Things I Have Done Recently
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Stirred sugar into my coffee with my pen, for lack of any better utensil.

Wondered the next day why my pen was sticky.

Spoke to myself in a questionable British accent while doing laundry, only to find I wasn’t alone.

Spoke to myself in a terrible French accent when I knew I wasn’t alone.

Realized (while still in French mode) that Emperor Napoleon, when pronounced vastly incorrectly, sounds like “Emperor Nipple-Lion”.

Drank gin at lunch, while being the youngest at a table of eight.

Had to tell someone that dachshund is not pronounced “douche-hound”.

Ate an entire tray of tiny pastries.

                                …but I would have shared.

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Wondrous Things Happening in my Mouth
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On the advice of one of my favorite webcomics, Girls With Slingshots, I decided to hunt down the product of Woodchuck, supposedly an excellent brewery. According to their website, my local Safeway had one of their varieties in stock, and so to Safeway I went. Normally a trip to my local grocery store involves finding vegetables if I’m feeling ambitious, or piling up stacks of frozen things if I’m not, but this time I wandered over to the alcohol aisle.

I walked up and down that SOB for better than twenty minutes, since my target was camouflaged by literally hundreds of varieties of beer. Possible thousands. Why, why are there so many kinds of beer? I may have just done terrible things to the word “literally”,  but I’m sure you understand. I was looking for a needle in a haystack, except it was beer. In a beerstack. Yes.

At long last I found that there was precisely one variety of Woodchuck, a six pack of hard cider, which was fine by me, as I love cider.

To be honest, I picked it up with the intent of sharing with friends, who were coming over to watch some Legend of Korra (more on that soon), but somehow I forgot to take the bottles out of the fridge. When I discovered my mistake, I assumed it was just carelessness, a vague absentmindedness brought on by the chaos of having company, but I was wrong. So very, very wrong. After taking my first sip, I knew that the only possible explanation for my error was my future self, upon realizing just how amazingly freaking good Woodchuck Cider used his secret telepathic brain powers to send ripples forgetfulness into the past, so all the cider would be mine! Mine I tell you! Go get your own, filthy jackals!

But now time has passed, and I am future me, so if I don’t want to instantiate a reality imploding paradox, I have to work on my no-longer-secret brain powers.

I think they’ll be assisted by another bottle of cider.

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Yep, Still Alive
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After hibernating through the winter, I awoke to find that spring had arrived. I immediately yawned, stretched, sneezed, and wrote a short story. It’s not what I’d been intending to write in the least, but I started at the beginning, and ended up at an end. So if you like, take a look-see at “Our Blessed Lady of the Stars”.

Feel free to point out typos, as I’m asleep at the wheel, and I’m sure a few of those little bastards are lurking in plain sight.

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Shhhh! Can You Here That?
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If you listen closely, you can make out the winter wind, singing as it comes through the trees. It’s voice is merry! It’s tune triumphant! It says, “Gather, all ye denizens of the intertubes! Raise your voices in celebration, for he returns to us at last!”

That’s right, the appointed time is at hand, and the hour is upon us; Unstable Alchemy rises once again, and you shall know great joy!

But your messiah of time wasting internet amusement is not the only one who awakens from a deep slumber. There is one who has been waiting, dreaming, and only now, that I have come back to you, he stirs. From the depths he comes, and in the ancient tongue, this horror was called…

 

OH THE HUMANITY

He decided that rising from the ocean has really been played out.

 

…MISTER SQUIGGLEWINGIES! It was mistranslated by that hack Lovecraft as “Cthulhu”, kinda ridiculous, right?

While most of human kind has been blissfully unaware of the lurking terror, there are those among us who can see. We, the chosen, can catch his mark on tides, sense his aspect on the air. We can read the signs.

Some are obvious: an eerie silence in the woods, or an unseasonable glut of reality tv. Others, like the omen I received today, are more subtle. After receiving a package from a mysterious someone named “etsy”, I turned and caught sight of my reflection in a window. If you are of a fragile psyche, or gentle disposition, turn away now, for I am about to show you what I saw.

 

OM NOM NOM ON YOUR SANITY

Never has a horror from beyond the stars felt so much like fleece.

