The interesting things one can learn in a dictionary: Houston may take a faintly terrifying turn in the future, but somehow, I doubt this. Wiktionary's current example sentence for the word "rakish":

... the rakish Dennis Quaid, a Houston native who is moving to Texas in a couple of years and wants it to become "the new Hollywood." (Houston Chronicle, 6/8/2007)

It is true that when I was in high school, before I considered engineering, I wanted to be an actor. (In fact, for "career day" in my junior year, I spent it observing a local theatre company while they were rehearsing.) And it is true that I'd like for my hometown to have a bit more recognition. But do I want my town to become a bacchanalian celebration of the vapid, the empty? Do I want my town to become a regional capital for the New American Royalty in which one's value is determined solely by the recognizability of one's name and image? Do I want Houston to become Hollywood-on-the-Brazos?

"...it has already ended."

Thus spake The Maternal Unit after a commercial came on for, I kid you not, "Anti-Monkey Butt Powder".

What in the hell is "monkey butt"? They never actually explain it in the ad.

When I left work yesterday, there was a news bulletin that Michael Jackson was being rushed to the hospital. At that time, he was still alive.

You know how I found out that he died? An hour and a half later, I saw this.

The Maternal Unit is trying on a dress she ordered from J.Crew. Now, The Maternal Unit is extremly critical of her own appearance, and shopping at J.Crew does not help this. She fails to understand, despite that I've pointed this out to her multiple times, that J.Crew clothes are made for women who look like boys, flat women with no hips or curves at all.

"It's a little tight in the hips," she complained, "and this fabric will not stretch, either." Looking at the particular ways this dress fit her poorly, I had a realization: "It's a dress for a drag queen! Look: It's cut for someone with narrower hips than yours, a thicker middle than yours, and smaller boobs than yours. It's cut for someone with no curves at all. It's a dress made for a man!"

The following song was stuck in my head all morning at work last Thursday. It made analyzing gas volume losses a little more interesting. Odd, to be sure.

When I got home today, it was so much cooler inside the house than outside that I thought The Maternal Unit had forgotten to cut back the air conditioning when she left this morning.

The thermostat was set at 88˚.

Incidentally, this is one of the reasons I loved Twilight so much: it was weather porn. Every time Bella mentions the outdoors, it's cool, green, and wet. Sign me up for that!

TrueBlood == Twilight - sparkling + deep South + drugs + (sex)²

Spotted today: A snowplow. In June. In Houston, Texas.

To be fair, it didn't have the plow actually mounted on it, and it did have New Jersey plates. Still.

I came to Illinois because my cousin, "Stu", has graduated high school, and his parents are throwing a party. I brought with me a pair of shoes that's nearing the end of its lifespan. I brought them in case I would end up working out. That hasn't happened yet, but they've proved useful anyway as this morning was quite rainy, and I ran a lot of errands for the party.

TMU: "You never changed your shoes."
SFIDA: "I didn't see the point."
TMU: "You could've tried to look nice, and, like, attract a girl."
SFIDA: "At a family gathering?"
TMU: "Well, a lot of Stu's friends are here."
SFIDA: "Mmm, jailbait."

Up in the great state of Illinois for a couple of days to visit some family. Having a blast. But this post isn't about them. It's about Jerry. (Or Jeri. I'm not sure yet. Take your pick.)

Jerry is our rental car, a Chrysler PT Cruiser. In truth, it is a good and competent car. Although the interior plastics look more appropriate for Power Wheels than for something an adult would drive, it does seem to be, all told, fairly well designed and put together. It's easy to drive; there are no big surprises here (unless you drive a sporty car; Jerry tends to roll a lot when you're making turns). But it's all so very average. It does nothing exceptionally well.

The single most striking characteristic, when inside the car, is the engine. It sounds asthmatic, and burdened at the lightest of tasks. (It also sounds like a piece of farm equipment.) After a while, I start to think of it as having pneumonia, or maybe congestive heart failure. I almost feel guilty asking it to take me places. Consequently, it's a bit depressing.

Eating sugar-free chocolate meringue cookies. I didn't want to get sugar-free, but that was all they had in the chocolate variety. Naturally fat-free, too. Zero guilt. So where's the fun?

Truthfully, they are pretty good, although the texture's off because of the no-sugar thing. And here we encounter the problem: broken open, they look like brown styrofoam.

Now, they don't taste too different, either. Stupid mind trick.

Mmm, chocolate styrofoam.

Discovered this a couple of days ago via Too Much Nick. Hilarious, and oddly enough, not too far from the truth. Reprinting here:

No, Moslems don't believe that Jesus is the Messiah.

