The Isle of Marm

In the vast expanse of networked global telecommunications space, there persists an awkwardly chirped soundbite of a ~5 years younger version of myself on Headline News saying,  “Oh, you know, a lot of science is just sorta sitting still and waiting: so, uh…”

I have found this preamble can justify a panoply of weirdnesses*.
(54 is a pseudoperfect number of hours though, it’s not weird.)

*Or at least activities that can be done with a non-otherwise engaged half of a brain.

There is a kind of person who would tail a gyro truck for 51 (Fifty-One!) blocks in order to find out a source for non-mobile shawarmanimals, only to get caught at a red light, lose the scent, and just turn around and go back to work. She’ll dwell on her actions for much of an afternoon, wondering if she’s lost her edge AND wondering if there is a slippery slope to “are these the actions of a man who had *all* he could eat?”. Maybe.

Also: did the truck also sell pez? Bizarre.

~ ♪♪♫ ♪♪♫ ♪♫♪♪♫ ~
Oh, there’s a lot of opportunities if you know when to take them, you know?
There’s a lot of opportunities: If there aren’t, you can make them—
Make or break them…
~ ♪♪♫ ♪♪♫ ♪♫♪♪♫ ~

(While I can muster brawn, it’s always been clear that I would more than likely endeavor to outsource looks.)

A Pizza for CMC

While that quip about my parents emphasizing knife skills over social skills is kind of apocryphal, I was formally given lessons on how to decorate cakes starting at age 4. 

(This is a DIY-pizza from the Dollar Tree, but it is pretty clear that I’ve retained almost NOTHING in regards to formal piping; don’t tell my mom about the latter, don’t tell my dad about the former: these are disappointments they need not bear. The avocado was purchased in a grocery store situation like a grown up, he’d be okay with that.  And I thought about my meal before I ate it, she’d be okay with that.  In fact,)

I had been thinking about it earlier in the day yesterday as I have here in marginalia:

[Glyph of a painting]: (L,M),D,R

[Glyph of a turtle]: (D,L),M,R

because rankings are sometimes interesting to assess.  Raphael was kind of boring as both an artist and a ninja and I almost always have problems picking favorites.  Michaelangelo does not hit my turtle top two, but he has a more cheese friendly palette for my cheese friendly palate.

There are some who might call me “The St. Jude* of the Produce Section”. And I would say,

“My magnanimous adoption of desperately weird looking potatoes, and constant toting of scrolls and carpenter’s rules is no reason for veneration, you guys. You need not honor me: just…do good works.”

It’s just about leading by quiet example, sometimes.  Sense of hominess and homeliness aside, I don’t identify with these vegetables, really. 

*I forget how it was organized, but I believe my only formal affiliation with St. Jude’s was the Math-a-thon fundraiser back in the…80s. And I didn’t do that because I was a particularly good little kid so much as the fact that I really enjoyed doing math. I still do, depending on the math.

Goldenberg Variations

The story begins in 1917 when the Goldenberg Candy Company developed Peanut Chews as rations for the U.S. military during World War I. The high protein content and winning taste combination of chocolate, peanuts, and molasses made it an instant hit with American troops. […the candy was first made available to civilians in 1921…]

(The middle variation was controversial and a retail failure.)

Earlier, as the rest of the Cosby kids manically tagged the blank suburban canvasses that were the sides of the trailer, Albert climbed onto the back of the truck. “All I want is to write something TRUE,” he thought to himself as he took a deep breath and raised the chocolate brown can to eye level.

Fun fact: Stroopwafels come from Gouda, home of a cheese that should probably sit at position 3.

The Dutch visitors brought some a while back and they made impact enough. I only just now found this note.

Slipperiest slope.

Though labeled “wrong color for a heart”*, this actually *is* the color of a lot of cardiac muscle tissue on slides I’ve seen.  It doesn’t seem right, but there it is.  This one bleeds natural and artificial cherry goop. I bought too many the other day, that is the why we’re revisiting this as media.  Not hearts: that’s offal. (Groan away, I can’t hear you!)  Anyhow.  Popt heart.

What’s the real lesson?
Cryomicrotomatically broken heart: roughly the off-white to dusky color of non-enzymatically browned toaster pastries.

(*It’s a good turn of phrase, cf., E01.)

It’s like riding a bike.
A kind of delicious bike I haven’t really tried to ride in just shy of 3 years.
I’m a little wobbly; but I was then too.