what could be.

A while ago, a couple of images were taken that changed the way we think of the universe. We took the Hubble Telescope and picked a tiny point of space (and I mean TINY), and took a photograph. For no scientific reason - we just wanted to know what was there. Because we were curious. We pointed a telescope at a spot we thought was empty, and what we got was astounding.

The Hubble Deep Field:


Each one of these tiny points and oblong swirly bits is an individual galaxy. Each one contains billions of stars, and each of those stars could support several planets. The Ultra Deep Field contains even more:

I would encourage you to click on these images, and take a look at them in a higher resolution. Look at them for a long time. Let the magnitude of each image sink in. It's impossible, of course, for us to grasp the full importance of these photographs. But maybe we can get a hint of just how vast our universe is, and how far we have to go.

Watch this in full screen if you can:

oh hai!

Lookit! Posting! Daily!

So I work in an office. With cubicles. And I can hear EVERYONE sniffle and cough and sneeze, and then reach for their tissues. I think it's sort of hilarious, and I really want to pull pranks on people. For example, how much better would it be if there was suddenly a kitten under that last tissue you pulled:

It would make my day, anyway. I leave you with a Lolcat.

daily posts? meh.

I seem to have trouble blogging on a regular basis. (See: procrastination.)

But my dear gingery friend Cindy is doing a blog-a-day, and dammit, she is the QUEEN of procrastination. If she can do it, so can I.

I think.

...Maybe not.

Update: I now officially work for a certain non-profit organization which shall not be named herein. I actually like it. (I even get paid!) It makes me all warm and fuzzy inside to work with high school and college students on starting new events in their schools. Which means my blog may be less snarky in the future. It depends entirely on Barack Obama's approval ratings.

In the attempt to beat Cindy in our (non-) Non-Competitive competition to see who can actually do it (that she doesn't know about yet), I shall follow her lead and post random facts ON A DAILY BASIS. Watch out, world.

Fun fact #1: My mom reads my Tweets. Also my blog. Hi Mom!

Fun fact #2: While clueless and potentially dangerously politically apathetic, Jill is super cool and has a blog. That I didn't know about. Go read it and bask in the awesome. She also loves adverbs, seriously, but not as much as Topher, who loves them adverbally. (But don't make fun of Jill's grammar. It won't do any good anyway. And watch out for Topher's GIFs.)

Fun fact #3: This is the kind of thing I look at when I'm feeling uncomfortable with my level of Star Trek fanaticism. It makes me feel cool.

a cautionary tale.

Once upon a time, there was a girl who didn't watch the news. She was a happy teenager, as teenagers go, and carefree, and able to be kind to the people around her.

But then, one day, she found something called a Remote Control. Lost for centuries, somewhere within the Sea of Crumbs and Change that rests deep beneath the Couch Cushions, the Remote Control was said of old to be a powerful device that could cause lethargy, loss of willpower, and end meaningful relationships. It was said to be able to show its Master nearly anything through the use of its evil puppet, the Television. But this particular Remote Control was especially adept at showing the viewer the doings of other Peoples. Specifically, the People of a land called Washington D. C.

When the girl found the Remote Control, and saw what the People did in the place called Washington, the girl began to change. She became restless, frustrated, angry. Her friends did not understand what she saw, and became alarmed, and warned her not to view what the Remote Control showed her. She tried to resist its power, and spent hours screaming her head off at the dreaded Television, but it was all for naught. The Remote Control had her in its evil clutches.

In an effort to help the girl, an ancient Healer told her about a purging technique that used something called a Blog. The girl began to Blog, and it seemed to help. But soon, even the Blog lost its power, and the Remote Control beckoned again. She was trapped, sucked into the world of the People of Washington, forever to lament and bemoan the doings of its inhabitants. Their pull was too strong, and her friends fear she may never escape.

And so, children, when you next find yourself floating on the Cushions above the Seas of Crumbs and Change, resist the temptation to seek the power of the Remote Control, lest you find yourself trapped in vistas of a land even more hideous than Washington D. C. You could end up trapped forever in a story like.... Twilight.

(EEEEEEEK!)

a short note about wodka.

THERE'S TOO MUCH VODKA IN MY VODKA.

Slowly, I'm trying to convince myself that vodka is worth drinking. So far... it's Zamir to my Bourdain. Without the fangirls, and with the Turkish massage.

People have been trying to convince me of the virtues of this slimy offense to the senses (albeit with chameleon-like properties) since freshman year. At times, the chorus has been rather desperate: "It doesn't taste like anything, Jess, here, take a shot!" "It's better than whiskey, I promise!" "My god! Don't you like Bloody Marys?!?" "You can make it from potatoes! YOU'RE IRISH, YOU'LL LOVE IT!"

All through the conveyor belt pressures of college drinking culture, I stoutly refused to accept it as fit for human consumption. I have chosen instead the much more macho whiskey and rum families, and oh what a welcome they provided.

But, here I am, sipping a Bloody Mary cautiously. Maybe it's the vodka fangirls ("Bartender, make me a shot! I don't care what, something that tastes good! I want to get wasted and dance badly!"), maybe I feel like I missed out on the Luce Brunch Experience (and the subsequent vodka/tomato induced afternoon comas), maybe it was Chekov. Who always drank Wodka.


