Summer

She looks a trifle miffed. Probably because we've reached the stage where we get consecutive days of triple-digit temperatures. In other words: her flowers are screaming as they burn to cinders.

Spring

I realize I'm a little late in the season, but "Spring" is the title that popped into my head after this image was made. It's almost certainly going to turn into a traditional series, so prepare to be confused as to which equinox is closer.

Death Upon Death

We went on one of our excursions today. Actually, this was a "do over" of a previous excursion, because we really screwed up the first time around. We were looking for the ruins of Sasco, and despite internet resources aplenty we missed it by a good 20 miles or so the first time around. The "roads" we were driving the first time were more like ideas of general direction which didn't have quite so many plants as the other bits of the desert. (I don't care what the "Ironwood Forest National Monument" signs said. That's a friggin' desert. It's a "forest" like I've got hair on my head. Sparse, short, and depressed in its singular loneliness.)

Today was different, in that we looked at one of them there newfangled things called a "map". Perhaps you've heard of it? It's a cartographic dream! Thanks to the map, we found Sasco with no difficulty whatsoever. The ruins are in relatively good shape. The cemetery had a headstone with a date as recent as 2006, which took some of the mystique out of the whole thing. A cemetery for a ghost town shouldn't have anything more recent than the early 1900s to be chill-worthy. Most of the markers had no names or dates. They were apparently somewhat mass-produced, in a homemade sense. Concrete crosses formed in a mold, and placed at the heads of the graves. Some were original, though, so that made up for the recently departed. This particular image is of a nameless tomb that had a nameless cactus take hold and grow in the concrete. The fishhook barrel cactus, though small, was still strong enough to crack open the concrete in search of nutrients and moisture. It found enough of both for a while, but eventually it died as well. Now, an unmarked grave in the desert in a ghost town has only a sun-blackened cactus to distinguish it from the other graves.

Death doesn't fool around in Arizona.

Smite, Smote, Smottled

7:05. A.M. That was the time I heard the sound of the gas-powered leaf blower. The earliest time to date. When you've been having trouble sleeping for a few days and finally drift off a little after 3, the last thing you want to hear is the grinding whine of a two-stroke engine right outside your window. Well, maybe in the top ten, in the general vicinity of Mariah Carey in a yodelling competition.

In other news, I've been dabbling in alchemy. No, not because I've got gold fever, or even Saturday Night Fever. (Though I did wear the suit once.) It's because some of our plants have a bit of an infestation. They're impatiens. So I had to hurry. (Ba-bing!) It turns out that the infestees, spider mites, don't like garlic or hot pepper. Since we live in Arizona, it's a state law to have both on hand. Not literally, of course, but in the kitchen. So the little buggers have been subjected to "Wontar's Mist O' Delicious Death" for two days now. I think it's working, but it's still too early to tell. All I can say for sure is that the balcony smells fantastic.

If it works, I may fill a few water balloons with the stuff and chuck them at the maintenance monkey the next time he wakes me up with that damnable leaf blower.

A Graphic Graphic

This looks rather graphic, doesn't it? I guess it's a carryover from watching murder-type shows on TV. I guess it'll have to be banned, because I'm so darned impressionable. Nothing but interior decorating shows for me from here on out. That way, all the images I make will be people killed by swatches and uncomfortably-placed paint rollers.

Actually, the background is the result of some random filters in Photoshop and is completely artificial. I just changed the accent color to red because green that originally came up was too... otherworldly. In an X-Files kind of way. I know she looks a bit decomposed and all, but don't worry. She isn't. (She's not real.) The texture on her skin is actually from a rock next to a little shack in Saguaro Mountain Park. So the background is artificial, and her skin is somewhat natural.

I know that wasn't exactly riveting. I'll blame it on the insomnia. We've been getting our sleep in two or three hour intervals lately. Very annoying, to say the least. Luckily (I guess), we're experienced insomniacs.

Malachite

101 degrees yesterday, 104 degrees in the forecast today... Hooray for air conditioning and less than 10% humidity!

Gemini

Umbra Aurum

Lamont Cranston, fallen on hard times, digs in the dirt looking for precious metals and loose change. Or interesting rocks, at the very least.

We went prospecting. (Yes, really.) Somewhere in Arizona. (Maybe.) I will say with unrestrained certainty that we found neat looking rocks. And since the title of this post isn't "WOOHOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!" you can pretty much guess we didn't find our weight in gold. Or even loose change. Still, it was fun, and we're going to do it again. I guess that's the official definition of "gold fever".

In other news, thanks to Sam's sleeplessness I get to pitch Contactify as well. I tried it, it works, it's linked on this very page. Not that people were clamoring to contact me or anything, but I like nifty little things like that. Thanks Sam!

In other, other news, today marks the anniversary of the date we arrived in Arizona. Goodbye year two, hello year three. Tempus fugit and all that.

Finally, I have learned something annoying from our recent gold-hunting excursion. See, it was very, very quiet at night. Quiet enough to hunt wabbits. That means that the only thing I could hear late at night were the noises in my own head. Since I normally fall asleep with the TV on, I did not know that the noise count is up to two distinct frequencies: one high, one low. They do not harmonize well at all. All that means is that it's nearly impossible for me to fall asleep in silence without drugs or extreme exhaustion. Sucks for me. (Yeah, I know. Boo hoo.)

Not Who You Think It Is

It's not Gillian Anderson. Really. It's a Poser figure.

On a totally unrelated note, I'd like to start a movement. Not the musical kind. I hope that I can get Al Sharpton involved, mainly because I wouldn't be bothered if some people got fired over this particular bee in my bonnet. See, I'm a night person. Always have been. Today I was forced to greet the day courtesy of one of the maintenance monkeys here at the apartment complex using a leaf blower. Before 7:30. A.M. Because of this,I learned that Tucson's noise ordinance ends at 7 so I couldn't even throw that at them. But still... a leaf blower at 7:30? I know my family is laughing at me, because they get up at about the time I'm thinking of possibly going to bed. Regardless of the time zone difference. (If I didn't look like them, you wouldn't know we were related based on their diurnal habits.)