 

Now, you, who have not been trained to feel the horror’s presence the way I have, may not see it at first. But look closely; there is some shadowy…thing crouching on my head. Peer carefully above my terrified eyes and stubbly cheeks.

 

THE HARBINGER OF DOOM

Those eyes! Those terrible, red, luxuriously lashed eyes!

 

Can you see it? If so, I am sorry to have shattered your innocence, but now you too know the truth that lies behind the happy facade of this world. You have joined the knowing, the wise. At the price of cheerful ignorance, you have gained the power to see, and should you someday open of strange package marked by the esoteric symbol of “etsy”, you will understand. You will recognize and comprehend the monstrosity: the dreaded Head Cthulhu.

If you try to explain it to others, some may try to tell you that it’s nothing but a case of common head pigeons. But it is not. It is not.

Posted in Holiday Cheer!, HORROR, INSANITY | Leave a comment

Engineering, Mysticism, and Pithy Insights
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I’ve learned something interesting about writing in these past few weeks. Factoid number one: my creative brain turns to apple sauce during times of high stress. Factoid el dos: sometimes it’s best just to step away from the keyboard if it feels like the words aren’t working. As such, I now have half a dozen different posts in various stages of incompletion, some which may yet become a real boy sooner or later. But for now, they languish as I move on to greener pastures full of tastier verbiage.

This morning I woke up to the sound of raindrops hitting the skylight overhead in relentless watery waves. Since this is Seattle, it shouldn’t have surprised me too much, except that this storm felt much more determined than most, like it actually meant it. Back home in Massachusetts, when it rains, it tends to really really rain. Out here it’s more of a constant sullen drizzle. It inspired a pleasant sort of nostalgia, and I prepared for a day spent mostly indoors.

“Okay,” I told myself intrepidly, “this is a great chance to get some work done, exercise a bit, and do some serious writing!” Then I realized it was two hours later, and I’d been playing peggle for most of them. At that point, I found some motivation hidden in the couch cushions, and took advantage of an empty house to practice some karate.

Due to a night of odd sleep, my hips and shoulders were tighter than usual, requiring me to carefully coax them into loosening up while going through the movements of several kata. It’s a strange process, taking a tally of what different muscles are doing, attempting to impose conscious control over physiology that really just wants to do its own thing. While unknotting and realigning, I found myself walking through a hypothetical question, “How would one explain this to an engineer?”

Eschewing the more esoteric outlook of flows of energy through the body, or achieving a oneness of experience, you’re left with some interesting parallels to mechanical engineering. When tweaking a mechanical system, you want to make it more efficient, eliminating wastes of energy. The difference is, of course, that if a bearing or coupling isn’t working as well as you want, you redesign and replace it, but with the human body, you have to experiment, gain an understanding of what’s going on (why the hell do I feel off balance when I step forward in this position?), figure out how to correct it (ohhh, I have too much weight on my left leg), and practice the correction until it’s fluid and usable (hurray, I’m not off balance anymore).

Yes I agree, swapping your limbs out for robotic replacements that follow easy to input Java language programming would probably be a whole lot less work. Intelligently design my ass.

Following that thought, it’s even stranger from the software engineering standpoint. You’re starting out with a system (your mind and body) that was cobbled together over millions of years of evolution, a gigantic hodge-podge of genetic code assembled at random by throwing traits at the wall and seeing what stuck. It’s like working with Windows ME. The horror. So, the process of figuring out what processes are currently at work (muscular, skeletal and nervous systems), analyzing what functions control them (conscious and habitual thought), and then altering them greater efficiency also sounds like a tremendous pain.

But that’s where it gets interesting. By becoming aware of precisely what the body’s doing, how it’s doing it, and what thoughts are driving it, you’re achieving that oneness, though in less mystical sounding terms.

Really, it’s the equivalent of gaining root level access to the human operating system while playing with the hardware’s voltage for optimal performance. It’s not just exercise and practice, it’s hacking! Fun times!

Courtesy of the fantastic webcomic XKCD.

Unfortunately, I had this mental conversation with myself in the middle of my workout, and my right shoulder is still tempting me to just pony up for the cybernetic replacement. But fortunately or not, it’s still dreary as anything outside, so you may find me back here sooner than usual. For now though, I shall bid you adieu.

