Monthly Archives: March 2006

Curst! Cursed, I say!

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I must be. First Diary-x, now this:

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I’ve killed Two Dollar Radio.

Calamari Dancey

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And strikey, and killey and eatey. But most of all, Giant Squid (note meek and respectful capitalization, any giant squid who may be reading this) kick assy!

I don’t know why I am so fascinated by these critters, but there is nothing that starts my day better than a hot cup of coffee and a paper on Giant Squid from the Royal Society, particularly if it includes, as this one does, the word “cloning.”

Kewl.

Giant Squid 

 

Here, we show the first wild images of a giant squid in its natural environment. Recovery of a severed tentacle confirmed both identification and scale of the squid (greater than 8m). Architeuthis appears to be a much more active predator than previously suspected, using its elongate feeding tentacles to strike and tangle prey.
Extraction, amplification, cloning and sequencing methods follow Carlini & Graves (1999) and Kano & Kase (2004).
The recovered section of tentacle was still functioning, with the large suckers of the tentacle club repeatedly gripping the boat deck and any offered fingers (figure 3f)…The longest giant squid on record was 18m total length (Clarke 1969).

Clap your hands

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say wha???

Okay, so I came to this a little late. Gimme a break, you never heard Stephen Hawking sing “Oh Christmastree” until I gave you the link, so cut me some slack here.

I thought I was doing well. From the first day, I’ve been over 40 hits. Supah. That brings my lifetime total to something like…83,200. Not too scruffy, although all the dx hits are lost forever. But PeterPan, PeterBloodyPan, has just welcomed me as site visitor number 8,333,787.

PeterPan

Apparently, he’s still looking for Tinkerbell so if he’s willing to “mentor” on that web popularity stuff I just might know a gal who’s single. At least I know he won’t make me take the bus: pixie dust is much more romantic!

Oh yeah, he has a Webby, too:

          I won both the Webby Award, and the Webby’s Peoples Voice Award, for the ‘wierd’ category. I’m so thankful for all the friends who’ve brought me to this point, and who knows what will happen next!

I say ‘just For the record’, because I heard through the grapevine that one of the nominees had intended to say “Thank God PeterPan didn’t win” for their 5 word speech. Oh well!   I guess God had other plans, and instead I got to say: ” Weird???… God Loves us All!!”.

Homeland Security 1.0

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Homeland Security

raincoaster wins one for the Gipper…well, places in the top ten anyway

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and I never liked the damn Gipper.

Two Dollar Radio have just emailed me to let me know my short (and unfortunately nonfiction) story placed in the top ten of their Shittiest Dates contest. My mother would be so proud! Although my mother would have wanted me to go out with him again; he was a preppy!

Here is their manifesto. I simply refuse to enter a contest from a literary platform that doesn’t have a manifesto, don’t you? Well, you have to draw the line somewhere.

And now, the glorious winner. You can see it on their site, too, but since you’ve probably already clicked on the links, you know that. And have been there, done that, and if you bought the t-shirt I thank you because it’ll pay for my prize in the next contest, etc etc. Operation Global Media Domination is proceeding as planned.

Pretention Yay

Behold, the mind-numbing horror of one of the ten shittiest dates ever entered into the contest run by Two Dollar Radio:

 

I should have known it was going to be a long night when he asked me if I minded going out “after rush hour, when the bus fare goes down.”
He was tall. He was handsome. He was fit. He was educated, intelligent, in law school.
He was in love with Rebecca.
How do I know this? He told me. At length. In the restaurant, he insisted on ordering a particular dessert wine with the main course. Bewildered, I wondered if it was some new foodie fad. No, he said, it was because it was called “Sweet Rebecca,” and that was his ex-girlfriend’s name. She dropped him. She was cruel, and sweet, and had hair like golden silk, or so I was informed. When not explaining how perfect she had been, he spent many a long, silent moment staring into the glass and murmuring “Sweet Rebecca.”
At one point he pulled out a ten-dollar bill and showed me the family resemblance to John A. MacDonald, to which I could only reply, “Yes, one of Canada’s truly great alcoholics.” It was a little too late to impress me by then. And he’d drunk most of the wine, although I could have used a Martini or four, myself.
On the way home, he borrowed bus fare; I never intended to see him again, however decorative he may have been, but at a dollar seventy-five to get rid of him it was a steal.
On the long, no, endless ride home, he had one more golden memory for me. Halfway there, he slowly removed his ski gloves and proceeded, methodically, to pick his nose.