So, I'd like to start a national movement. Or even an international one. Why not? The rights of the nocturnals have been trodden for far too long. We may be a minority, but that doesn't give you diurnals the right to just bang pots and pans together when the sun comes up. (You selfish bastards.) I'm quiet when you're asleep, and I should be afforded the same courtesy. Your laws have a decidedly anti-nocturnal bent, so I say that infringes on my rights. Not to mention my lefts. I'd like to call it something like "Everybody Shut the Hell Up" movement. But that's mainly because I'm no good at coming up with slogans. And having a movement called "ESHU" will just make people say "Gesundheit" in confusion, and that doesn't even begin to address the issues.

So? Who's with me? Down with daylight oppressors! We want meridian equality and we want it now! (Or something. I said I was no good with slogans.)

The Benefit Of Insomnia is a Squid Ninja

This is the other thing that came of my sleeplessness. Call me shallow, but I dig the way this came out.

What Do You Do When You Can't Sleep?

The Mrs. and I seem to be alternating our sleepless nights. At least we're creative during our rest-free episodes. Yeah, I know, this is just a variation on a theme. But it's not a shop-related image, and that's what's important.

It's Just The Way My Brain Works

Don't get me wrong... despite our present pet-free lifestyle, the whole pet death/pet food recall thing has struck a nerve. I get along with animals much, much better than I get along with most people. The lovely late night ASPCA spot that runs with Sarah McLachlan as a spokesperson rekindles my desire to be the superhero that beats the crap out of people who mistreat animals. Got it? Good. Just making my point for the following thought that came into my head when I heard about all the dog and cat deaths from the tainted food:

Isn't that how the apes became human pets in the Planet of the Apes mythology?

Turns out I was wrong, at least as far as the cause is concerned. The dogs and cats of the world were wiped out by a space plague, so humans naturally used apes to fill the pet niche. Which, I'll grant you, is a much greater leap than the pet to slave, slave to master leap. I mean, if the "traditional" pets really were wiped out, humans would be more likely to switch to something like a ferret as a pet. And "Planet of the Ferrets" just isn't as menacing a title. More like a straight-to-DVD Disney offering, with Tim Allen being contractually obligated to be a ferret.

There May Be A Story Here

But not at the moment. In case I haven't mentioned it lately, Photoshop is pretty friggin' cool.

Watching Words Vanish

With all the legal-themed brouhaha in the news of late, I've noticed something unsettling. The proliferation of the phrase "pleaded not guilty". Apparently it's in fashion to give statements of innocence while wearing a skirt. (Think about it for a minute, you'll get it.) I remember quite vividly the word "pled", and how people "pled not guilty". Now, after a quick search, that word barely registers on the intertubewebs. In fact, the blogger spell-checker is underlining it. Thankfully, dictionary.com has it, albeit tangentially. I know the language changes over time, and I know it's inevitable. I just would have rather it changed a generation after me, so I wouldn't have to twitch all the time. Either that, or have it swing back the other way so we could start tacking "e"s on everything, and spell words like "happiness" with flourishing f-like characters. Viz:

She's Got Layers, Despite Being Nude

I've made so many CafePress shops in the last few days I've literally lost count. A gaggle, perhaps. Or a pod. Creating all those stores and (hopefully) eye-catching images has reminded me just how nifty an application is Photoshop. So today, I'm shying away from T-shirt-themed art to something a bit more... odd. It's an exercise in the functionality of layers. Something with which I've rarely dabbled, despite having experience with the program since version 1.5 or so.

Try Looking Out The Damn Window Instead

In reviewing my site logs, I saw an interesting IP address from a visitor. No, it's not from my former employer or anyone associated with that lovely organization. This visitor was part of the Department of Homeland Security (unwgsgs2.cbp.dhs.gov). The funny part is that this visitor came to my site from Intergalactic Stacey's site. It just struck me as funny that a DHS governmental employee went to a site called "intergalactic" anything in his or her quest for finding illegal aliens. Not funny as in "ha ha" funny, but funny as in "ah, more wasted money and if I don't laugh I'll scream" funny.

In case the DHS person returns, I've got a free hint for you to scribble into your job aid: the intergalactic alien is the kind we need. They'd bring advanced technology, and I might even be able to bypass the whole "flying car of the year 2000" (which I'll never get, and about which I'm very upset) to get my very own USS Jenolen. Pre-crash, that is.

Punctuation Is Important, As Is Shameless Self-Promotion

While driving around scenic Tucson today, I spotted a sign that made me guffaw. Normally I try not to guffaw while driving, but we were stopped at a light so it was OK. (Deb hadn't seen the sign, so she just thought I had finally snapped.) The sign, crafted from fine stone-ground cardboard, was tacked to a telephone pole. It read: "Shit-Zu Puppy's For Sale". I gave them credit for the hyphen, as I thought that the word required one. (Turns out it doesn't.) Not in that part of the word, of course, but I thought it was there. The woefully inappropriate apostrophe s would normally have me enraged, but the first part of the sign really took the sting out of it. There's a word of advice to those of you who are a tad shaky on some of the more fundamental rules of grammar: make the first mistake really funny, and the others will be glossed over by your reader.

In other news, I've been a CafePress madman of late. Eight new stores and counting. If you're interested, click me. If you're not interested, that's fine too.

*sniff*

Different Than Other Years

The day, that is. In that my apartment hasn't burned down, and I haven't decided to move to the other side of the country. Thankfully, a relatively uneventful March 31st for a change. The only other semi-interesting thing of note which happened today is yet another in a long litany of character flaws, the fault for which I place squarely on the shoulders of my parents.

