I'm watching Repo! The Genetic Opera. It makes no damn sense of course, and (far less forgivably) some of the music isn't very good. But it's all so energetic and gothy-sexy and overwrought I think I'm ending up loving it anyway. It's not good, but jeez it's fun.

Man, it must be a huge pain in the ass if you're in Nigeria and honestly want to buy something from eBay.

The indigenous people of Ireland and Scotland are "Keltic."

The basketball team is the "Seltics."

The Secret Goal for the weekend: create fire without matches!

Er, or lighters, gunpowder, bare wires, sparkers, etc. I think I'll even try to do it without metal. Because really, how can you call yourself civilized when you can't even start a fire? Fire is fundamental!

A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.


...Also, I've been watching a lot of "Mythbusters," and it was either this or building a crossbow.

Something very bizarre happened today.

We parked the ambulance between calls at a spot that happened to be right under some rather low-slung high-tension wires. We were standing outside leaning on the ambulance, when I started to feel a... vibration, sort of. Then some little prickles. "Hey, do you feel weird little shocks?" I asked my partner.

"No, no, what the hell, you're imagining things," he told me. "Although there is sort of this weird... like something's vibrating in there?"

Then, a second later, I got shocked so hard I yelped and jumped away. My partner stared at me like I was a crazy person, then a moment later screamed and jumped. "OW! What the hell is that? OW!"

We had to move the ambulance. But to move it we had to get in, and to get in we had to touch the doors, and the doors are metal. That was a thoroughly unpleasant experience.

Sure enough, when we were out from under the power lines, the shocks went away. Apparently the magnetic field from the power lines had turned the entire ambulance body into an induction-powered EMT-zapping device. Physics At Work. Freaky.

Sally, my sweet little guinea pig of six years, died this morning. I was lucky enough to be with her when it happened. She was very peaceful and comfortable in her little house and I petted her and told her she was a good girl right up to the end. Sally was an exceptionally bold and curious little guinea pig, running free-range around the house--she'd follow you around with cheerful little squeeks and purrs. Everyone in my family, who can't agree about one other damn thing, loved Sally and treated her as one of our own. When I, my sister and both parents were home we'd talk about "the five of us." Little Sallymander, little Squickles, little Ratty, little Meerschweinchen.



I love you, baby. See you on the Rainbow Bridge.

I think my favorite part of the Super Bowl is how the NFL owns the term "Super Bowl," so local commercials for plasma screens and party supplies are forced to use awkward euphemisms. "Are you ready for the Big Game?" "Stock up for the Football Event!" "Get ready for this Sunday, because it's a little more... super... than other Sundays!"

Previous post deleted because I'm fairly certain it was an imposter troll, and although I am a petty bitch online, I'm not quite petty enough to blame someone for something they didn't actually say.

"When yella can be mella?"

Where's my pony?

"59º" = "Absolutely no heat, ever, even if ice crystals are forming."
"60º" = "BAKE."

Frick! There's blood on my shirt and I didn't notice all day! It hasn't soaked down to my undershirt so I'm not real worried about exposure, but it's gross and unsettling that I was walking around with this.

Man, produce sucks this time of year. Every fruit and vegetable is limp and yellowish, imported from the Southern Hemisphere, and going for about ten bucks a pound. I guess oranges are okay. That's about it right now.

Anyway. I am now the proud owner (well, proud deposit-putter-onner, it'll be like a month til it's in my actual paws) of a Kahr T9! I'm very happy!



P.S.: Overheard in the gun shop:

Guy: Do you have a magazine for a nine?
Salesman: Probably! A nine what?
Guy: A nine millimeter.

With all my extra spare time, I've been making chainmaille at night. It's SO FUN. It's a great combination of creative--there are hundreds of weaves and it's easy to create your own--and hypnotic--once you've decided on a weave, now do it five thousand times. And then you end up with metal that acts like cloth and looks like the Middle Ages. (Or you use teeny rings, and end up with surprisingly sophisticated jewelry.) It's wonderful.


EDIT: I just realized the item that I need to make with my maille skills. I think exactly one person reading this will instantly know what I mean and some of the others will guess.

I just had an incredibly vivid and detailed dream in which Mark Hamill turned into a tiger and died.



Also: My friend who works at a gun store has a pink Hello-Kitty-themed Kalashnikov he wants to sell me. (It even has a little picture of Hello Kitty holding an AK on the stock!) Now this is a gun that cannot be concealed, cannot be hunted with, is not a practical choice for home or self defense, may become illegal to own, and costs $900. Therefore I will not buy it.

But I know I should.

I'm watching Showgirls. (I might not finish it.) It's a very frustrating experience. It seems to go like this:

Nomi: I want to be a topless dancer!
Other character: Great, I'll help you out! First, take off your top...
Nomi: OMG WHAT THE FUCK THAT'S SO DEGRADING FUCK YOU.

