1. Plays: 41

    "Here it is - Boner Jams ‘03. It’s a mixtape of all my favorite boner scenes in the summer of 2003."

    (Catharsis distillate: the 69s cut.)

     
  2. 20:16 7th Aug 2014

    Notes: 1

    INSIDER FACT

    A tough part of being a scientist is the fact that occasionally you will find yourself in a room with 48 other people who aren’t (or are better at pretending not to be) at least slightly tickled by the word “taint”.

     
  3. 22:11 6th Aug 2014

    Notes: 1

    PTBarnum had some colorful thoughts as regards the birth frequencies of suckers. I will neither affirm or reject his assertions. However, here is a thing I do know.

    Despite all the attention paid to baseball, America’s favorite pastime SHOULD be walking around conference centers after hours, exploring hotels with trains in them, and eventually having conversations with security where one uses gentle and confused tonality to establish reasonable doubt.

    Reclaim your whitespace, America.
    (Gross, dudes.)

     
  4. 10:09

    Notes: 2

    image: Download

    New lab coat, you are speaking my language.

    New lab coat, you are speaking my language.

     
  5. 17:46 5th Aug 2014

    Notes: 1

    image: Download

    I am literally sunshine and rainbows on the other side* of a deadline. 

Frogs with banjos and crows (insisting their names are Sheryl, which is a kind of ridiculous name for a bird, let alone several, so… maybe) flock to me like  Karen Carpenter was singing about my general wake. 

(*Even though another deadline is literally the day after tomorrow.  
Modest victory. Modest break.)

    I am literally sunshine and rainbows on the other side* of a deadline.

    Frogs with banjos and crows (insisting their names are Sheryl, which is a kind of ridiculous name for a bird, let alone several, so… maybe) flock to me like Karen Carpenter was singing about my general wake.

    (*Even though another deadline is literally the day after tomorrow.
    Modest victory. Modest break.)

     
  6. **THIS IS NOT A DRILL**
    **THIS IS NOT A DRILL**
    **THIS IS NOT A DRILL**  

    ::Queue the part of the montage where we buckle down and fly right.::

     
  7. image: Download

    Fun Fact: With the exception of a couple government issued mugs from the lab IP disclosure office, the only cups in my household are pint glasses from MS instrument companies and pint glasses with my own silly design work on them.
Egomaniacalyxes.
(As unlikely as it might seem, I *loved* that weekly kegger. Mostly because of the concomitant grilling. Though, really, mostly because of the chemists part.)

    Fun Fact: With the exception of a couple government issued mugs from the lab IP disclosure office, the only cups in my household are pint glasses from MS instrument companies and pint glasses with my own silly design work on them.

    Egomaniacalyxes.

    (As unlikely as it might seem, I *loved* that weekly kegger. Mostly because of the concomitant grilling. Though, really, mostly because of the chemists part.)

     
  8. 18:41 2nd Aug 2014

    Notes: 1

    Old friends! Meet the newest friend: the Lemongrabbiest of the entire international coterie of Domos Kun!

    (Feel no pressure to get along)

     
  9. Two can be much better than one, but it seems at this moment that it is just you and your stolen seat cushion.  A different sort of two.

You can cradle it tightly against your bosom and equally tightly shut your eyes and hope that maybe somehow some ur-they knows that you are remembering them: however, recognize that—whether or not they can feel it, and maybe it’s a fair price if they do—at 5 hops a day, 300 flying days a year, maybe 10 years average plane age; what you are *much* more likely doing is pressing against the impressions of some 15000 sweaty butts. 

Luckily, you are graced with enormous shoulders—yielding an impressive, albeit flightless, wingspan—so at least most of your face isn’t touching the likeliest butt contact-zones.

    Two can be much better than one, but it seems at this moment that it is just you and your stolen seat cushion. A different sort of two.

    You can cradle it tightly against your bosom and equally tightly shut your eyes and hope that maybe somehow some ur-they knows that you are remembering them: however, recognize that—whether or not they can feel it, and maybe it’s a fair price if they do—at 5 hops a day, 300 flying days a year, maybe 10 years average plane age; what you are *much* more likely doing is pressing against the impressions of some 15000 sweaty butts.