I went out to the wall o' mailboxes today to get the mail. I saw that someone had left their keys in their mailbox. I looked around, but inside my brain the personalities were already bickering even though the outcome was predetermined. The antisocial, anti-samaritan, apathetic, anti-unfeathered-biped in me just wanted to leave them there. Not my keys = I don't care. Screw the idiot who didn't know they were missing their keys. I mean, how the hell can you close and lock your mailbox and not take your keys with you?

Despite all my efforts to nurture this aspect of myself, it keeps losing these internal struggles.

I took the keys out and walked over to the corresponding apartment whilst my internal sociopath kept ranting and raving at having lost another argument. I knocked on the door, and it was answered by Hume Cronyn's father. I explained twice that I found the keys, once to him and once to his equally ancient wife. They both thanked me, he shook my hand, and I left.

I guess when you're someone who goes to great lengths to keep face-to-face human interaction to its barest minimum, it could have been worse. I mean... they could have been nudists. But you would have known about that by now, as you would've heard me screaming.

Noisy As All Get Out

No, that's not a title. That's disgust. I liked this image, but it's noisy. And, since I did so much tweaking to get the colors the way they are, I wasn't about to re-render the thing. Oh well.

Roaming Out West

We saw something interesting the other day. An older man, sitting on the median at an intersection. He was 60-ish, thin wispy white hair, no shirt but wearing an orange reflective vest, khaki pants, and sandals. He had a piece of cardboard upon which were scribbled in his finest Sharpie penmanship something about how he was both homeless and hungry, and his god would bless those who gave him money. (For reasons I have yet to figure out, but that's not the point of my ramble.) He was seated, and hunched over. Not from weakness, hunger, or overwrought despair at his lot in life as you might think from the words on his sign. He was slouched, as he was talking on his friggin cell phone. Granted, I'm assuming he was talking to a human and hadn't just picked up a discarded cell phone and was finally engaging in a less obvious communication with the voices in his head. I guess that's possible, but the posture was a partial attempt to block the noises of traffic. Something not really necessary when the voices are internal. Which leads to a more puzzling question: do you have to pay roaming charges when you're talking on a cell phone to the voices in your head? Sure, they sound close, but if they're extra-dimensional, that would add up to a hefty phone bill at the end of the month.

I'll Never Learn How To Mosey

Our apartment complex is installing a series of gates. (The parking lot "gated community" kind, not the logic kind.) They started at the beginning of February, before my birthday. They're not done yet. Oh, they started with a flurry of activity. Holes were dug, cement was poured, they were just speedy little construction monkeys! Today, the workers were out bright and early at 8 A.M., with jackhammers and industrial-strength air compressors literally right outside the bedroom window. (If I had vats of boiling oil, they would have been utilized.) (So would the webcam.) Needless to say, I had a headache most of the day. However, the noise and disruption were not all in vain, as there is now a shining example of Arizonan workmanship out there! A ditch. That's it. About 20 feet long, and maybe 6 inches deep. It's not even straight.

So, if you're in construction or the general contracting business and you want to step up your business and slow down at the same time, consider moving your operation to Tucson. Even if you move at half speed, you'll fly past the competition. This laid back, slow pace nonsense is ridiculous. Hell, they make some government employees I know look like friggin' speed demons! At this rate, the gates will be done by August. Well, at least one of them will be. The other three... they'll be done when they're done. Meantime, I'm fixin' to get ready for break. Eventually.

Schematic Dream

Oh, before anyone has a conniption, that's not a real person. It's a Poser figure. Fake nudity won't corrupt anyone. Of course, real nudity doesn't corrupt anyone either. Power corrupts, though. I guess naked power would corrupt. Those who are in power should not be naked, unless it has direct bearing on an emperor's new set of clothes. If someone from the power company shows up to your house and is naked, you should call the authorities.

Hmm... where did I put my medication?

(I can't wait to see what my Google Ads will look like after this posts!)

Kristy McNichol meets TRON

Or something like that.

Party Paramecium

Even single-celled organisms need to get a little funky now and then. (I could've gone with "Dinoflagellate Disco", but sometimes I'm even too nerdy for me.)

Falling

It looked better in my head. But then, many things do.

Initials Notwithstanding

This was more fun than it should have been. The background was done by yours truly, since they were kind enough to export it as a .png. I don't know if the rings are supposed to represent my ability to telepathically communicate with fish, the signals I'm receiving from extraterrestrials, or me wandering onto a rifle range in the fog. I just know I liked the way it looked, so I went with it. If you click on the link, you too can render your own self-portrait in candy.

Infinity's Teeth

Intergalactic Stacey's post regarding "Tweak Tag" taught me a couple of things. This is what I came up with, and while it's not nearly as nifty as hers are, I kinda like it.

I Love My New Computer

Because it can make things like this. I can actually max out settings in Apophysis. The old one was incapable, and the next step down resulted in very, very long renders. Of course, I couldn't do anything else while it was rendering. But with the new computer, I'm rendering as I'm typing! No lag! No churning noises coming from the CPU! Woohoo!

Oh, and I have no idea what to call this. It is, however, a new favorite. I really, really like the way this came out.

