1. -D is the only application that I have set to open automagically upon booting on this computer.  I keep it set at “all” references inclusive of the British Dictionary and British Thesaurus because sometimes it’ll pull up some capital, wizard, corking, spiffing, ripping, cracking, top-hole, topping, champion, beezer, swell, and frabjous options that might more effectively convey the exact nuance for which I’m hunting.

    Top-hole, ladies and gentlemen. 

    Top.

    Hole. 

    ___________________________

    .. (from Greek θησαυρός - thēsauros, meaning “treasure store”, romanized as thesaurus)

    has always been one of my favorite little ideas.  One thinks Roget wasn’t intentionally thinking “let’s hope this sticks”, but something magical happened in the same way as Plagiarism's etymological back story, I think:

    The use of the Latin word plagiarius (literally kidnapper), to denote someone stealing someone else’s work, was pioneered by Roman poet Martial, who complained that another poet had “kidnapped his verses.”

    Ugh.  Numbers are great, but I just like words so much.
    (Numbers seem to like me back, but words could sorta say so.) 

    Today, I will find the right ones, surely.

     
  2. image: Download

    On any given day—due to the litany of date, holiday, and seasonal exclusions (red)—if the caller ID says "Stevie Wonder" and you jokily answer “Are you just calling to say you love me?”, a self-consistent answer would be "no" some 77⁺ % of the time.
The “no” could be to a variety of sub-components of that query, though: maybe there is other pressing business, not JUST declarations of love; maybe it is a wrong number, even if he does love you it wasn’t his intention to call or say it; maybe it’s butt-dialing season, there’s been an uptick in that, sure; and, yeah, maybe he doesn’t love you. But maybe it wouldn’t’ve worked out anyway, even if you’d gotten really good at reading braille. 
Good news: you’re maybe still pretty okay at reading braille.(That puts you a good couple steps ahead of Henry Bemis)

    On any given day—due to the litany of date, holiday, and seasonal exclusions (red)—if the caller ID says "Stevie Wonder" and you jokily answer “Are you just calling to say you love me?”, a self-consistent answer would be "no" some 77⁺ % of the time.

    The “no” could be to a variety of sub-components of that query, though: maybe there is other pressing business, not JUST declarations of love; maybe it is a wrong number, even if he does love you it wasn’t his intention to call or say it; maybe it’s butt-dialing season, there’s been an uptick in that, sure; and, yeah, maybe he doesn’t love you. But maybe it wouldn’t’ve worked out anyway, even if you’d gotten really good at reading braille.

    Good news: you’re maybe still pretty okay at reading braille.
    (That puts you a good couple steps ahead of Henry Bemis)

     
  3. image: Download

    This looks bad.

    This looks bad.

     
  4. I worked with someone so staggeringly attractive this week that I found myself demonstrably dumber.  It was as if the self control required to keep my mouth from saying “we should become one of those crazy successful H&W science teams, and both publish and make babies together" stymied all other processes, most notably: forming short term memories as regarded numbers. 

    Back when I would procrastinate with those brain training programs, I developed a pretty good baseline for my working memory.  But, there we were, taking data looking at two five digit numbers literally dozens of times and… nothing.  Nothing like 40% of the time.  Which is enough to raise questions.  And numbers…that’s what I do.  But it was the Ray Romano’s phone number situation, over and over and over. 

    I know it’s not just a TGS/TUO thing, though I don’t know when this accent thing emerged, because hohoho: this could be a problem.  I didn’t specify any reasoning, though I dryly joked that the memory thing was a clinical problem, made a reference to an Adam Sandler movie about the girl from ET with the accident and the dating, and he may have (rightly?) believed I am a little touched. 

    If I had inadvertently divulged any distracted thoughts, I imagine he would have asked to confirm “H’aitch and Double-ewe like hoosband and waife?" and I would have literally slipped off my chair.  (Gross assessment, me; accurate but gross.)  It’s good to pinpoint these vulnerabilities. 
    I am much cooler via email, so I think I can keep it together, now.