So far I've watched her rise from a wanderer who's furious when people give her rides and food, to a stripper who's furious that she's expected to strip, to a topless showgirl who's absolutely raging furious that her manager--that sleazebag!--wants her to put on some sort of show without a top. This would make some sense if she were just trying to make a living and never intended to be part of this life, but no, she specifically came to Vegas to be a dancer. Freakin' psycho.

On the other hand, the dialogue is terribly entertaining. There's a lot to choose from, but I think the nadir so far is "I got my period." "Like hell you do." "Check!" Uuurgh. (EDIT: New contender: "I like having nice tits." "How do you like having 'em?")

(Oh, and according to this movie the sexiest choreography in the world is the "cross arms and then fling them out." Cross, fling, cross, fling, roll from hips to shoulders, give angry look--instant sexy!)


FURTHER EDIT: Oh dear God, that sex scene in the pool, dear God. The only possible explanation is that Elizabeth Berkley was a virgin at the time of shooting, and everyone else on the cast and crew was too embarrassed to explain that people don't... they don't do that, honey.

FURTHER FURTHER EDIT: "I've got a great idea for our movie! Let's have exactly one character who isn't disgusting... and then let's have her get violently raped onscreen!"

Without meaning to, I found myself doing my homework in block letters and initialing all my strike-outs.

I'm kinda glad for the block-letter thing though. I used to have handwriting no one could read; now I have handwriting that looks like I'm six, but I'm six and legible.

Last night I went to the gym, did my laundry, reviewed my anatomy chapter, and watched Firefly with the roomies... on a work day! And then I slept for eight hours straight!

This whole "livable schedule" deal is quite spiffy.

How many objects can you visually count? That is, how many objects can you look at and instantly know the number of, without having to count or break them into groups? For me it's five. So I see this as "five":



But when I look at this, it initially just reads as "a bunch." I can only make sense of it if I think "two threes."



Unless the objects are arranged tidily, multi-grouping only works well up to about ten for me; after "two fives" I'm down to "one, two, three..." which works on pretty much any reasonable number of objects.



It's surprisingly primitive how little we can really count--and kinda inspiring how much we understand about math anyway.

I understand this varies from person to person, so I'm curious:

Poll #1327319 Counting
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All

How many objects can you visually count?

A teleporter has been invented. Everyone agrees it's absolutely great for moving objects; massive amounts of energy, time, and labor are saved when the entire shipping industry becomes teleportation-based. You can really do all your shopping online, and get it the same day.

But people still travel the slow way. The problem is the way the teleporters work: they break everything up into itty pieces and zip the itty pieces through narrow conduits at ridiculous speed along with precise instructions for reconstructing them. The receiving station catches the itty pieces and reconstructs them, and presto, five tons of wheat, or an iPod, or Grandma's Christmas card!

(This necessarily means that teleportation is not instant but merely fast, and teleporters have to be physically connected into the conduit network. That's okay, it wouldn't be much harder than adding fiber-optic cable to a neighborhood, but it means you can't go to Alpha Centauri or anything.)

So to transmit a human, they'd have to be broken into itty pieces, which is problematic because it would kill you. A person with all your memories would be reconstructed at the other end and think they were you, but the original you would be playing a harp. It's been tested on a couple people and it does seem to work, but the population at large would rather take the train.

So some questions:
A) Is it okay to send animals by teleporter? Is it okay to send cattle that are going to be slaughtered anyway? How about pets?

B) Several coal miners are caught behind an enormous cave-in. They're very far underground behind numerous obstacles and there's no way a rescue mission will succeed, but rescue workers are able to clear an opening just big enough for a teleporter and its conduit. Should the miners be teleported out?

C) Slight change: the miners are not hopelessly trapped, they're just very trapped. They have about a 50% chance of being retrieved alive by conventional means, and a 50% chance the rescue tunnel will collapse on them. Now do you teleport them?

D) Can you think of cool ways teleportation of objects would affect the world? (The first that comes to mind: we only need to have one landfill in the world. Let's put it in the Sahara or Antarctica or something.)

E) Do you ever worry that the destruction-and-exact-reconstruction of your consciousness has occurred in the real world? Sometimes I get very concerned that it happens when I sleep. Or at least when I've fainted. Or that it's happening continuously. I'm leaving a giant trail of dead Hollys behind me and I don't even know about it. Does this strike you as a reasonable concern?

Amy gave me a measuring cup and spoon for Christmas! Did I mention this? At first blush it may seem like crappy gift, but given that I had been trying to survive with no measuring cup for several months, it's a great gift! I can make rice!

I could make rice before, but I always used the formula "one coffee mug of rice, one coffee mug of water and then a skosh more" and that tended to come out either mushy or unsettlingly al dente. Rice is very sensitive.

Also: soup that is neither colored water nor briny horror! Cake that doesn't have an unnerving texture! Mushy peas that are not too mushy! Pancake batter that actually turns into pancakes!

Also: the correct amount of bleach in my laundry? I would like to use the cup for this, but I'm afraid it might not be good for food afterwards. I have to go get another one! Apparently once you get into this measuring habit there's no escape.