I'm Thirty-Seven. I'm Not Old

No, I haven't been called "old woman", nor have I been called "Dennis". Today does, however, mark the day that I finally fit into the remainder of that particular Monty Python quote. So far, the birthday events have been pretty darn fantastic. I received a case of JAX (regular, not the icky crunchy kind) from my parents. Sent because that particular snack food item cannot be found in Arizona. If you're saying "Why don't you just eat Cheetos?", then go bash yourself in the head with something. Plush or otherwise, as I'm feeling generous. They're not the same, dammit. And you can't truly call yourself a geek without a predilection for a fake cheese puffed-corn snack that turns everything in a ten-foot radius orange. In a slightly larger scale, I finally broke down and got a new computer. Not the break down in the curled-up-in-a-ball-and-weeping-uncontrollably sense, but stopped resisting the notion to buy one. Seeing as I'm on the computer for more hours than most people are awake in a day, every day, it's justified. Plus, my old computer was making a rather un-computerlike noise that I couldn't figure out, so it was better to get a new one than have the other one melt. (I would have had a breakdown, then.) It's a nifty dual-core XPS, and it's ridiculously fast. However, my only option was to have Vista pre-installed. I'm not terribly thrilled with that, but I've decided to give it a chance and see how it goes. Initial impression: meh.
Deb has made me (us) a chocolate cake with chocolate and vanilla frosting, and tomorrow's special meal will consist of a free steak dinner from the fine folks at Black Angus Steakhouse. (I provided that link primarily for the people who read that name too quickly and were shocked by what you misread. You know who you are.)
So, I'm one year closer to 40, one year closer to seeing something like this:

Drano For Our Intertube-webs

Our friendly neighborhood Comcast tech stopped by today. We had an appointment, and he showed at the allotted time, which is a plus. I may have mentioned that our cable internet kept dropping off whenever it rained. Granted, that's not usually a huge problem in Tucson, but it's been pretty rainy lately. No internet connection makes me angry. (What, like I'm going to read a book or something?) Timmy the Tech informed us of something rather alarming... we've got signal loss. Outside, it's an eight, but inside we're getting a zero. I'm assuming that's on a scale of 0-8, but I was not presented with a pie chart or anything. Or a cookie graph. No sort of baked goods-related visual aids whatsoever. When Comcast gives you bad news, they really know how to make it hurt!

In any event, it seems that there's a bent and possibly broken cable outside, so someone else is going to come and work on that tomorrow. I guess the guys who work on the outside cables have bigger trucks or something. They only work with a referral. Timmy did improve our cable TV reception, though, so he actually did do something. Of course, the only reason we have cable TV is so we can get cable internet service, so no great shakes there. Still, it is nice to see the non-Spanish channels without interference. Even if they're just country music and religion. (Two things so very, very near and dear to my heart.) If they can get my cable modem to give me 6 megs per second consistently and without an umbrella like it's supposed to, I'll be happy.

Infinite Purple Disco Galaxies

Horrifying to contemplate, but interesting to look at. Thanks to Dzeni for the inspiration. Her fractals look infinitely better than mine, but it's giving me something else to explore with Apophysis.

Typos Doth Vex Me

It's a good thing I'm not a proofreader by trade. My head would have blown up by now.

From an internet radio site: "so you can listen in the future without the hastle". Yes, the little red underline thingy just means that I'm spelling it with emphasis!

From the footer of a Yahoo! e-mail: "Don't get soaked. Take a quick peak at the forecast". Because everyone knows that weather comes from mountains. The tops of the mountains, or "peaks", tear holes in the clouds. That's where rain comes from. Ripped clouds.

I really don't get it. I mean, I understood it (to some degree) when people didn't have spell checkers to do it for them. But even this blog writing applet underlines the words that aren't words! So, I've decided I'm going to speak in typo from now on. I'm joining the masses. When I meet people, I'm going to say "Heee" instead of "Hi". "Shoe" instead of "sure", things like that. Changing vowels here, stretching consonant pairings there... if I'm consistent I'm pretty sure I can get some sort of pity funding. At the very least, I'll get people to leave me the hell alone.

My Legs and I Are Not On Speaking Terms

We went to Peña Blanca Lake today, as the first stop on a day planned with much enjoyment for all. It's south of us, nearly in Mexico, but a short drive to reach. We took the unpaved road to a parking area (marked with an "X" on the right side of the map), and walked down a trail to the lake. Once there, we decided to walk around the entire lake. Yes, you read that right. Walk around the entire friggin' lake. The trail was narrow, rocky, Bullwinkle, and had patches of snow here and there. We weren't going for any land speed records, though, as we stopped now and again to take pictures. Naturally. It wasn't bad at all, as it was refreshing to be outside and still be chilly rather than feeling all hot and incinerated. When we finally reached the spot on the map marked with a "Z" (center left), we decided to just walk up the road rather than continue our off-roading ways. By that time, hiking had lost its appeal, and sitting in the car became very enticing.

I'd like to pause to point out that we had initially stopped and parked at the "X", and did not know how far the road went between the "Z" and the "X". If you were to draw a semi-straight line between the two on an overhead map, you'd say: "Gee, if you keep hiking, you'd get back to the car much, much quicker than if you go all the way up on the road!" If you were to say that, and you had an overhead map with you at the time, I would heartily agree. However, you and your damn map were nowhere to be found, so instead we walked on the road. Did I mention that the inclination of the road was up? Uphill really sucks when you're sick of walking. Paved or unpaved.

My head is sunburned, my legs hurt, and I'm going to ceremoniously destroy my boots for being ridiculously uncomfortable. But it was worth it, because we got to experience this:

As for the rest of the trip... eh. We were supposed to go see some ghost towns. Old Glory was on the map, but no road existed for it. Despite there being a road on the map. Ruby was closed. Yes, closed. It's privately owned now, and the owner only has it available on Thursday - Sunday. Plus, he charges $12 per person to see the place. Expletives were shared by all when we finally got to Ruby. Partridge was gone, Arivaca was there, but nothing to write home about. So, all in all, it was a good day. My legs may even forgive me. Probably by about Tuesday.