    But!  We are totally gonna publish together.  Good data week.
    (Good enough that I can call it before Friday’s even over.) 

     
  5. 04:57 10th Jan 2014

    Notes: 3

    Tags: numberlust

    ☆ ★ ☆ Four Shitty Nights. ★ ☆ ★
    NB.: Data for this morning absent because upon finally feeling ready to nod off at 0430, my apartment complex may have caught on fire (the building alarms started going off, anyhow) and since it is freezing outside I came to work and surprised some cockroaches.

    (This is probably going to be a legit great day because equilibrium is always conserved.)

    Also, while I am still in my PJs, I realized that I (not in a jokey way) have *always* kept a small bag packed, of undisclosed relative location to my passport and a couple hundred dollars, (also now out on the move,) because that’s just how my childhood development worked out. So, even if I will probably have Seinfeldian fried-chicken-related tics develop in a couple hours, I am in many ways “good” for the day. Or howeverlong.

    Everything’s coming up Milhouse!

     
  6. image: Download

    I save these IPL Neighbor Efficiency Rankings like my parents saved our report cards. Last time I was pretty jazzed to be number 5, but clearly I am now just waiting for the other apartments in the building to be occupied. Then—hoho!—then I will be in a position to really play with asceticism.

    I save these IPL Neighbor Efficiency Rankings like my parents saved our report cards. Last time I was pretty jazzed to be number 5, but clearly I am now just waiting for the other apartments in the building to be occupied. Then—hoho!—then I will be in a position to really play with asceticism.

     
  7. image: Download

    America’s Premier Cultural Export:per a Zurich contemporary hi-fi store.
(I was pretty pleased by this, clearly.)
The first time I slept away from both home and family was a Model U.N. in Hershey, PA.  My best friend got exceedingly intoxicated and I was terrified of her aspirating on her own vomit after she passed out so I stayed up all night watching her breathing for anomalies and quietly singing this collection to myself.  We had it on cassettes, but I didn’t have them with me; that is just how ingrained it was.
Wait, that is false.
We were a strict “no sleepovers” family, so the first time that I was really away from home was “Pennsylvania Free Enterprise Week” in Lycoming, PA.  I couldn’t sleep for several days in the little dorm room with a stranger, but then one afternoon I sat down on a couch in the room between an arcade and a cafeteria and when I woke up, there was a meeting of—I shit you not—the PA State Dairy Princess association going on literally around me.  They all had pins with the “REAL” milk logo on them.  They were pretty, as one might imagine a gang of county princesses to be—though I didn’t know they had such formal titles at the time—and it was terrifying to be so vulnerably surrounded so I got up and ran.  I had never liked any milk (my mother brings this up occasionally, still taking unnecessary personal offense), and I openly hated the milk flavor up until grad school; then I was briefly okay with it as a cheap source of protein; then I competitively drank a gallon of it with a housemate; then, as if there were a weird “straw that broke the camel’s back” kind of situation, onward milk consumption has been met with acute pains and other downstream gastrointestinal terror.
I still don’t like being the focal point in any situation.  I forget what exactly I was watching that involved weddings last week, but I remember the distinct thought that the bride walking in process seemed excruciating and if I were ever in such shoes, and had to do such a thing in public view of a lot of people who knew me, there would surely be smoke bombs or something involved.  Some distraction.  Not in a racist way, but some manner of ninja-bride scenario.  That was the phrase that I wrote down.  I can get up in front of a room and teach or give talks or trainings or whatever and it isn’t terrible, but focused attention on a story, pedagogical or otherwise, is so much different.  Relative pulchritude aside, that comfort is most certainly what the princesses had over me.  Surely this is at the root of my unseemly interests in ventriloquism and prestidigitation.*  This has been a good session.
Model U.N. was the second time away.  I sold so many position papers that year.  And stole so many cokes.  The delegation went home with 109, which I decided to stick with as it was our room number and seemed an auspicious stopping point as we were drinking 2 at the time and I’ve always liked a repdigital number.   We used them for meetings for the rest of the year.  On one hand, it is tough to argue with money for nothing, but stealing free things is kinda shameful. But, that was my angle on youthful shenanigans.  (I was told that I could not be convicted on this side of a degree.  I’m not, in this moment, sure that is true, but like most sung lies, it is a pleasant enough sentiment.)
Last night was the first night since that first week in September that I did not sleep in a bed, so I guess I am restarting the grown-up habit clock.  I’d blame the lag or the mucus or the fever, but I am pretty sure I knew exactly what I was doing when I brought the blankets out to the living room.