    Luckily, you are graced with enormous shoulders—yielding an impressive, albeit flightless, wingspan—so at least most of your face isn’t touching the likeliest butt contact-zones.

     
  10. image: Download

    It wasn’t that she lacked sentimentality. Behold!

First piece of jewelry given to her by a boy.  Shell casing from first time she shot a semi-automatic weapon.  Security device from her first demolition derby car.

    It wasn’t that she lacked sentimentality. Behold!

    First piece of jewelry given to her by a boy.
    Shell casing from first time she shot a semi-automatic weapon.
    Security device from her first demolition derby car.

     
  11. I remember hearing this, gosh, over a decade ago.

    The “LET’S FIGURE IT OUT” impulse remains as dangerous as it is occasionally useful.

     
  12. image: Download

    People have reviewed my childhood playground:  "Decent playground with quite a bit of activities. Pretty fun."Basically—if you add in some trips, the library, the hospital, the mall, and a few extra-neighborhood friends’ parents’ houses—this is where Summer happened*, 1982-1998.
This was my house.  Gem hidden in plain sight.  Probably the most well cultivated backyard for fruit bearing trees and vegetables and grapes.  Still home, but no longer quite uniquely so.
Here is the tree I used to just sit in.  Climb a tree, read a book.  Watch boys.  Occasionally climb too high, get stuck.  Treed like a cat.  Like something out of the Pooh-literature.
Here is where I took a whiffle bat to the forehead while playing catcher.  Unpleasant.  Extra weird because not where we would usually play baseball.
Ersatz football fields were here, here, and here.  Tree forts were here, here, and here.  Manhunt limits were all contained on that York/Princess corner.
This building is where CPR training was and where swim team would go in case of lightning.  There was briefly an air-hockey and pool table in there.
That is where I was standing when I realized the kids next door were the grandchildren of my in-school speech therapist.  Stutter came right back.
This is where the boy lived who caught and mangled a firefly into an awesome, but seriously gross, bioluminescent ring for my middle finger.  In retrospect, it was probably 2 flies.
Here in the wood is where we ended up on my birthday that we had the day off from school (an Election day), and we explored storm drains.  Me and lil’ B would revisit occasionally.
Here, at the fence line of the basketball court is the edge of parentally acceptable non-accompanied excursions.  “Devil worshipers live in the woods.”
Here is where I got turned around in the woods by the creek and got lost until after dark.  Terrifying.  Ended up, a few hours later, far off the map in the Southern direction.
This is the pool in which I learned to swim and, years later, over-performed 10-fold in a fundraising lap swimming thing, to the chagrin of sponsors.
That curb was the first place I saw a used condom, on the way home from the pool.  Me and MS literally poked at it with a tree branch for 10 minutes.
Here is where the kiddy playground used to be.  All of the fabrications in this area are new and weird and probably also covered in the gross fluids of teens.
The home run game was played here.  Hit from the corner of the blacktop to in the pool: that’s a win.  Hit into the pool area but not water? That’s a loss.
Here is where I was sitting playing trivial pursuit with my best boy friend without having cleared my going out, per the first time I got “the belt”.  Unpleasant.
Here is where the neighbor lived whose cat I “rescued” and brought into the house, per the second time I got “the belt”.  It was returned: A sadder but wiser cat for them.
This is the lawn I mowed for money.  Our lawn, the years I was consigned to it, was for joy.  I probably wasted a lot of gas mowing it in crossed diagonals, but it looked so nice.
That’s the driveway where I was playing hockey with the kid I babysat when a guy from a band I knew stopped to play guitar and sing in my general direction.  In my confusion, I was scored upon.
You can just look up satellite images of places you lived.* Logic dictates that Summers probably happened before we moved there and intel from my folks implies that Summers still occur here.  I reckon other people in that era experienced the season simultaneously elsewhere, though that maybe strains credulity.

