I got a spam comment on my last post that said something like, “This explanation is very complicated, but I will visit again and try to keep up.”
The only reason I didn’t mark it “not spam” and let it through, allowing me to mock it in my reply (because one really doesn’t get less complicated than “if you don’t like it, click the lovely little X in the corner and shut the fuck up”), was that I didn’t want any malignant spam from the same IP.
I resent being asked what my favorite “oldie” or “classic rock” song is, because most of you young whippersnappers think classic rock is oldies, and also because when I was a lass, and we had to trudge two miles to the spring, in button shoes and sunbonnets, to bring back MP3s in a wooden bucket, classic rock was called rock. Shut up. Anyway, I think my favorite “oldie” is probably Hound Dog, which was old even before Elvis Presley got hold of it, and my favorite classic rock song is Stairway to Heaven, the live version, where Robert Plant asks, so plaintively, so earnestly, and so fatuously, “Does anybody remember laughter?”
I had pretty much forgotten laughter, incidentally, till he said that, which was what refreshed my memory.
I live in the United States of America, which is okay, I suppose. I like my freedom. I like fast food. I like Barack Obama, and I really like Michelle Obama, who is the first fierce First Lady we’ve had since Jackie (or, more recently, Abbey Bartlet, if you count West Wing, which I do, even though it was fictional). I don’t like our economy, and I don’t like shootings in schools, and I loathe our versions of Top Gear and Being Human.
If I could only say a single sentence to Barack Obama, that sentence would be, “Do us a favor and ask Jack Schmitt about helium-3 on the moon; he can explain it better than I can.” He really can, actually. Go read Return to the Moon (he’s listed as Harrison Schmitt for that, appropriately, since it’s his real name).
I like Discovery Channel in the middle of the night. I feel like I learn more in the wee, small hours of the morning, when the whole wide world (within this time zone, at least) is fast asleep. I think that might have been where I first learned about helium-3.
The Disney villain I am most like is Winnie the Pooh. “But, Golfwidow,” you protest, “Winnie the Pooh isn’t a villain at all.” Oh, yeah? Ask the bees. That’s what kind of villain I am. I don’t mean to cause trouble. I just want some hunny.
I have never been a Girl Scout, but I have eaten tons of Girl Scout cookies, and also brownies (not Brownies; the edible kind) and I think that ought to count.
I would rather fly to another continent than go by ship. Aside from preferring to spend my vacation at the destination and not on the vehicle, I also feel that, these days, cruise ships are to traveling what the United States is to countries. A lot of good about it, but what’s bad is appalling.
If you’re wondering why the sky is blue, I can certainly answer that: sunlight is made up of six (seven if you count indigo, which, why would you?) colors, with red being the longest wavelength and violet being the shortest. So when the sun’s light passes through the earth’s atmosphere, the light gets broken down into its individual color/wavelengths, much the same way it does when passing through a prism, or raindrops (hence, the rainbow, duh). Each air particle acts as its own little prism, and the shorter the wavelength of the respective color, the more it will be dispersed. Yes, violet is the most widely-dispersed color, but blue (the next most widely-dispersed) is more easily seen by human eyes. So the bottom line is that the sky is not blue at all. It just appears blue to us.
As to why the night sky is black, let’s review what creates the color illusion in the first place. Sunlight. Where’s the sunlight at night? Next question, foo.
My name is from the Greek, and it means “defender of mankind.” My Hebrew name, Yehudith, was a minor character in the Bible who defended Israel against the Assyrians by decapitating their leader. I am not nearly as badass as my names suggest.
I think it’s fairly obvious about me that I would prefer to explore outer space than the depths of the earth’s oceans. There’s just so much more potential out there. However, I am quite interested in the oceans, as well. I didn’t mean to be. Chris McKay talked about how oceanic life as discovered during just the past dozen or so years has opened possibilities for life that were never before plausible: the difference, as Carl Sagan probably would have said, between “no life forms” and “no life as we know it” (emphasis mine). I don’t think we can know what we’re looking for in outer space unless we know how to look for it here. And of course, we have to look for life. We don’t like being alone.
Oh, word association; how I love thee:
The first word that comes to my mind when I see the word “air” is “breathe.” Which I’m having some difficulty with at the moment. I’ve caught some dread disease from That Man of Mine, despite taking vitamin C with zinc every day since well before cold and flu season started. So I am congested, and I am running a temperature, which is awesome, because what do you do, eh? Feed the cold or starve the fever?
When I see the word “meat,” I think of “sirloin.” I have top sirloins defrosting. I will have to cook them myself if I don’t want to be handed a scrap of grayish jerky. Which means, now that I come to think of it, that I will be feeding my cold.