("Scotch? T'was inwented by a little old lady from Leningrad.)

adventures with cat.

I have written a short play. I call it: That Time Cat Ate My Sandwich.

CAT: *peeks over couch cushion*

CHICKEN SALAD SANDWICH: *waits patiently for human to return*

CAT: *smells chicken and mayonnaise*

CHICKEN SALAD SANDWICH: *waits patiently for human to return*

CAT: Well hello, chicken salad sandwich. You contain many of my favorite protein- and milk-based ingredients. I have not eaten for several minutes. PREPARE TO MEET YOUR DOOM! *leaps onto couch*

CHICKEN SALAD SANDWICH: *sways gently with the couch cushion*

CAT: ZOMG! It smells even better up here! I shall bat at it! *bats*

CHICKEN SALAD SANDWICH: *falls apart all over couch*

CAT: Aha! Victory! Who's laughing now, chicken salad sandwich! Now I shall carefully pick away at your contents before inevitably deciding you aren't worth eating after all! *NOMS*

CHICKEN SALAD SANDWICH: *is missing a teensy piece of chicken*

ME: *returns* WTF??? CAT! GET AWAY FROM MY CHICKEN SALAD SANDWICH!

CAT: *looks up* Was this yours?

ME: *is bigger than Cat*

CAT: *notes size difference*

CHICKEN SALAD SANDWICH: *is pathetic*

ME: *throws cat*

CAT: *is nonchalant*

ME: Poor sandwich, I shall reassemble and eat you, even though you are now tainted with kitty germs.

CHICKEN SALAD SANDWICH: *gets eaten*

CAT: *waits patiently*

ME: *takes plate to kitchen*

CAT: The tyrant has left! I shall claim my rightful domain at last! *leaps into favorite spot*

ME: *returns* Cat, you're in my spot.

CAT: You are mistaken. This spot is clearly mine. *sheds*

I also drown puppies.

I would just like to point out that tomorrow is September 1st. I have the sudden and intense urge to go buy pencils and paper. And perhaps a calculator, with lots of space on the screen, so that I can find out exactly how many zeroes are in a trillion (with a 't').

It should also be time, in my head, for me to buy books. Lots and lots of books. And then go to class and discuss them. Those discussions should naturally progress into lofty dialogues and passionate debates about the nature of humanity and the course of human events. It is a time for us to write dissertations on the greatest efforts of our race, to discuss them intelligently, sensitively, and honestly. And then, after all that is done, someone will say the 'B' word.

'Bush.'


...And then (there are now exactly fourteen minutes remaining of the first day of the second week of class)... the conversation promptly digress and degenerates into a useless sniping bitch-fest-o-rama of politically entrenched college students.

Oh how I miss it.

I liked to sit back and listen (I have since lost this ability), not having made up my mind quite yet. I'd get incensed and enraged, but oh so quietly.

...Okay, I sometimes make faces.

But then, when I couldn't stand it anymore, I would mutter something about having a background of conservative leanings, and maybe they should all shut up and get back to Marlowe.

And all Hell broke loose.

"What?!? Why the fuck would you vote for those slimy bastards? How can you stand to see all those innocent young men go to war? Don't you want the homeless to have homes? Don't you think everyone deserves health care? Don't you want everyone to eat? Don't you want to save the planet? FOR GOD'S SAKE, DON'T YOU LOVE BABIES?!"

...um.

This continues with the health care debate. It happens less to me now, possibly because I'm slightly more prepared for those kinds of outbursts, and I quickly use my phaser of logic (on stun). But I see it happen to other people all the time. People who like their health care, people who own guns, people who don't want to answer all the census questions because WHY THE HELL DOES THE GOVERNMENT WANT TO KNOW HOW MUCH I DRINK. (uh... more on that later.)

Conservatives are attacked with a particular brand of vitriol because they don't like welfare programs, they don't want the government to GIVE anyone anything. (Well, most conservatives. There are a few groups who don't match this card. I do.)

And this means, apparently, that we want your children to STARVE, to live OUTSIDE, we want union workers to be FIRED, and the Earth to EXPLODE already so that we can get on with our plans for the Death Star.


It's a ludicrous tactic. No, I'm not holding an anti-war sign. I must be pro-war. I don't support the health care bill. Clearly, were I a doctor, I would treat only millionaires and very pretty people. I don't think we should have bailed out the banks. I MUST think that all those workers deserved to lose their jobs. I've voted Republican, so I must agree with everything George Bush did OMG EVAR. I'm not completely opposed to sending troops overseas, I MUST want them all to die so I can keep driving my truck.

There is no other explanation. I couldn't possibly have an alternate plan involving world peace and prosperity, because I'm too busy building the Death Star in order to rule the galaxy.

I also drown puppies.

ghastly greetings

Halloween may be a couple months off, but my monstrous enthusiasm for the holiday has crept eerily over the pages of my weekly planner and is now lurking quietly in the middle of August like some sort of weird, quivering ooze in the binding. This isn't as crazy as it sounds, since the craft market is in full Halloween swing and I'm hoping to get some projects done and on the internet for potential buyers.

But this post is not about crafting. It's about postcards. Halloween postcards.

Vintage postcards are fantastic, but the designers and artists really outdid themselves 'round All Hallows Eve. Cute little rhymes, neat little sparkly bits, and completely inappropriate and horrifying art. Not to mention the ridiculous.

