jfaq

-Old headline quote: "WHO backs genetic experiments with smallpox", News Scientist, 2004-

I had somewhat of a dream last night. It had to do with state quarters (for the out-of-U.S. readers, those are quarters with different backs, commemorating each of the fifty states in turn, and produced in limited quantities) and also Raleys, which is (literally, by Consumer Reports) the best grocery store in the U.S.

I mentioned in an earlier post (which I am too lazy to find, use the Google search in the Navbar, please) the wonderfully awful B movie Fluteman. Well, I looked around for it online, and material on it is shockingly sparse, so I will provide a public service and review it here.

I worry some about spoiling the plot for you, since the outcome of the plot is only subtly hinted right about when a MYSTERIOUS MAN WHO PLAYS THE FLUTE comes to a VILLAGE WITH A PROBLEM where GREEDY CITY LEADERS PAY HIM TO FIX THE PROBLEM while the camera mostly follows the CHILDREN, one of whom HAS A DISABILITY. Since that is a very quiet, unobtrusive nudge, the village teacher helps us out by having one of the kids in her one-room school read a poem about the Pied Piper. Pause, pause. Okay, I'll spoil the plot for you: fluteman=pied piper! I know! It's astounding!!! I only guessed it about... when I looked at the title on the box.

Anyway, in this case, the problem is lack of rain (Hamelin now being this obscure town in Australia which I can never recall the name of) and, conveniently, Mr. Fluteman's instrument can manipulate water (there is one particularly ludicrous scene in which he sits in front of a watering can playing the eponymous flute, and every time he plays a short melody, the watering can spews out water, which stops as soon as he turns around to look at the mischievous can. It is so obviously powered by a hose that you really have to see the scene to understand). The classroom, meanwhile, has your requisite semi-focused children, along with one boy who is supposedly deaf. As a "deaf" boy, he must be communicated to by means of signs by the teacher, but how he derives any information from these signs is a mystery. The conversations seem to consist of the teacher slowly saying the words and flourishing every fifth word with a carefully placed hand movement, no doubt meant to signify some complicated topic, but in effect more like wiggling her fingers to get them uncramped. Perhaps he lipreads?

The two villains are the highlight of the tale. One of them, Oswald Snaith, looks remarkably like a very nervous version of Hitler, who utters such gems as "B-b-b-b-b-bbut Claaarence! I don't want to go to j-j-j-j-j-jj-jj-j-jj-jjjaaaail!!" as they embezzle money from the town and hide the bundle (this is lo-tech embezzling) in a very, very secret spot. Namely, the top of a large file cabinet, in a basket that looks like those used by elementary-school teachers for turned-in work. Of course, this renders them unable to hold up on their end of the bargain with Fluteman for rain, so he, of course, runs away with the village's children.

Things to watch for. When Fluteman has promised rain, there is a long stretch where people are saying "There will be no rain" and printing it in the newspaper, and the like. When the rain finally comes, in fact, one of the characters is getting ready to print in the paper that rain never came, when it handily pours into his OPEN-CEILINGED office. Also, in the bargaining stage with Fluteman, when Oswald and Clarence keep trying to weasel out of paying, one of their "tricks" is to have him make the rain go away after a certain period of time. But by this time they have made themselves so annoying that it disappears, only to coalesce in a tiny personal-sized cloud constantly dumping on only their heads. Additionally, when Fluteman finally runs away with the children, the deaf boy is of course too slow, but when he sees the last of the children, he regains his hearing and hears the tune Fluteman plays. When he comes back to town, the teacher asks him to play the tune, so he plops down before the piano and plunks it out, straight off. Even though he has been deaf for his entire life, and could not possibly know where on the keyboard the notes he heard were.

The ending is a little different from the classic tale's. One thing to remember when you watch is that Australian money is made of plastic... which turns out to be very handy in the end.

Reality check. See if you can find a tape (difficult) or DVD (unlikely) of Fluteman anywhere. If you can, let me know where!

n mqm

-Sticky note quote: "Mexico video" (on a DVD)-

Ah... I think I nailed the important technique for lucidity. Clearly the wake-back-to-bed stuff really works, since I managed to haul myself out of bed last night, then fell back asleep to a detailed dream involving an orphaned boy that sees his family in dreams. And his father teaches him.........acting???? So part of the time I actually had a dream-within-a-dream, though as my character in the dream was very young, he was too credulous to realize it (HIS dream) wasn't real.

Ever heard of parkour?

Reality check. Oh, and speaking of hearing of things, what's with Google's new favicon?

a mntn7

-Blorum quote: "This gillish envelope of unseen cogs / Overfoams to shiny sheath, beneath / Sun-fractured fins churn brown-thumbed hands / The air-made puppet gestured from within..."-

I remember not much of my dream last night, and the part I remember would reveal just a little too much of my personal identity to put here. :P

Perhaps tomorrow night?

Anyway, I just came to the computer from eating cherries (astute readers may be gathering by now the impression that the Great Domesticated Desert of Doom^TM is some sort of giant fruit salad full of... fruit. They would be correct). They are in this little white strainer, set on a blue plastic plate, for easy rinsing. The cherries are about ²/₃ of the way gone by now -- "now" meaning when I began to eat them -- and many of the ripe, blackish ones have already been eaten. No matter, I'm actually fonder of the redder ones; I haven't quite the sweet tooth of, say, my younger brother, who would snatch the black ones right off the bat. So long as the cherries are not so bright red that they're bitter, I'm fine.

I grab a green stem and lift up a cherry. Up, then towards my mouth, then delicately between my front teeth it goes. I grip it, teethwise, and yank off the stem. Then the cherry is ready for processing. My tongue licks it backwards and sideways, perhaps to the sharp teeth on the left side of my mouth, or farther back to the right, underneath the crushing molars there. I am not precisely sure why the cherry either goes "front-left" or "back-right"... perhaps the taste buds in those specific areas are specially amenable to cherries. If the cherry goes to the sharp right corner, my teeth whack down and split it, half from half. The tongue then jumps back in to sort the pieces; the fleshy fruit segments are hauled back to the molars, while the pit is pushed forth to the lips, where it dangles for a moment, then plops onto a mound of its speckly fellows on a napkin. If the cherry begins at my right molars, the fruit is gently crushed, and it takes a bit of maneuvering to squeeze the hard pit out from within the collapsed redness. The juicy covering is transferred crablike to the left of my mouth (again, I am not sure why this particular position is always marked off) while the seed skooches forth and pops out, rolling along my lower lip.