* Illa nunquam sola est qui est magister ventriloquism.

    America’s Premier Cultural Export:
    per a Zurich contemporary hi-fi store.

    (I was pretty pleased by this, clearly.)

    The first time I slept away from both home and family was a Model U.N. in Hershey, PA.  My best friend got exceedingly intoxicated and I was terrified of her aspirating on her own vomit after she passed out so I stayed up all night watching her breathing for anomalies and quietly singing this collection to myself.  We had it on cassettes, but I didn’t have them with me; that is just how ingrained it was.

    Wait, that is false.

    We were a strict “no sleepovers” family, so the first time that I was really away from home was “Pennsylvania Free Enterprise Week” in Lycoming, PA.  I couldn’t sleep for several days in the little dorm room with a stranger, but then one afternoon I sat down on a couch in the room between an arcade and a cafeteria and when I woke up, there was a meeting of—I shit you not—the PA State Dairy Princess association going on literally around me.  They all had pins with the “REAL” milk logo on them.  They were pretty, as one might imagine a gang of county princesses to be—though I didn’t know they had such formal titles at the time—and it was terrifying to be so vulnerably surrounded so I got up and ran.  I had never liked any milk (my mother brings this up occasionally, still taking unnecessary personal offense), and I openly hated the milk flavor up until grad school; then I was briefly okay with it as a cheap source of protein; then I competitively drank a gallon of it with a housemate; then, as if there were a weird “straw that broke the camel’s back” kind of situation, onward milk consumption has been met with acute pains and other downstream gastrointestinal terror.

    I still don’t like being the focal point in any situation.  I forget what exactly I was watching that involved weddings last week, but I remember the distinct thought that the bride walking in process seemed excruciating and if I were ever in such shoes, and had to do such a thing in public view of a lot of people who knew me, there would surely be smoke bombs or something involved.  Some distraction.  Not in a racist way, but some manner of ninja-bride scenario.  That was the phrase that I wrote down.  I can get up in front of a room and teach or give talks or trainings or whatever and it isn’t terrible, but focused attention on a story, pedagogical or otherwise, is so much different.  Relative pulchritude aside, that comfort is most certainly what the princesses had over me.  Surely this is at the root of my unseemly interests in ventriloquism and prestidigitation.*  This has been a good session.

    Model U.N. was the second time away.  I sold so many position papers that year.  And stole so many cokes.  The delegation went home with 109, which I decided to stick with as it was our room number and seemed an auspicious stopping point as we were drinking 2 at the time and I’ve always liked a repdigital number.   We used them for meetings for the rest of the year.  On one hand, it is tough to argue with money for nothing, but stealing free things is kinda shameful. But, that was my angle on youthful shenanigans.  (I was told that I could not be convicted on this side of a degree.  I’m not, in this moment, sure that is true, but like most sung lies, it is a pleasant enough sentiment.)

    Last night was the first night since that first week in September that I did not sleep in a bed, so I guess I am restarting the grown-up habit clock.  I’d blame the lag or the mucus or the fever, but I am pretty sure I knew exactly what I was doing when I brought the blankets out to the living room.

    * Illa nunquam sola est qui est magister ventriloquism.

     
  8. November Travelogue Excerpts, parts 1-

    ★ ★ ☆ ★ ★ ☆ ★ ☆ ★ ★ ☆ ★ ★

    Despite my general language absorption prowess, I think only one Dutch word is really going to stick:

    “Hondenpoep.”

    (Say it soft and it’s almost like praying.)

