Day: December 16, 2005

Crankypantsing, Photography

Happy Friday!

Shelly

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Belt of Venus 15 December 2005

Yesterday morning was gross and disgusting, with the dreaded “wintry mix” of snow, rain, and sleety crap. The sky cleared up in the afternoon, though, and the rest of the day was absolutely gorgeous. I got another photo of the Belt of Venus at sunset. I think this one turned out a bit better than the last ones I took. The colors are a little more saturated and brighter, I think because the reflectivity of the remaining snow provided more light. The trees in the foreground aren’t just black blobs; they’ve got a bit of shading and definition.

I picked up a track pad, and have been playing around with it. I’m a little meh about it, but for the time being, it’s giving me a break from the mouse. It’s a little frustrating retraining my mousy hand-eye coordination to work with finger-tip motion instead of wrist motion, but adjusting to it hasn’t taken as long as I thought it would. It’s still too early for a thumbs-up or thumbs-down, though. If I decide I like it, I may see if I can get a keyboard-track pad combo for my work computer. A few folks have them, but I wanted to make sure it would be an improvement before asking for one.

I went into town to register my car[1] (finally!) and to get gas and run a few other errands. But! I got to the gas station and my damned bank card wouldn’t work. They’d sent me a replacement card, because a vendor I’d purchased something from had reported being hacked. I called the bank, and according to them the new card ought to work, but for some reason it’s not. So I guess I’m waiting for a new, new card to get here. In the meantime, I have to figure out how I’m going to get cash, which is more problematic than one might think. They’ve closed most of their branches, and the ones that are still open have some seriously wacky-assed–and totally non-work-compatible–hours. Hrmph.

So, anyway, I’ve been home most of the day, with the teevee on in the background. I haven’t been actively watching it, but there’s one ad that’s run repeatedly that’s about to get on my last nerve. It’s an animated commercial for Triaminic, a kids’ cold medicine. In it, a momma clam tries to get her child clam to take its medicine. The child refuses, and the mother whips out the “I’m going to tell your father!” threat. WTF? First, why on earth is the mother incapable of disciplining her kids on her own? Second, what an awful message to send to kids, telling them that their fathers are to be feared. It’s as if a mans main role in child-rearing is to crack the whip and keep his kids in line. That’s fucked up.

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[1] I love the folks at the local BMV[2]. I didn’t have the registration for my old car (I’d left it in the glove compartment), but they still let me recycle my old plate. The only problem was that the date sticker had peeled almost all the way off it. It was still hanging on, but there was no way I could put it on my car that way and expect it not to fall off. The woman said I’d have to go to the police to get a new sticker (and pay a $6 replacement fee). Hrmph. But, she took another look at it, and said she might be able to fix it well enough to keep the sticker on the plate. She took it into the back room, glued the hell out of it, and brought it back to me. Yay! It’s a little crinkled, but it’s intact and stuck tight to the plate.

[2] Yes, that’s right. I’ve never had a long wait, even when the place was packed. They’re quick and cheerful and so far have been quite helpful. I can totally recommend this product and/or service!1!!

Art, Crankypantsing, Meta

I’ll Take Potpourri for $200, Alex

Shelly

Here’s a look at marginalia.

I have had about a million discussions about the proper care and handling of books, both from the perspective of a caretaker and an owner. A common sentiment among bibliophiles is that modifying a book in any way is an act of vandalism. Book ownership as a trusteeship; we should preserve our books for future generations, so that they might experience those books as they were originally published. I don’t buy that argument, though. A book is a living thing. The very act of reading it transforms it. From oils in your hands, which over time develop into stains, to creases along the spine, a book that has been read bears scars that testify to its life’s travels. When further transformed, by the addition of annotations, a book becomes a unique and priceless historical document. Not that my marginalia have any pretensions to such importance, but I think they are a far cry from vandalism.