The word “different” just reminds me of me. My whole life, I have been the one of these things that is not like the others. It has taken me nearly forty-three years to accept this fact.
We talked about the word “pink” last week. Not only is that little red coat the first thing I think of when I see the word “pink,” it’s the only thing I think of. Learn the right names for things, people.
When I see the word “deserve”, I am reminded that “just deserts” isn’t about sweets, it’s about getting what you deserve. Anyone who spells it like “how can you have your pudding if you don’t eat your meat” dessert, is wrong. Not everyone knows this. I am Here to Help.
That, by the way, was another classic rock reference. Shut up.
The word “white” reminds me of one of those Dick and Jane-type stories where the boy had three cookies and one of them was white. I was very confused by this. When the Mom made cookies, they were brown, or brown with darker brown polka-dots, or sometimes yellowish, but never white. I was about eight or nine before I saw lemon cooler cookies (which were yellow on the inside, but definitely white on the outside), and it was too late, because I was way past Dick and Jane by then.
The word “Elvis”, of course, reminds me of Hound Dog. We were just talking about that. But if we hadn’t been, I probably would have been thinking of Fat Vegas Elvis, because you can’t go to the supermarket in my town without running into an Elvis.
“Magic” reminds me of my sweet babboo, Andy Martello, who just wrote a book. Get yours.
The next word on the list was “heart,” so I’m glad I didn’t read ahead, because then “magic” would have reminded me of Magic Man by Heart, and I would have forgotten to plug Andy’s book. That said, when I go back and try to get “heart” all by itself (as opposed to Alone, another song by Heart), I’m reminded of Glitch in the miniseries Tin Man, telling Wyatt Cain to have a heart, because it wasn’t obvious enough that they were riffing off The Wizard of Oz. You should watch that, by the way, if you haven’t already seen it. It’s on Netflix.
“Clash” reminded me of Rock the Casbah, which, thank gourd, because otherwise it would’ve reminded me of Kevin Clash, whom I would just as soon never hear about ever again, because Elmo was plenty annoying even before all the nasty allegations.
Finally, “pulp” reminds me of fiction, but “pulp fiction” reminds me of dime-store novels before it reminds me of Quentin Tarantino.
If I could meet any person in the world, who has already died, I think I wouldn’t mind meeting Mohammad. I think I’d ask him, “Seriously, is this what you meant?”
If I could meet anyone in the world, still alive, I’d skip Liam Neeson. No one wants only one opportunity to be witty and scintillating with someone, only to stammer, “Krull sucked,” and then go hide under a sofa. No, I’d like to meet Mark Gatiss. First of all, he’s brilliant, and second of all, I like him as Mycroft. That would be a conversation in which I would have a chance at not humiliating myself.
Having got that out of the way, I could totally watch the 1998 Liam Neeson version of Les Misérables every day from today till the day the world ends, and yes, that includes having it playing on a loop inside a mausoleum in which I am interred. That is a serious fucking movie, and a serious fucking performance, because even in a crap movie like Krull, they make Liam Neeson stand in the background next to a horse and he acts the hell out of it. I wish he would stop making action films so someone would finally give him the Oscar he should have earned for Schindler’s List.
Mark Gatiss will never have an Oscar and I’m okay with that; in fact, I think he’s okay with it, too.
I’ve talked before about how to get out of a stuck elevator, but the next question specifies that, if you were going to be stuck in an elevator for a week, what would you bring with you to occupy yourself? To answer, I think I would spend most of my time trying to figure out how to pee in a stuck elevator for a whole week without becoming overwhelmed by pee fumes.
That’s really a rubbish question, innit?
If I were stuck somewhere (with a working loo), and needed to bring something with me to occupy myself, I think I’d bring The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (including the Sonnets). I crack it about once a year, but I’ve never done it cover to cover. With nothing else to do, this could be the time.
This could, possibly, also be the time I’d be able to read Hamlet without hearing the RSC in my mind, chanting “Maybe, maybe not!” in falsetto, but I’m gonna guess, probably not.
I have had my life saved, specifically, by the medical staff at Centennial Hills, but I imagine the Mom probably pulled me out of the path of a moving vehicle more than once during my childhood.
I only ever saved one person’s life (other than calling 911 and summoning EMTs to do the actual lifesaving): I once pulled a rather douchey drunk boy to a sitting position at a party, so that, when he started unconsciously puking (which he did, mere moments later), he wouldn’t drown. He didn’t (and presumably still doesn’t) remember. Considering how great my emetophobia is, I’m surprised I didn’t leave him there to do the Bon Scott all by himself.
There’s another classic rock reference for you whippersnappers. Shut up.
drinking: hot tea with lemon and ginger
listening to: Eric Calderone, Doctor Metal
wishing: i could breathe