Life is NOT a journey to the grave with the goal of arriving safely in a prettily preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways in a shower of gravel and party shards, thoroughly used, utterly exhausted, and loudly proclaiming: "Fuck ME, that was BRILLIANT!"— Saltation (2004)
(revved-up from an earlier quote,
apparently from Hunter S. Thompson)
Friday, March 31, 2006
Geektastic
Check this out! A web version of an old Macintosh!
I mean, it WORKS! Just like they used to. The Eyeballs, the screensaver. SOMEbody has FAR too much time on their hands.
I mean, it WORKS! Just like they used to. The Eyeballs, the screensaver. SOMEbody has FAR too much time on their hands.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Religious Fundamentalism rears its ugly head yet again
See, people who say religions are somehow a special magical aspect of human behaviour which must be honoured above all other considerations, are, to my mind, literally insane.
I can't remember who said it first, but "Arguing about religion is like arguing about who's got the biggest invisible friend."
We've seen it recently with extremists in one religion seeking to kill completely-unrelated third parties for previously being obnoxiously more successful (9/11), then latterly for not complying with the extremists' personal lifestyle choices and demands (Danish cartoons).
We've seen it again recently, where a group dominated by one religion specifically requested someone to think up and publicly present challenging and thought-provoking topics for research, then hounded him out of office for mentioning a topic which conflicted with their religion. (Larry Summers, late the president of Harvard University).
You'll note here I use the word "religion" in its real sense, rather than its nominal sense.
Now, we see another brutal upwelling of mindless fundamentalism. Again, there are religious protests in the UK, and the fundamentalists of one religion are seeking to enforce their peculiar fantasies over the reality of other people's lifestyle choices.
This time, they're Christians.
From the same culture which not so long ago executed a boy for joking, as he walked poorly clad through winter's snow and bitter winds, that he was so cold he'd welcome the chance to stand in hell for a while, we bring you:
A decision to run a Sunday ferry between parts of the Western Isles has triggered a major row.
So far, no one's been killed. But that's just an accident of history, of current cultural behaviours -- not any measure of the underlying hysteria.*
See, religion is not about other people. Religion is about your relationship with your god. CHURCH is about your relationship with other people, and about your ability to affect their lives.
Prophets create religions; Priests create churches.
And churches usually contradict the original religion even as they declare they propagate it. Jesus attacked faux-religious power-hunger and commercialism --and after he was gone, his church's priests later sold redemptions and dominated European real-politic; Mohammed demanded his followers not worship him or his pictures --and after he was gone, his church's priests later sought to kill people for drawing him; the first Buddha insisted his followers have no holy books but follow simple reality --and after he was gone, his church's priests later created and carried "his" scriptures all over Asia.
Social neediness drives churches, and social-power/status neediness drives churches' priests.
And extreme social-power/status neediness drives churches' extremists.
These particular fundamentalists come from a country which claims as its national motto the same sentiment screamed by every group that has historically reacted violently to unprovoked retaliation: "Nemo me impune lacessit":
No man aggravates me and goes unpunished.
I offer you as an alternative --as a thought experiment with specific regard to which cultures (NOT races-- superficial human behaviour is driven more by culture than by genes) have tended to be the most economically successful and the most respectful of human and gender rights-- the last predominantly Sarmatian**-culture country's motto: "Suum cuique":
To each his own.
I keep hearing "Religious Fundamentalism".
But all I can see is "(Sub)Cultural Fundamentalism".
'CalMac spokesman Hugh Dan MacLennan said the operator was "damned if it did and damned if it didn't" over the Sunday service.'
Ooohh... he'll BURN for THAT!
* nor its active-disregard-of-other-people/anti-empathy (which latter is, interestingly, common to most Very Social environments).
(If you think that's overstated, research the execution method called "the angel", and which subsets of "The British Isles" used it. A hint: in a deliberate irony, "Braveheart" was killed with it.)
** Greek & Roman name for that east-Iranian group which had re-settled in the Ukraine by 3rd Century BC. Noted and criticised for women being accorded equal status with men, dressing like men, and sometimes fighting alongside men. Leaders subject to law, rather than vice versa. Driven north and west by Goth and then Hun invasions. Previously, one of the many "Celtic" groups (Celtic is a type of pottery, not a race; and even if you focus on the racial groups latterly calling themselves Celts: ignoring the late-Victorian hysterics/fad, England and Spain are more Celtic than are Ireland or Scotland. Galicia speaks better Gaelic than Wales.). Closest apparent modern equivalent: "Anglo-Saxon".
I can't remember who said it first, but "Arguing about religion is like arguing about who's got the biggest invisible friend."
We've seen it recently with extremists in one religion seeking to kill completely-unrelated third parties for previously being obnoxiously more successful (9/11), then latterly for not complying with the extremists' personal lifestyle choices and demands (Danish cartoons).
We've seen it again recently, where a group dominated by one religion specifically requested someone to think up and publicly present challenging and thought-provoking topics for research, then hounded him out of office for mentioning a topic which conflicted with their religion. (Larry Summers, late the president of Harvard University).