Reality check. I think my intestine may complain of how many cherries I consumed, later.

ntqa

-Math prof quote: "Your washing machine starts to take a little walk across the garage floor." (referring to the phenomenon of resonance)-

Little memory of dreams last night. Clearly I need to tell myself to get up when I first wake up from a dream (and remember more of it), then wait to possibly fall back asleep and certainly not get anymore dreams.

I wonder if it has ever occurred to hapless, unsuccessful shoppers that the clothes they're trying on (this is especially evident with shoes) look much better from another person's physical point of view than theirs. I'm not talking about being overly critical of ourselves or anything like that. I mean that most clothes are not flattering when viewed from above!

Take shoes. Ever notice that it seems like your feet are a little longer than everyone else's? How everyone else seems to have a rounder foot and more pleasant contours of shoes than you? Maybe it's because you see their shoes from the front and the side, where they are either foreshortened or have designs that shorten the visual length of the foot, making it look more "footlike". Whereas, when you look down at your own shoes, you are viewing them from above, where they are not primarily designed to be viewed from. They look long and clownish because if designers were to make shoes that looked properly proportioned from above, people in front of you (seeing the foreshortened front view) would see squatty, grossly short feet (since the shortening aspects of the design would be exaggerated and concentrated).

Reality check. I spend altogether too much time observing.

jft7t7

-Munin quote: "I wasn't too impressed with the look of the bar my reference was sitting in, so I took a few liberties."-

I had a dream I was working on a very old beige computer that could only play pinball. But it was coded in BASIC, so that was pretty cool (yay for the sole computer language in which I am literate!!!) and also that I went to Mexico. Which makes sense, since I know a group of people that just came back from there in real life (they were building houses for the people there).

After much thought, I have determined that the only food that is not utterly disgusting to eat is celery. Let me take a moment to explain myself. I don't mean flavor-wise; I'm talking about when you actually stop to think about what you're really eating...

• Meat. Ok, this is pretty much brought up by every vegetarian/vegan on the planet, so I don't think I need to rehash the whole "Oooo yuck, it's MUSCLE!!! From a smelly cow/chicken/PIG!!!"
• Also milk. You know, the secretions of a cow's... This becomes glaringly obvious especially when the fluid gets warm, and you begin to catch the more fleshy undertones of the flavor.
• I won't even get into what eggs correspond to.
• Aha, but here's one for the vegans! What about fruit? Hearken back to those days of yore in high school biology, and perhaps you may recall a certain fact about fruits. Namely, they develop from a plant's... ovaries.
• And of course, beans and nuts contain tiny plant embryos. THAT WILL NEVER BE BORN, MWA HA HA!!!!!!
• Okay, so how about vegetables? Well, this takes a little more thought, but aren't leaves essentially a plant's lungs?
• Fungi, meanwhile, are ripe targets. First of all, they usually grow in rotting stuff. Secondly, hate to break this to you, but the club part that we eat is actually the fungus's reproductive organ.

In short, about the only thing left is stalk plants, such as celery. Or rhubarb, but that has the inconvenient disadvantage of tasting absolutely awful. And I suppose the only thing left to drink is water (since most other beverages come from leaves or beans somewhere down the line).

Reality check. On the other hand, we all know that water is recycled...

n7t

-Underside of sticky notes quote: "Spider Tac Adhesive Products"-

I remember exactly nothing from last night's dreams. Well, not quite accurate. I can recall a bit of the "texture" of the dream at one point, but it's not anything that is describable in words. Just a feeling unique to the interior my wacky brain.

Hm, seems we've hit another holiday (in the States). So I guess... have a thoughtful (couldn't really say "happy" there) Memorial Day.

Reality check. I must note that the Spider Tac also has a lovely (tacky?) spiderweb graphic shooting out of the "S".

fjft

-Ecclesiastes 1:11: "There is no remembrance of men of old, and even those who are yet to come will not be remembered by those who follow."-

I couldn't remember my dream really well this morning. Had something to do with forgetting stuff. No, seriously. ;P

Oh, why not. Story time!! Living where I do, I do tend to give undue thought to the weather, I suppose.

Dry

Why is my face so puzzled? Ah, my friends, it is because I have heard the strangest tale, and am trying to decide whether it is true or not. What? No, if I say it aloud, it will refuse resolution, for tales so pettishly dislike their telling... well, I suppose if you will be so insistent, then I will begin.

Some time ago, there was a boy. I am told his name was Tom, but it could have well as been Jack, or perhaps Alfred. No matter, I shall call him Tom. He had a mother, a father, and one older brother, but their names are never told. So we will pass over them for the time being and return to Tom.

He has walked the earth for about sixteen or seventeen years, under a crown of brown-fisted hair, and over a body now of an average size, if a bit gangly. He lives in a quiet house in the hills with his nameless family, on that bright borderland between the farms and the lazy suburbs of a distant city. His brother came into the world a year or two before him, but even that small edge makes the younger hold him in awe.

Here is a usual scene. Tom's father leaves for work, early, before the sun rises. Our friend Tom awakes much later, and has just finished eating his breakfast when his mother comes in. She says "If you're not busy, could you get the clothes out of the dryer?" in that curious maternal voice that makes it a matter of honor to be unbusy. He dutifully, if a tad reluctantly, quits to the laundry room. There, he swings open the door to the dryer and pulls out the clothes, hand over hand, dumping them into the waiting hamper. At last, the machine is empty. Before shutting the aperture completely, Tom tugs out the lint screen. A broad motion with his long fingers suffices to pull off the grey-purple fur in one impossibly soft, flat piece, which he crumples and sticks in his pocket. Tom may be on the brink of manhood, but something about that plush fuzz must strike his fancy...