For example:Nothing says friendly greetings like happy children about to be kidnapped and eaten. And then there's this one:


Um... no? What the hell? Some creep with a pumpkin on his head is stealing cats? And where's the question mark? And... why?

Ah yes, the classic Acorn of Despair. Not to be confused with the Acorns of Uncertainly, Hope, and Happy ever after (not Happily Ever After), the Acorn of Despair has long been associated with traditional Halloween greetings, as has the Lettuce Head of Unrequited Love:

And then of course there's the blatantly racist but much beloved Jolly [blanketyblank] series. This little guy pops up in a variety of mediums (I'm distinctly remembering a certain cookie jar) from the mid-1800's through the 1950's, depicted at various ages:

Oh man. Nothing says class like a black joke. A couple other creepers...

This might have to be part one of a long series of ridiculous Halloween paraphernalia. There are few holidays that allow such... er... creativity.

a note about knitting

About two years ago, a friend of mine talked me into learning to knit. (Hi Cheryl!) Given my post-punk attitude toward most things crafty, I took to it like a goth teen to nail polish. I've made lots of things, mostly for other people, in an effort to prove that conservatives have hearts, too. (But maybe that you need a scarf and mittens to stand next to this one.)

My most recent project is... well, huge. My little bro (who is actually only 2 years younger and about a foot taller than me, so 'little' is hardly warranted) is going to be a senior in college this year, and HE'S GETTING MARRIED. And so I'm making a blanket for his future household. But not just any blanket, oh no...

It's a double-knit monster of a blanket.


Yes, that's my copy of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets and yes, it is double-sided. The pattern is the opposite on the other side. For colors, Don requested something bright and happy, like orange, and my migraine-prone brain requested a neutral.


The pattern itself is something that I created to mimic the Nazca lines in Peru, which we hope to visit sometime. (They're interesting to read about, Google them if you've never heard of them.) The one I chose is a pattern they believe to be a Condor, and looks like this from the air:


The blanket itself is huge. Its width stretches from my feet to my shoulders comfortably and with room to spare, and it will be significantly taller than it is wide. Since it's double-knitted, it's unbelievably warm, and sometimes I wonder why on earth I'm knitting this in August. It's so big I've taken to carrying it around in a tub thing, so that it looks like some sort of creepy sea monster with poisonous (knitting) needles sticking out. Nevermind that the tub is a reassuring pink. This blanket will eat you alive, man.

Nom.

recurring problems

For a bit of perspective, how about a cartoon from 1934?

Yoinked from a fellow blogger. I love old cartoons. I find it comforting that we've been having the same sorts of arguments throughout our history. (Though this cartoon is about Roosevelt's cronies and the New Deal, which has proven to be a nightmare to anyone with a sense of history or fiscal responsibility. Not so reassuring.)

come on, timmy.

Geithner Asks Congress for Higher U.S. Debt Limit

Some highlights: "Congress has never failed to raise the debt limit when necessary. Because members of both parties have long recognized the need to keep politics away from this issue, these actions have traditionally received bipartisan support." -Tim Geithner. "It is critically important that Congress act before the limit is reached so that citizens and investors here and around the world can remain confident that the United States will always meet its obligations," Geithner said in a letter to Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid that was obtained by Reuters.

...Except that you don't need bipartisan support to pass a resolution. And what Democrat Congressperson has turned down the opportunity to spend money?

And... how does raising our national debt ensure that we can meet our financial obligations? Surely the higher our debt, the more difficult it is to honor our financial obligations.

I do not understand this thought process. How on earth is our extreme debt going to help our economy? How is a household deep in debt going to become fiscally healthy by adding more debt? And... AND... Why was Tim Geithner the ONLY person who could save our economy?

the future: now 40% prettier!

So Topher sent me a redesigned version of the Healthcare Bill chart that I posted earlier. I think it only fair to post, and to quote a few of the designer's words. Robert Palmer writes:

"By releasing your chart, instead of meaningfully educating the public, you [the GOP] willfully obfuscated an already complicated proposal. There is no simple proposal to solve this problem. You instead chose to shout "12! 16! 37! 9! 24!" while we were trying to count something.

So, to try and do my duty both to the country and to information design (a profession and skill you have loudly shat upon), I have taken it upon myself to untangle your delightful chart."

His version: (click photo to view his original posting. pdf of just the chart is here.)


OOOOHHH. It makes so much more sense now. I'm glad we got that cleared up.

What the hell? What, because they're circles instead of rectangles, and the lines aren't all pixellated, that's supposed to make this bill easier to understand? The bill is still CRAP. This chart might be pretty, but look how many freaking bubbles there are! There are too many freaking bubbles! Look at how many people have a hand in our health care system under this proposal. Count. Tell me how many bureaucrats, lobbyists, committees, officiaries, advisory panels, and analysts are involved in this. What is the percentage of actual medical personnel? Where do voters come in?

The bill is badly designed. No graphic artist is going to fancy it up and make it pretty, it's UGLY. It's a final paper written the night before it's due, and Obama is the bad friend saying, "hurry up and finish, we've got drin- ...er... spending to do!"

p.s. I love you, Topher, and thank you for sharing that. I really am interested in seeing different takes on this.

the future!

