The Centaur is Restless

Sagittarians love to travel, and it’s been far too long since this one’s been any further than Grand Rapids. So before the second job starts up again and I’m locked in a two-month death spiral of work-class-work, work-class-work, I’m taking a train trip to Chicago this weekend.

I was told to bring clothes suitable for a nice restaurant. This evening I held a mini-fashion show in front of the full-length mirror. Too bad most of my dress-up clothes have somehow shrunk and now smash my boobs into unnatural forms or push up little Appalachian ridges of Panera-induced pudge (I admit I’ve seen mio caro once or twice on the sly). The black tank dress will have to do until I somehow dredge up the will power to stop drinking beer and eating cheese on everything.

I thought I’d try to entice D. into guest-blogging from a landscaping roadshow in Columbus, oHIo, this weekend, but to no avail. You’ll have to wait until Monday evening when I return. Maybe.

Why Do Fools Fall in Love?

Savage Chickens has the answer.

Please Don't Eat

the condoms.

From Dr. Johnson's Cat.

Rock Shaped Like Lower Peninsula Made Into Display

Yep.

There's an accompanying AP photo of the display in the Ann Arbor News, but I am unable to find it online. Too bad - the Leelanau and Old Mission peninsulas are quite impressive for having come out of a farmer's field.

Michigan Renaissance Festival

It's all fun and games until someone throws out their back lobbing tomatoes at Pester the Jester.

Friday Cat Blogging

I needs me a digital camera so I can blog the Meowy One more often.

I Know This is a C++ Programming Class, but Can I Do My Assignment In Pascal?

The back-row students in my Photoshop class were shocked - shocked! - that we have an assignment due on Tuesday. Adult students in a four-credit college course were whining amd whinging, trying to weasel out of doing homework with excuses so lame they needed to be shot.

The real ripsnorter came when one woman asked, "Can I do it in Paint Shop Pro?"

They Like Me, They Really Like Me

Inspired by a friend's farking, I entered my first-ever Photoshop contest on Worth1000's beginner's board.

The source picture was a sunset over a landscape. I spent about two and half hours on Saturday trying to turn the mountain in the background into an erupting volcano, and failed miserably. So I extracted the hill in the foreground, played with the levels and color balance so it greened up, desaturated the sky, then applied a layer gradient of blue to white. I added a stock image of the Irish coast and voila. My submission was complete.

I was pretty happy with it. But I was surprised - and delighted - to get the e-mail notification this morning that I WON!

The Envelope Please...

As usual, I was half a month behind in picking up the Ann Arbor Current magazine. Somehow I never remember to find one until the month is nearly over.

Wish I had picked up the September issue sooner. The 2005 results of the "Reader's Picks: Best of Washtenaw County" were awaiting my perusal and subsequent amusement. With 80 bajillion categories, some of these “bests” are the only business in town in their category. Best Blues Venue? Since the Bird of Paradise has flown, there’s really only the Firefly Club left. Best Central European Restaurant? As is repeatedly pointed out, Ann Arbor is not Chicago, and if there’s another central European restaurant here besides Amadeus, please let me know.

Most Amusing Result? Best Blog: annarborisoverrated.com.

All Apologies

I have been thoroughly taken to task for my mischaracterization of conditions on “Survivor” as “cushy.”

“It’s no beach blanket bingo,” an e-mail from Chicago informs me, and provides a list of tropical horrors endured by the contestants: miserable humidity, open sores that don’t heal, malnutrition, dehydration, vomiting, snakes, jellyfish stings, torn muscles, etc, etc.

I...I...I am so sorry. I thought I exaggerated my humble opinion for humorous effect...since that’s pretty much what I do on this blog. I admit I carelessly tossed that post off without much thought. In fact, reading it again, I see it's not even particularly coherent.

My deepest apologies to anyone who was offended by my failure to acknowledge adequately the trials of reality tv participants. A complete review will be conducted. I take full responsibility.

When Will We See Survivor: Reykjavik?

Someone asked me today if I watch “Survivor.” I hardly watch TV at all, and especially disparage reality shows, so the answer was, no, I don’t watch “Survivor.”

The show might be more interesting if the contest were occasionally held somewhere other than a tropical island. (Yes, I know Guatemala isn’t an island, but go along with me here.) Tropical islands can be pretty cushy environmental niches: lots of food, few predators, don’t need clothes. Perfect habitat for Homo sapiens.

Which is why I’m always so amazed by people like the Inuit, who live in a harsh climate far, far from the warm savanna where humans evolved. Maybe “Survivor” would appeal more to me if the contestants had to figure out how to keep from freezing to death, had to sew their own sealskins, or had to contend with other top-of-the-food-chain species. Say, polar bears. Or better yet, Siberian tigers.