Ah, and here is his brother, leaning in the doorframe, watching. "Can I have that?" he asks, seemingly just as entranced as Tom at the collected lint. The younger brother reaches down into his pocket and produces it, handing it to his solicitous sibling. He has been asking for it every time now for longer than Tom can remember the beginning of, but Tom is not selfish. He is sure there will be a time when his brother is not watching, and he may keep the lint for himself.

And what, pray tell, does his brother want it for? Let us follow him. He retreats from the laundry room, the prize tightly in hand. Up the stairs he goes, one foot bouncing, then another. Into his room... then he opens a tiny box, and stuffs the tinder down into it. Yes, tinder. It seems that the lint makes the perfect starter for a fire, and it is this practical use that Tom's older brother intends to put it toward, burning it up first when the garbage pile gets high.

But enough of domesticity for the moment, for what is occurring outside the house is, I think, far more interesting. The grass of the hills around Tom's house lies sharp and parched, yellowing in the persistent sun. It seems the area has had no rain for a year, and skirling winds besides. This is why Tom is so careful to clean the lint from the dryer, and his brother so punctual to snuff the garbage bonfire when it falls; one unwatched spark is enough to set the whole countryside ablaze. More pressingly, however, there is a dire shortage of water. Tom's family does their part, as can be told by the sad droop of the plants in their yard, and the musk scent of bodies unshowered and toilets unflushed. Unfortunately, it is becoming clear that the efforts of residents are not enough. One reservoir is gone; another already half-empty, steaming silently in the heat before it is even used. As the dry year tumbles over into summer, the heat bites terribly on the people of the hills, who dare not even sponge their swelling faces with the precious reserves of water.

There comes a day when Tom rises in the night, the warmth of the day gathered so quickly that his body thinks it morning, though the sun is barely up. He patters downstairs to find his mother and father already up, eating breakfast, snatching for themselves the one blissful hour when they can bear to move. Tom pours some cereal, eats mechanically. Even the cool milk seems repressive and powdery. His brother comes down and begins to eat as well. Tom stops in disgust. He is about to run back upstairs to his smooth-sheeted bed when his mother cuts in. "Sweetie, I know it's so hot, but could you empty the dryer for me? I'd really appreciate it" she says, the hope clear in her voice. Tom's father looks up with an odd expression as the boy walks quickly toward the ever-warming laundry room. Hand over hand, out come the clothes, painfully hot, this dawn. Up comes the lint screen, around his fingers, and he wedges the softness into his pocket, knowing that he will soon have to relinquish it. Savoring the feel meanwhile...

His brother does not wait in the doorway. Tom is confused, my friends. His emotions make a hollow tunnel in his body, as if the little ball of lint is of great import, and he has just been granted it, this once, by some miracle. He tugs up the hamper and carries it to his mother, with two hands, wonderingly. He sets it down, only to notice his father motioning, already about to go to work, that job that grasps him away so early and rolls him back home so late, every day of every week. Tom hardly knows his father, now, but he obeys the silent command.

His father merely whispers rapidly, "Do not give it to him. No matter what, do not give it to him." He becomes more agitated, speaks more tensely and quietly. "Put it on your windowsill, open the window. Leave the room and close the door. Quickly!" And the exchange is over. Tom, frightened by his father's terse manner, does not stop to verify that he refers to that hidden ball of lint in his pocket. Somehow, he knows, though how, my friends, is not told.

He bounds up the stairs just as his father leaves for work. On the steps sits his brother, finished now with his breakfast. "Oh, hey," he starts, "wouldja mind giving me that..." his hand gestures casually towards Tom's pocket. Tom does not stop to figure out whether to answer with a no or a yes, though he feels guilty already for being so selfish. Perhaps he imagined the encounter with Dad! The heat, wanting to keep the fluff... he slows on the steps. But, well, after all, he could always give it to him next time; Father did seem so anxious.

His feet pound up to his bedroom, and he reaches for the tiny clump and places it under the open window. Then he is out again, closing his door behind him, just as his father said, my friends. But his brother is waiting out there. "You're acting awful strange, Tom," he says, "I think you might want to lie down, little brother." He pushes his smaller sibling aside and opens the door. But he does not go toward the bed, to turn down the sheets for his dear brother, oh no. He strides first toward the sun-soaked window and looks at it. He looks at the sill, then on the ground beneath it, then at last back to Tom. His lips are tightly bound, like a harp string ready to snap. "Where is it, brother?" he hisses.

Tom flats his back against the wall, eyes flinging to and fro from his advancing brother and the wide, wide window. And what does he see through the window, friends? For he hesitantly points toward it, his face open in fear and wonder mixed.

Ah, yes. He sees a single, purple-grey raincloud, growing ever larger in that burning sky.



Reality check. May your year be full of rain or dryer lint, whichever you prefer.

nnmqdntntmqfjf

- CD cover quote: "EVERYONE: E: CONTENT RATED BY: ESRB"-

I was talking to another blogger in my dream last night, one that I have not met and have only read a single post of, in a magazine. What is odd about it is that I read it only yesterday, and I very, very rarely have dreams relating to the previous day. Hum.

The Great Domesticated Desert of Doom^TM got some much, much needed rain today. I only hope that'll make it somehow down to Santa Cruz, which is sort of burning up right now. Interesting little tidbit that not a lot of people realize: the GDDoD has a Mediterranean climate. Hence, it is actually normal for us to get deluged in the winter and have a water-rationing-worthy spring and summer.

The fact that it is otherwise in most climates frankly blows my mind. Rain? In the SUMMER?? What are you, crazy? Hot=dry, cold=wet, immutable principle.

Another amusing thing is to compare notes with other people in the U.S., who are astonished at how much we pay for gas here, which is around $4.00 a gallon (1 gallon=3.78 liters)...