    ★ ★ ☆ ★ ★ ☆ ★ ☆ ★ ★ ☆ ★ ★

    ***Speed Tests on Bruxelles Lufthaven Motorized Walkways Prior to SwissAir Solo Excursion***

    »Steps
    56, 51, 55 with
    98, 91, 95 adjacent
    132, 125, 133 against
    (161 matched to opposite standing speed) against

    »Time
    98 seconds, standing speed
    33.5 s walking with

    »Distance
    98 tiles, ea tile 2 shoes plus an inch, maybe 2 feet? 196 feet/98 steps=2 feet/step

    »Flux over 90s
    0930: 15 people passing pt 0.
    0945: 11 people passing pt 0.
    avg~13 people—>26p/3min, =520p/hr =12480p/day =4555200p/yr,
    or at roughly 1 minute of time saved each, (98-33.5=64.5, but I might have walked fast), saves 8.6 years per year.
    Or, at 182208000 steps/yr, some 69k miles, or 2.7x around the earth/year.

    Per walkway!

    There are at least 40 of these too. So much saved time.

    Well played, Belgium.

    ★ ★ ☆ ★ ★ ☆ ★ ☆ ★ ★ ☆ ★ ★

    Given triplet prowesses as regards waffles, chocolates, and fries,
    Belgium had a surprising dearth of chocolate-covered waffle fries.

    Even just waffle fries: no dice. (Chocowaffles, yes; Chocofries, no.)

    ★ ★ ☆ ★ ★ ☆ ★ ☆ ★ ★ ☆ ★ ★

    [redacted!]

    A broad, troubleshooting abroad.
    (I’m actually very good at it.)

    ★ ★ ☆ ★ ★ ☆ ★ ☆ ★ ★ ☆ ★ ★

    7 out of every 10 children I have heard in Europe sound like they have whooping cough. Myself now included.
    Being sick as a grown-up is no fun. Being sick as a grown-up and alone is no fun. (Did I ever tell you about the first boy that I sorta mutual-adult loved that ever kissed me? That doesn’t seem like a story I’d share willy nilly, but I don’t know. I might’ve shared it and then let the Langoliers at it before it could be cached: some things are transient like that. Anyhow, if I am feeling an “algia” anyway, sometimes I will toss a little nostalgia in the mix because, hey, stacking processes. It shouldn’t be all bad.) AND being sick as a grown-up and alone *and* away from familiarity actually wraps back around to fun. I can be the Typhoid Mariam of Switzerland!

    (no, I am kidding on the last bit; I am out of aspirin, and this is not great, AND I wish I had my crazy Japanese face masks so I would not feel the shame of vectoring this out, but I don’t have to deal with too many people in a close contact way and I am wiping down all things as I leave with generic Purel, like GATTACA meets a cut-rate European version of one of my favorite superheroes.). Leave no trace.
    *Sploot!* [gel application]
    *Eee-Ee-Ee-Ee-eek* [wipe-down]
    *Ding!* [the noise of shining]

    ★ ★ ☆ ★ ★ ☆ ★ ☆ ★ ★ ☆ ★ ★

    The keyboards here are weird.

    ★ ★ ☆ ★ ★ ☆ ★ ☆ ★ ★ ☆ ★ ★

    There are pictures to go with every story. I like the pictures but they are primarily just cues. And maybe visual assistance for later. And the *fun*icular video will surely be a screensaver or some such. I just realized that though I joked about the Cliff Hangers’ theme song being absent on the funicular, I think it WAS playing in the airport inter-terminal train.

     
  9. image: Download

    
I grow old … I grow old …I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.I do not think that they will sing to me.

With John-Francis-Donaghy-like efficiency I went through most of the usual stages pretty quick this morning.  Maybe I am the 7th sigma.  The annual self-assessment will probably bear it out.  Maybe there will be roast beef sliced in the restroom.  I’m not really sure.  
100001 has an okay enough symmetry to it in a variety of bases, I suppose.

    I grow old … I grow old …
    I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
    Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
    I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
    I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
    I do not think that they will sing to me.