Think of it like a movie. The Torah is the first one, and the New Testament is the sequel. Then the Qur'an comes out, and it retcons the last one like it never happened. There's still Jesus, but he's not the main character anymore, and the Messiah hasn't shown up yet.

Jews liked the first movie, but ignored the sequels, Christians think you need to watch the first two, but the third movie doesn't count, Moslems think the third one was the best, and Mormons liked the second one so much they started writing fanfiction that didn't fit with ANY of the series canon.

It is remarkable that we can give others first impressions so radically different from our true selves. It's rather understandable, though; how thoroughly can you really come to know someone in a few minutes? Truly surprising is how radically different impressions of our true selves people who've known us for years can have.

When I lived in Sendai, my Uncle Who's Done a Lot of Drugs came to visit me for a few days. We talked endlessly, and some of it was really enjoyable. Much of it, though, was extremely provocative. He said a wide variety of terrible things (of questionable veracity, I might add) about The Maternal Unit, my grandparents, my aunt and her family, etc. He also seemed to think that my father's having abandoned me was not only inevitable, but totally justifiable.

I had absolutely no idea what to say in response to any of it. I tried a couple of times to encourage him to look at people with a less cynical eye, but he always shot me down before I could get a complete sentence out. I thought of plenty of other responses, too, but none of them would've helped. It got to a point where I could think of nothing at all to say that wouldn't have ended up starting a fight. (Probability of actual exchanging of blows: Maybe 35%. For the record, the last time I've thrown a punch outside of a martial arts class, I was fifteen. That should give you an idea of how bad it was getting.) So I said nothing.

At the end of that trip, he sent a postcard to my grandmother. He showed it to me before he sent it, and in it, he referred to me as being very quiet and reserved.

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA

A few weeks later, I moved back to the US. I called my grandmother to let her know I was back, and she mentioned this postcard. She read it to me, and said in response, "I assume that means he was trying to bait you." Boy, does she know us.

IAN: "Would you say that he's a master baiter?"
SFIDA: "Oh he excels at it. Ugh, you have no idea."

Sharing links with Ian right now. (Ow ow ow brain hurts)

IAN: "Did you see the security camera video of this guy in some office pissing in the coffee pot?"
SFIDA: "No. But something like that would explain the taste of the coffee in my office."

Re: Pontus

It was a hot topic of discussion in our office this week that America's one swine flu-related death occurred in Houston, and that the toddler in question was at the "swanky" Galleria the day before he started showing any symptoms, which is, I believe, the point at which most diseases are most communicable. The Galleria is only a couple of blocks from our office, and many of us (yours truly included) spend a considerable amount of time there.

The discussion progressed from there. I'm about 85% sure that they were all joking, but several of my coworkers said that they would not eat any more pork for the time being. I hope they're all joking. That 15% uncertainty makes my eye twitch a little.

The Scene and the players: I am with a coworker, writing up some Electronic Bulletin Board postings. She is a woman my age; we'll call her Juanita. Nearby are another man my age, and a man floating through his middle-fifties; they will be Dutch and Ira, respectively.

IRA: "What is Twitter? Is it the same as texting?"

SFIDA: "No, but you can twitter via text message. With a regular text message, you're just sending it to one person; with Twitter, you're texting to the internet."

JUANITA: "You don't tweet, do you?"

SFIDA: "No."

JUANITA: "What is it called, again? A twitter? A tweet?"

DUTCH: "Twit."

SFIDA: "Actually, they're very careful to avoid any use of that word."

JUANITA: "Ĕh, Matt Lauer called it much worse on The Today Show.

ALL: [laugh]

ALL: [...]

An awkward silence ensues.

JUANITA: [abruptly] "Ok, back to laying pipe."

SFIDA: "That really didn't help."

11 Points: Businesses Selling Two Hilariously Unconnected Items.

Discovered on Too Much Nick

So, this ad for Valtrex comes on the telly, and according to it, fully one in five American adults is infected with genital herpes. Cursory fact-checking on Wikipedia reveals that not only is this true, Valtrex may be underreporting. Damn, that is a lot of herpes. My estimation of humanity has fallen a little bit more.

And, to complete the experience, the ad for genital herpes treatment was followed by an advert for a new product from K-Y brand personal lubricant.

This time, less literal: The Maternal Unit is trying to set me up with some of her younger coworkers. Again. As in, this is not the first time.

At least now, I can tell when it's coming about four words in. I guess that security system I had installed in my hair (same model as his, but different options; icon from same link) is doing some good.

Photographs you don't want to see above the exit of the restaurant at which you've just eaten (in this case, Buca di Beppo on Buffalo Speedway): A smiling woman with a speech bubble above her head, telling you, "Yes, an enema would be just the thing."