I can't wait until our health care is more like this. I'm so glad Europe and Canada are models for our future health care system, guys. This is going to be GREAT.

Still working my way through the healthcare bill. I expect to be working my way through it for the next several years. It's crap. More to come. Unless I'm too mad.

Here's a good illustration of the bill. Actually, from my reading, apart from a few minor amendments I think it's a pretty good model, but it was put together by the GOP. (And the Dems hate it. I like it.) Pop quiz: Where's your doctor? (Click for larger version.)

*flails arms*

Because I just couldn't help it, and because after all this time it STILL brings tears to my eyes.

Relay For Life is in 6 days.

As many of you know, my internship in Community Relations for the American Cancer Society is almost up. While ACS is decidedly not my ideal employer (for reasons which do not belong in this post), there are certain areas of my involvement that I really enjoy.

For example, the Luminaria Ceremony is really beautiful, and I am delighted to be any small part of it this year. At sunset at every Relay For Life, candles are lit inside decorated paper bags to remember lost loved ones and celebrate those who have survived cancer. The ceremony itself is a beautiful thing, as hundreds, sometimes thousands of candles are lit and provide a soft glow of hope to everyone attending. The Luminaria themselves are wondrous to see. Many people put hours of work into theirs, wanting to create something wonderful to bear the name of their loved one. Others simply write a name, but each name is significant. Each candle is a memory or a life. We use them to light the track, to show us the way as we walk through the night.

My kid brother made one for our mom, a survivor of thyroid cancer. It may not look like much, but it's pretty impressive for a 14-year-old gamer kid:


I made a simple but fun one for a fellow committee member, Becky. (Fraught with subtext. And yes, it's pink. La vie en rose, mes amis.)


But the one I'm really excited to see lit up is the one I made for my mom. It's got a moon and everything! This is shameless show and tell, perhaps, but lookit!


If anyone who reads this would like to make a Luminaria for someone to be lit at the Relay For Life of Burnsville on August 7th, please let me know. The suggested donation is $10 and benefits such ACS programs as the Hope Lodge, a free place for cancer patients to stay during treatment, and HopeLine, a free phone service to answer any and all cancer treatment and insurance questions.

i'm sure it's not important.

I've recently (and repeatedly) heard the argument there's nothing in the Constitution that says legislators must read bills and amendments before voting on them.

Of course there isn't. The Framers assumed that Congress would read them. How can you vote on a bill if you don't know what's in it?

Apparently, reading is not a priority for most Senators.



I'm... gonna let Senator Conyers speak for himself here. And... isn't he a lawyer?

one small step into the universe.

As anyone who reads my tweets knows, today was the 40th anniversary of the Apollo 11 lunar landing. I don't have a lot to say on it here, having exhausted myself on a number of occasions retelling the tale to the k-12 crowd that frequents the planetariums of the world.

And... any cashiers/medical staff I encountered today.

And... that one guy at that bar.

And... anyone who has ever listened to my drunken ramblings about how freaking amazing it all is.

I mean, really amazing. Have I told you how amazing it is? We went to the moon, man. The moon.

(Click to enlarge)

I would, however, like to extend a thank you to all the men and women who have ever been associated with the NASA Space Program through the years. I doubt any of them will ever read the fruit of my keyboard, but if I ever get the chance, I'll tell them personally:

You're my heroes.

a memo to congress

Composing a bill is like composing a symphony, and Federal Law should be like a movie soundtrack. It should never hinder, only help, and for the most part remain unnoticeable.

i assume this needs no introduction.

And now, a break from our regularly scheduled programming to diminish my already dwindling credibility.

edit: the trailer took too long to load. go here if you want to see it. :)

Planet Earth needs a big hug.

Most of the time, when people ask me why I drive a truck, I tell them it's because I hate the environment. I dodge the question, we have a good laugh, everybody moves on.

But I don't. I actually really like it. Being a native of planet Earth and all. I like animals, especially some big endangered ones. I really like whales, for example.


I'd like to save the whales, that would be cool. I'm down with that. But I would hate for people to get the wrong impression and think that I agree with most global warming policy. Or any of it.

The truth is, I just think most environmentalists are either completely stupid or completely misguided. There are a number of reasons for this, some of which I'm sure will appear on this blog at a later date, but here are a couple big ones.

My carbon emissions are not going to kill Galapagos penguins. Cats are. That's right, house cats. The single greatest cause of land-animal extinction is species migration caused by humans. We like to travel, but we also like to bring our bugs and mammals with us. 30 new species are introduced to the Hawaiian Islands every year, and they are decimating native populations which have no evolutionary defense against them. I mean really, how the hell is a flightless baby bird going to defend itself against a hungry house cat?

(Om nom nom.)

I don't have any numbers here other than for Hawaii, but I have read time and time again that this unnatural migration is killing hundreds of species all over the world every year, moreso than destruction of habitat or a slight increase in temperature. Teeth, claws, and bug infestations win over weather.

Here in Minnesota the most obvious example is the Zebra mussel. Apart from being a damned nuisance to everyone with an outboard motor, they are completely changing the nature of our 10,000+ lakes. They latch onto and kill native mussels, and filter plankton, increasing water clarity and therefore the depth at which vegetation can grow, and therefore the kind of vegetation we have in our lakes. Which changes everything. And we all know how they got here.


