|Flotsam and Jetsam from Friday
||[Sep. 8th, 2009|04:03 pm]
Percy's fine, btw. For those of you who asked at Faire, thank you, he's just old and starting in January he'll be 14 and in extra innings. So, to make things easier on all of us, he's spending weekends with the dog sitter, since he needs to go out every 4 hours or less. And to make things easier on the two-leggeds in the house, I will be coming in on some Sundays to set up, but then disappearing back home to take care of matters domestic, to return to Faire late afternoon. Don't panic. |
Because any article that has the phrase “banana sex workers” deserves to be read. But also because it’s a beautiful example of the dangers of monoculture in our food system -- having predominantly only one variety of anything represent most of a given food’s production. A disease that affects Holstein cattle and boom, goodbye dairy industry. Hope you like soy milk, because it will take a while for the few Guernseys, Jerseys and Brown Swiss to breed and get old enough to replace even a tiny fraction of the Holstein supply. (In the interests of full disclosure, this is extremely unlikely to happen with cattle.) But animals at least have more genetic variation than so many of the fruits, vegetables and grains we’re growing. That’s the real danger to cloning: reduction of genetic variability. So, go have sex, and celebrate what a fine and useful act it is.
For more background (on genetic diversity, not sex, I’m guessing you know where to go for THAT: http://www.cnn.com/2009/TECH/science/09/04/food.biodiversity/index.html)
But I noticed in the comments section that there were people who were…getting excited because they were the first to comment (or second, or third, or tenth, which is a roller coaster ride of pathetic, I think) and I just have to comment – what the hell? Why is this important to you? Where’s the success here? Because you’re not even actually commenting on what’s been written. You are crowing about being the first person to…not comment, really, but…create a comment, without actually commenting. Which is sort of like putting an empty frame on your wall and declaring you just created a work of art. Although that’s a bad analogy, I guess, since somewhere right now, an empty frame is hanging in a gallery, or in some corporate boardroom, or some nouveau riche pinhead’s mansion and it’s either got a very expensive price tag on it, or was purchased for a handsome wad of cash because some jackhole called it “art” and another jackhole believed them. But let’s not get me started on modern art. Because so much of it is not art. Sorry. Just because you call it art and convince other people that it’s art, doesn’t make it art. I refer you to any course in comparative religion, most Tom Stoppard plays, your local Skeptic’s Society.
Just as making a comment “First!” does not actually make it a comment, but instead reveals your idiocy, the level of free time you must have, and the astoundingly poor choice you’ve made in how to spend it. Congratulations, you’ve given both Trainspotting and Twittering legitimacy!
I also give you another website gift. My brother and I have always competed to give each other odd gifts. Not odd, like Dave Barry’s list of regrettable Christmas gifts, but the quirky, the odd, the weird. Zombie Haiku, Jan Svenjmajer films, a teapot shaped like a duck, glow-in-the-dark skeleton plastic flamingos. And off-birthday season, we gift each other with odd stories, links. And sure, it’s a bit competitive.
Right now my brother is in the lead, for he has given me: www.crappytaxidermy.com.
Proceed at your risk if you actually have anything important to do over the next several hours. And sure, the gopher museum shots get tedious and the set up of the site is annoying, since you have to slowly go one page at a time, but stay with it for some absolutely brilliant examples of really, really horrible taxidermy, but also, more importantly, some very, very, very cool art. Oh, stop me from learning taxidermy and picking up roadkill, because I think I’ve finally found a craft that is for me. Page 13 with its lobsterchicken and fetal beetle; the disturbing faced fawn on 14, along with the cool cowheels, the pigeon chandelier. Page 20’s squirrelkey and batarantula. Be forewarned – some of the stuff is hard to look at, so if you’re sensitive, this might not be for you.
Speaking of squeamish – please o, please, let me never have a disease or illness that would require me to squirt ointment up my nose daily. For truly, I am a giant wuss. It’s not important and I’m fine, so we’re not going to bring it up again, but for ten days, I had to squeeze these shots of goo up my nose, massage my nostrils/nasal passages for a minute and then get on with my day.
Except that I am a big giant toddler when it comes to putting things in my nose. First I would spend at least 15 minutes trying to think of other things that were far more pressing than sticking goo up my nose. But finally, I could put it off no longer. Ack! The sound of goo being pressed out of a tube. Argh! The way it feels in my nostril. It smells BAD. Now I have to massage it around. Bleck, ick, gack! AH! It’s too much, it’s coming out my nose, Gah, it’s going down my throat, I’m going to….agh! I swallowed some of it. Frantic spitting. I try and hold off as long as I can, but then I go running for the tissue box, honking and spitting and gagging. Three down, only seven more days to go. Oh, god, can I do it? Ten days and I'm thinking I'd rather do anything than have to do this again. Which is the only reason, really, I can bring myself to do it as is.
Yep. Big Giant Toddler. Several of you have toddlers and have to put up with this. But they will outgrow it. Me, I'm stuck with me.