    With John-Francis-Donaghy-like efficiency I went through most of the usual stages pretty quick this morning.  Maybe I am the 7th sigma.  The annual self-assessment will probably bear it out.  Maybe there will be roast beef sliced in the restroom.  I’m not really sure.  

    100001 has an okay enough symmetry to it in a variety of bases, I suppose.

     
  10. image: Download

    …it was a really good day.
(This is not exactly what I made today, but I made this similar spreadsheet a couple years ago and only had an image of it to work off of because life is complex sometimes.  I just looked up and realized 5 hours had gone by.)

    …it was a really good day.

    (This is not exactly what I made today, but I made this similar spreadsheet a couple years ago and only had an image of it to work off of because life is complex sometimes.  I just looked up and realized 5 hours had gone by.)

     
  11. image: Download

    [One less thing to worry about]
And, with that last handling of change,there was, at long last, exhaledan overtaxed completist’s sighof numismatic relief.
(Now I can return to focusing on the dates as is more historically my wont. Or do my laundry without all of the obsessive pre-checking.  hoo.)

    [One less thing to worry about]

    And, with that last handling of change,
    there was, at long last, exhaled
    an overtaxed completist’s sigh
    of numismatic relief.

    (Now I can return to focusing on the dates as is more historically my wont.
    Or do my laundry without all of the obsessive pre-checking.  hoo.)

     
  12. image: Download

    No, clearly it is YOU who is not writing a project narrative while annotating old C&ENs. Esquivalience!
(That not every one of my Philosophy of Science papers was about Haber was a several-semester long act of crazy self control.  The laziness that would yield 14 papers about golems and existential calculus is clearly not out of my range of capability.)
The Pleasence era Blofeld.

    No, clearly it is YOU who is not writing a project narrative while annotating old C&ENs. Esquivalience!

    (That not every one of my Philosophy of Science papers was about Haber was a several-semester long act of crazy self control.
    The laziness that would yield 14 papers about golems and existential calculus is clearly not out of my range of capability.)

    The Pleasence era Blofeld.

     
  13. image: Download

    While no prosecution for a violation of the Prime Directive was ever seen in a Star Trek episode or film, Picard’s nine documented violations are held as evidence against him during a witchhunt investigation.
The part of me that is a little uncertain but really likes correctness and the part of me that just likes to nurture a good story are fighting so hard against each other here.
Boswell’s uninhibited folly and candour were his greatest qualifications.

    While no prosecution for a violation of the Prime Directive was ever seen in a Star Trek episode or film, Picard’s nine documented violations are held as evidence against him during a witchhunt investigation.

    The part of me that is a little uncertain but really likes correctness and the part of me that just likes to nurture a good story are fighting so hard against each other here.

    Boswell’s uninhibited folly and candour were his greatest qualifications.

     
  14. "Rothko Forgot the Sunscreen" 
or
"1x/5y: The Many Colors of Your Ethnic But Practically Nocturnal Pal Who Makes a Bad Decision Vis-à-Vis Day-Star Exposure Once Every Five Years"
I say this not to titillate—it was an action in the same vein as picking a scab, or scratching an itch, or (literally) pressing a bruise—but I spent exactly 10 minutes this morning topless in my bathroom, pressing my sunburns and letting go to watch the blood rush back to the super red skin. (The snoozed alarm’s return is what pulled me out of my weirdly obsessed reverie.)  My Native American name might be “Distractable with touchstones”.  This would be an animated gif of that, but I don’t even trust my usually rock-steady hands in the bathroom where cameras and exposed skin are concerned. 
When I got this burn, I was wearing a light sweater over a dress over pants.  (Because that’s essentially my day-to-day uniform anyhow and if one’s crazy adventure is part of making a determination of how one would respond in a crisis situation, being dressed in one’s normal attire is important.)  But this burn has made me wonder if perhaps I have, in my day to day life, been exposing too much décolletage.  It’s definitely less than the strictest usage of the word.  But, it is more than I thought?  And is that too much?  Maybe worries about this kind of immodesty are just some winding down from the seasonal polarization.  I saw the cutest little girl in hijab last week, but that was never really my deal in any casual sense.  The late 90’s pyromania phase would have been more dangerous, certainly.
(Then I got distracted reading about birthmarks.  Did my mother have an unsatisfied wish regarding a dancing Scottish terrier when I was in utero?  Because I have an awesome birthmark—covered or slightly left of the frame here—which I may refer to as a “The Diehard* Mongolian Spot" since that sounds like an awesome, albeit vaguely racist, dog name.  It’s probably actually a non-alcoholic Port-Wine Stain, given its chestal location.  Though it is essentially the color on the left, not particularly porto colored.  So many names for things!)
…Pre-emptive answer: “My regime? The regime from which the radicals are trying to get free? Are we selling face cream or staging a coup?"  and I’ll assume you say "Do you see the irreversible sun damage? You haven’t been taking care of your skin, and it’s only going to get worse", and I’ll go weep somewhere.
* I have spent what averages out to ~1 birthday every decade exploring storm-drains (The non-poop-filled Sewer™), so we could go with “Splinter IIII” and make a Ninja Turtles reference if that’s preferable in its less incendiary tone.