Screams of Panic in the Desert

Yep, snow. Not where we are, but there's apparently snow on the ground just to the north of us in Oracle. The little forecastfox toolbar on my browser shows snow for today and tomorrow, and there's supposed to be about a foot or so of snow in the higher elevations. An interesting side effect of this is that our cable has been out for a few hours today. Not sure why, as it has really just been a cold rain for us. I guess the bastards at Comcast have a panic button that shuts everything down as they prepare to hibernate and hide from the scary cold stuff. I am a little disappointed that the snow hasn't, and most likely won't, hit the ground here. I'd just like to see how the locals would react. I guess I'll have to console myself that they're freaking out just a bit that it's currently 32 degrees outside. And I'll be looking back on this day with great fondness around July 1st when it's 2,000 degrees in the shade...

Update!

Shows how good I am at forecasting. Snow actually landed on the ground! Schools were either closed, or delayed for a half day in the hopes that the scary, evil white stuff would hurry up and melt away so that the darling children wouldn't have to be mentally scarred by its presence. How much snow was there? Well, this is what I saw when I looked outside:

And there's more snow in the forecast! What are we going to do?!?!?!?!?!?

Sheesh. In the wilderlands of upstate New York, we call this "June".

You'd Think The Missing Roof Would Be The Bigger Problem

Taking pictures of adobe ruins is enjoyable. Manipulating those pictures so that a window in an old adobe fort becomes a portal into another dimension where spectral firefly things use their green flame energy to rip their way into our world is also enjoyable. Just in a different kind of way. I guess it's just my way of saying that no matter what your weather is like outside, it could always be worse. Wind, rain, snow, heat... they all pale in comparison to an interdimensional invasion.

I Have No Idea

... what to call this. I like it, Deb likes it, and that's good enough for me.

I Can Make Real Things Look Fake

Since we discovered these nifty toxic plants on New Year's Day, I've been itching to do something creative with them. Because, really, what else would one do with strange toxic plants? This one got a kind of rose treatment, just because I felt like it. We're thinking of something more Halloweeny for the others, though. I mean, a creepy plant like that belongs on some sort of Halloween decoration. The flash made this look more like plastic than plant, though. It looks fairly good in natural light.

Oh, and I was thinking of something more along the lines of this for the Halloween thing:

Thank you Photoshop for making my color choices easy without me having to get paint all over everything.

New Year Spooktacular

One of the great things about living in Arizona is the plethora of ruins. Towns that were once booming have now crumbled and have been mostly reclaimed by the desert vegetation. Fairbank is one of those towns, and we were fortunate enough to visit it on New Year's Eve. Of particular interest, for us at any rate, was the fact that the Fairbank cemetery was readily accessible. Most of the graves were like the one pictured above. A simple wooden cross, and a pile of stones. They were scattered without rhyme or reason on a hilltop a half mile away from the town. One grave, presumably that of a child, had had some recent visitors. Evinced by the toys left at the base of the weatherbeaten (weather-blasted, really) little wooden cross. With no name on the cross, I doubt the visitor was a relative. But it just goes to show you that graves and markers are made for the living much more than they are for the dead.

Today, we drove along some very... interesting... roads in order to visit Camp Rucker in the Coronado National Forest. ("Interesting" = the kind of dirt road you're better off walking on than driving on) Not only did we get to see ruins from 1880 or so, but we got to see something we haven't seen in quite a while: snow on the ground! Yep, it's been cold here, but we were at about 6,500 feet. That's above the snow line, apparently, and we got to trudge around in the stuff for a while.

It's nice to visit, but I'm glad I don't have to shovel it. Makes for some cool pictures, though. (No pun intended.)

Merry New Year

Yep, still breathing. Just not terribly inspired. So, with this 300th post, I wish you all a Merry New Year. Keep the resolutions to a minimum, as they only serve to depress you further. If you feel you must make a resolution or two, keep them easily achievable. Something like: "This year, I promise not to alter the gravitational constant of the universe." As long as your name isn't a single letter in the latter part of the alphabet, that should be relatively simple.

Tapestry

Not the 14th century bad-perspective kind, but the "of Life" kind. The holistic interconnectedness of all things. Whether you realize it or not, whether you like it or not, you're a part of that tapestry. Nothing, not even death, will change that. Even if you think you are your own grandiose picture, you are only a thread. But without that thread, the whole picture changes.

That's all my profundity for today. I'm off to take a nap.

Daily Allotment of Fiber Optics

Thanks to Dzeni for inspiring me to figure out what in the heck a "wire and tubes" fractal was!

Sing It With Me... The Horn On The Bus Goes

My better half and I left the apartment today to visit the post office. I was driving. After roughly 400 feet we came to an intersection wherein my lane is the "through" lane, and the road to my left has a stop sign. In other words, they have to wait until there ain't no damn cars coming before they can go on their merry friggin' way. Stopped at the intersection is a school bus. (Here's where I get my father's attention, so I'll go into more detail.) Not the little dinky short bus, but a big honkin' flat-faced bus. Not surprising, as the school would be a short distance up the hill after making a left turn from its current stopped position. As I approached the bus, the driver (who I will from this point forward refer to as "she") started to pull out. Remember: I had no stop sign, no flashing lights, no nothing. She's the one who was supposed to be waiting at the friggin' stop sign for traffic to be clear in both directions before initiating such a maneuver. She starts pulling out, then finally decides to look in my direction. She saw our vehicle. So what does she do?

She &%$*ing honks her &%$*ing horn at me! At me!!! The one who is actually abiding by the traffic laws and not endangering a busload of children. (Go figure. I've really changed since moving to Arizona.)

No, I did not stop. I did not let her in. Absolutely not. It's not my fault she was late, or whatever the hell her problem was that she decided to break the law for her convenience and forsake the safety of her charges. That's absolutely inexcusable behavior for a bus driver. (Right, Dad?) There was no collision or anything. No sounds of crashes, no injuries or accidents of which we're aware, no mayhem to report. Just a driver whose only thought was of herself, rather than the people on the road. Not to mention the people she's supposed to protect.

I did unleash a string of expletives that continued until we reached our destination, though. So I guess I haven't changed too much...

