From 550 to 10 Million in a Few Short Hours

Today is the big day. I am moving from a town of about 550 people to a town of about 10 million. Going to pick up the moving van in a short while, get packed up, and shove off. The building I'm moving into has a larger population than my entire town right now.

(Okay, actually tomorrow is the moving day...I will wake up early and stuff my kittygirls into carriers and climb into the cab of a little moving van and go, but today is my last day here in my home state.)

I woke up a few minutes ago to the soothing strains of dogs barking outside my window, and the occasional car rolling by. If I walk out my back door and go past one block, there's a cornfield. The town's population is 99.2% caucasian. (I keep trying to figure out who that other .8% is.) My new neighborhood is a bustling urban hotspot teeming with activity at all hours of the night and day, and it's a rich mix of ethnicities and languages and cultures. (My brother has informed me that my new zip code is statistically one of the most demographically diverse in the nation.)

In my new home, also, all the comforts of home are within walking distance of my apartment. Gym, library, veterinarian, grocery store, coffee shop and bank are a short stroll away. Here, I have to hop into my car and go anywhere from 1 to 30 miles roundtrip for these amenities.

Part of my urban experiment involves the unloading of my major consumer expense, my car. Yes, I will be studying public transportation maps and learning to ride the trains and buses everywhere I want to go. A few short rail rides from my new home are theaters, art museums, science museums, parks, festivals, sporting events, cultural happenings, and a million things I haven't even thought of yet.

Enough marveling and pontificating now...gotta pack the truck and sedate the pets (and maybe my mom). Wish me luck.

It's True, It's Actual, Everything is Satisfactual

Star Wars came out in 1977. Let me just start with that fact. It came out in 1977, which is easily verifiable with a quick clickie click and a double-check of resources. Okay, fine, its longer name is "Star Wars: Episode IV - A New Hope," and the original title was "Adventures of the Starkiller: Episode 1 - The Star Wars."

Details aside, a fact of our rapidly changing modern lives is that after a certain point in the evolution of the "information age," some kinds of everyday ephemeral arguments should just cease to be. But they don't.

Case in point: during college, I had an internship at a local BBS-turned-ISP. I did some PR-type things and spent time with my 90% male, 95% geeky colleagues, discussing everything from HTML editors to cross-platform compatability to movies and snack cakes.

One day at a nearby restaurant, my boss (the business manager), a couple of techs, the master sysop, and the business owner and I had some fries and chitchat. At one point, the business owner, a nice but nebbish and somewhat spacey guy, begins to reminisce about Star Wars. The question arose as to the year it came out. Most of us knew it was 1977. Most of us said it was 1977. The owner, who I shall call Silly, went off on this whole "No, it was 1978, and I remember because that's the summer we spent at the lake, and we went to the theatre several weekends in a row to see the movie again and again, and..."

Furtive glances were exchanged across the table. Silly, being the boss, couldn't be mocked and smacked down as easily as a tech, and out of some sense of misplaced respect, we didn't press the point, but we all sat there thinking: "Dude. You own an INTERNET COMPANY. The internet is a source of information. Specific information. About things like movies. And release dates. You have no excuse for ever being wrong about anything ever again."

And yet, with instant information just a click away, we are still vulnerable to operating on outdated and incorrect data. Arguments in bars and restaurants about what a tinhat is, the atomic weight of beryllium, and whether song shifts in Pink Floyd's "Dark Side of the Moon" synch up perfectly with the scene changes in the "Wizard of Oz" go on needlessly. And if they occur online, that's nothing but absurd.

Upgrade, people, upgrade.

Relocation Anxiety Dream

I'll be moving from rural Indiana to Chicago in a few short weeks, and my subconscious is working out some low-level anxiety by giving me funny apartment anxiety dreams.

Last night's dream: I showed up with a truck full of stuff, ready to move in, and (though I've seen it before) it was not quite as nice as I'd hoped.