Posted in Extreme Geekery, Hacking, martial arts | Leave a comment

An Update From the Field
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As some of you may know, my Dresden Files-ish basement apartment is no more. That is, the apartment itself is still there, but my things and I no longer inhabit it. Some other person, or persons, are probably unpacking their stuff into it as you read this. Their dishes where mine were. Their couch in a totally different spot than where I had mine. Their Wil Wheaton cardboard cutout where I…I didn’t have one of those. But in hindsight, I obviously should have.

Regarding my current abode, I am temporarily staying with a couple of fantastic friends, who may very well be the best people in the world for helping me out while I am in waiting-for-grad-school-response limbo. And what a weighty limbo it is; a yes keeps me here, while a no sends me on plane back to my ancestral homeland of Transylvania. Massachusetts. Transylvania Massachusetts.

That joke would have worked much better if that town actually existed. When I am elected King of America (my grasp on national politics may be a bit shakey), Northampton will be renamed Transylvania by Royal Fiat. If nothing else, the Rocky Horror bunch will be happy.

But returning to my glorious friends, who are not only putting up with my near continuous presence, but are introducing me to new anime -more on that tomorrow soon- I owe my fondest gratitude.*

One interesting thing about where I’m currently staying; I am sleeping in an alcove, under a sharply slanting, three and a half foot high ceiling, which I imagine feels a lot like living in a cupboard under a stairwell.

Seems I’ve gone from Harry Dresden to Harry Potter. I’d like my Nimbus 2000 now please.

*Legal Note: gratitude is non-transferable, is non-refundable, and has no monetary value, except where required by law and/or ethics.

Posted in Apartment, WIZARDS! | 7 Comments

Linear Extrapolation of Heat
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There is a restaurant near me, here in Seattle. A Thai restaurant, by the name of Thai Tom. That it exists shouldn’t be surprising, as there are about eighty thousand Thai places out here (possibly only seventy thousand, clearly I need to do more research). What makes this particular hole-in-the-wall notable is it’s consistently amazing food.

The one unfortunate aspect is that some of the cooks have, let’s say, differing views on the spectrum of spiciness. Some days, I’ll order a dish, and request a three out of five, which will result in a pleasantly piquant, but still very edible, meal.

Today I was feeling like a wimp. There I was, sitting at a table with Paul and the Lovely Anya. Please note that just because Paul doesn’t get the title of “Lovely” doesn’t imply that he’s somehow monstrous. It’s the fact that he’s a hideous beast who doesn’t like brussel sprouts or mushrooms that makes him a monster. Best to keep these things straight. Regardless, I went with a two out of five for my Drunken Noodles, which I thought, silly me, would make it a touch milder than usual. This was brunch, after all, and I generally save the more dangerous foods for dinner, or at least brillig.

This two star dish was, to say the least, a very generous two. After the waitress refilled my water for the fourth time, the three of us tried to figure out how this cook’s ranking system works. We came to the conclusion that there are only two valid answers. One possibility is that to him, this really was a two, meaning a three causes instant sweating, a four can incapacitate an elephant, and a five is likely classified by the government as a toxic spill. The other interpretation is that there simply isn’t much variation; his dishes range from hot to hotter, and three through five are essentially the same.

“But,” I said, “there must be some distinction. Just look at the guy, he clearly knows what he’s doing.” Thai Tom is a tiny place, and you can see the cook hard at work from nearly every seat. The Lovely Anya had pointed out earlier that this cook had been an institution there since time immemorial, and his ability to pull out and replace jars of ingredients with looking away from the stove was a testament to his ability. In fact, he could do so while keeping his eyes locked incredibly intently on the pans of delicious things sizzling away.

That intensity led me to a moment of inspiration.

“Ah ha! That’s the difference!” I declared to my companions. It wasn’t a matter of how much chili pepper ended up in the food, but rather his burning glare imprinting itself, which our primitive taste buds then translate as heat. We weren’t drinking glass after glass of water because of any mere variance in spice content, but actually to dilute the uncontrolled fire of the cook’s blazing spirit. Should that man ever enter a boxing ring, his opponent would spontaneously combust. Eating his cooking isn’t just a matter of taste and sustenance, but an encounter with the unquenchable, vital vigor of humanity itself.