*pause for my U.K. readers to be aghast at how cheap it is here*

Reality check. If it is summer, and raining, that might be a good indicator of dreamland. ;)

q q q

-Gmail ad quote: "Visit the official home of Sleep Sheep and Friends!"-

Apparently my busy day this week was Thursday instead of Friday. No matter, I had boring dreams that night anyway. Last night... wait... come to think of it, my dream last night was pretty dull as well. Ah me.

I don't understand why Google bothers with Google groups. To me, it would seem like if you have a Google account, you would make a (more attractive and functional) forum by jury-rigging Blogger, like so:

1. Start a new blog, with a fairly memorable url. This will be your main page.


2. Start several more (these can have funky urls). Link to them on the main page (and include links back to the main page on them) and underneath each link, include an RSS from each of them underneath the links. This corresponds to a forum's chart of subforums.


3. Let anyone comment on the main page, but turn comment moderation on. This is where people can ask to be invited as authors.


4. Include an archive on top of the posting section in each subforum, so people can jump right to the correct topic. Restrict commenting in the subforums to people participating in the blog, so only "members" (authors) may "reply" (comment) to "topics" (blog posts).


5. The author limit for a Blogger account is 100. Since most forums never make it to that number, you should be ok, but if you do exceed the author limit, appoint "supermembers"/mods that can post in multiple subforums. People may only be members (authors) in one subforum, but they can ask the supermembers to post elsewhere for them.


6. Stick Google Gadgets and pictures everywhere. Remember that a Google group does not have this capability.


7. Need to pin a topic (blog post)? Simple. Just stick its permalink in a linklist (with a title like "Pinned Topics" or "Read This First").


8. You may want to restrict the number of blog posts shown to only 1 or 2. You want people to view these primarily through the permalinks in the archive anyway since the replies (comments) then show.


9. Oh, and incidentally, you can go to Settings>Formatting>Post Template to make a signature.


10. Enjoy your free, ad-less Blorum!

Reality check. I may be induced to someday post the link of an example of this technique (once I polish it up better).

qfjf

-Keyboard quote: "ZXCVBNM<>?"-

I had a dream that I was helping organize kids for a performance of some sort, my job mainly comprising of depriving them of the bouncy balls being hurled at me at intervals. I think the kids tried to take me hostage after a while... Some dreams make me smile. :)

I took my blood pressure at one of those automated supermarket devices today. Or tried to. You see, I was successful the first time, but since blood pressure can vary from reading to reading, the machine advises to take multiple readings, up to 10.

I managed one. Which is odd, since the instructions say that talking or movement can invalidate results, and I chatted up a storm during the first (and sole succesful) reading, as well as wincing and saying "OW" firmly and repeatedly, my hand clenched in a fist.

This is the reason I give that although my systolic blood pressure is well below average, my diastolic reading is in a range called "pre-hypertension". Go scratch your head now if it is feeling as itchy as mine.

However, there was no way to check this result, though I tried. Oh, I tried. I relaxed for the requisite 5 minutes, then positioned my hand and body perfectly still and flaccid, uttered not one syllable... but even after about five tries, all I had to show for it was a very bruised arm and that same ONE reading, as well as a lot of screens intoning "Reading failed. Results inconsistent."

Maybe my systolic and diastolic readings were so close that the interval between them happened too quickly for the machine to pick up (note: the way blood pressure is measured is that the cuff is inflated, then slowly deflated. When the first sounds appear, the pressure of the cuff is recorded as your systolic -- pumping -- pressure. The cuff keeps relaxing until the sound of the blood whacking against the vessels stops, and that stage is recorded as your diastolic -- relaxed -- pressure. But it is conceivable for the two to happen quickly enough together that the machine suspected funny business, so it fell back on its failsafe. This probably wouldn't happen if I had a doctor take my blood pressure).

Reality check. If I were a small child, I think it would be more reasonable to fear a blood pressure cuff than a shot. At least shots don't have to clench down on your arm for a full minute!

nq ntq

-Gmail header ad quote: "SIMS.net and Truancy Call - www.TruancyCall.com - Free Demo calls texts absent pupils SIMS facility Phoenix RM & SEEMIS"-

Whoa, awesomely weird dreams last night. One of them in particular involved living in a canyon (curiously situated in the middle of my kitchen) that was flown over by foreign starships. We didn't know if they were friendly or not, so a Han Solo-ish character started firing on them. Devastation ensued, I fled with someone else to a forest clearing, where we "wound up time" (??) and told "Han Solo" not to shoot at them. Then they came in to the canyon and I talked to their different clans, which each wore different-colored robes (but of course. I think "color coding" is somehow mandatory in fantasy stories).

Does height influence personality, or does personality influence height? Clearly, there is some correlation since the average height of CEO's is actually several inches taller than the national average for men. And, while conventional wisdom is not always correct, I have yet to meet a sho- excuse me, compactness-gifted individual who does not have an unusually developed ability to make people laugh.

It would make sense, I suppose, for them to be connected, since both are somewhat influenced by hormones... anyway, a nugget of thought to ponder.

Reality check. If you see Han Solo, tell him to ease up on that itchy trigger finger, okay?

fjfj/ mntns7

-Overheard quote: "If you don't cut the brainstem, then it's still alive."-

I had a dream that I was watching some sort of celebrity dancing show, except that the set looked more like the stage used for Food Network challenges. How... interesting. Later I dreamt that I was on Blogger, and also chatting with someone online, except that I was chatting into a microphone. Also, my voice sounded a lot younger than it actually does.

Roly-polies look like sedate little things: trundling along in their little leafy habitats, antennae waving. Turns out, those individuals are merely public-relations.

Today, I had to catch 15 pillbugs for an "experiment" (never mind why I was participating in this). Sounds easy enough, once you find them, right? Well, spent about 20 minutes circumambulating the sidewalks of a large church that I have noticed has a variety of insect life (mainly because it's the church I go to every Sunday). I and the person helping me found that locating the crustaceans was relatively easy. Catching them -- next to impossible.