My new place was on the ninth floor, which was inaccessible by elevator. The hallway was open air, and there were vagrants coming in from the fire escape.

The apartment itself had no interior walls, and the apartment lady said "Oh, yes it does, in fact, they're better than usual walls, they are customizeable!" And she yanked a piece of cardboard out of a slit in the wall and scraped it across the floor. "See?"

Then I noticed there were holes in the windows, and my cats were scared to come out of their carrier. Then a bunch of people ambled in with drinks and cigarettes in hand, and I couldn't get them to leave. I started screeching about second-hand smoke, and how, where I live now, the people down the hall from me smoke with their door closed, and even then my clothes smell of cigarette smoke. YELL, YELL, YELL, I went, and the crowd started getting angry with me.

I ran downstairs to discover that the basement pool was full of live electrical wires and junebugs, and even worse, I could not stop myself from repeatedly falling in the water.

I love anxiety dreams. They're always so ridiculous.

Parallel Evolution? Stray Dog Has Survived for 16 Years in Toxic Superfund Site

Isn't this the kind of thing they used to make schlocky 1950's horror movies about? Ordinary earthly life forms, transformed into horrific monsters when exposed to nuclear radiation, mutating into a freakish embodiment of our atomic age fears?

The photo of this mutt is absolutely mesmerizing. This dog has, since 1988, roamed the environmentally hazardous 5000 acres of the Berkeley Pit federal Superfund site in Butte, Montana. Workers at the mine have fed and looked after the mutated-looking dog they affectionately named "The Auditor," due to his erratic appearances.

Kind-hearted folks at the empty copper mine site feed him every night at seven p.m., although sometimes he takes off and wanders for weeks at a time before returning to his home. He is shy of human contact and only once, when a patient caretaker got a chance to trim some of the vision-occluding dreadlocks on top of his head, has anyone had a chance to look into his eyes.

The environment he lives in is about the worst possible, for any living thing:

"Not a single blade of grass, nary a tree, shrub or weed can survive on the acidic crust that dominates this animal's yard. Reeking of sulfur and acidity, this is the kind of soil that eats men's boots, let alone the feet of any normal dog."

The water is toxic, too. In 1995 a flock of 342 migrating snow geese landed on the lake inside the compound, and promptly died.

It sounds like the locals have taken to thinking of their mascot as a symbol for toughness, in a parallel with the rugged town of Butte, which itself endured hard knocks but persevered through difficult times. Hopefully no one will go so far as to say "Aw, heck, maybe that glowing nuclear goo ain't so bad for us after all!"

It All Evens Out in the End

Seems like national mentions of hoosiers are often of the "Indiana Man Wins Village Idiot Award" type. Several years ago we were again embarrassed by the widely-reported story of a vodka devotee who decided she could not take the chronic pain in her toe anymore, and so grabbed a shotgun and shot it off. And she basked in the glow of the camera lights that flocked her way. I think she thought she was Elizabeth Taylor for a day.

In an effort to counterbalance the effect of such mentions in the media, I'd just like to point out that Indiana has also shared with the world many people of accomplishment, including:

Iconic actor James Dean, hot in perpetuity.

President Abraham Lincoln. He wrote the Squaremanipation Proclamation.

Eternally cool author Kurt Vonnegut, who, postwar, was the drinking buddy of a friend of my family (until Vonnegut split for greener pastures).

Songwriter Cole Porter. Hey, I need to see Kevin Kline's portrayal of him. Anyone seen it?

Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo Astronaut Gus Grissom, some of whose children went to school with my oldest siblings.

David Wolf: surgeon, pilot, astronaut, and utter babe.

Legendary WWII correspondent Ernie Pyle.

Madame C. J. Walker, American's first self-made black female millionaire.

President Benjamin Harrison. (I dredged and dredged for interesting info, and here it is: he was the Centennial President. Which is sort of like being the 1000th shopper at Rite-Aid and getting a balloon and a basket of footcare products for the honor.) Oh, and his Pop-Pop was also president. For one month.

