PsychicGoldfish Telepathic Transmissions

Wednesday, February 26, 2003

You really ought to read this brief essay by Jaimie Pickle. (Note that she eschews proper capitalization and punctuation for artistic reasons. Kind of like e.e. cummings, but with less white space.) You really should read all her stuff, but that one is especially worth the time. It's about one woman's relationship with God. And, frankly, I found it to be much more uplifting, and much less eye-roll inducing, than most of the forwarded e-mails I've received on similar topics. And it doesn't have a half-dozen >>>'s on each line and a bit saying "If you don't forward this, you hate Jesus!" at the end, either. That's always a plus.

Posted at 10:00 PM

Well, my ongoing campaign to stroke my own ego has won another major victory. For those of you that wonder, previous wins included starting a personal webpage, making a Weblog about nothing, and registering a nonsensical domain name just for name recognition. And the mighty self-aggrandizement machine lumbers onward!

Now, I have a rudimentary commenting system on my Weblog. Due to the usual array of technical difficulties (possibly originating somewhere between my keyboard and chair), I've settled on a third-party hosting system. Check the little tags at the bottom if you're interested in details there. So far, I can't really endorse SquawkBox. But, so far they have one decisive advantage over the other commenting systems I tried: it actually works. That's always a plus.

As far as content is concerned, I'd appreciate it if you refrained from posting obscenities, links to porno sites, and things like that. Basically, if you'd be embarrassed to show it to your mom, don't post it here. That way, you'll save me the trouble of deleting your post and possibly banning your IP.

But, otherwise, please feel free to comment like crazed weasels. Thanks!

Posted at 11:08 PM

Thursday, February 20, 2003

This is a test. Blogger has been having FTP problems for several days now, and it's getting on my nerves. Now that I finally manage to defeat my own inertia, technical problems from some third party defeat me in turn. Vexing.

Posted at 5:36 PM

Tuesday, February 18, 2003

Cite is an architecture magazine published by the Rice Design Alliance. As you probably can't read on the cover, it bills itself as "the Architecture and Design Review of Houston." Basically, it's full of articles on various aspects of architecture and construction, in the Houston area and nationwide. It's sponsored by Rice University, my alma mater.

The cover featured on the right is for issue 56, the "Connections" issue. Basically, this issue features articles on various aspects of commercial shipping and travel, and the infrastructure that supports it. As you can see, it has symbols for the major forms of transportation represented in the Houston area. There's the airports, of which we have two: Hobby and Intercontinental. They're represented by the airplane at top. Then there's the famous Houston Ship Channel, as represented by the anchor at the bottom. Above that is a classic railroad crossing sign, representing the copious amount of railroads joining our fair city to the rest of the nation.

And, finally, there's the trucking industry, as represented by the proud symbol of the American Trucking Industry: the mudflap woman! (Click the image at the right for a detailed view.) Never have I been so proud to be associated with both the design industry and with Rice University.

Posted at 6:18 PM

Monday, February 17, 2003

The Wilhelm Scream has a long and surprisingly diverse history in Hollywood. Play this sound, and I'm sure you'll recognize it: Wilhelm Scream.

If you've been to the movies or watched TV in the last several decades, chances are you've heard it at least once. It's been used dozens of times, as sort of an in-joke and calling card for big name directors and sound editors. As near as anyone can tell, it was originally recorded for the 1951 movie "Distant Drums," for the anguished cries of a man being bitten and dragged under by an alligator. However, it's named for an appearance two years later, in the 1953 movie "Charge at Feather River." In this case, a character by the name of Wilhelm is filling his pipe, and emits a bloodcurdling scream when he's shot by an Indian's arrow.

See? The day wasn't a total loss. You learned something!

Posted at 12:35 PM

Last Valentine's Day, I was given a heart-shaped, lemon filled donut. I found the concept so strange that I took a moment to take a picture of it. Briefly, I considered doing something artistic with it, like leaving it out and photographing it each day as it molded. (I was in an exceedingly foul mood that morning, in part due to the date, in part due to traffic on the way into work.) But I wasn't interested enough in the project to deal with having a rotting pastry on my desk for the next several weeks. So I decided I'd just eat it. I was hungry anyway.

As I took my first bite, I was struck by the symbolism. Of course, we all associate the classic heart shape (as opposed to the anatomically correct version) with love. In this form, it takes on a bit of a cynical undertone. Further, there's the long-standing literary tradition of metaphorically linking food and it's consumption with love (and sex, although I'd just as soon put that aside for now, as this all takes on an unnervingly perverted and literal tone in that light). Keep that in mind here, and you'll pretty much be able to reconstruct what I was thinking for yourself. It's all kind of depressing, in a maudlin, sophomoric way. Which is, of course, what one would expect on this particular Hallmark holiday.

So, it sat there waiting for me. With pleasant anticipation, I picked it up and took a big bite. The sweet glaze crumbled and flaked off, and made a mess all over my keyboard. (Not my symbolic keyboard. My literal keyboard. I had to stop and shake it clean over my literal trash can.) It was a bit stale, and there was a hint of tart under the sweet. As I chewed, I shook some of the excess glaze off over the trash, to make it more manageable.