As for the ocean, we all know that the large fishing operations are ridiculous. They decimate miles and miles of healthy fish populations to feed hungry mouths that live thousands of miles from those fish. (Mostly in Asia, but I don't like to point fingers. Unless it helps my point or makes me feel better. Here it does neither, so I can pretend to be lofty.) It's gotten to the point where indigenous populations of Humans in the South Pacific, who exist there only because of subsistence fishing, can barely scrape by. Many nearly starve after the Asian fishing vessels clean out the fish around their islands, and it takes months to return to normal. Despite international law, the crazies at Greenpeace and Peta, and various UN Resolutions, the Pacific is too grand a wilderness to monitor everything. International eyes are elsewhere, and more importantly, there is money to be made.

There are enough people writing about this that I don't feel the need to elaborate further. Robert Gillett has an excellent and concise text on the matter available online, A Short History of Industrial Fishing in the Pacific Islands. For more information on attempts to re-stock fish in many oceans and seas, I recommend this article, with an easy-to-read and very prettily illustrated abstract here.

And what is the point of all of this information, you ask?

We're not doing anything about it.

We're supposed to turn down our heat, I'm supposed to get a Prius and get rid of my truck. We need Wind Turbines (even though nobody realizes they ONLY WORK WHEN THE WIND IS BLOWING), and solar panels (which ONLY WORK WHEN THE SUN IS SHINING). We're supposed to feel bad about every ounce of fossil fuel we use.

But Al Gore hasn't said a damn word about house cats eating penguin babies. Or giant Japanese fishing vessels catching sharks for shark-fin soup, cutting their fins off, and throwing them back into the water, still alive but unable to swim, so that they can die on their way to the abyssal plain. Tens of thousands of sharks each year. He doesn't care, he's just a guy on a power trip (and possibly acid) who wants to tell you how much electricity you can use.


In reality, while carbon emissions are a problem that we have to face, our priorties are mixed up, and our ideal solutions are misplaced. Al Gore's most recent speech about Cap and Trade and the first steps toward World Government strikes me as completely ridiculous. It's a power grab with too many obvious omissions, even more hidden inclusions, and the speech has all the earmarks of fanaticism. I have a separate beef with Al Gore, possibly because I enjoy non-organic beef, but that's a rant for another day.

This is, as so many of my rants are, really about people who just aren't thinking things through. They are not sitting down with a whiteboard and saying, "okay, what is our biggest problem right now, and how do we fix it for the future?" They are rushing headfirst, like our President, our Congress, and the United Nations, into things that no one fully understands, and no one is willing to think through. All that matters is that legislation is passed and people get re-elected. It offends me deeply.

All we need, for anything in life, is a little common sense. It's been a long time since I've seen any of that. Thomas Paine, where are you?

Dear Internet,

two of my photos are apparently on schmaps of berlin and budapest, though i haven't bothered to see if they're actually posted. still, it's kind of cool.

it's the kind of thing that reminds me that i should really work on and post the rest of my photos from... oh... four years ago now?

eesh.

also, i'm having trouble letting go of deviantart. true, it's way less grown-up than flickr, and true, there are a lot of creepers on deviantart, but... it's been so good to me. sigh.

also, out of the three people who will read this blog post (probably on facebook, alas!), if anyone is planning a wedding or needs portraits, head on over to Pam J Photos. she's awesome. she's available. she's artsy.

aaaand i ran out of alliterative adjectives. (oh wait, there was one!)

a photo from berlin:

New Photos from Tehran

Because you may have missed it (because NBC doesn't seem to care, and also because it's been nice outside).

photos

Also, take a look at how the U.S. administration is handling this. Or... not.

warm-hearted killers.

This is not a new story, but recently an abortion doctor in Kansas was shot in an act of domestic terrorism. If you're feeling morbid, you can read about it here. In addition, the suspect has warned of more planned shootings "as long as abortion remains legal." Read that story here.

So... wait. Killing babies is bad. But killing grownups is... okay?

knitting blind?

so here's a question with potentially unkind overtones.

i know a lot of talented knitters. seriously skilled ladies who can do things with yarn and needles that would make athena blush, and tailor the hell out of any piece of clothing you can think of. the kind of people that make those homey, female-type activities true art forms.

i've also met some knitters who... well, don't. the kind that make me wonder why, despite their enormous amount of patience for detail and painstaking care with every stitch, many knitters completely forget to make sure that their handmade clothes fit them? it doesn't seem as though it would be difficult to see that your sweater is 4 inches too short, 3 inches too big around the arms, and a completely awful color for your skin tone. and horizontal stripes, while easy to add to knitting, are none too flattering for us knitters, who spend most of our time on couches. pink fluffy yarn, while fun and delicious for kitties everywhere, merely expands motherly bosoms and makes it impossible to look at anything else.

this is not to say that i am an expert sweater-maker. my first sweater, while a tasteful black, immediately decided to fall apart due to its cheap synthetic material, and i also had to add several inches to the pattern to make it fit. by the time i made my second sweater, i still had not learned about the dangers of cheap acrylic yarn, and the strands are now so frazzled and fluffy it looks like it comes with a feather boa. the difference, however, is that i do not wear either garment in public. or indeed, in private.

