Stolen from Metafilter. I don’t have a MeFi account, so I can’t even favorite things over there, much less comment. So I figured I’d re-pose the question here.
The MeFi thread is great, but bring tissues. I loved this one most:
My uncle, Albert Crary, was an extraordinary man. Not only was he an explorer and scientist of both poles (The Crary Mountains in Antarctica were named by him and the A.P. Crary Science and Engineering Center at McMurdo Station was named fo him) but he gathered stories like no one I’ve ever met. At his public memorial in Washington DC at, I believe, the Cosmos Club, speaker after speaker got up and told about his staunchness, his incredible endurance, but most importantly, they all told a funny story about him: The time he fell off the ice shelf and what he said to the preacher after his rescue when the preacher came looking for a good sermon. The time he went shopping for supplies in South America when they were running a geophysical line across a South American swamp. The time my father put my brother up to calling him and acting like a dumb reporter asking the stupidest questions imaginable about the ice island T3.
Months later, we had a private memorial in his hometown of Canton, New York. One-by-one his nieces, nephews, in-laws and friends got up and told more stories. To all of us he’d been the source of fun, support and laughter when we were growing up – he never let any of us take ourselves too seriously, but he was always there when anyone needed help. When my turn came, I got up, told my story and then said this:
Everyone deserves an Uncle Albert, we were just fortunate enough to have had one.
posted by BillW at 5:23 PM on March 30
(Via the wonderful Ed Yong.)
Chiditarod is sort of like if you had Halloween in March for grown ups who love fast-moving parades and races and all the joy it takes you to not feel cold with the swirls of snow at your feet. It has become an art form of who can create the most elaborate or inventive float just as much as who can finish first with checkpoints all over local businesses in the Chicago neighborhood of Ukrainian Village. Sometimes, it feels like Chicago has lost so many great musicians, artists, writers to cities like NYC but whenever Chiditarod comes around, it reminds us Chicagoans why it’s great to be home. As the Chiditarod website points out, the date coincides with the Alaskan Iditarod dog sled race but I’ve always preferred shopping carts to sleds and costume lovers to dogs, anyway. And, as if you needed any more of a reason to support adults donning costumes and running through the wind and the cold, proceeds also greatly benefit The Greater Chicago Food Depository.
Favorite floats from this year’s race include “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea,” “The Beatles,” “DeadMau5,” “Ghostbusters,” “Mr. Potato Head,” “Super Mario Bros.,” “Lucky Charms,” “Unicorns,” “Draculas,” and “Happy Birthday!”
Full set of (large-sized) photographs from Chiditarod 2013 can be viewed on Flickr here.
To be clear, where I work should no longer be described as a “home”, but more a “Bunker of dark Elven magic.” Eleven years have allowed me to transform this garden apartment into the perfect symbiotic workspace, drawing from the best aspects of the Batcave (Burton-era), Tony Stark’s workshop, Cerebro, and the Batcave (Nolan-era).
Sign up early, if you want a spot; these pants fill up fast!
The Wayfinder Experience in Your Pants
Unlocking the Life Force in Your Pants
The Marks of Our Existence in Your Pants
Say “No” to Stress in Your Pants
Storming Heaven in Your Pants
Compose Yourself in Your Pants
Trees & Ecosystems in Your Pants
Frequencies of Healing in Your Pants
Enter Through the Image in Your Pants
Dreamgates in Your Pants
Leap of Perception in Your Pants
Timeless Loving in Your Pants
I don’t watch a lot of football, but it sure seemed as if a lot of players’ helmets were falling off during the Super Bowl. Isn’t there some kind of pro athletic head glue they should be using?
Beyonce did a pretty good job at half time, considering she had twins just three or four days ago. She did not wear a helmet, per se.
Sheila Ryan on January 18, 2013
We are the unsinkable Molly Brown of inefficient socially mediumistic webbed sites.
After I lost a lengthy Facebook post re: gun control, mental health services, blah blah woof woof, I retreated. Have a cuppa tea and regroup. As a friend advised, “A cup of tea fixes everything.”
The last of the collections is leather scraps. It smells the best. If you burrow into the bins, you don’t want to touch bottom—damp, mulch-like, maggoty. Stay close to the surface and you’ll be fine. Soak up the scent of soap, bay leaves, and fresh-cut softwood.
Someone rolled gray enamel over the windows. Who would paint a window? Nothing inside this warehouse has borne daylight in a decade or more. This isn’t completely correct; a million billion holes permeate the roof and walls. Matrices of light stand out against the dust that is suspended perpetually. That’s a lot of exposition, so let’s move on.
I’m still thankful for all you guys.
I’d recognize the back of Mike Dresser‘s head anywhere.
OH in Red Hook: “My landlord refused to leave. As he was throwing down sandbags, he was like, ‘I love this shit. It reminds me of Nam.’”
