Point counterpoint

DC's Second Story Books has reopened after their renovation, luring Dupont locals to paw through a slightly airier layout full of novel temptations. They don't keep an inventory of most of their trade texts, so if you want to find out if they've got, say, a Sapolsky compilation you're reluctant to buy at full price, the only thing to do is dig. A careful shelf-by-shelf investigation of the pulp SF cart uncovered a copy of John M. Ford's Web of Angels, long out of print but hailed as one of the earliest cyberpunk novels (results when I get around to it), and the outside sales rack turned up Doc Holliday, by John Myers Myers. JMM's classic Silverlock drove home to the twelve-year-old me that I was not as well read as I wanted to be; his nonfiction turns out to be even more fun and an exemplar of the changes in biographical style. The book is ostensibly a straightforward life of the famous tubercular gunslinger, but no book published in this decade would include sentences like, "Even the slipperiest fish eventually feels the gaff of human ties," when describing Doc's first encounters with his paramour Big Nose Kate. The unexpectedly whimsical text makes the book seem closer to fiction, and since Dracula, the other book by my bedside lately, is fiction written as non-, it's a fun balance.

Other random balancy news: CoCo Sala, whither Ginsays and I repaired last night, charges too much for its teeny weeny portions of exquisitely described food. But a chipotle-chocolate souffle is the cure for many ills. Given the swingeing prices, I won't be a regular there. HOWEVER. Morelia, whither work is bound at the end of April, is home to the Museo del Dulce, an establishment whose name promises that exploration will be rewarded. Since I'm trying not to get neurotic about Mexico's current spate of drug-related violence, focusing on the promise of tasty tasty historical recipes and samples is the better option.

And finally, oh Joss. "I am your superior." "In every way." Welcome back.

The wind cries, "Mush, you huskies!"

I'm a big fan of the gratuitous weirdification of the world, so when someone pointed out that the DC Idiotarod was being run this weekend, there was naught to do but haul ass down to the Krispy Kreme for sugar and photo ops.

Quite a few of the photos came out, but I'm sad that I didn't get pics of Team Suri You Jest (runners dressed as different Tom Cruise characters), Team Bluth (all Arrested Development characters, obvy), Team Flavor of Love (the cart included a stripper pole, and one of the runners did the entire route in stilletos, which is fookin' hard core), Team Walk of Shame, Team Naughty Nurses (free Brach's lollipops! only for boys, aw), or Team Nameless But Known as Those Guys Hauling an Actual Bar (arriving at checkpoints late but to riotous cheers). I did get shots of the Smurfs, the Zombie Marters, the Pirate Amino Acids, the Jamaican Cool Runners, Devo, and the Recycled Bridesmaids, all of whom were sweet about posing (Team Gore, above, were very photogenic). We must've been following the Leisure route, because even at a walk we were able to more or less keep up with the teams, always with an ear out for the sound of a rattling cart hurtling up behind us at speed. We saw a lot of drivers pull over to yell variations on the theme of WTF, and generally it seemed like passersby thought it was good fun.

As at Punkin Chunkin, people had put a lot of thought and effort into participating in a fundamentally silly event. With 364 days to go before the next one, it seems like we should be able to come up with something, because I really want to do this next year. Someone else will have to acquire the cart, though; I lack the steely nerve for such a life of crime.

Typografreaks

I kind of desperately need either this shirt or some way to remedy the fact that I find it funny.

In other news, I'm glad that Geoffrey Chaucer has come out of hibernation to post his epitaph for Sir Ulrich von Lichtenstein.

Yif al the woe and teeres and hevinesse
And eek the sorwe, compleynte and wamentynge
That man hath heard in thes yeeres of distresse
Togedir were y-put, too light a thynge
It sholde be for this yonge knightes mournynge.
Withouten hym this world can no wey plese,
Fulfild it is of shadwe and disese.

Finally, since this is less a post and more a random linkdump, have a free Firefly novel, because Stephen Brust loves you [ETA: Having read it, I can only say that Brust is no Joss Whedon...too bad], and a mashup that Joss recommends with the words, "This is actually much better than your inevitably fine children." (Not that he's being nasty; the author wrote, "Sorry, hypothetical future children, if you're reading this and feel jilted. But you are just not as awesome as this video.")