perhaps the fault is with the pattern makers. i've found that these ladies, while well-meaning, are generally unable to see beyond their petite 4'3" frame, bless them, and have decided that the only adjustments needed are for width. this would explain the plethora of ultra-wide, midriff-bearing winter sweaters one can find on the internet. seriously. don't their tummies get cold? how hard is it to keep knitting for that extra hour or so to make sure that your wrists don't get frostbite? also... don't they have mirrors? or spouses? or people in grocery stores who look at them funny?

i just... can't stop judging. *headdesk*

more kitchen adventures, and a musical mystery!

so my family really loves garlic mashed potatoes. i mean, we love potatoes in any variety, really. baked, mashed, deep fried, boiled, microwaved, spiced up, cooled down, on top of eggs, in potato salad, raw, whatever. we love potatoes. but adding garlic makes them extra special and fancy, just like in the restaurants! and i wanted to try it.

and so, as i do whenever i want to learn something completely foreign and new, i googled.

and i got recipes. ooooh i got recipes. from alton brown, from emeril, from users like you. each one had its own brand of fanciness, its own particular sparkle power involving some herb or cream or special whipping process. and every single one required about ten too many steps than i was willing to take to make some freakin potatoes. so, a couple of weeks ago, i threw everything into a pot in a grand experiment. i peeled the garlic and the potatoes, boiled them together with a little sea salt, and mixed them with the mixer. and voila! garlic mashed potatoes. i repeated the process tonight. call me crazy, but...

that was really easy. and AWESOME.

meanwhile, back at the ranch, itunes has been left to its own devices on shuffle. it seems that my computer has an affinity for the dance of the sugarplum fairy, which it plays about every five songs. i believe this to be an attempt at mockery in my general direction, but i'm not sure how or why. it's particularly disturbing when i try to think of when i would have put any sugarplums or fairies on my hard drive, and can't remember ever doing so. clearly there is something more sinister at work.

and now for something completely different:

i love kitchens.

one of the great pleasures i take in life is the late-night snack. i'm sure this will come back to bite me in the ass (literally) someday, but for the moment i'm going to thoroughly enjoy my cold chicken straight out of the deli container.

maybe it's a hangover from my teenage years, but there's something strangely thrilling about swiping a snack this late at night. everything is so quiet, except here there's a huge racket from the frogs in the pond out back. every floorboard creaks at a volume that you're sure is going to wake the whole house, and when you finally make it up the stairs and to the kitchen you realize your bare feet make almost as much noise on the linoleum as they did on the creaky stairs. opening the fridge is a blinding experience, but once your eyes adjust, they behold a wonderland of previously unclaimed food items. half-eaten chicken, mostly empty take-out boxes, lunchmeat, pickles, and many other things that in daylight would be completely ignored suddenly seem like delicacies. why yes, i would love a single sweet pickle. three bites of chicken sounds delicious. and, wonder of wonders, a lone cream cheese wonton lays completely forgotten at the back of the fridge. (score!)

now, it should be noted that in this house no food is left alone for long. there are enough people, and one in particular who quietly grazes on anything in sight, that food almost never goes bad in our fridge. that delicious cream cheese wonton was only a few days old. i still cannot believe that it had gone unnoticed that long. and oh, was it delicious.

and then there's the odd pleasure of simply sitting at the counter. the kitchen is the center of any home, as many a pillow and apron proudly declares. here one feels close to the action. i can't possibly miss any important events from this perch. this is possibly because our house revolves around the preparation and consumption of food, but also because of its prominent location. tactically, i have a clear view of any activities the neighborhood kids are planning outside, including mysteriously moving around the firepit chairs (i believe they're secretly constructing a fort from which to bombard the enemy ducks and geese with our landscaping rocks). i can count how many times the little bro comes in to stare at the contents of the pantry, and of that number how many times he decides on cereal. i can tell the lady of the house where she put her keys in her frenzy to get out the door. and, more importantly, i can access the all-important internet while brewing coffee and watching tv AT THE SAME TIME.

truly, this kitchen is a magical, magical place.

spontaneous combustion

huzzah! for never updating le blog! now behold! a CONTENT-FREE! and ANGRY! update late at night:

if one more person asks me with an innocent/blank face: "but what do you have to be mad about? what's wrong with washington?"

... i may actually self-combust. i'm not sure how that happens, but mythbusters says it does, so it must be true.

i get asked this question ALL THE TIME. and i think it's pushing me over the edge (short trip, i know). but i've come to a conclusion: i think people are suffering in our country. suffering from a LACK OF NEWS.

this is a serious condition, folks. there's even a bumper sticker out about it. i believe it reads: "if you're not angry, you're just not paying attention." i'm sure it was first issued for bush-haters, but frankly, it doesn't matter. everyone should be pissed about something (because that's how incompetent our congress is).

maybe we're suffering from over-exposure. we have... how many? 24-hour news channels plus countless radio programs (though those are mostly conservative since liberals don't pay attention past the pretty posters) and an endless parade of emails, if you have the misfortune to have signed up for them.

sidenote:

dear nbc,
yes, i am a right-wing extremist, and yes, i do hate you all, though you do occasionally give me a good chuckle, like this week. in any case, please say hello to my digitus tertius.
love,
me.

continuing:

does anybody watch the news anymore? or are they all just watching nbc, which is pretty much the same thing?

why do i even have to explain myself? i pay attention, and therefore i am royally pissed. i may even start to use the royal 'we' soon, but that might get weird.

so please, if you don't know what your brand new fancy sparkling holy congress and your brand new hero president is doing with all of your tax money and political time, and if you don't know why the tea party participants were all carrying signs, just...

ask me about the weather. or the yankees. please, i beg you. and so does my blood pressure.