— Mike Dresser (@mdresser) November 10, 2012
You know some people talk about being abducted by aliens. I won’t say I have been, but I’ll tell you this much. When I was little, I dreamed I was falling asleep and just as I was nodding off, I felt a weight settle on the bed at my feet. I looked down to see a cat-eyed, long-limbed creature crawling up my legs toward my face. I screamed out, Daddy came. We didn’t have a cat at the time.
In a motel in a northern suburb of Denver, working retail for a couple of weeks a few years ago, I was awakened by something yanking me completely out of the bed by the big toe. I awoke drenched in sweat and in the same position I fell asleep.
Lately when napping, I’ve felt the bed settle, as if a weight lands near my feet, as if a cat has jumped on the bed. I look to find nothing there.
Okay, so they dress like mummies and they’re on the Bob & Tom Show sometimes. But they lay down the serious funk — old skool style. Their songs include Booty, Fenk Shui, Ra Ra Ra, and Attack of the Wiener Man. They’ve been around for over a decade. I don’t get out much.
Rumor has it Here Come the Mummies are Nashville heavy hitters who play incognito due to contractual complications. Who cares? Let’s dance!
In need of cheap lodging for perhaps 4-6 weeks. Have access to same for period required. Physical conditions rough but livable.
Note: Premises likely haunted.
Question: Is this wise?
Will it make a sound?
Rust. Irony can be found in iron itself. The carpet is not made of felt; the gray fibers are compressed years of fur, soil, and traffic. We organize a backyard BBQ and everyone brings potato salad. All of the potato salad is contaminated with e coli. What are the odds of that happening? You negotiated a 30% discount for your new tattoos but the artist used beige ink exclusively. Beyond normal expectations, we got it right! Unfortunately we are unable to locate, recognize, or analyze the data.
The leaves of Yarrow are also more finely divided. In fact, the species name millefolium literally means “ a thousand leaves”. It’s kind of like a millipede, but different.
I had a fright this past week. I was afraid I had made a monkey of myself. Been making a monkey of myself over yarrow. And I have, but not so much as I feared, it turns out.
Charlie had told me last year he did not know what yarrow looked like, and I’d told him I’d point it out once it was in blossom again. And now, even with the drought and the recent heat wave, the persistent weedy things of the world are in blossom, it being high summer and all. So when I saw Charlie at the store the other day, I said, “Yarrow, yarrow everywhere!”
I told him it was that white flowering stuff you saw on verges and at the edges of the golf courses.
He said, “I though that was Queen Anne’s lace.”
I used a new brand of razor to shave my whiskers this morning. My face was so smooth afterwards; it felt to me as if it was someone else’s. I’ve been rubbing it a lot since then, just trying to find parts that are familiar. Shaving seems a waste of time, but I detest the idea of wearing a beard. Identifying myself is causing enough trouble as it is. Facial hair would only add to my concerns.
It’s true. AND: I did it in a dream the premise of which was: THIS IS NOT A DREAM.
You know how you have those dreams? Those other dreams? You realize, “Wait! This is a DREAM!”
This was not like that. THIS IS NOT A DREAM was the foundation of the dream.
What do you recommend?
My week so far has stunk big-time. So I formed a plan.
Many things lie outside my control, I know, but my skull is my own. I am going to drill a hole in my skull into which I will pour something refreshing. And I will be a new and improved me no matter what Fate, that saucy trickster, has up her sleeve.
Citrus-infused fizzy water is a possibility. Do you recommend anything else I might pour into the hole I drill in my skull?
For your pleasure on this Weed Day, 2012. Stuff Smith: You’se a Viper.
Much as a horse in springtime will rub off its mane, I must divest myself of that which is obsolete and irritating. Also like a horse, I graze and digest almost constantly. Life’s grass passes through me almost the same as it entered, subject to the extraction of vital sustenance. The manure is then spread across a field, thereby yielding new growth. You understand that at this point I am not talking about literal horseshit, correct?
Writer and comedian Peter Bergman, best known as a member of the Firesign Theatre, died last night of complications from leukemia. He was 72.
The last time I talked to Peter was a few weeks ago. I’d picked up the Albert Ayler Holy Ghost box set, and there, on one of the live discs recorded in Cleveland in 1966, was Peter introducing the band! I called him up that morning and he excitedly told me about that event and we laughed a lot and I told him that he just HAD to write his autobiography.
“Pete, you’re the ‘Zelig’ of the rock era! You’ve been in a film with Jean-Paul Belmondo and Farrah Fawcett. You coined the terms “love-in.” You smoked a joint with Bob Marley and the Wailers when they were your opening act [True, the Wailers opened for Procter and Bergman in Boston. Pete told me the joint was “arm-sized”!]. You guys gigged with the Buffalo Springfield. You’ve worked with Spike Milligan, and now here you are with Albert Ayler, for god’s sake! I mean, come on! You have to do this!”