Pharmaceutical pioneer Eli Lilly. The Lilly Endowment gives giant piles of money to students like me, so I guess I have emotionally ill people to thank for my love of learning. Thanks, nutbars!

Songwriter Hoagy Carmichael, who wrote one of my favorite songs, Stardust.

Earthquakes in Japanese Art/Lit/Music?

In the event that I actually tell people this blog exists (two months and I haven't passed the link on to anyone) - and readers show up, can someone send me some links about Japanese culture, specific to earthquakes showing up in art, literature, whatever? Yeah, I know I could google, but this is a pretty specific area of interest, and I figure that in addition to internet search engines, and good old text resources, there are probably actual human beings who contain this information, and would enjoy sharing it with me.

This article made me wonder, since Japan experiences about 20% of the world's earthquakes that are 6.0 or higher, that has to take on a subconscious symbolism and show up all over art and culture, right? Phrases, superstitions, the crosshatching of ideas in religion?

It's sort of connected to some ideas I have had about region-specific natural disasters popping up in the literal subconscious, specifically in the dream state. Ask me about Indiana versus Louisiana sometime. Either that, or poke your pinkies against your corneas really hard. It's roughly the same experience.

Overheard in Podunk, Indiana: God Exists! And He Heals Boo-Boos

Never could there be an "overheard" site based in my current town of residence, mostly because there isn't much to overhear. Also, in a town of about 600 people, you can't do much of what can be called anonymous eavesdropping without arousing suspicion.

Not to mention the fact that 95% of the conversations that take place are just rote repetitions of the usual topics. Last Spring, during a powerful thunderstorm, a tree was knocked straight into the middle of a neighbor's empty garage, crushing it into splinters. It was literally the hottest topic of conversation for about two weeks, and you couldn't go anywhere without hearing mention of it. Which might pose a Zenlike riddle: If a tree falls on a garage, and Hoosiers don't talk about it incessantly, did it really happen?

But with the advent of Spring, there are more kids running around, biking, shooting baskets, and generally hanging out just outside my windows. I live in a loft studio in what used to be the town's high school (it was originally built in the 1850's as a YMCA, which is puzzling, because even today my town is in the middle of nowhere). Lately kids have been chilling outside my open windows, oblivious to my awareness of their conversations.

A few Sundays ago I was treated to a very "I Used to Believe" conversation in which little girl was explaining to another little girl the presence of God in her life. The girls had probably just left the Sunday service of the church right next door. It went something like this:

Girl #1: I believe in God because I know he's real.

Girl #2: Oh, I know, I do too. God takes care of me in small ways, and he's really nice.

Girl #1: God is big.

Girl #2: God is also small. Like just now, when I fell off my bike, and I almost ripped my dress, but then I didn't. That was God.

Girl #1: Oh!

Girl #2: And that one time that I fell down the stairs and almost skinned my knee, but then I didn't. That was God.

Spitting Image, Splitting Image, or Split Image? That's Not the Point

In thinking about the recent royal wedding and public opinion about Charles' remarriage, the likelihood of William's direct ascent to the throne, the Cult of Diana, and blah blah, I got sidetracked by a little research into the origins of the phrase "spitting image" (used in the linked article).

Within the first three clicks on relevant links, I found a message board with tons of inquiries into the origins of certain language uses.

"I was born in the Isle of Dogs in 1935 and first came across the expression "Spitting Image" when I was evactuated to Northern Ireland to stay with a relative in 1942 after we were bombed out. There it was used widely in the school and amongst the people who where friend of the family I stayed with in Lisburn so I'm sure that while there was a man with a broken stone there were many others who got the expression from some another source."

For all the stupid and often just plain bad uses people find for the instantaneous worldwide communication that the internet offers, it's so cool that small, personal, specific conversations like this, springing from pure curiousity, flourish as well. Historians will someday be glad that all of this ephemeral digital chatter is being archived, and these small details of everyday life are recorded.