Tonight's issue...

And oh there are so many to pick from. This one is small, but on the scale of zero to crazy gets about a 7.5, so I'm running with it.

A rather large chunk, around five billion (with a 'b'), of the money Congress has set aside for education out of our fancy new stimulus package (part two of forty-seven) will go to funding education programs for children ages 1-3.

Yes. One-year-olds, two-year-olds, and three-year-olds.

Um. Well this makes sense, I mean in 15 years or so they might get a job... er... as a cashier at target... or washing dishes... for about a year. Now, this is important work, to be sure. We would be miserable without them. And if they learn to wash dishes at an early age, and maybe if we get them those toy checkout counters with plastic fruit and vegetables, perhaps we can FINALLY have those highly trained cashiers we've always needed!

Is personal responsibility really this out of style? Are parents now assumed to be so stupid that the government has to step in to teach their kids to speak English and use spoons? Are day care providers so incompetent that they can't keep little Jimmy from shoving that toy firetruck up his nose?

Apparently so.

But fear not! An army of laid-off accountants will be sent in to wipe up the snot in the most cost-effective way possible, and prepare meals with organic, locally grown ingredients (kids in Minnesota during the Winter should consider packing a lunch from elsewhere on the planet). Previously out-of-work bricklayers will be hired by the federal and state governments, carefully trained in the intricacies of Lego skyscrapers, and sent to organize the the Lego city planning commissions during nap time to be implemented during the scheduled 15 minutes of play (before the Union-required hour-long break, in which the kids are on their own, presumably to play Godzilla with Legotown and trick poor Jimmy into getting yet another six-wheeled vehicle lodged in his left nostril). And, as a Gesture of Love and a Demonstration of her Supreme Goodness, Hillary Clinton will Personally extract that fire truck from the screaming kid's nasal cavity.

Well good.

So between this and the fact that the rest of the money will get swallowed up in bureaucracy, my high school will still have no paper to print tests, worksheets, and study guides for students.

No paper. But hey, those little ones are going to be sooo well behaved. And medicated.

jews and africans.

ooo racy! a racist post! ...not quite.

tonight i had one of those magical moments in which you're flicking through channels, come across a movie, and get completely, utterly, and transcendentally sucked in. it was called 'gentleman's agreement.' as much as it sounds like a porn about two southern gentlemen swapping wives, it's a really amazing film. it's about a journalist in the 1940's who pretends he's a jew to write a series about antisemitism. i laughed, i fell in love with the always amazing gregory peck, and i bawled my eyes out. there are some truly cheesy and unbelievable scenes, but the gist of the story is remarkable, and many of the people involved in the film were later blacklisted, even before mccarthy took the reins. (it has a rather tragic story all around, actually. a book in the making.) if you ever get a chance, watch it. and feel proud of your country, and look at how damn attractive gregory peck can be.

it should be noted that while i was watching this film, i was drinking african wine. which may have something to do with my affection for it. this wine, though... first of all, being an ignorant ass, i had no idea that they made wine in south africa. second... i think they make schizophrenic wine. when you open the bottle, your nose is assaulted with smoke and vanilla and banana. i mean... i'm used to cheap californian and australian wines by now, so... wtf mate? and you can feel each sip in your toes, it's that strong. the first glass is rough, but man that second one is AMAZING. but... over-ripe banana? in wine? really?

haven't decided if it's worth buying again. i can't decide, because the damn wine can't decide what kind of wine it wants to be. sweet? no. bitter? no. mellow? fuck no. it's dancing all over the place. and i give up. wine shouldn't be this much work. wine should work for YOU, making YOU feel happy, following you around like a big red balloon to bring a smile. this wine... well it might as well be french. it says, 'fuck you, you stupid american, you're too bland to experience my full soulfull nature of the savannah! you have never seen a lion in the wild, or even a fucking balboa tree! you aren't from the earth, you're made of plastic, you've never eaten stomach of gazelle, you swine, you cannot understand!'

maybe not. what the hell happened to that nice bland yellow tail shiraz blend i had? it was awfully nonthreatening and very generous with the buzz... maybe i should stick to that. and then continue to eat all-white food. that's what we do here in minnesota, right? it fits into my preconceived notions of white supremacy and american entitlement... (excuse me while i sip my aquafina. that's spanish, right?)

hmm. i must have some pent-up rage somewhere. better post this on TWO! blogs instead of one, maybe it'll be like venting to two people.

kettle drums and lawn ornaments.

oh thank god. you can stream hawaiian radio. aaaahhh.... i can almost feel the sand between my toes. i can see it all now, the blinding sun, the pounding waves scaring off all the families with children, and my private waiter. why yes, i would love another drink served in a coconut. no, i don't think it's silly at all, but i don't think it'll fit in the cupholder of my plastic floaty thing. sunscreen? nooo, it's for sissies and that man over there who should be wearing a shirt. actually, could you have him removed, please? thanks. he was doing nothing for the overall look of the beach.