A bit disappointed, but willing to venture another taste, I took a second bite. This time, the stale, chewy pastry was mixed with an unmistakable and unpleasant sourness. The lemon fill oozed out, and I was forced to catch the bitter filling with my lips. The sour overwhelmed the lingering sweetness in my mouth. I frowned as I wiped the lemon and crumbling sugar from my lips.

Unwilling to give up so easily, I took one last cautious bite to decide if it was worth all the trouble. By now, sugar had crumbled all over my desk, and I was brushing crumbs and sticky debris off of my shirt. As I did so, I wondered why I was bothering. I know these things aren't good for me. And I wasn't even enjoying it. Why bother? I chewed the last mouthful, scowled, and wadded it up in a paper towel. Then I tossed it in the trash can with the other unwanted refuse and brushed the last crumbs from my hands and mouth.

These thoughts lasted for approximately thirty seconds: the length of time it took me to remember that I dislike lemon filling, and discard the half-eaten remainder in the trash. It might also have occurred to me to muse about the metaphoric significance of throwing it all away the minute I found that it wasn't exactly what I wanted. Or perhaps wonder what, symbolically, was consumed in the process of eating it.

But I had to take a phone call, and quickly forgot about my confectionary musings. Perhaps that's symbolic as well. Something about forgetting about love in the midst of the day-to-day grind.

But it's really not a very good simile. "Love is like a lemon-filled donut: sweet on the outside, sour on the inside, and bad for you anyway?" Oh, please! So I think I'll leave it there, and just go with the plain kind with the hole in the middle next time.

And that one really doesn't bear thinking about overmuch.

Posted at 5:05 PM

Just thought I'd share my nightstand with you. This is a good example of how things get out of hand. As you can see, there are 15 half-full bottles of water piled on the table. Every so often, I drink a bottled water. Usually, I carry it around with me all evening, and refill it as required from the tap. Then, I take it with me to bed, just in case I want some water during the night. The deal is, I usually don't reuse them. I don't like washing them out, because I can never get all the soap out, and I can't get hot enough water to sterilize them otherwise. Sometimes I refill them for the next night, provided I don't just grab a new one from the 'fridge. But I'm hesitant to refill and reuse a bottle that's been sitting, half-drank and swimming with bacteria, for several days. That's just asking for a sore throat. (Probably a minimal risk, I'll grant you, but the idea of drinking bacteria soup bothers me enough to avoid it nonetheless. I guess it's just the Howard Hughes in me.) But it's no big deal, because I always have a handy supply of clean bottles full of fancy spring water, or whatever is on sale at the time. So, use the bottle once, refill it a couple times, throw it away. With me so far?

So, most mornings I have a half-empty bottle of water next to me on the nightstand when I awake. But, since I generally hit the snooze bar a few times, I'm in way to much of a hurry to deal with it right then. I have to shave, brush my teeth, take a shower... The usual drill. Then I don't even think about it until I go to bed. But, by then, I'm tired and not interested in dealing with anything but sleep. So, I just shove the old bottles aside, put any new bottles on the table, and hit the sack. What you see is a little over a month's worth.

At one time, I even had a trash can by the bed, for just this kind of thing. (That and emptying my pockets of random trash when I get undressed.) But, then the roof of my apartment developed a leak, and I had to use it as a rainbucket. And since the management seems inclined only to patch the ceiling without fixing the roof, I have to leave that trash can under the leak. (This place is slowly turning into a dump since the new owners took over. I'm moving as soon as possible.) It never occurs to me to get either a bucket or another trash can when I'm out shopping, though, so I'm kind of stuck there.

So, fine. A bunch of bottles on the table. They need to be thrown away. But it requires a little more effort than that. I'd have to juggle 15 bottles, uncap them, dump them down the sink, empty the kitchen trash can so there's room for them... Eh, it can wait another night.

But, when I actually get around to doing it, I know I'll find out that it took all of two minutes. And then I'll feel really silly about the whole thing. (Actually, it just took me a bit over two minutes, because I had to find a trash bag. But I do, in fact, feel kind of silly for putting it off.) I do this kind of thing all the time. I didn't wear a pair of shoes for three weeks because I didn't want to bother replacing the shoelaces. I already had the laces, mind you. I just didn't want to actually spend the time to lace the shoes. I generally don't take out my trash until there's four or five 39 gallon leaf bags full. Naturally, my sink is full of dirty dishes. This in spite of the fact that I generally use only one utensil and maybe one dish per night, and could easily just wash them as I go. My laundry (done in my own washer, not the laundromat) is generally done in marathon sessions, instead of loads spread out over the week.

And, as would be expected, by putting it off I make it worse. My trash now takes two or three arduous trips to the dumpster, instead of one easy run. My dishes take a disgusting hour to do, instead of thirty seconds of easy rinsing. But everyone does that kind of thing. No, what really concerns me is the bottles. Well, perhaps "really concerns" is overstating things a bit. It does make me wonder, though. It feels like approaching the narrow line between "lazy" and "crazy." I can kind of relate to those people you hear about on the news every so often. These are the people who were found three weeks after they died, surrounded by a rat's warren made of every newspaper and take-out container they bought since 1978. I'll bet it started with a neat pile by the door, and a continual litany of "aw, I'll do it tomorrow" stretching back through the years.

And now I feel the desparate urge to go wash my dishes and do my laundry.

Posted at 9:19 PM

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