You're Only As Old As...

My niece turned 16. Sixteen. She's old enough to drive. Nearly done with high school. She was the first, and only, child I've ever had to "baby-sit". Not that it was a big deal, as we watched TV. *Whew* Now, she's driving around maniacally... in my old car, no less!... and will soon be able to vote.

Yes, yes it does make me feel old. Thank you very much. However, I am comforted by the fact that my brother not only feels older, but is older. So ha ha!

Happy birthday, Beck! Should you actually have occasion to venture online, here's something just for you:

Scent of a Witness

I received a letter in the mail today. That in and of itself is odd, since I've gone to great lengths over the years to exist as much as possible in the electronic world. The envelope was hand-written, and the return address was a complete unknown. The contents of the envelope made me laugh, though I'm sure that wasn't the intent of the sender. The envelope contained a typed letter, and some literature from the Jehova's Witnesses. That just goes to show you how hot it gets in Arizona... they don't even peddle religion door-to-door. I guess a few books of stamps is a heck of a lot cheaper than having to deal with heatstroke.

On a completely unrelated note, I have a rant. I haven't ranted in a while, so I may be rusty. Bear with me...

My better half and I were out shopping the other day when we walked past a mom and her two kids. They went their way, we went ours. Normally, that's the limit of human interaction I have these days. And I like it that way. Unfortunately, the mother's perfume was trailing ever so slightly behind and decided that the best way to keep up with her was by going into my nostrils, transmogrify into a white-hot spear, go through my eye and out the back of my head in an explosion of pain and chemical flora-mockery. I hate perfumes. Not just "parfum", but scents that people slather on in the false belief that it makes them smell "better". There's this great stuff that can easily and cheaply take the place of all the perfumes, aftershaves, colognes, and powders out there. It's called friggin' water. Some people call it water, but you'd call it "friggin' water" too if you couldn't open your eye because some petrochemical skunk queen just wandered by. I mean, why even bother to bathe at all if you're just going to dowse yourself in crap? Just layer on the crap and save some time in your day. Plus, you'll be more susceptible to disease and die quicker. You'll still stink, but in a more natural way. If you're unsure as to whether or not you're using too much fake scent, here's a helpful hint: if you've never been bitten by a mosquito or other insect because they die upon entering your personal airspace, you're wearing too much. If you hear a lot of coughing, retching, or cries of "what the hell is that smell?" downwind of you, you're wearing too much. If people seem moved to tears by everything you say or do, or tend to turn blue because they're not breathing, you're wearing too much.

Feel free to come up with your own, but I think you get the idea.

High Speed Wild Kingdom

Where's Marlin Perkins when you need him? Oh yeah... still dead. We had an interesting bout with nature yesterday. (And no, this one had nothing to do with rattlesnakes.) We've had a hummingbird as a regular visitor since we set up a hummingbird feeder. My better half named him "Boris" because, well, just because. Yesterday, however, another male came to the feeder. Boris was not pleased. Turns out that hummingbirds are very territorial. We got to see that little tidbit of nature play out as the two of them not only cursed at one another in their tiny, squeaky hummingbird voices, but they also engaged in some high-speed aerial acrobatics as they fought. I mean fought. Boris knocked the newcomer into the wall a couple times, and zipped past him to knock him away from the feeder. It all came to a blockbuster movie climax when we heard a strange buzzing sound. One had the other pinned on his back, tiny talons locked in mortal combat. The buzzing was from their wings hitting the concrete patio at a bajillion beats per minute. Deb opened the door to startle them to get them to stop, while I started humming the fight song from "West Side Story". (Incidentally, that's a good song to start humming to get you out of a jam. Whether you're a dueling 3 gram bird or not.)

I only heard one hummingbird out there today, but never got a good look at him. We don't know if Boris prevailed, or if another has usurped his place at the feeder. If that's the case, feel free to suggest a new name. As long as it's not "Boris Jr."

Inferno

This makes for one nifty desktop, if I do say so myself.

In-Flight Drooling

We're back in scenic Tucson after a lovely visit to New York. The wedding went off with a hitch (get it?), it only snowed one day at my parents' house, and we got to remember what it was like to wear winter coats. It was great seeing all the work friends, and I have to apologize to them for laughing so much. We were regaled with work stories, and nothing has changed. If anything, it's gotten worse. I may be a bastard for laughing, but I'm a bastard who is thinner and hasn't had a headache in months.

Since our flight left at 6 AM, that meant we had to leave my parents' house at 3:30 in order to get to the airport on time. In other words: we did not sleep. No point in it. Once we were on our first flight, though, we were both unconscious. Unfortunately, it was only for a few minutes at a time. For some reason we were seated in exit rows for three out of four legs of our entire trip. Most people would be happy with this, as they'd appreciate the extra leg room. My wife and I are Shetland people, though, so we have leg room in regular airplane seats. (We could probably fit in the overhead compartment, but haven't tried that yet.) So, we were stretched out, would doze off, wake up with mouth agape and horrified that we were snoring and/or drooling, eat some peanuts, and doze off again. We did that for both parts of our return trip, so the whole day is rather blurry and peanut-scented.

We pretty much passed out after we got back home. Not that we were devastated by the trip. Sleeping at the hotel was awful, but sleeping at my parents' house was great. Two insomniacs who need a TV on in order to sleep in a place where the only sound you can hear at night is your own breathing? On paper, that's a recipe for disaster. In reality, we slept like proverbial logs. (Stupid lazy logs.) My parents should rent out my old room to people with sleeping disorders. (Other than us, that is.)

So, 30 degrees warmer, here we are. Back in the mountainous desert. Or deserted mountains. Or something having to do with cacti and heat.