and, waiter, could you get rid of the reggae band for me too? there's a franklin in it for you if you can make it happen in the next three minutes...

why does everyone love reggae so much? come to think of it, why does anyone love reggae at all? between the repeating vowels and the electronic beat.... which sounds oddly like a plastic electronic keyboard i remember from the late 80's... i feel like i'm trapped in some horrific carnival. the music will slow, turn to a minor key, and blood-covered clowns will pop out of market stands wielding fire sticks as everyone runs shrieking to the beach.

maybe it's not that bad. maybe i just live in the wrong climate for reggae. about 4,000 miles from the wrong climate. hey, maybe if i wasn't shivering violently, cursing every cheerful and encouraging snowboarder for a hundred miles to an icy and horrific death, while wondering just how far south you can get on a half a tank of gas, just maybe it would appeal to me a little more.

i often express my dislike for winter, usually in a long groan about how nice it is in hawaii today. i'm usually greeted by sentences like, "oh, you don't hate winter that much, you just need to get outside more! want to borror my skis?" oh sure! i'd love to borrow your skis! i'd love nothing better than to learn a new sport while my nostrils freeze together. or, "look, the sun is shining today, it's beautiful out!" sure, it's beautiful. it might be -17, but in minnesota they call that beautiful. oh look! a little bunny's gone and got himself frozen to our lawn! we'll have an adorable statue to look at all winter! the one response i do enjoy is, "well, it's blizzarding out, want to come over and watch the dumb fucks try to drive up the hill?" (that was in duluth. topher had a great view, apparently.) mostly, i just try and wait it out till spring. which happens in june. and that's a loooong ways off.

i'm hoping to make mai tais this week. shortly after i reach the point of inability to walk under my own power due the combined effects of three kinds of rum, i plan to curl up in a snowbank, fade into blissful hypothermia, and become a lawn ornament.

ah, technology.

so i have a new flickr account here. it's all full of fancy. actually, it's currently full of shamefully awkward compositions from my photo 1 class. but i'm just pleased as punch i finally got something up. i also have a nearly ancient deviantart account here. these galleries will display photos that will soon be for sale.

viral marketing plan: bombard the internet with my intellectual property until someone buys something. pay bills. eat. make more things.

yep, wish me luck. and let me know if you're interested.

cookery? or kitchen fuckery? you decide.

my brother and i often urge a certain family-member-who-shall-not-be-named to eat well and exercise more. this is often followed by: we love you!

today she responded, 'well, i love donuts.'

tomorrow i'm going to make an amazing beef stew with red wine in it. i'm so excited that my mouth is actually watering. between my obsession with anthony bourdain and my newfound love of wine, i think i'm turning into a foodie. not a very good one perhaps, especially since i'm going to the ubiquitous and often mediocre olive garden for lunch tomorrow, but i do love to cook. i've gotten to the point where i try to figure out which wine would be best with which meal. i have a list of things i want to try making. i consider it a point of shame that i have yet to roast a whole chicken. risotto no longer scares me. i know what an endive is, and i have a recipe i would like to try that uses one. or four. i consider my mom's chicken fajitas (which were once a big ordeal to make) simple enough that i now think of them as an easy weekday meal. (they're still my favorite thing ever.)

after i conquer beef stew (which is so simple i don't even know why i'm blogging about it. maybe it's the red meat obsession. nom.) ...i plan to make dumplings. yes, dumplings. i love dumplings. but not the stupid ones in those pre-packaged dumpling soups, REAL dumplings. the kind that are delightfully pasta-like, the kind that you don't eat just to get to the meat inside, the glorious kind that we've probably NEVER HAD at the local chinese/asian-american-conglomeration joint. maybe i'll even attempt to make the holy grail of all dumplings, the SOUP dumpling. (yes. soup. in a dumpling. amazing.) now, these things are tricky to make. i have yet to find a recipe for a real soup dumpling, and i don't think there is a restaurant in the midwest that serves them. but god DAMN do they look delicious! unfortunately, they also look delightfully out of range of both my talent and resources. alas!

everyone's a poet.

The other day I was knitting my new beautiful black sweater, and I dropped six stitches because I got distracted by Rambo.

Such clashes of temperament seem common in life lately.

There is a new (?) kind of poetry floating around in which people (usually teenage girls) go through old books and underline or circle random words and phrases to form poetry. This could be worthy of praise, were they not stealing entire phrases of another writer's work. And ruining my reading experience in the process.

I picked up a copy of Seven Pillars of Wisdom at a used bookstore the other day. It was written by T. E. Lawrence (of Arabia) and details his adventures during the Arab revolt against the Turks in WWI. It is filled with panoramas of crushing heat and thirst, and the personalities that the sun's anvil creates. Filled with wonders and terrors, a testament to the very nature of mankind, its beauty and its barbarity.

And, in black ink, on every other page, you will find "poems" like this:

"convert!
the difficulty
of being
Arab."

Out of all the words and all the messages you could have found, this is what you chose? Really? In this book, about Arabs, about their complexity and humanity, all you can think to do is convert them? Call me a snob, but I think I need to buy a new copy.