pile of planets, and the piece was called "Flea Markets of the Gods."

.: A silver vinyl purse shaped like a watering can, complete with holes in the spout.

 
::EPIPHANY::

After twenty-two years of this having been the case, I only realize it now.

My father and I have first names which are also non-proper nouns: Summer and Van. The groovy thing is, my mom and my brother have first names which are also verbs: Pat and Josh.

(Side note: "EPIPHANNY" would be another great thing to have emblazoned across the ass-ular region of one's pants!)

 
::CONFISSION::

As many of you know, I adore Neal Stephenson and want to have his babies.

His new book, The Confusion, is the second part of the Baroque Cycle of novels [the first of which was Quicksilver, an amazing read (that I'm sorry to admit I have yet to finish)].

The title is literal. (God, I love recursive puns!) The book is two long novels con-fused into one. They're even interleaved! Amazing. Read on: Link.

(via Wired News)

P.S. Okay, I'm removing my Ethernet card so I can get real work done. If I post anything else before tonight, feel free to tie me up and drizzle me with mushroom oil. Yuck!

P.P.S. (This is a post blog post script. Ha!)

P.P.P.S. Okay, fine, back to work.

 
::I DON'T THINK I'M READY FOR THAT JELLY::

A pre-teen girl outside my office is wearing a pair of pants that read "CUTE" across the butt.

I will never -- I repeat, never -- wear any garment with words emblazoned across its ass portion. Nor will I allow my children.

Unless, maybe, it's something divinely self-referential, like "READ THIS, MY ASS!" or "GLUTEUS MAXIMI." And still, never for kids.

 
::FROM THE NOT-QUITE-BUKKAKE DEPARTMENT::

Songkran is a Thai New Year festival, and part of the par-tay includes a water-throwing festival in Bangkok today. It's supposed to rinse away bad luck: Link.

But what would a Sapphire-throwing festival be like? Thoughts race...

(via BoingBoing)

 
::A MOMENT OF SILENCE::

This weekend, "Weird Al" Yankovic's parents died from carbon monoxide poisoning. He posts a statement here: Link.

Condolences -- and my own version of the Care Bear Stare -- go out to Al and his family.

(via BoingBoing)

 
::THE LAST STARFIGHTER::

Recently, I've noticed around Dallas that some crosswalk signs -- you know, the WALK/DON'T WALK ones -- have been replaced by "green man walking/red hand forbidding" ones featuring LED brightness and efficiency. When the LED field is filtered through the black grate cover, the walking man looks like he's made of pale green stars.

 
::I GET IT! SAPPHIRE = SAFE FIRE! ::

I have to get some of this for work (read: for play). It's called Sapphire. It's a "fire suppression system" and so much more!

According to this article in PM Engineer (which may or may not be a site devoted to nighttime engineering), Sapphire "incorporates NOVEC(TM) 1230 fluid by 3M, which offers zero ozone depletion potential and an atmospheric lifetime of just five days, the lowest for halocarbon alternatives." Wow.

But what's more? It's a dry liquid! Oh. My. God: Link.

(via Slashdot)

 
::I HEREBY DECLARE WAR ON UNCOOL CONTAINERS, AND -- OOH! I WIN! ::

My not-so-secret weapon is a bowl made of melted Green Army Men: Link.

(via BoingBoing)

 
::CRYSTAL BALL::

Few optical tricks thoroughly puzzle me. Usually, I can figure out -- or at least hypothesize about -- how fancy displays work. Last night, I was trumped.

In the corner window of Spike at Mockingbird Station, there's a glass sphere, about two feet in diameter. Appearing on its surface (specifically, around its equator) are the names of the bar's new "Spike Dine" offerings: CHILEAN SEA BASS, FILET MIGNON, and CREVETTE LINGUINI. The words scroll across in red/yellow/green composite light; they look projected, but when I lean in closely, there's no discernable projecting device and no obviously reflective surface for projections to bounce off of. They can't be spinning LEDs; the words look too etherial for that. When there are no words, I see a black stalk capped by a disk in the center of the sphere. I am nonplussed.

Go; look for yourself. Be fascinated. Let me know if you figure it out.

 
::BRIGHT-EYED AND BUSHY-TAILED::

What better to greet the day than young male squirrels engaged in oral sex? Link.

 
::DISASTEROID! ::

This is so cool. It's a DIY* ELE**!

Set your own parameters, and they'll tell you just how much dirt you kicked up, the TNT explosive equivalence, and the crater size of your chosen projectile: Link.

* "Do It Yourself"
** "Extinction Level Event," borrowed from the movie Deep Impact.