(As an aside, some folks are startled when they find out I grew up in a place where black bears routinely amble alongside the roads. One who wasn’t was Dmitry, a PhD candidate I dated while at Ohio State. He grew up near Vladivostok, and while on family picnics would occasionally see tigers in the woods.)

Heck, cold-weather “Survivor” probably wouldn’t even need to be that extreme. Just take a couple o’ Sun Belt boys (and gals) and drop them in Marquette for the winter.

Bird Nerd Humor

From my favorite news source, The Onion.

Why Am I Always Tired?

10:45 pm
The neighborhood is quiet, save for the trills of insects and frogs. I'm sleepy, so I start getting ready for bed. I slip into my nighty and give the cat her midnight snack.

11:00 pm
I read for a few minutes under the covers.

11:15 pm
I switch off the light. Kitty curls up behind my knees, purring.

11:30 pm
The neighbor comes out onto the porch. She's yelling into her Nextel. The other end of the conversation is audible too: crackling, annoying chirp, and all.

12:00 am
The neighbor's raucous laughter dissolves into a fit of smoker's cough. She goes inside, slamming the door behind her.

12:20 am
I fall asleep.

2:00 am
The male half of the neighbors arrives home in a mufflerless car. Honking of horn, yelling, cussing, and door-slamming ensue.

2:30 am
I turn over and go back to sleep.

3:36 am
Something soft and warm is pulsing against my arm, accompanied by wet smacking sounds. It's the cat, and the sound is coming from her mouth as she grooms so vigorously the headboard vibrates. I hate that noise, but I love my cat. I sigh and decide to try to wait her out.

3:42 am
I start tapping on kitty's spine, right at the base of her tail. She hates that. She swipes at me, then nips at me, then jumps down from the bed with a thump. Mission accomplished, I pull the sheets up over my ears and go back to sleep.

5:30 am
There's a herd of wild ponies in my apartment. Oh no, it's just the cat, ricocheting off the furniture. She bounds onto the bed, jabs one paw (exerting 500 ppi) into my left kidney, says, "Ffft," and hits the floor again, running.

5:33 am
I shuffle to the bathroom without turning on the light.

5:35 am
I crawl back under the covers and reset the alarm from 6:30 to 7:00.

6:45 am
The school buses start trundling down the street, air brakes huffing. I turn off the alarm and cover my eyes with my arm.

7:00 am
I get up. In the mirror I look like a ghost with two black eyes.

7:20 am
I get in the bathtub, wash my hair, then turn off the cold and let the tub fill up with hot water. I sink down so I'm in up to my chin and close my eyes. I open my eyes and it's

7:55 am
Shit. Now I'm behind. I forego the weight-lifting exercises I've scheduled for myself for a few sun salutations. I always feel too tired to heave the weights around.

I don't know why.

Joy of Rural Life #182

Nearly-palpable clouds of freshly squeezed skunk pong wafting in through the screens.

Makes my chocolate cake taste like a bad memory of Grolsch.

Om Shri Ganeshaya Namah

Not Much to Say

I’ve had some time off this weekend, to give myself an opportunity to de-stress, rest up, and get prepared for the busy months ahead, and to work on a couple of essays I’ve started.

I haven’t done any of that. My time’s been spent cycling through my bookmarks of news sites and blogs and sitting outside in the sun reading The End of Faith and The Geese of Beaver Bog.

I’ve been too distracted and restless to do much else. My jotted-down topics for lighthearted blog posts - a dream in which I was bald, a rant against drivers who don’t pull up far enough to let the car behind them reach the drive-thru window, my nominations for worst copy writing ever - seem woefully inappropriate. Anything I have to say about the Gulf Coast reduced to a third world country, or our preznit set to repeal the entire 20th century once he shoves his Supreme Court nominations through, is already being said, and said better, on other blogs. I really have nothing new to add. I’d just be another toad in the the chorus.

So I’ve procrastinated, and now I’ve got to do all my reading for class and everything else today. Someday I’ll get around to renewing my membership in the Two-Headed Turtle Society.

I’m not even back at work yet, and I’m already looking forward to my next break, the fall Point Pelee birding/camping trip. Actually, there was quite a lot of bird chatter this morning. With the air conditioning finally off and the windows open, the morning discourse is audible once more. A Carolina wren sang loudly while his mate churred back to him. Goldfinches burbled and the merry band of resident chickadees (who have already made short work of the sunflower in the garden) called incessantly. Earlier the bluejays noisily faced off with a squirrel; now they’re making their squeaky hinge calls. Some geese flew over, honking. I think I heard sandhill cranes croaking in the distance. But then again, sometimes I want to hear cranes so badly that I think I occasionally hallucinate them.

Hey Jimmy Carter

W. might want to borrow your sweater.

Update 4:20 - Yahoo! News done went and changed the headline on me. Original: Bush urges Americans to curb gas purchases