Mind games with the innocent civilians

New York is cooler than DC again some more. I've been fond of the wicked people of Improv Everywhere since they hosted a book signing by hot new author Anton Chekov, and their original no-pants subway ride is the stuff of legend. These days it's an annual tradition up there, like Pamplona's running of the bulls but less stupidly risky. (Of course the people who did it in DC notified the cops and the media first, because we are overcautious nerdlingers in a largely humorless city that's patrolled by bored security personnel, a combo that plays merry hell with comedic spontaneity.)

A lot of what IE's done in the last few years has been cute but a little silly, like the time that they set off masses of cell phones in the Strand or practiced for synchronized swimming in a public fountain. But there's some kind of Sturgeon's Law at work, because their Grand Central piece is genius, beautiful, strange, the kind of thing that people who say, "I don't understand art, but I know what I like," would probably agree is art, because what else would you call it? And I bet they'd like it, too.



H/T Making Light, as usual.

Tis the season

moar funny pictures

On Monday night, the last full night of our association's annual meeting and the night of the traditional huge party for all attendees, Rock Ninja and I had a lot of fun wandering around the cold-water exhibit in the Atlanta aquarium and making this smoochy face at various creatures, including the sea lions, the belugas, and of course the sea otters, who even at sleepy time were federally controllable levels of cute. The Georgia facility is more open than the Baltimore aquarium, so despite the 2000 guests and associated gate-crashers, there was plenty of room to walk around once we'd gotten through the scrum around the bars. I particularly liked the petting tanks, trying some gingerly contact with a sea anemone, some skittish shrimp ("It doesn't matter how much you've had to drink, we are still not appetizers"), a small shark, a manta ray, some horseshoe crabs, and a sea star. Verdict: Generally slimy and occasionally chitinous in the extreme.

Making Light's links to the online Anglo-Saxon Christmas carol quizzes are live and delicious. One of my few regrets from college was that archaeology classes got in the way of my taking the English department's two-semester class on Old English and Beowulf, but since then I've worked on picking up some of the language here and there. The rhythm and flow of Anglo-Saxon English get me right in the dantian. Not long after the LotR movies came out, quite a few philology texts by and about Tolkien became widely available; Il Padre and I accidentally bought each other copies of the exact same book for Christmas. I don't keep up with the New Anglo-Saxon Chronicle as often as I should (reporting on the weather in 2006: "In þissum wucum heard forst ond great cyle fór west of Siberiam ond Russiam ofer Easteuropam, ond her snaw feoll in Athenai in Greclande"), but I'm impressed by the people who keep it up.

Cue the Gloria Gaynor

I and the grands survived the weekend intact, despite family aggro and the best efforts of a black Acura on the Beltway yesterday. Metro DC drivers are shite, something that's much clearer after a weekend in the company of Jersey's turnpike-hardened speedsters, and I would've finished out the weekend in a better mood had not that random dink nearly created a single crunchy unit of our separate vehicles. I could also have done without the primly censorious comment from my backseat passenger, who felt that cursing the air blue was not an appropriate reaction to a near-death experience. Oh tempora, o mores, cannot a woman be left in peace to work off an adrenaline surge with some fine Anglo-Saxon imprecations?

Random note: I do not want this shirt, but I'm happy that it exists. [H/T Cleolinda]

The Atlantic continues to tempt me with its evil tempty wiles. This time the editors have republished a weirdly contemporary 1957 article, "Sex and the College Girl." Worth a read, if only to further nail down the coffin lid over the idea that the 1950s were a pure asexual time when everyone knew their place and were happy about it. The dating culture described has changed some since the article first saw the light of day, but the intricate calculus around it still rings a bell.

Completely POSSUM!

Heath Ledger and I have the same gloves. We both look abso-spankin'-lutely ridiculous in 'em, and I for one don't care.

Darwin pwnage, briefly

Favorite Pharyngula comment responding to last night's NOVA program about the Dover School Board controversy: "SCIENCE, FINCHES!"

Freerice.com is insanely addictive. If you're a vocab freak and/or kept an unabridged dictionary to hand while reading Shadow and Claw, beware that link.

Old love notes

In going back through some old e-mail, I rediscovered Slashdot's classic interview with Neal Stephenson. One person submitted the obvious question: "In a fight between you and William Gibson, who would win?"

Excerpt: "Gibson and I dueled among blazing stacks of books for a while. Slowly I gained the upper hand, for, on defense, his Praying Mantis style was no match for my Flying Cloud technique. But I lost him behind a cloud of smoke. Then I had to get out of the place. The streets were crowded with his black-suited minions and I had to turn into a swarm of locusts and fly back to Seattle."

Aw man, now I want to fight his brother.