Jet Lag

We're in New York for a wedding. Actually, we've been in the state for a few days, but the first few have been in the wilderlands of my birth. Internet access is rather slow. I can sum it up thusly: dial-up, "good connection" = 21.6k. I know I sound all haughty, but I'm addicted to my cable modem. I don't think I could handle dial-up again. Not for any great length of time, anyway.

We're currently in a hotel on Long Island, on what I believe to be a DSL connection. I plug it in, it works, it's fast, I'm happy. It's interesting to be in New York again, and especially on LI. The place really has an effect on me, due in a large part to the drivers. Bunch of arrogant, selfish bastards. (And this is coming from me!) I used to be patient, utilize a space cushion, all that stuff. It all went away the day I became a Long Island driver. I was just out of college, recently moved to and employed on LI. I lasted a week at my first job, all because of the drive. I had the audacity to use my turn signal to try and get off of the Long Island Expressway one day. I couldn't get over, because nobody would let me in. Not an inch. Not enough room to let my friggin' tiny little Horizon in. So I did something amazingly stupid, thanks to my amazing temper. I turned anyway, cursing and yelling the whole time. I made it, and I'm sure there was at least one horn to trumpet my success. Not to mention other curses. My heart was pounding, and I was furious. My driving patience left that day. It made driving on Long Island much easier, but it's made driving in Arizona a *whole* different experience.

Now I'm the crazy one.

Happy Birthday!

It's my lovely wife's birthday. Here's where I get to say "Happy Birthday" to the best person, ever. No contest, everybody else pack up and go home. I could riddle this description with a ton of sayings that sound cliché regarding how I feel, yet that changes not one iota of the truth of the words. She is, quite literally, the best thing to ever happen in my life. So there. (If you want to wish her a happy, go here.)

And no, that's not her birthday cake. Even though it should be.

Voting, Pants Optional

My better half and I received our mail-in ballots a couple days ago, and I spent a large amount of time today doing the whole voting thing. I'm more than a little ashamed to say that this was the most informed I've ever been in casting my vote, mainly because I had the power of the internet at my disposal. Having the ability to research every proposal and candidate on the ballot was fan-friggin-tastic. I could look at who said what or felt in what way regarding a certain issue and vote accordingly, rather than trusting my memory for political rhetoric in a room full of people. When I'm in a room filled with people, my primary thought is how quickly I'm going to be out of that room and/or how to get out of the room even faster even if (or especially if) casualties are involved. Mandating a mail-in vote rather than a drive-up/walk-in vote is actually on the Arizona ballot, and it most assuredly received my vote. I'm foolish enough to believe that more people (not all, but more) would take the time to make an informed voting decision if they could vote at their convenience by mail.

Of course, the bad part of all this information is realizing that many candidates have lousy websites. Or worse, no website. Call me shallow, but if you can't put a decent website together to present your stance on the issues then that just tells me that you don't give a damn about the job. No vote for you, technophobe.

The best use of a website to sway my opinion went to one of the people running for Superintendent of Public Instruction. I don't react well to typos or grammatical errors at the best of times, but if you're trying to convince me that you should be in charge of education you damn well better check the text on your website! Lead by example, maybe?

Ruins, Erosion, and Pants (not necessarily in that order)

We spent the weekend visiting our friends south of us. We went for a hike to the ghost town of Charleston. It's not a ghost town like you'd see in them there talky motion pictures. It's just a few adobe walls that have survived the 127 years of Arizona weather since they were constructed. One of the problematic parts of the hike was having to cross a rather wide stream. If this seems odd to you, keep in mind that we're in Arizona. A puddle is enough to make us stop and stare, so an actual body of flowing water is like unto an alien life form for other people. It's been a damp summer, so there was evidence of flooding. A lot of flooding.

The water was about 20 feet wide for the most part, and anywhere from a few inches deep to a couple of feet. However, there was evidence of floodwaters rising about 20-30 feet on both sides of the existing water level. Oh, and quite a bit higher. About ten feet, probably more, judging by the debris wrapped around trees and well out of my reach. Pretty neat stuff.

Oh yeah. While hiking, I was wearing shorts. It's all I had. That marked one of the very few times in my life I've uttered: "I wish I was wearing pants!" and actually meant it. Those were not the pants to which I alluded in the title of the post. If you've ever had your weight fluctuate, you have at least one pair of pants that you plan on wearing "some day". Since the weather has cooled off here, we got the jeans out of the closet and I actually tried on my "some day" jeans. Jeans that were ridiculously, circulation-inhibitingly, breathtakingly tight (for all the wrong reasons) in New York yet have come across country all the same in the vain hope that "some day" I'd fit in them again. I put them on.

They fit.

I've lost 30lbs since we moved, but I know I still need to lose more. Knowing that, I've never really felt like I've accomplished much in the weight loss department. Until today, when I wore my "some day" pants. All damn day.

Inversion Immersion

My better half was doing her creative thing with one of her photographs. She started by turning it into a black and white image, and it was at that point that I had to try my hand at manipulating the same B&W image. My first "final" attempt came out as this blue thingy, and I liked it. However, no image should ever truly be "done" in my world, so I kept playing and came up with this:

Since I couldn't decide which I liked better, you get to see both of them. You lucky, lucky blog-reading people!

What Happens In Vegas...

... doesn't make one bit of difference out here. Yes, you can see a little bit of Las Vegas in this picture. It's in the center, below the moon and above the small hill. This picture was taken in the Red Rock Canyon area, just outside the city. When you're in Vegas, it's easy to forget that you're in one of the more spectacular parts of the country as far as natural landscapes are concerned. If a trip to Las Vegas is in your future, remember that casinos aren't everything. Also remember that "the strip" is for tourists, and is designed to deprive them of their money as quickly as possible. We did much better at Sam's Town.

