“Detach from station, and may god’s love be with you”

Tomorrow, Commander Chris Hadfield bids farewell to the International Space Station, meaning we won’t get our usual dose of his tweets and videos sent from space. But he’s signing off with a little David Bowie.

Bacon-Flavored Scope Mouthwash

This is an April Fools’ prank from those wacky knuckleheads at Procter & Gamble, but with an enduring appeal. Maybe we shouldn’t joke about bacon?

From the Archives

And I mean the way-back days. Sheila Ryan Coiffed like a Pinhead. One of the first things I remember seeing in my early days here. For the record, I believe the chick in the photo is now a regular on American Horror Story Asylum. I am addicted.

My Bowie: Jean Paul Gaultier


Who was your Bowie?


Beach House – Wishes

via Coda Hale

Human-powered helicopter breaks record with 50-second flight

The newest version of the craft weighs only 71 pounds, 30 less than the previous one, which stayed aloft for 11 seconds in 2011. Gamera II harvests power from arm movements as well as pedals, transmitting more power to the four large rotors.

(via NBC News)

Dang me!

So Brian Beatty (y’all know Brian Beatty), he posts on Facebook

Sitting here high, just getting ideas
You’d have to be a big fool to live like I do

(quoting, more or less, Roger Miller)

which he (Brian) says “may be the best country lyrics ever”

so I post a link to a clip of Miller singing a snippet from “Chug-a-Lug”

and my friend Lou, she pipes up and tells how

I was on a plane with him once flying from LAX to Albuquerque. The luggage thingy was chewing up our luggage and he picked up his mangled garment bag and said “Dang.” True story.

and I’m thinking, Dang me, that’s good.

Let’s make the magic happen


(Rubber Chicken) (Hen) (Tote Bag) (Handbag) (Purse) (Pocketbook) (Henbag)

rubber chicken

I need this. For all of the times I say, “Where’s my rubber chicken?” My fashion prop of the year. Or the decade. Or the rest of my life.

Thanks to friend Jen.

Lowly Dung Beetles Are Insect Astronomers


Even the humble dung beetle, its life spent barely an inch above the ground, pushing balls of waste, steers by starlight.

“Dung steered by the stars,” as my longtime friend Steve said.

Or, as Oscar Wilde wrote in “Lady WIndermere’s Fan”:

DUMBY. I don’t think we are bad. I think we are all good, except Tuppy.

LORD DARLINGTON. No, we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.

These are things you can buy


There are many other types available as well, if this particular model doesn’t suit you.

Fight over soda at East Dallas apartment sends pillow, glass jar, chicken flying

A Dallas man was arrested early Wednesday after he and a woman came to blows over a soda, police said.

By the end of the argument, a glass jar, a tire iron, a pillow and a box of chicken were all used as weapons, according to a police report.

Diamond Lydia, 18, is being held on a charge of aggravated assault.

Speaking, as we were, of online connections

and of the gratitude we feel toward clusterflock, did y’all know that Sarah Pavis has been Kottke’s guest editor this week?

There’s time to catch up, but I draw your attention especially to Stories from kottke.org readers on connecting with people online, a collection of accounts solicited by Sarah.

Greetings from Rockton

c’flock in the foreground, disney in the mid-ground, qwirkle in the farground.

Dear Clusterflock,

I’m still thankful for all you guys.

Tonight I will sleep the sleep of the justified.

This is so cool I can’t hardly stand it.

I’ve been way way down lately, so when India’s and Lucy’s friend Heather commenced live-tweeting about Elmore Leonard from the National Book Awards, I got all excited. She and I got going back and forth, and I told her about my crush on Leonard. And we got talking about one of Leonard’s minor gifts — how he never strikes a false note when he writes about music. Anyway . . .

She said she’d try and get me a photo. And she did.

Scott Walker — Bish Bosch (Album Trailer)

Scheduled for release December 3/4 on 4AD.

Chicago Symphony Orchestra and Chorus at Carnegie Hall: Carmina Burana

Carnegie Hall opened its 2012-2013 season October 3 with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra performing Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana. Under the direction of Riccardo Muti, the performance featured the Chicago Symphony Chorus and the Chicago Children’s Choir, together with soloists Rosa Feola, Antonio Giovannini, and Audun Iverson.

Everybody pretty much kicked ass, and that’s not Windy City boosterism.

For a few more days, I think, you can listen to the CSO’s Carmina Burana as it aired Wednesday night on WQXR and judge for yourself.

For Rick Neece and Dan Jensen

All of us wishing y’all many more years of love and happiness.

RIP Andy Griffith

Whether the home-spun small town sheriff or the maniacal Lonesome Rhoades, he was a force to reckon with.

BBC Scotland Weather

BBC Scotland Weather. It’s a thing.

(Thanks to Wil Freeborn.)

File under: Legendary Rowers

Meet my friend Pat Quesnel, the first person to row solo across the Pacific . . .

I was looking around for photos for a project using these terms: man and boat, man and row boat, small boat and man, arctic row boat, Faroes row boat, falling row boat, row boat tiny, row boat at sea, row boat ocean, rowing archive, rowing museum, Faroes metal boats tiny Ocean, skiff, skiff and man, high-walled skiff, and Faroes skiff. This photo turned up on ebay and I thought “Well, maybe. It’s a newspaper photo, rights should be reasonable,” and so I saved a copy in my project folder. I rejected the photo for the job but bothered to read the caption before I tossed it and, fuck a Roosevelt Elk, it’s my old friend Pat Quesnel from Kodiak, the first person to row solo across the Pacific. I have not contacted him in years but I still miss his company.
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Where I Keep My Soul

Wheels up in 8 hours.

Just outside my window a handful of high-school-age boys has gathered to use the word, “Niggaz,” in various animated sentences. I think they’re probably carrying the prerequisite for unwrapping the noun but I don’t know that they’ve earned the mandate to paint my windows and ears with their brand of its particular musicality. Not at 2:30 in the morning.

“OY! Poet Laureates!” I say, gaining their undivided attention as is my wont. “Show yourselves some respect and shut the fuck up. Not necessarily in that order!”

I take a step back to step in and therefore find two piles of stringy, slippery, warm, sticky, and putrescent dog puke at the head of the bed.

Green like something Superman might shun.

Dog’s like, “Fight the poweh!”

So I’m retching and scraping up these piles of bile and nastiness that by rights should have found their path all the way to my dog’s butt hole and, by consequence, into my neighbors Hydrangeas when a piece flicks off my lip and up my nostril.

I freeze because nothing can hurt you when you’re standing still. Silence. A complete silence that smells like bile and tastes like guts.

“BLAMMO!” A beer bottle hits my window. When it does that it makes the sound, BLAMMO! as one would expect. In my case however I didn’t see “BLAMMO!” coming. I was anticipating silence and as such the piece of partially digested dog gut booger that flicked off of my lip is now lodged firmly behind my eye and maybe in my brain.

That’s where I keep my soul, people.

I know, right?

Wheels up in 6 hours.

Stupid SEA-TAC.

Stupid dog.

Stupid guys who call each other, “Niggaz.”


Poo WiFi

Poo WiFi


how do I feel about…

…this car?

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