And as trying as that was four hours ago, I’m glad to have leftovers. Time for round two, wish me luck.

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MonkeyTail redux
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This, folks, is dedication.

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To Cut A Falling Hair…
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Guess who has a sexy, sexy new knife? …What? No. I don’t care how shiny yours is. The internet is all about me, didn’t you know that?

So as I was saying, I was recently given the gift of obscenely sharp steel. Behold, and be filled with awe:

*shing*


I just tried to take a picture of it for your viewing pleasure, but the blade is so sharp it cut the photons that were headed toward my camera. That’s how sharp it is. Let’s try again:

Mr. Pointy

So sharp, I hardly noticed when it when straight through the onion and into a finger. Don't worry, dinner still turned out delicious. Just a little extra iron.

Over the past couple years, I’ve pushed myself a little in learning to cook -previously I knew how to do a killer plate of spaghetti- so my knifing hand has gotten a lot of use. (In the first draft of this post, I simply had the “knifing hand” statement in it’s own sentence, which I thought looked a little too revealing suspicious, so I added some qualifying clauses.) This practice made it shocking to use the new knife. Before, cutting through, I dunno, an onion, took some moderate pressure with a slight sawing motion. But now it’s just zoom, right through the onion.

AND IT’S FREAKING AMAZING.

There may be some of you out there who are nonplussed at my knifey gushings, this is because either A) you don’t cook often, of B) you have never used a knife that makes you feel like Uma Thurman in Kill Bill. To quote Sonny Chiba’s character, Hattori Hanzo, as he’s praising his finely crafted katana: “If on your journey, you should encounter God, God will be cut.” That’s what I feel as I wield my new knife in defense of my kitchen against the horde of invading vegetables. When I grasp that handle, it transforms me into a lethal samurai…my many foes fall before me, diced, chopped, and julienned.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m feeling hungry, and you wouldn’t like me when I’m hungry.

Posted in Hanzo Steel, Knife, Samurai | 2 Comments

Rants In My Pants, or How Gay Marriage Ruins Everything
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This year has been an interesting one for politics, here in the ol’ US of A. And by interesting, I mean people are crazy. There are few things that are more annoying in people with whom you vehemently disagree than craziness combined with devoted fervor. So, it was with great joy that we witnessed some good things happen despite their staunch opposition; in particular, two adults can now get married in the state of New York, irrespective of gender. Which I think is pretty nifty.

The usual wailing lament from the religious right has been a constant drone for the past couple decades, going something like: gays ruin everything, gay marriage will ruin everything, damn them and their devilishly sexy hotpants straight to hell. That whole song and dance, I’m sure you’ve heard it. What it mostly boils down to, aside from the ever present underlying homophobia, is a moral panic that homosexual relationships devalue hetero style ones, and by making them official, we are chipping away at the underpinnings of society.

That’s fallacious, of course. Here’s the real argument against gay marriage: verbal inconvenience.

My parents are a happily married straight couple. As far as I know. Both of them are hardworking, industrious types, but my mom is a holy terror when it comes to work ethic. While I wouldn’t necessarily call her a workaholic, she does sometimes smile, and joke to my dad that she needs a wife. And it’s cute, dammit.

Ten years ago, I could spin out that anecdote without explanation, but now it’s all a mess. Let me show you what I mean.

Me: …and so she tells my dad she needs a wife!
Enraptured Audience: Ouch, messy. Oh, well she does live in Massachusetts, so she wouldn’t have to move.
Me: No no, it was a joke…that she’s out working so much that she could use a housewife…it’s a play on old gender roles.
EA: Oh, I see. Ha ha.
Me: Patronizing bastard.

See? Gay marriage ruined a perfectly good story. Thanks so much guys. Go enjoy your new-found “rights” and “human dignity” while I shed a tear for the jokes that were, and a sad, forlorn new generation that can no longer appreciate them.

At least I can fall back on puns. Everyone likes puns. And well, if you don’t, then now you know who to blame.

Posted in Gay Marriage, Politics | 4 Comments