See, the irritating part is that many of them (particularly the small, already hard to grasp ones) don't actually roll into a ball as advertised. They just keep moving when something large (e.g. my fingers) descends on them, and unfortunately, this is a very successful capture evasion strategy. But! To cut a long journey short, we did manage to net about 20 (keep in mind we searched the whole of the sidewalks encircling this enormous building to get these 20), and they came home, making a variety of chittering sounds as they crawled over each other, oblivious to their fellows underneath -- only capsizing every now and then when a stack of them got too high.

So, they're finally home, safe in their tall (hence, completely unclimbable), lidded container. Then they had to be transferred to a shoebox with two different options (the first trial involved different colors, the second wet/dry) for them to choose, called, stunningly enough, a "choice chamber". All well and good. True, the usual setup uses two connected petri dishes instead of a shoebox, but the box should work just fine...

Unless, of course, the box has a hole. I was dutifully watching the clock and recording the numbers on each side of the chamber when I began to notice that there were less than 10, total (which is what the experiment began with). Uh oh. But I couldn't stop since the recording intervals were every 30 seconds, so I figured they were just hiding in some small recess of the box that I couldn't see -- after all, I was careful to push down any that tried to crawl up the side of the box. It was about this time that I heard a soft "pinnk". Then another. And another. I finally tracked the sound down to another side of the counter on which the box was set.

Lo and behold, there were ROLY-POLIES CRAWLING ALL OVER THE FLOOR!!!! I was more than slightly perturbed at this development. In such an agitated state, it took me several puzzled seconds to realize that there was, indeed, a hole in the corner of the box, and that these isopods with less brains in their heads than would fit on a pin had managed to find it, en masse. They then proceeded to set forth onto the counter, and just a swiftly find the edge. At this point, their inner aspirations toward lemminghood took hold, and they fell right off and pinnked onto the linoleum.

After taping up the hole, I recruited the other person to help me keep an eye on the things.

Reality check. Watch out for those pillbugs.

mqnsa

-Nostalgic song quote: "How much is that doggie in the window? The one with the waggily tail? How much is that doggie in the window? I do hope that doggie's for sale."-

I had one dream in which I turned into a small child and ran away from home, and another in which I was going down a runway (!) in a rocket (?) that had a propeller (very effective in OUTER SPACE, of course), and which I was also holding in my hand. But I was riding in it too. Weird surrealist perspective, I guess. ;)

It is much, much cooler today. What a relief! Hmmm... what to write about? I know! A pointless video!

I took this video several years ago when the Great Domesticated Desert of Doom^TM (and indeed the entirety of the U.S.) had that massive heat wave, and all I wanted to do all day was sit on the couch sipping from a frozen camelback. This resulted one evening when I added a camera to the mix. I considered adding music to it at one time, but then realized that doing so would impinge on the beautiful, pure, untrammelled... boringness of the clip. Enjoy!

Reality check. The bubbles!!!

nnmq nnmq nnmq nnmq

-Translation of title: "Very hot." [lit: warm-warm warm-warm]-

I had a dream last night that there was a bridge from Denver to the Great Domesticated Desert of Doom^TM that had grooves in the road so that cars would keep looping (?) from one end to the other until their owners came to pick them up (??). It was basically like an enormous vehicular baggage claim.

As noted in the title, it is very hot. Very, very, very hot. I think the lovely abundant snowpack that we built up over the plentiful winter rains sublimated approximately 3 hours ago. It's so weird too, because we had such a nice, wonderful snowpack just a few months ago, and now they're discussing the possibility of mandatory water rationing (homeowners each reduce water usage by 19% -- a method which irks current water misers because they've been working to conserve water and now they have no more left to conserve, while water gluttons are still able to subsist, since they started out using more).

However, do not get the idea in this that all you have heard is true -- the GDDoD does not have "summer all year long". Rather, during what the rest of the Northern Hemisphere calls "winter", the GDDoD has weather roughly coinciding to New Zealand's, while the rest of the year is pinned to the benign seasons of... the Sun.

So anyway, don't be alarmed if I don't post for a couple days during this heatwave, since the computer doesn't like to be over a certain temperature, and I may have to stay off it, depending on how the weather turns.

Reality check. Although if your back resembles that of a Namib Desert beetle's (google it), you may merely be in GDDoD.

ffjfa

-Current indoor temperature: "90.1" (that's Farenheit)-

Had a dream I was in a mall, reading the Bible to people from a little stall of my own. I don't remember much else...

The FCC (the U.S.'s Federal Communications Commission) apparently has two main rules for personal electronics (like calculators and copiers). How do I know this? Well, they stick a label on electronic devices that says they comply with the two rules, which are:

1. It must not create harmful interference of any kind. Well, that makes sense. Don't want to be crashing any planes or anything.
2. It must accept all interference, even if this makes the device malfunction.

Wait, what? I understand the first rule, but, uh, what benefit is gained by having the thing accept interference? Furthermore, shouldn't there be minimal interference anyway, due to the presence of rule (1)?

It's always made me gleefully imagine some federal agent remotely commandeering a calculator to make it display government propaganda or something. ;)

Reality check. And accept interference.

fjfmq

-Cooan idiom: "nmqtnmqt mn mn7 7 mntn7" [lit: Tiny plants eat dead large animals; meaning: Often the smallest forces defeat the big ones eventually]

I had a dream last night involving the characters from the musical version of Phantom of the Opera. Except that the Phantom (in addition to his other talents) could also sense when earthquakes were coming (no prizes for guessing why my mind was on quakes. At least my relatives are safe -- they live in Shanghai and in Fujian province, praise the Lord). Also, Christine Daaé turned into a mermaid partway through.

Why do people always wish they could fly? I know I did, as a kid, and probably still do at times. But when I stop to think rationally, the ability to swim -- combined, of course, with the ability to breathe underwater (or else at least to hold one's breath as long as a whale or dolphin can) -- has more benefits.