One of my favorite high school teachers said that, if you hadn’t written in a book, you hadn’t truly read it. I don’t know that that’s strictly true, but being given the permission to write in text books dramatically changed the learning process for me. From that point on, I underlined, bracketed, highlighted, dog-eared, and took notes in the margins, all with great glee and abandon. Books became living things I interacted with, instead of passive things that simply existed to be read. Thank you, Mrs. Taylor, for that, and for a whole lot of other stuff. You were one of the bestest teachers EVAR.

I mention this, because it relates to my next altered book project. I still don’t have anything concrete enough to share, but it shall be forthcoming. Soon!

A Festivus for the Restivus? I used to dislike Seinfeld, but then I moved to the Land of No Cable, and discovered that when there’s nothing else on television, Seinfeld isn’t so bad. In fact, it’s occasionally damned good. There’s rarely a day that goes by that something Seinfeldian doesn’t crop up. Right now, as it’s the Solstice Season (Bill O’Reilley can kiss my fat ass), I feel like work is nothing but a revolving staff party. I hate staff parties. I don’t go to them, it makes me cranky to get the inevitable food sign-up memos, and I especially hate the twelfty gabillion e-mails counting down the commencement of the inevitable party. The worst, though, is when higher-ups go around corralling and shaming anti-social folks like me into attending. That especially pisses me off.

So, a co-worker called this morning (I’ve mentioned that I’m the only one who seems able to answer the phone?), asking me to go downstairs to meet her at the loading dock with a book truck, so that she could deliver goodies for this afternoon incarnation of The Party. I was not amused. Not amused in the least. It’s enough to make the Baby Jeebus cry. And, if that doesn’t do it, maybe this will? I mean, who wouldn’t want a menorah made out of tampons?

If you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly brimful of the Holiday Spirit, whatever the hell that is. Not even the Viggo Mortensen Advent calendar has been able to ungrinchify me.

And now for a quick game of Statstacularity. I have to wonder if the folks who get to my blog or websites via a search engine bother to read the accompanying descriptive text. Because, somehow, I don’t think they do. Otherwise, the person searching for “ejaculating penis photos” probably wouldn’t have bothered visiting. I’m just sayin’… Also, “n.u.d.e. celebrity photos.” And, what’s up with acronymization? Is it supposed to be some sort of super s33kr1t code? I’m still getting lots of hits for puggles and “winter sky,” though singly, not in combination. There’s a thought, though. Imagine a Pug x Beagle, ears outstretched, soaring majestically through the brooding winter sky.

And since I’m in the mood to pick nits (whenever am I not?), the Maya people speak Mayan. There is no -n on the end of the word when it refers to the people themselves, or when it refers to their artifacts. It’s one thing for regular folks to get it wrong, but there is just no excuse for news editors not knowing the difference. That said, this mural is pretty damned cool. What’s special about it is that it dates from ~100BCE, which is 200 years before the classic period. These may be the earliest Maya wall paintings to be discovered.

Mural paintings in San Bartolo

This portion of the mural depicts a king making a blood sacrifice by piercing his penis. The practice was common among Maya rulers, who bore responsibility for the well being of their subjects. The genitals or tongue would be pierced using either an obsidian blade or a stingray spine. Pieces of bark paper were soaked in the blood, or, in some cases, ropes made of bark paper were pulled through holes pierced through the skin. The blood-soaked paper would then be burned in an offering to the gods.

To the ancient Maya, blood sacrifice was necessary for the survival of the gods, who in turn provided the Maya with everything they needed. The gods could not exist without the Maya, and the Maya could not exist without their gods.

I’m all blogged out, but since I invoked Viggo up there somewhere, I’ll leave you on this note:

I’m not anti-Bush; I’m anti-Bush behavior. In other words, I’m against cheating, greed, cruelty, racism, imperialism, religious fundamentalism, treason, and the seemingly limitless capacity for hypocrisy shown by Bush and his administration.
— Viggo Mortensen