1. 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.

     
  2. image: Download

    Celebrating a great data acquisition/data processing week, I saw Scott crush a 10 minute set earlier tonight (and made it to Bloomington and back without incurring any municipal fines! Unprecedented success!) and it was all I could do to not ask him to sign “Outhouse Counsel”, which is this happy character’s name and job. (Ratcheting back from historical Dr. Strangelove levels of awkwardness, one encounter at a time!)

    Celebrating a great data acquisition/data processing week, I saw Scott crush a 10 minute set earlier tonight (and made it to Bloomington and back without incurring any municipal fines! Unprecedented success!) and it was all I could do to not ask him to sign “Outhouse Counsel”, which is this happy character’s name and job.

    (Ratcheting back from historical Dr. Strangelove levels of awkwardness, one encounter at a time!)

     
  3. Plays: 70

    Where the devil is my Chooser, indeed.

    In 1999, that sound only meant pretty much the loveliest things.

    Submitted 2 abstracts with the winsome visitor from last week, AND collected data likely securing a fun overseas trip later in the year, AND I handled international training without probably causing any long term incidents (the day is still relatively young!), AND now I have this sound indicating the communiqués from the best people.

    (…And this one (via) for work stuff. Because: professional joy ≈ joy.)

    Though I have failed to keep my day-to-day log of activities up to date this month, the Friday rundown makes me feel preemptively a lot better about potentially just being a goof on the weekends.

     
  4. Day 144: The Champions of Breakfast Triptych Endures.
    I can make both the pro- and anti- preservative arguments.

     
  5. SKANG! 
    For those of you quietly and passively monitoring my worrisome coke problem and tendency toward pyramid schemes, I feel I should note that I drank none of those red capped cokes: I just find caps sometimes.  I did drink all the black ones though.  (Am I coke-racist? eee.) 

    Minutia:  I drank a Coke° this morning that was not a Sprite™ but tasted exactly like a Sprite™.  Or at least my 2-some year old mouth-memory of what a Sprite™ tastes like.  But the fluid was black.  It was like the me¹ of carbonated beverages, if I were slightly more effervescent.  Actually maybe just me¹ without any disclaimers, as pretty much no one would really choose to describe me as bubbly.

    I also purchased none of those little guys. 
    That’s a different set of problems, though.

     
  6. If I showed up at a party with a pope flag, I don’t think it would accord me very much…extra mojo.

    If I showed up at a party with a pope flag,
    I don’t think it would accord me very much…extra mojo.

     
  7. image: Download

    Phase I: Steal University.Phase II: ???Phase III: Profit.




The snow-covered world is an abstraction of the world that lies underneath: the details are smoothed over, the color is removed, all that is left is an essence of shape. These are the forms that one can work with. This is how the mathematician thinks. This is what she does, in her minds eye, to the world around her.
(Cribbed From: this).




Fixing signs is almost public service.

    Phase I: Steal University.
    Phase II: ???
    Phase III: Profit.

    The snow-covered world is an abstraction of the world that lies underneath: the details are smoothed over, the color is removed, all that is left is an essence of shape. These are the forms that one can work with. This is how the mathematician thinks. This is what she does, in her minds eye, to the world around her.

    (Cribbed From: this).

    Fixing signs is almost public service.

     
  8. image: Download

    It’s all too much!  (More after the jump.)
[Image of the ΛΕΓΟ statue, amidst the snow.]

    It’s all too much! 
    (More after the jump.)

    [Image of the ΛΕΓΟ statue, amidst the snow.]

     
  9. Ohman, back when I speculated about this, I didn’t realize this already existed.

    image

     
  10. I still tend to suspect feelings of wellness.

    (The Teamocil jingle has been stuck in my head since my “There’s no H in Car-ybdis, at least not in this garage” moment earlier.)

     
  11. The Hazards on my Daily Odysseys
    I only leave chalk-based graffito* because all entities move and nothing remains still.  We all can make everyone’s day a little more epic, though.  

    (There’s no H in “Charybdis" when it is in a garage.)

    *I park across from 20, which is the space I use to align myself when backing in, at constant peril to my mirrors.

     
  12. Plays: 9

    The Kurt Vonnegut Memorial Library¹ Typewriter Hum²

    A. I didn’t break the typewriter, I swear.
    B. Did you see yesterday’s Adventure Time?  It was kind of an amusing twist on the recurring Vonnegut Dream.
    C. I was over there listening to this hum on Saturday for about 10 minutes before I recorded this and then the docent came over to chat so I left.  But I probably could have listened to it for an hour.  It’s really calming.

    ¹ They’re my neighbors and it’s where I go to sit³.

    ² It is a Smith-Corona Coronamatic 2200, but not THE Smith-Corona Coronamatic 2200  (I don’t think.)

    ³From the mightiest Pharaoh to the lowliest peasant, who doesn’t enjoy a good sit?

     
  13. image: Download

    I’m not my own worst enemy.  Four smaller versions of myself working together against me: THAT would be a challenge.

    I’m not my own worst enemy. 
    Four smaller versions of myself working together against me: THAT would be a challenge.

     
  14. image: Download

    I think I would be a “leave weird notes inside lunches” kind of parent. Even if they are all logged for controlled psychological experimentation* and monitoring purposes. Until then, I do enjoy *finding* these things after a couple weeks, that is why they get stuck 20-60 pages later in lab notebooks. Every day has surprises if you think ahead and have a bad memory.
Cf. this guy.
(*Mostly kidding. Only seriously in the awesome case of quadruplets.)

    I think I would be a “leave weird notes inside lunches” kind of parent. Even if they are all logged for controlled psychological experimentation* and monitoring purposes. Until then, I do enjoy *finding* these things after a couple weeks, that is why they get stuck 20-60 pages later in lab notebooks. Every day has surprises if you think ahead and have a bad memory.

    Cf. this guy.

    (*Mostly kidding. Only seriously in the awesome case of quadruplets.)

     
  15. image: Download

    Champions of Breakfast triptych.  Per that toot the other day, the eggs are not amused, though—bad jokes about preservatives and perseverance aside—I am actually quite curious how things hold up with puncture wounds.
There’s a temporary lady doing books whose desk view just let her watch me eat breakfast.  I’m sure she is internally horrified.  I eat unamused eggs at my desk after I’ve taken enough data to earn them.  Sometimes that is closer to lunchtime.  It’s what I do.  Judge away!
Anyhow, Fridge Team Delta is go.  By which I mean done. I think I have quelled the completion anxieties for this week. No more scrimshaw. For now.

    Champions of Breakfast triptych.
    Per that toot the other day, the eggs are not amused, though—bad jokes about preservatives and perseverance aside—I am actually quite curious how things hold up with puncture wounds.

    There’s a temporary lady doing books whose desk view just let her watch me eat breakfast.  I’m sure she is internally horrified.  I eat unamused eggs at my desk after I’ve taken enough data to earn them.  Sometimes that is closer to lunchtime.  It’s what I do.  Judge away!

    Anyhow, Fridge Team Delta is go.  By which I mean done. I think I have quelled the completion anxieties for this week. No more scrimshaw. For now.

    (Source: m.flickr.com)