1. No falling! You don't have to expend energy to stay above the seafloor (as you would to stay above the ground as a flying creature).
2. Beautifully alien sights. Fairly anything a bird can see can be seen in Google Maps, but much of the ocean is a question mark. Yet, the sensation of being "over everything else" can still be experienced in the water, you're just over a very different environment.
3. Access to any part of the world. Flying creatures have to land on landmasses, and since there are separate pieces of these, they are limited to islands (albiet large ones) for their rest. Swimming animals have one contiguous sea in which they can travel or sleep at any given time.
4. Less weather fluctuation. Water has what chemists call a "high specific heat", basically meaning that it takes a whole lot of sun to make it heat up, and a whole lot of cold to make it cool down (this is why soups take so long to cook). The swimmer is not hampered by hail, snow, or high winds either.
5. More space. Seventy percent of the earth is covered in water, and again, flying things have to occasionally land, so they're tied to the land to some extent. Swimming animals can utilize the whole vast expanse of water (to a particular depth, due to pressure differences).
6. Bigger creatures supported. Birds have a huge laundry list of lightening factors, such as size limits and hollow bones. Whales? Ha. Blue whales beat even the largest (non-flying!) land dinosaurs because the water supports their weight.

Reality check. If, conversely, you're reading this list while swimming, this might be a good time to count your fingers.

nnmq nnmq n7fjf

- Job 41:21 quote: "His breath sets coals ablaze, and flames dart from his mouth" (refers to some sort of large sea creature, possibly a dinosaur)-

Not much last night that I could remember.

But today! I had tea! As in, the whole deal, a cup of oolong, tiny cucumber sandwiches, little curry-chicken wraps, really good turkey-avocado things on brown bread (and I don't normally care for avocado), currant/lavender scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream (well, not exactly, since real clotted cream is unavailable Stateside -- it's really some sort of cream+maybe sour cream+sugar mix of some sort, but I've never had the real kind so it tasted wonderful to me), then petit fors, raspberry-lemon tarts, and the most unbelievably luscious brownies.

Actually, I had the dessert first, then moved up the tray instead of down, since I like the savory stuff better. Plus, the last time I had tea, the dessert (which included coconut cookies and rhubarb cake, which none of the people with me liked either) was kind of disappointing after such savories as roast beef & horseradish sandwiches.

Have I mentioned I'm a foodie? I am.

Reality check.

fjfj m 7

-Url quote at this very moment: "http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=1927537434726608281"-

So, I had a dream last night that I was doing voice exercises when who should walk into the front door but Senator Obama (!) saying that he heard I was still undecided (which I am, in real life). He then proceeded to sit in my rocking chair and discuss policy with me.

O.o You have my permission to be confused as well.

Allow me to paint a portrait in words, as I am woefully poor at painting it in reality. Picture, if you will, a teenaged boy, sitting in the sort of chair that is attached to a desk (and hence catches people, such as me, who have now long forgotten its wiles, unawares by trapping them into whichever aisle they happen to go into first -- but I digress). His face is a mask of serious contemplation. He has just taken Part I of a standardized test, the likes of which has never been seen before this hyper-overachiever generation. On the desk before him are various writing implements, on the floor beneath him is a pink booklet containing Part II, still solemnly shrink wrapped against the early peek. Most of the rest of the class has adjourned to the outdoors, for their requisite parcel of "fresh air", though in their current state of heightened nervousness, they shiver even within the carefully temperature-regulated room. So this boy is sitting thoughtfully in the middle of a vast woody well of vacant desks. On his head is a tightly-crinkled mass of reddish curls, inclined more sidewards than down, by their density.

And in his hands? Ah, reader, his hands.

They are slowly, meditatively peeling strips off of string cheese and stuffing them into his mouth.

Reality check. I much prefer Babybel, myself.

mnq/

-Gmail quote: "This conversation has been archived. Learn more. Undo."-

I had a dream that I managed to stay up all night reading Shakespeare and finding a home for some slime mold (Google it) that I found.

Well, happy Mother's Day to all! And happy birthday to my younger brother! ;)

Reality check. At least slime mold is kind of cool.

nfjf

-Photography project quote: "Dynamic Composition- zoom in on your subject matter for a close up image (Think of Georgia O'Keefe)"-

I had a dream I was... blogging. How recursive.

Oh, why not. Here's a picture out my window on an absolutely beautiful morning. Even though it was insanely early, I had to take it.



Reality check. Isn't fog one of the most glorious things in the world?

mqm mma

-How to Tie a Victorian Cravat quote: "Step 8 - Pull the loose ends tighter, but leave them a bit loose to leave some form to the knot. If you pull the ends too tight, the knot will be unattractively small. If you like this look, adjust the tie against your collar and leave it untucked from your vest."-

Let's see, what I remember of my dream last night involved a doctor, and that's about all I can recall.

I think toymakers could make a lot of cash if they took the sharp metal end off of measuring tapes (and possibly the measurements too?) and sold the result. Hearken back to your childhood days... did you not at least once seize an extendable measuring tape, pull it out all the way to the end (with the locking button engaged), then release the lock? CHHHHHIIIISNICKKKKK!!! Depending on the model, the tape would be sucked back in at a rapid rate, perhaps spinning the case around at the end, if it was the bigger, stiffer sort, or vibrating ever more rapidly -- buzzing like some robo-insect's berserker antennae -- as it disappeared into the bowels of the case, if it was the smaller, whippier kind.

And invariably, your parents would have a near heart failure whenever you did it, citing fears mostly that the sharp metal end would hit you at high speeds.

Well, just last night I got to playing around with one of those (it was of the smaller breed), sans the parent commentary, of course. It was still disproportionately fun, even though the pulling out process at the beginning can be tedious (but, on reflection, a lack of it would make the resulting fun less enjoyable).

Reality check. And don't get hit by the metal thing.

ntmq 7a

-Literature analysis quote: "Why does St. John Rivers say that Jane will not stay long at his school for girls?"-

The memory that most stands out from my dream last night was eating a quite monstrous kiwi fruit that had so much seeds that there was just this black wad clumped onto the green part. It was tasty, if a bit disgusting in retrospect.