In answer to the inevitable questions: Yes, we've been in Vegas for the past few days. No, we didn't win big. (Had we done so, the title of this post would be something like "Woohoo!" followed by a bunch of expletives.) We have learned that Google's directions are great, but their time estimates are off. Probably because they don't take into consideration the 75 MPH speed limit. So, Vegas is really only about a seven hour drive away. Or less, depending on how badly you want to gamble. It's a beautiful drive, though, so there's really no need to rush. We have learned that the Stratosphere charges for internet access. $9.95 a day. Yes, a day. That's why we've been out of contact for a while. We learned that having a car to drive around while in Vegas is pretty darn convenient.

Oh! I had a brush with mediocrity at the airport while waiting for our friends from New York to arrive. As we were waiting, Jenna Elfman walked hurriedly past me towards the exit. I told Deb, she said "Who?", and that pretty much sums it up. I'm actually ashamed I know who she is, as I didn't realize I had absorbed that much irrelevant pop culture.

Now we're back, we're tired, and we're gambled out. If you'd care to contribute to our next gambling excursion, I'll set up a fund or something.

The Circuits Are Fusing...

... the surveillance system, everything is overloaded! And I think Ted is dead.

If you can name that movie and you're not related to me, you get 100 Internet Points to spend wherever you wish.

Drawn Out Yammering

I did something the other evening that I've not been able to do for quite a few years. If we still lived in New York, I would not have been able to do it at all. Or at the very least would not have been able to do it without much pain. What was this mysterious activity?

I sat down with a sketchbook in my lap and a pencil in my hand, and drew. My hand! It didn't hurt to hold a normal pencil! And use it!

I used to draw for hours on end. I have sketchbooks filled with stuff. I used to draw on my breaks when I worked at the place which shall not be named. I was 23 when I got a ridiculous cramp in my drawing hand. I was at work, and instead of going home I stayed and typed one-handed for the rest of the night. (Idiot that I am.) From that point on, every once in a while I'd go run my hands under hot water to make them feel better. I got to a point where holding a pencil just hurt too damn much. Luckily, I could make artwork with a computer. Not nearly the same, but it helped keep the artsy creativity going. I never felt like I could get the computer images just right, though. That's not to say that the ones I drew were "just right" either. I just felt more control over the whole process from brain to paper, rather than from brain to computer screen.

The fact remains that my joints don't ache here. Whether that's because of the elevation, the lack of humidity, the lack of stress, the lack of 30 excess pounds of blubber, or a combination of the aforementioned, I really don't care. I can sit down and friggin' draw again! Woohoo!

egamI rorriM

Sometimes that face in the mirror isn't a reflection of you at all.

Spheres and Rings and Other Round Things

Sometimes the titles are good, sometimes they're not.

2,996 - Jonathan Eric Briley

Jonathan Eric Briley was working at Windows on the World (North Tower of the World Trade Center) as an audio media specialist during the terrorist attacks.

He is survived by his wife, Hillary; his parents, Marie and the Rev. Alexander Briley; two brothers, Alexander and Timothy; and two sisters, Gwendolyn and Joanne. He used to tell his sister Gwendolyn "there was nothing like" the sunrise he could see each work day from the 110th floor.

Religion played an important role in his life. As a teen-ager, he was a member of Shiloh Baptist Church in New Rochelle. He served in the Christian education ministry and the music ministry. At the time of his death, he worshipped at First Baptist Church of Elmsford, where his father is the pastor

He is believed to be “The Falling Man”.

Richard Drew - AP

That image may offend you. Here, in a post that is meant to celebrate a man’s life, I put an image of him moments before his death. If you believe that his death was a suicide and because of that he is damned, go away. Now. Those who jumped that day exhibited courage, not cowardice. This image not only captures the final moments of a man’s life and conveys a powerful message. Not a message of despair and hopelessness. Not even one of faith, though it’s possible that Jonathan’s faith played no small part in his decision. Did he hope for a miracle? Did he leap into the arms of God? I don’t know. I do know that, for whatever reason, he chose not to wait for his fate to come to him. He took matters into his own hands, and he chose to act.

If that isn’t a profound celebration of life, I don’t know what is.

Life will throw all manner of things in our direction, both good and bad. We can either accept it or grab on with both hands and do something with it. It may not go the way you want, but at least you made the effort and demonstrated strength of will, character, and courage.

Jonathan Eric Briley proved to us all that he had those strengths on the morning of September 11, 2001 when he stepped off into the sunrise.

http://www.jonathanbriley.org/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Falling_Man

http://www.esquire.com/features/articles/2003/030903_mfe_falling_1.html

http://www.dcroe.com/2996/

Sirenflower

If you are out in the woods late at night and you have your senses about you, you may just wish you didn't. Should you catch but the faintest scent of the Unt'kini (some call it "Sirenflower") you will be lost. Not lost as in "I can't find my way home", but lost as in "never seen again and mourned by friends and family". It calls you. Gets inside your head and pulls you towards it. You'll crawl naked through the thickest thickets without slowing down to get to the source of that terribly captivating fragrance. You'd rather die than not have that perfume fill every breath as if it were your last. But that's the thing... you're so captivated by the smell that you don't think of anything else. You don't eat, drink, or sleep. You just breathe and sigh contentedly as you wither and die. Your body becomes food for the damned flower. Your corpse just lies there grinning like a slack-jawed idiot as it rots and gets digested. Soon, but not soon enough, your body is gone. But that's not the worst part. The plant doesn't just get into your head and eat your flesh. Oh no! Your spirit is trapped as well. The call is so strong that it holds you for eternity, tormented by the memory of the scent with no means to recapture it! The spirits that dwell near the flower howl and wail. Not as a warning, but in despair. Their cries of anguish would scare normal folks away, but anyone close enough to hear their cries is already caught in the spell of that damnable plant. I've cried enough because of it over the years. Or is it decades now? Centuries? I don't even know why I'm telling you this. I've seen that expression countless times before. You can't hear me. You're trapped, and there's no hope. For either of us.