    "Rothko Forgot the Sunscreen"

    or

    "1x/5y: The Many Colors of Your Ethnic But Practically Nocturnal Pal Who Makes a Bad Decision Vis-à-Vis Day-Star Exposure Once Every Five Years"

    I say this not to titillate—it was an action in the same vein as picking a scab, or scratching an itch, or (literally) pressing a bruise—but I spent exactly 10 minutes this morning topless in my bathroom, pressing my sunburns and letting go to watch the blood rush back to the super red skin. (The snoozed alarm’s return is what pulled me out of my weirdly obsessed reverie.)  My Native American name might be “Distractable with touchstones”.  This would be an animated gif of that, but I don’t even trust my usually rock-steady hands in the bathroom where cameras and exposed skin are concerned. 

    When I got this burn, I was wearing a light sweater over a dress over pants.  (Because that’s essentially my day-to-day uniform anyhow and if one’s crazy adventure is part of making a determination of how one would respond in a crisis situation, being dressed in one’s normal attire is important.)  But this burn has made me wonder if perhaps I have, in my day to day life, been exposing too much décolletage.  It’s definitely less than the strictest usage of the word.  But, it is more than I thought?  And is that too much?  Maybe worries about this kind of immodesty are just some winding down from the seasonal polarization.  I saw the cutest little girl in hijab last week, but that was never really my deal in any casual sense.  The late 90’s pyromania phase would have been more dangerous, certainly.

    (Then I got distracted reading about birthmarks.  Did my mother have an unsatisfied wish regarding a dancing Scottish terrier when I was in utero?  Because I have an awesome birthmark—covered or slightly left of the frame here—which I may refer to as a “The Diehard* Mongolian Spot" since that sounds like an awesome, albeit vaguely racist, dog name.  It’s probably actually a non-alcoholic Port-Wine Stain, given its chestal location.  Though it is essentially the color on the left, not particularly porto colored.  So many names for things!)

    …Pre-emptive answer: “My regime? The regime from which the radicals are trying to get free? Are we selling face cream or staging a coup?"  and I’ll assume you say "Do you see the irreversible sun damage? You haven’t been taking care of your skin, and it’s only going to get worse", and I’ll go weep somewhere.

    * I have spent what averages out to ~1 birthday every decade exploring storm-drains (The non-poop-filled Sewer™), so we could go with “Splinter IIII” and make a Ninja Turtles reference if that’s preferable in its less incendiary tone.

     
  15. Marmathon: Aborted

    My favorite Saturday morning place in Oak Ridge was the outdoor municipal pool. As it was 100m across, it had the delightful aspect of making swimming a mile just 8 laps (back and forth). 8! What an undaunting number. So it was that, given an opportunity for quantized exhaustion, I would swim a couple miles every weekend (Shawarma offsets.) I love the water, but never so much that I’ve invested in a waterproof headphones/mp3 playing device, so it was an opportunity for a good think. (If in a non-lap pool or hot tub situation, I go with the dual ziplock bags with—depending on the calculation for how loudly I want to listen to whatever and how important it might be for the affected other populations to hear it—headphones.) It was a good time for thinking.