Back to the subject matter, I don't care at this moment what the genesis of this phrase is. And I've moved away from concerns royal and matrimonial. I just want to give the internet a hug.

Otherwise, Dick Jokes are Always Funny

The kids at sheckymag.com are reporting that bon vivant Andy Dick made an unforgettable impression at a Yuk Yuks in Edmonton last week. He was paid $7,500 to, according to a witness, stand at the mic already drunk, drinking even more, making racial jokes, and whipping his Mister out for a little fresh air.


"(A patron) said Dick drank heavily on stage. By the time the brief show ended, he said he was worried someone in the angry crowd would physically attack the comedian."

Suddenly, my long-held dreams of standup comedy seem utterly plausible, although I might be a little unqualified for the weenie-flashing portion of the show.

Which Is Your Favorite Deadly Sin? Mine is Sleepyheadedness

What makes people think that overengineered wake-up technology is going to overcome the raw power of human sloth?

A female MIT student has invented an alarm clock which purports to solve the whole "hit the snooze button eight million times" problem with a special feature: the alarm clock jumps off the bedside stand and rolls away on the floor, so the user has to physically get up from bed and turn it off.

Okay, sure, you get some cute points for giving the invention a name ("Clocky") which brings to mind delightfully weird Pee Wee's Playhouse memories, but still.

Veteran snoozehounds like myself realize what a waste of effort this really is. For awhile in college, when I was in a cycle of staying up too late to finish papers and study, and then desperately trying to wake up early enough each morning to get to my coffee shop job (where they expected me to show up bright eyed and bushy tailed before seven a.m.), I had an even more elaborate system in place to help me wake up on time. It involved lights on timers, strategically located and consumed cans of stimulating beverages, multiple alarm clock around the room that got progressively louder with each snooze resetting, and the ancient, pre-technology standby "hungry cat who begins knocking things down when he's not fed immediately upon the awakening of his owner," and I still managed to sleep too late.

Is this the best application of the energies of our young scientists? How about some wakeup technology that lets me greet the day with fresh breath? Something that gently removes the ick from my eyes before I even open them? An alarm clock that styles my hair? That would be revolutionary. Somebody write a letter to the National Science Foundation. Maybe they can do something in conjunction with the Olsen Twins' CutieMegaGloboChemoCom.

Obligatory Kitty Post

Hilarious and/or Adorable Milestones in the Life of My Kitten

20 Days Old: She was found in a hollow tree near my home, with two hungry mewling siblings. Not knowing better, I brought her to my bed with me that night, which has remained her preferred chilling/vegging/nestling spot.

I was playing some Sims 2 at the time, and somewhere in the family tree of one of the pre-loaded characters is an ancestor named Calpurnia. I was also watching a movie with a lead character of the same name, and I am a big history nerd, so I named the kitten Calpurnia. (Oh, and as I just realized while googling for links, Calpurnia was also the name of the children's caregiver in To Kill a Mockingbird, which, like Demi Moore, Bruce Willis, and likely Sarah Michelle Gellar before me, I have personally read.)

2 Months Old: For no particular reason, I kept my hair up and pinned neatly all the time for the first several weeks I had her. One night I hopped into bed, fresh from the shower, and pulled the towel off my head to comb my hair out. It swung down across my chest and lightly tickled the top of Calpurnia's head as she sat in my lap. She jumped around in a tiny circle, and at the sight of this strange phenomenon seemingly attacking her, she hissed and fell backwards out of utter fright. She was scared of my hair.

Day Before Yesterday (Six Months Old): I interrupted her during a routine headlong incursion into the most fascinating thing in the world, my purse.