I have this uncanny feeling that I am the only one in the world that derives pleasure from watching canned foods SLUUUUURP-plop sluglike into the bowl. The best part is when they come out all in one piece, hence producing a lopsided cylinder of reddish glop, as if a child had recently been making castles in some horribly contaminated (yet delicious) mud.

But then, I suspect I am also the only one my age that still enjoys Chef Boyardee.

Reality check. Well, I also still eat Cheerios, but I don't really like them that much.

jft7t qaa

-Sunset Best Home Plans quote: "Customize your house hunt with easy search tools, and navigate through a wide variety of homes in many styles, sizes and feature combinations!"-

Well, had a thoroughly disconcerting dream last night in which I was piddled upon by a guide dog puppy in training. The funniest thing is, I have been around these puppies and know that they are the most laid-back dogs you could possibly meet (they're obviously bred to be docile), so the idea that one would so rudely mark her (!) territory all over me is quite humorous, in retrospect. Still, I have now decided to watch them, sidelong...

Odd mechanical quandary. Why is it, that when a car is being automatically unlocked, and the hapless passenger reaches out to pull the handle before the process is complete, that the door will stubbornly remain locked, even as all the other doors' locks snap sweetly out? I'm sure there's some sort of structural reason this happens, but I am drolly amused that the car seems to think fit to "punish" the hasty door-opener by refusing to unlock the door.

Reality check. And for goodness' sakes, keep an eye on those puppies, if you are in a dream...

qaa

-Chromatography quote: "1; 51; solvent front"-



Today I had one of those dreams where bits and pieces of it whisp into mental view at odd times, then as suddenly whisp back out. I am fairly certain a bookcase was involved somewhere...



Somewhat of a dialogue (trialogue?) I started with myself some time ago.



ME: Wouldn't it be cool to have a watch that does something weird?

MYSELF: Such as... what?

ME: Uhhhh... hmmm... take pictures!

I (drily): Like those little digital keychain cameras you can get for 20 bucks?

MYSELF (smirks)

ME: But it's still really awesome to have a watch that takes pictures! (has a cheesy moment involving pretending to be James Bond, then sort of awkwardly stops)... Okay, um, how about audio recording? Then I could make audio memos or covertly record any unusual conversation that comes up for posterity!

I: ...Except for the small matter that it's illegal to record people without their knowledge.

ME: Hmph. Well, a typed note thing, then.

MYSELF: I suppose it would read your thoughts, hmmm? Or do you have a miniature secretary-gnome hidden somewhere that could work the keyboard for you?

ME: I could use a stylus!

MYSELF: And we all know how well those work.

I: Besides, isn't this all a little wishful thinking to try and jam the software into a watch?

ME: Huh-uh! (shouting) Moore's law!!

MYSELF: Silly little Me, that only works for stuff people care to improve. It does not apply to devices that hardly anyone uses anymore except as jewelry.

I: People nowadays use cell phones for telling time.

ME: But I don't want a cell phone!

I: Are you speaking to me?

ME: No, I'm speaking to...

I: I most certainly am not speaking, you...

YOU: Hello! Did I hear someone calling?

I: No?





Okay, so that last part I sort of made up. ;)



Reality check. Particularly if a conversation like the above occurs.

mnq

-Vocal exercise quote: "Lah beh dah meh nee poh too lah beh"-

Had another one of those "tricksy" dreams where I wrote down the dream in my dream, hence making me forget most of it when I actually woke up. I need to remember to reality check BEFORE recording dreams. ;P

It struck me today that there isn't a lot of fiction writing in blogs, that usually being relegated to fanfiction. Furthermore, that adults often do not get to savor more of the "kid style" stories. So I'll write a bloggy story for you. Gather round to hear the tale of...

The Corduroy Giant

A question has troubled me for some time, friends. It has made me loath to sleep, and even less inclined to work, and less again desirous to speak, but to pose a single question. Ah, but I overleap myself. Let me start at the beginning.

There is a large field nestled in the hills by my town, overtopped with windmills. Narrow roads twists in and out of those hills, so that a traveller on them sees at once one hill, then the blue sky, then a crop of spindly windmills atop a gold-black mound of brush, patchwork-charred by fire. In the cup of the hills is a field, wide and long, furrowed brown from wintertide to summer...

If this was any other field, in the wide world of man, I expect it would lie there quiet, but perhaps you know differently. Plows would plow it, farmers plant seeds on it, reapers reap from it. But my field, friends, is different. In day, as carriages careen along the trails, the field is the same unassuming sight their drivers expect to see. At night, one night only of the year, the paths fall silent.

When springtide's full moon first shines its light -- then, the giant awakes.

He is a great, broad creature. His brown corduroy trousers fill one field and nestle under the grassy hills on each side, his very own bolsters. His feet fall entirely under his dewy coverlet, save for the white, whirling spurs that tumble -- spike over spike -- when wind comes. Our giant's head rests warm under a tall silvern column of a hat, brimless from so many years over the sleeping face.

See! He is waking. That tar road rises, the one over which men so recently passed unheeding, and girds him as a belt. One hand reaches out, then another. His quilted coverlet of hills falls to this side and another as he rises and yawns: Ahhhhhhh. And he is up on his feet. For he hunts the glorious Tinggerbird, and his quarry is fleet.

He does not walk far, for he has learned to sleep near the Tinggerbird's once-roost. With a faint totter of sleep, he steps, steps, then squats down by the black lake, fixing his eye on the reflected moon. His hands turn on themselves impatiently, but silently, for he does not dare to make a sound when his prey is out of hand. The moon above rises, and its pale sister sweeps across the lake... hour by hour he waits. There. It settles in the center of the lake, a creamy orb. The giant strains his old eyes.

Then, oh, so slowly, the reflected moon becomes solid in the water. Then, yet again, the solid sphere fissures, once, twice! And it crumbles. Out of its shambles rises a magnificent bird, lucent as jade. Quick as a maid flicks her bright hair back behind her head, the giant reaches, grasps. Feeling the weight of time, his agile fingers work over the bird, stripping off each feather of its unparalleled plumage as the moon's passing marks the night hurriedly now. One ray of sun bursts through the giant's heap of quilts, and the Tinggerbird screams. Writhing, she snaps back over the lake, disgorges one enormous white egg, and dies. The feathers on her body fade as she drops into the blue-ink lake. But what of those held by the giant? They are woven through his trousers, pin by pin, coating his massive legs in their vast, warm down. These, these plumes will crumple and fall only when chilled by autumn cool. Until then, he will rest content under their magnificent spread.