    What this city lacks in convenient and pleasant poolage it does…try to make up for in the canal loop. Which was the set for today’s adventure in impromptu marathonning (previously in IMs—and with context). It was, however, an incompletion sort of day. But, just because one punts doesn’t mean it isn’t educational. So we present,


    Impromptu Marathon 2: Lessons Learned
    I think I had thought about this before and taken some string to a map to learn it was a 3 mile loop, because that is how I thought about it in terms of my notes, but the Internet says 3.3. So I either bailed at 21 miles or 24 some. 7 laps.  Either number is pretty okay: either the blackjacky product of primes OR the number of faces on a tesseract (or blackbird faces in a pie). But miles. It’s an inherently dumb thing to do. But given that at least one Saturday in the last month I just stayed in bed until the sun went down, I…maybe converted last night’s steak into some vitamin D. I don’t know.

    Commando was a better choice than underpantsed, though I think I still am gonna go powder down the areas of my expertise. (That’s like 5 different lies: not the least of which is contrary to the truth that I’ve already talc’ed up my area once since returning to my apartment.)

    The shoe situation was kinda the dealbreaker—there is a grim amount of foot blisters with which I should go deal. I can, though it is with difficulty, imagine that “training” builds up a callous to such things? Maybe? I don’t really believe in doing such things—athletic notions are indulged in primarily to ensure that I can have plans that are based in reasonable realities in cases of disasters. Water disaster: I’d be okayish. Land disaster: we might steal a car, but we could get a couple towns over in a day if necessary.

    Comparing outdoor terrain, albeit paved, to a treadmill, I would go with the treadmill for this kind of silliness.

    Related are issues of the fact that it was/is a Summery day outside whereas Impromptu Marathon (1) took place at night in a climate controlled gym with tv. I definitely wouldn’t do it at night outside because I am paranoid (cf., my almost punching a bike cop yesterday because he startled me and I though he might be about to steal my wallet), but the relative merit of outside versus inside is extra tricky because as much as I’ll enjoy watching tv, I did see a variety of things which I took note of every time I did (what I still believe was) a 3 mile loop:

    Miles 0-3
    2 deaf ladies having an extra frenetic conversation while power walking.

    Miles 4-6
    A broken emergency call box that appeared to have become some sort of dumpsite for random cables. Like chargers and things.

    Miles 7-9
    A black guy using an umbrella as a parasol. Hero.

    Miles 10-12
    A for-reals runner type wearing yellow shorts who also looked like he’d peed his pants. He may have just been relatively more sweaty there, but it took an effort not to take a picture.

    Miles 13-15
    Young Jedi dressed like a 5 year old Ben Kenobi (if he dressed the same as an older Jedi). His siblings were wearing tee-shirts featuring Toy Story and a googly eyed Mr. Krabs. Tiny Hero.

    Miles 16-18
    Guy with a “carpe deem” tattoo on the back of his calf.

    Miles 19-21:
    Heard a piano (there’s an outdoor piano that I wouldn’t touch without lab gloves) where someone was playing the swan lake leit motif, as I saw an elderly guy and a kid sitting on the back of a paddle boat with their legs in the water about 50 feet from a 1 foot coalescence of duck poop that I guess they didn’t see? Maybe? It was floating and they surely had passed it going in the other direction. Anyhow, I saw what was about to happen and I considered warning, but they seemed really happy. Maybe they were a family that emphasized really not being afraid of germs. I don’t know if that fully captures the drama of the moment, but the tinkley piano kind of made it a little magical.

    As my loop reflection point was the back-door of my apartment building, it was when I got there for 21 that I realized I was okay holding at 21. Basic strategy.

    I am also more sweaty and most of the freckles on my face are coalesced into an interesting enough skin color, slightly more indicative of my race* than my usual, well-maintained pallor.

    (* I am ethnically “mixed” and racially “Orange”.)