(via Futurismic)

 
::RANDOM QUOTE::

"I don't kill flies, but I like to mess with their minds. I hold them above globes. They freak out and yell 'Whooa, I'm way too high.' "

- Bruce Baum

 
::BOOK MEME::

A project, found here at Six Different Ways:

1. Grab the nearest book.
2. Open the book to page 23.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions.

I grabbed Square Wheels and Other Easy-to-Build, Hands-on Science Activities: An Exploratorium Science Snackbook by Don Rathjen, Paul Doherty, and the Exploratorium Teacher Institute. Here's page 23's fifth sentence:

"By the time the two plates are separated, the fingers of air have formed intricate branching structures in the paint."

The text refers to fractal patterns formed when paint is pressed between two clear plastic plates and then suffers the separation of the plates. The book goes on to discuss self-similarity and computer graphics (listing Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan as an example).

 
::IRIDESCE SENT'S IRIDESCENT SENSUALITY::

Today's Astronomy Picture of the Day boasts a lovely shot of an iridescent cloud over France. Since iridescence and meteorological phenomena are two of my favorite things in the universe, consider this a thousand-word manifesto for my life: Link.

 
::THIS IS NOT AN APRIL FOOL'S JOKE::

My boss is applying for a grant that would create a new position at the museum - a position for me to occupy. It would be at the Director level (I'm currently a manager, so this would be two steps up), and it would come with a $7200/year raise.

Please, my readership -- cross fingers, pray, think good thoughts, bat eyelashes, whatever -- do what it is you do to make things happen.

I deserve this.

 
::MATADOR::

He stands, ankles apart, defiant and dark, in the middle of the road. His red jacket flows over his shoulder like blood, and he winks at me as I drive by.

 
::EYE ON FLUX::

I forgot to put on eye makeup this morning. My usual shadow/liner/mascara triumvirate of emphasis is absent.

This is actually pretty convenient, considering.

 
::PILL BUG::

When I was little, I used to play a game with roly-poly bugs. I felt safe playing this game, since roly-polies were neither aggressive, poisonous, nor creepy in the ways of, say, roaches. They were so non-aggressive, in fact, that any unsettling of their little world resulted in an immediate evasive response: their tiny jointed armor bodies curled up into a ball.

The game went like this. I'd find a roly-poly (under a rock, usually) and start caging it in with my hand. Only I'd never really cage it in; I'd just make a new barrier when it changed position. The roly-poly moves to the right, I cut off its path by putting my palm in the way. It explores the barrier for a few seconds, rolies its way over to the left, and ta daa, its plans to walk left are thwarted!

I never felt particularly cruel, doing this to the numbly stumbling bug. At any given moment, there was never an encasement around it.

And now, I play that game with myself. I am free, freer than I've been in a long time. But self-made barriers are going up wherever I turn. My "shoulda-coulda-woulda"s are being made "shouldn't-couldn't-wouldn't"s, and I know not whether my assessments are right.

So I roll myself into a ball.

 
::LIT LINKS::

.: For enjoyers of Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere, an exploration of deserted London Underground stations: Link.

.: Spike Magazine interviews J G Ballard: Link.

.: One of my favorite authors, Chuck Palahniuk, has a writing workshop forum: Link.

(via BoingBoing, Cup of Chicha, and nowhere in particular, respectively)

 
::A BOOK CLOSES::

My cheeks have never been so fucking wet before.

Damn it, I'm so sorry.

 
::BLINK 180, TOO::

My left eyelid muscles have been twitching intermittently for the past three days. When I look into the mirror, it's like I'm watching Aeon Flux or something.

 
::HAZY SHADE OF WINTER::

I'm wearing flannel, cozy slippers, and a down throw blanket. I'm drinking hot ginger peach tea with honey. (I'm very glad I didn't pick up some spring-flingy girly-flirty dress for Easter. Just like Valentine's Day, I'd've frozen my ass off if I wore what I'd planned originally.)

This cold snap, for some reason, doesn't remind me of this winter. It reminds me of last winter.

Discuss.

 
::DOUBLESHOT::

This evening, I heard two gunshots in quick succession directly across the street. A few seconds later, I heard two more. And two again.

I crept to the window, stealthily opened the blinds, and saw the shooter.

The blue lid to a plastic storage tub was in the middle of a southwest-bound lane. Every time a vehicle drove over it, the quickly-crumbling lip let out a thmp thmp!.

That was two hours ago. I really should go out there and put it in a trash bin. Before someone calls the cops.

 
::COUNTRY GRAMMAR::

There's a fireworks stand on the side of I-45 south of Dallas. Emblazoned across its front is "FFT Fireworks."

SS: Fft fireworks? That sounds like a dud, if you ask me.
AM: Unless they're bottle rockets. [mimes bottle-rocket launch] Ffffft!
SS: Good call.