Every time I come home, I immediately feed her, and plop on the couch with my purse and start making phone calls and going through whatever papers and purchases I brought home. Unless I immediately remove needed objects from my purse and zip it up tight, she's facefirst into it, rooting around for loose hair elastics, which are her favorite toy. (She nabs them the second I take them off, and must have huge stockpiles of them under various pieces of furniture. I actually had to buy some at the drug store the other day, which, as any woman with a history of long hair will tell you, is almost never necessary. Some of us have tins and jewelry boxes full of hair bands and clips and barrettes from sixth grade. You just don't run out.)

"Ohhhhh...." I babytalked her. "Did you steal my granola bar? Were you going to answer my phone?" Then I looked inside the purse for my phone, and - yes, there was warm, watery, mushy kitten food vomited all over everything. Damn lucky for her everything was easily rinseable, and it was a $10 Target bag instead of a Burberry.

It's moments like this that it seems reasonable that for the dollars I've spent on her and the actual hours of care and patience, I should be rewarded with a tidy, polite, well-mannered five-year old human by now.

(This Morning): Spring is finally here, and the sun is burning through the months of accumulated gloom and grey skies. For the first time since I added Calpurnia to my life, I woke up warm in the middle of the night and slipped off my white cotton socks. When I woke up again in the morning, Calpurnia was perched on a packing box at the foot of my bed, peering cautiously down at my bare toes sticking out from the bottom of my blanket. The puzzled look on her face immediately made me laugh, before I said a single word. I looked to my bedside bookstand, to my copy of Temple Grandin's "Animals in Translation: Using the Mysteries of Autism to Decode Animal Behavior," and I realized that, to Calpurnia, my familiar foot covered with a white sock is one thing, and my heretofore never-seen bare pink foot was actually another object altogether. I kept laughing as she continued to regard my foot the way she does any new object - she sat back, cautiously, periodically swiping at my foot with her exploratory paw.

(Grandin tells a story in her book about cattle ranchers being confused by the cattle's fear of a man approaching them on foot. The cattle had spent entire days of their lives in the company of cowboys on horseback, so why did they freak out when men walked toward them on the ground? Because to the cows, a person on horseback was one living thing. A man who dismounted and approached the cattle looked like a different thing - strange and therefore potentially threatening.)

In summation: Calpurnia was scared of my hair the first time she saw it. Calpurnia puked inside my purse the other day. Calpurnia was scared of my bare feet the first time she saw them, this very morning. Calpurnia is cute and amusing.

Suspect in Theft of Munch's "Scream" Arrested in Oslo

The iconic 1893 painting is still missing, but a leading suspect has been arrested.

Presumably, upon arrest, he clapped his hands to either side of his face, opened his mouth into an anguished howl, and deconstructed into a two-dimensional state.

$113 Million "Dickensworld" Theme Park to Open

"We have great expectations," said backer Kevin Christie.

Oh, no kidding? Ha ha. What a delightful, and totally predictable, thing to say.

Is there a more preposterous business proposal than a park themed around the author of novels that revealed the horrible lives of exploited child laborers in a particularly crummy chapter of Western history?

I would seriously love to see the mock-ups of proposed rides and attractions at this place.

Will the "Please, Sir, May I Have Some More" concession stand serve cold gruel next to the "Victorian Children's 80-Hour Work Week Tilt-A-Whirl?" And will kiddies by the thousands enjoy games like the "Maybe The Textile Machines Will Rip Your Scalp Off/Maybe You'll Win a Stuffed Bear" Beanbag Toss?

And instead of Mickey Mouse ears, will patrons scuttle around the park wearing clip-on poverty rags and facepainted soot smudges? Stellar.

Schwarzenegger Praises Pope's Devotion to Exercise

This seems like inevitable praise from the beefy California governator. In related news,





Ethan Hawke praises the Pope's grubby "authentic" artiste approach,















Paris Hilton remembers him as bleached, tanned, and coked-to-perfection, and















Joan Rivers heralds JP III as a bitter, critical Jewish hag.

Hispanic Jewish Pope Walks Into a Bar...

It's probably disrespectful to speculate, but there is chatter.