He grunts, satisfied, as he collapses into sleep once more, to be disturbed only when next spring's full moon births the Tinggerbird's chick. The comfortable hills roll over his prone body, covering him in soft patchwork again. His hand moves his hat over his face, and all is calm. As dawn rises fully, merchants begin to speed over the streets, unaware -- or uncaring -- that they ride over a giant's belt.

At last, I think, I may come to my question, friends. Recall my tale from beginning to end, and not neglecting the middle, and tell me truly:

Is my giant alone? Or do your villages too hide his sleeping kin?


Reality check.

s,a, fjfj

-Wikiquote quote: "Welcome to Wikiquote, a free online compendium of quotations from notable people and creative works in every language, including sources (where known), translations of non-English quotes, and links to Wikipedia for further information!"-

Had a couple dreams last night, one that I briefly remembered but then forgot before I could make it to my dream journal, and one about this child prodigy being interviewed on the radio. Um, the kid was indeed rather precocious, as he was a ripe old... 2 months old. And later he came to play in my kitchen, and he seemed to be running around fine, even though he should have been at the "hopeless ball of screaming goo" point at two months...

Annnnnyway. How about another post about a laughably small annoyance? Yes.

Today I was sitting down to eat a lovely, sumptuous California tangelo. It is probably the one fruit that has discrete emotional memories for me, since my grandparents' house in Southern Great Domesticated Desert of Doom^TM has a tangelo tree in the backyard, with fresh, warm tangelos every winter. Furthermore, the flavor of the tangelo makes it the one fruit that, to me, justifies the description of "liquid sunshine", cliched though it may sound. Eating a tangelo literally feels like consuming all the sunlight that fell on that tree in the previous year.

As an added bonus, tangelos have that particular property that characterizes citrus, wherein the peeling process makes one's hands smell like the fruit for several hours afterward, allowing you to relive the experience of actually eating the fruit over and over again by wafting that luscious perfume under the nose.

In short, one of the best fruits created on this earth (along with strawberries and mangoes).

So, anyway, I sat down to eat the thing, and stuck my nail under the protruding part of it to start peeling. And, as I should have expected from countless previous times peeling a tangelo...

PWEEENK!

Off flies the tiny piece of stem onto my chair, as it always does. Down goes my hand to pluck it up. Exasperated expression plastered on my face as I start on the fruit.

The tangelo was awfully good, though.

Reality check. You know, I think the trouble involved in peeling tangelos makes me enjoy them more, somehow. Guess that gives it a good reason for existing.

jfa

-Wikibook quote: "If you are in a lucid dream, you will usually have some power over your dream", Lucid Dreaming-

Whoa, I had 3 dreams I remembered last night. Let's see... one was about rabbits, another was about a fantasy-style despot, and a third was about a book. That I haven't read.

So, another busy Friday precluded a post. Oh well. Pretty much expect that Fridays may or may not be posted on. Let's see. Well, I'll update on my VFTs. Currently, they are still unnamed (I'm of the school of thought that you don't give an official name until they've survived the first few days :P). I moved them today to a spot closer to the sun, because that's supposed to be better for them, make them heartier.

In other news, would you believe what they're doing on MystCommunity? I'll start from the beginning. One of the members (mysteria13) wrote a fanfic soon after joining. Well, it got to be pretty long, and at the end she got the brilliant idea of turning it into an audio version, recruiting members who had read the fic as voice actors.

Contrary to all you might expect, it actually worked. To recap. M13 and a couple others wrote out the story in script form, then posted it online, where the "voice actors" read it, then emailed their parts to her for compilation. The first chapter just came out.

Isn't it amazing that we live in a world where people from all over the U.S. can work together to put together an audio story without even seeing each other?

Reality check. The fanfic does, however, have a slight language advisory (as well as spoilers for the Myst games), which is why I'm not posting the direct link... I want to keep the blog family-friendly. Trust me: you'll be able to find it if you look.

nd ntd

-General MacArthur quote: "I shall return!" (oh, come on, you know I had to do that)-

Well, last night I had a dream about watering my Venus flytraps (more on those later) really, really early in the morning. It was, predictably, dark, and I kept dropping stuff and mixing up which water I was supposed to use (again, more on that later). Also, a giant brown pustuled thing grew out of my left eyebrow...

So, that's how it is. I leave for a month, and suddenly realize that I have to bring my wonderful readers up to date. With that: I got two Venus flytrap plants! They were at the 99¢ Store, so it was sort of "Why not?". Turns out that they're some of the most provokingly picky little plants in the universe. The things grow in the wild in boggy, humid swamps in the Carolinas, where apparently the water quality is so good that VFT's in captivity can only tolerate distilled water.

Yup, you read that right. DISTILLED WATER. Well, supposedly some tap water works too, but the tap water here is so choked with minerals that the faucets develop a lovely white crusty rim if left, ahem, uncleaned. So I think I'll stick with distilled.

Furthermore, they'll die if fertilized, since their natural environment is nutrient-poor (hence, the need to catch hapless insects... mwa ha ha), all conspiring to prevent me from using the same water on them as I use on all the other plants.

The only thing that remains now is to name the two beasts. I think they need names involving their original namesake, which is Venus (duh) or (from the scientific name) Dione. The name "Hephaestus" seems to suit their appearance (he was in Greek mythology the homely god of the forge whom Aphrodite -- Venus's Greek counterpart -- married), but I can't think of another name, connected with Venus/Aphrodite that fits the other of these wee little VFT's.

Oh, and by the way, I found a really engaging website about VFT's. It's fun to read even if you don't plan on growing them.

Reality check. And no, "Audrey" is not a possibility either.