We couldn't figure out what FFT stood for. Fireworks for Teens? Fantasmic Fireworks Taxonomy? The onomatopoeic "Fffft!" seemed most a propos of any option we thought of.

 
::NO ALARMS AND NO SURPRISES PLEASE::

Fire alarms are invading my life with (alarming!) frequency lately.

Last night, as I prepared to brown some onions for some black bean soup for friends coming over, I noticed some grey, billowing smoke coming from the oil in my cheap non-stick pasta pot. Here's what I did.

.:Step 1: Turn on the range fan for immediate smoke-sucking action.
.:Step 2: Pick up the pot and let the smoking turn immediately into foot-high flames.
.:Step 3: Blow on the flames. *
.:Step 4: Open the kitchen door to allow smoke to dissipate.
.:Step 5: Continue to hold the flaming pot in hands.*
.:Step 6: Run outside with the pot, giving the fire more Oxygen.*
.:Step 7: Realize that's not working and go back inside.
.:Step 8: Put pot in sink and turn on cold water.
.:Step 9: Watch as flames grow to 3-foot heights as the oil spatters, sooting up the underside of the cabinets over the sink.*
.:Step 10: Let water and thermodynamics work their magic, keeping the combustion reaction from getting enough activation energy, thus putting out the fire.
.:Step 11: Open and close the kitchen door, wafting smoke out as much as possible.
.:Step 12: Realize the fire alarm's going off and use a rag to swish smoke away from it until it stops.
.:Step 13: Repeat Step 11 ad infinitum.

*I don't know why I did this.

(I realize now that the previous fire alarm incident I had this week could almost be told with this exact progression of steps, changing the definition of just one word.)

The only casualty of this fire was my nonstick pot; the cheap coating bubbled up and flaked/melted off, and it continued to flake off when I re-commenced onion-frying. So I changed pots and ditched the now-ruined one. There's some mild sooting on the walls and cabinet above the sink, but nothing a good go with Fantastik won't cure.

I am unsinged.

 
::ENGRISH PATIENT::

I'm not a regular reader of Penny Arcade, but the Penny Arcade Remix Project has given me a much-needed series of chuckles today. Japanese high school students were asked to script Penny Arcade comics.

And hilarity ensues: Link.

(via Memepool)

 
::WAY MORE THAN 99, AND NOT ONLY RED::

I visited the National Maritime Museum in Greenwich, London, about six years ago. It was an amazing component to a fantastic London experience. (Hey, there's a lot to be said for straddling 00:00:00 longitude!)

On May 4, they're hosting an event called Sky Ear, during which participants can use cellphones to talk to tethered balloons and listen to atmospherical swee!s. You'll wish you could go, too: Link.

May the fourth be with you!

(via BoingBoing)

 
::BIKE HANDLEBAR RIBBONS::

Accelerating up the street, dew-water drops flew off my side view mirrors, leaving streamer-tracks in my mind.

 
::EMPTY::

Graffitti seen this morning on a signal light electrical box: "EARTH IS HOLLOW."

 
::EYE HEART YOU::

Tattoos too permanent? Piercings not subtle enough? Then check out the JewelEye, an piece of jewelry that's implanted in your eye's conjunctiva! Link.

(title and link via Cup of Chicha)

 
::DESIGN PORN::

Is it wrong that I get turned on by this? Link.

(via Memepool)

 
::MY READING QUEUE::

I'm reading a lot of books right now. Fiction, nonfiction, even magazines -- and it's dangerous. It's so complicated, following the stories, keeping up with places, pulling myself from one universe (however comfortable it is) and overcoming narrative momentum in order to get into a new one. Books are an escape. And I've been escaping too much. I need to concentrate on my own reality for a little while.

I need to rip out my bookmarks. Stop breaking spines. Eventually, explore my Amazon Wish List and get some new books.

Because folks, in this Choose Your Own Adventure, I'm toast.

But I know I'll start over again.

 
::WALT-MART::

Wordings at various Disney Parks this spring break:

.: Happily writ on trash receptacles, the phrase "Waste Please" beckons. Hm. Too easily misinterpreted as an imperative sentence. "Okay, sure, I'm all about wasting stuff," I think back.

.: There's a store called "Merchant of Venus." Love it.

.: In Tomorrowland, on a temporary wall, signs say "This area is being refurbished for your future enjoyment." Tee hee! I get it! Future enjoyment! Because we're in Tomorrowland, natch!

.: An exhibit called "Tin Toy Story" -- signs for which are in the same font as the movie title from Toy Story -- chronicles the history, playfulness, and sheer creepiness of tin toy robots. I was entranced.