    People have reviewed my childhood playground: 
    "Decent playground with quite a bit of activities. Pretty fun."

    Basically—if you add in some trips, the library, the hospital, the mall, and a few extra-neighborhood friends’ parents’ houses—this is where Summer happened*, 1982-1998.

    • This was my house.  Gem hidden in plain sight.  Probably the most well cultivated backyard for fruit bearing trees and vegetables and grapes.  Still home, but no longer quite uniquely so.
    • Here is the tree I used to just sit in.  Climb a tree, read a book.  Watch boys.  Occasionally climb too high, get stuck.  Treed like a cat.  Like something out of the Pooh-literature.
    • Here is where I took a whiffle bat to the forehead while playing catcher.  Unpleasant.  Extra weird because not where we would usually play baseball.
    • Ersatz football fields were here, here, and here.  Tree forts were here, here, and here.  Manhunt limits were all contained on that York/Princess corner.
    • This building is where CPR training was and where swim team would go in case of lightning.  There was briefly an air-hockey and pool table in there.
    • That is where I was standing when I realized the kids next door were the grandchildren of my in-school speech therapist.  Stutter came right back.
    • This is where the boy lived who caught and mangled a firefly into an awesome, but seriously gross, bioluminescent ring for my middle finger.  In retrospect, it was probably 2 flies.
    • Here in the wood is where we ended up on my birthday that we had the day off from school (an Election day), and we explored storm drains.  Me and lil’ B would revisit occasionally.
    • Here, at the fence line of the basketball court is the edge of parentally acceptable non-accompanied excursions.  “Devil worshipers live in the woods.”
    • Here is where I got turned around in the woods by the creek and got lost until after dark.  Terrifying.  Ended up, a few hours later, far off the map in the Southern direction.
    • This is the pool in which I learned to swim and, years later, over-performed 10-fold in a fundraising lap swimming thing, to the chagrin of sponsors.
    • That curb was the first place I saw a used condom, on the way home from the pool.  Me and MS literally poked at it with a tree branch for 10 minutes.
    • Here is where the kiddy playground used to be.  All of the fabrications in this area are new and weird and probably also covered in the gross fluids of teens.
    • The home run game was played here.  Hit from the corner of the blacktop to in the pool: that’s a win.  Hit into the pool area but not water? That’s a loss.
    • Here is where I was sitting playing trivial pursuit with my best boy friend without having cleared my going out, per the first time I got “the belt”.  Unpleasant.
    • Here is where the neighbor lived whose cat I “rescued” and brought into the house, per the second time I got “the belt”.  It was returned: A sadder but wiser cat for them.
    • This is the lawn I mowed for money.  Our lawn, the years I was consigned to it, was for joy.  I probably wasted a lot of gas mowing it in crossed diagonals, but it looked so nice.
    • That’s the driveway where I was playing hockey with the kid I babysat when a guy from a band I knew stopped to play guitar and sing in my general direction.  In my confusion, I was scored upon.


    You can just look up satellite images of places you lived.
    * Logic dictates that Summers probably happened before we moved there and intel from my folks implies that Summers still occur here.  I reckon other people in that era experienced the season simultaneously elsewhere, though that maybe strains credulity.

     
  13. Scoots’s Toots’s Manifestations in Hardback
    (26-S! 27-C! 28-O! 29-O! 30-T*! 31-S!)

    Part 6 of 6! The binder is full! The project is donezo!

    You can view the whole thing as a slideshow too.

    boom. In my head it’s narrated and critiqued by the voice of Scott, but you will have to use your imaginations.

    *The tiny spider shot glasses under the bed are not cropped out of the bottom of that picture because of prudishness; it’s just hard to get everything in frame and focused sometimes.

     
  14. "If you give off signals that you don’t want to belong, people will make sure that you don’t."

    Is there anything better than re-emergent and consciously, but subtly (or at least sometimes subtly), re-woven narrative threads? 

     
  15. Comic-Corn: Day 4.
    The trials of aging leave none of us unscathed.