 
::RETRO POSTERCHILDREN::

Seen yesterday in the bathroom at the Fort Worth Museum of Science and History: a poster, depicting cartoon children -- all of whom look confused and affected and strange -- with the headline "It's No Secret If You Don't Take A Bath."

It had me smiling for the rest of the day.

 
::TAMBIEN::

One star on one night
Seeping eyes, ears, soul, and mind
Slow supernova

 
::BIG BROTHERLY LOVE::

Reason, the monthly Libertarian magazine, will soon send each of its 40,000 subscribers an individualized magazine. Each cover will feature a satellite photo of the subscriber's neighborhood, with their house circled. The issue focuses on databases, and the invasion-of-privacy-meets-individualized-benefits frappe surrounding them. I just bought a subscription. Link.

(via Kottke.org)

 
::AIR MASS::

Saturday night, I attended a concert given by Air, a group I raved about previously.

Their performance was remarkable -- instrumental songs were riffed upon enough to stay interesting, the simple four-column stage lights kept surprising me with their smoky shapes and heart-speeding flashes, digital beeps met acoustic strums, and "Cherry Blossom Girl," sung seemingly by a chorus of three or four women, was performed by electronically modulating the voice of one of Air's two male group members.

My only disappointment was that a theremin wasn't used; however, the audience screamed and hooted when a short French man turned a knob to make a drone sound like that instrument. Huge audience response, for a barely-visually-discernable knob-turn.

For samples of their music, go here: Link.

Knowing smiles go to Austin, without whom I'd've not gone to the concert. But then again, without Austin, I'd've never heard Air's spiralling, entrancing music in the first place. So thanks for both, my friend.

 
::TONY WATCH THE STARS::

In this rare, almost over week of all the planets being visible in the night sky, my friend Tony has viewed all the eye- or binocular-viewable ones. He describes his experience:

"At about 10:00 tonight, I finished observing all the planets you can see with the naked eye or binoculars, Mercury, Venus, the Earth (easy), Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn, in ONE NIGHT.

Mercury took me about three days of waiting for clouds to move and then two nights of peering at the still-sunlit sky during dusk, trying to pick out stars to use as guideposts and find the dang thing. I finally gave up trying to find guide stars against the sun's glare and used a compass (and star chart) to figure out the bearing to look along at 7:30 PM, then I started at the horizon at that bearing and worked my way up about 6 - 8 degrees with a pair of binoculars. Found it! Then I had to watch it until it set, to make sure that it set at the right time to be Mercury and not just a star I'd mistaken for it. Then I found the guide stars I would have been using if only I could have seen them earlier. All confirmed! Yay!

I was surprised that it seemed yellow-green. I'd always thought it would look bluish. The fisherman down by the lake (I was at White Rock Lake) kept looking at me and wondering what I was doing.

Mars and Saturn were easy, and Venus was too bright to focus accurately. Jupiter was last, and by luck I picked a time when all four of the major moons were spread out and visible. They move fairly fast; in a few hours, several of them will be crossing over the face of Jupiter, giving people with good-sized telescopes a chance to watch their shadows...

Anyway, I wanted to celebrate."

I join you in celebration. And I am, of course, jealous.

 
::CHANGING STRIPES::

This afternoon, I witnessed three separate incidences of parking-stripe repainting in the Dallas area.

 
::THREE THINGS ONE SHOULD NEVER DO ON A FRIDAY::

1) Decide that the answer to life, the universe, and everything is nowhere near 42. Because that's not a prime number!

2) Forget to bring one's Aleve to work. Because contrary to popular belief, the theremin -- not the rhythm -- is gonna get you.

3) Slice the pad of one's left middle finger with Teflon-coated scissors. Because it hurts to type when your finger has a mouth carved into it -- a mouth whose screaming bloody -- well, blood -- is only quelched by globs of antibiotic ointment and an unattractive, tight, khaki fabric bandage.

 
::THE FULL PHILLY OF A DREAM::

I've kept this under wraps, because I didn't want to shake any boats or rattle any trains or flip any cars or crash any planes, but:

I'm moving to Philadelphia.

One of the science museums there has hired me to manage a traveling outreach show (kind of like the "Trip to Planet X!" one I worked on a couple of years ago) -- it's a great professional opportunity, and as much as I'd like to thrive here in Dallas with my family and my old and new friends, it's time to strike out alone and make my way in this crazy world. The pay is good, I won't be the one doing the traveling (thank God for that), and the people there are really amazing. I start in early June. Book your farewell dinners with me soon; my schedule's sure to fill up fast.

Getting strong now!

UPDATE:

I feel very much like Ferris Bueller:

"They bought it!"

April Fools, suckers!