You'll note here I use the word "religion" in its real sense, rather than its nominal sense.
Now, we see another brutal upwelling of mindless fundamentalism. Again, there are religious protests in the UK, and the fundamentalists of one religion are seeking to enforce their peculiar fantasies over the reality of other people's lifestyle choices.
This time, they're Christians.
From the same culture which not so long ago executed a boy for joking, as he walked poorly clad through winter's snow and bitter winds, that he was so cold he'd welcome the chance to stand in hell for a while, we bring you:
A decision to run a Sunday ferry between parts of the Western Isles has triggered a major row.
Ferry operator Caledonian MacBrayne has been accused of "wrecking a way of life" by running [a] Sunday service between North Uist and South Harris.Simple reality contradicts them, as is the usual way of such matters:
However, it is now four years since a Sunday air service to [the island] began.
So far, no one's been killed. But that's just an accident of history, of current cultural behaviours -- not any measure of the underlying hysteria.*
See, religion is not about other people. Religion is about your relationship with your god. CHURCH is about your relationship with other people, and about your ability to affect their lives.
Your relationship with other people stems primarily from culture, not religion. Religion is an influence, not the driver.
It used to be Christian to kill Christians who said that Jesus was both god and man, rather than being god AND man. Met any Nestorians lately? Used to be the biggest Christian sect. Bit rough for them, I know. But they WERE wrong. Obviously. They died first.
Hitched their wagon to the wrong cultural horse.
Prophets create religions; Priests create churches.
And churches usually contradict the original religion even as they declare they propagate it. Jesus attacked faux-religious power-hunger and commercialism --and after he was gone, his church's priests later sold redemptions and dominated European real-politic; Mohammed demanded his followers not worship him or his pictures --and after he was gone, his church's priests later sought to kill people for drawing him; the first Buddha insisted his followers have no holy books but follow simple reality --and after he was gone, his church's priests later created and carried "his" scriptures all over Asia.
Social neediness drives churches, and social-power/status neediness drives churches' priests.
And extreme social-power/status neediness drives churches' extremists.
These particular fundamentalists come from a country which claims as its national motto the same sentiment screamed by every group that has historically reacted violently to unprovoked retaliation: "Nemo me impune lacessit":
No man aggravates me and goes unpunished.
I offer you as an alternative --as a thought experiment with specific regard to which cultures (NOT races-- superficial human behaviour is driven more by culture than by genes) have tended to be the most economically successful and the most respectful of human and gender rights-- the last predominantly Sarmatian**-culture country's motto: "Suum cuique":
To each his own.
I keep hearing "Religious Fundamentalism".
But all I can see is "(Sub)Cultural Fundamentalism".
'CalMac spokesman Hugh Dan MacLennan said the operator was "damned if it did and damned if it didn't" over the Sunday service.'
Ooohh... he'll BURN for THAT!
* nor its active-disregard-of-other-people/anti-empathy (which latter is, interestingly, common to most Very Social environments).
(If you think that's overstated, research the execution method called "the angel", and which subsets of "The British Isles" used it. A hint: in a deliberate irony, "Braveheart" was killed with it.)
** Greek & Roman name for that east-Iranian group which had re-settled in the Ukraine by 3rd Century BC. Noted and criticised for women being accorded equal status with men, dressing like men, and sometimes fighting alongside men. Leaders subject to law, rather than vice versa. Driven north and west by Goth and then Hun invasions. Previously, one of the many "Celtic" groups (Celtic is a type of pottery, not a race; and even if you focus on the racial groups latterly calling themselves Celts: ignoring the late-Victorian hysterics/fad, England and Spain are more Celtic than are Ireland or Scotland. Galicia speaks better Gaelic than Wales.). Closest apparent modern equivalent: "Anglo-Saxon".
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
The most successful lifeforms on Earth
You HAVE to see this awesome gallery of photos of insects up-close:
Igor Siwanowicz
I mean, check out this AWESOME caterpillar, which imitates an angry spider if threatened:
"Mmm? Good, no?"
"Makes me wanna DANCE!!"
"*moan* I'd love to join you but my hair's gone all frizzy. Got any gel?"
"Woo! Yeah!"
"Woo!"
"Did somebody say they had some gel?"
"Psst. I'm with stupid."
"Whaa...?"
"Hee hee"
And today's post closes with words of wisdom from Guru Shroom.
"The way of true peace is not a destination, but a path."
"Also, birds are evil. Did I mention the birds? Birds are evil."
Igor Siwanowicz
I mean, check out this AWESOME caterpillar, which imitates an angry spider if threatened:
"Mmm? Good, no?"
"Makes me wanna DANCE!!"
"*moan* I'd love to join you but my hair's gone all frizzy. Got any gel?"
"Woo! Yeah!"
"Woo!"
"Did somebody say they had some gel?"
"Psst. I'm with stupid."
"Whaa...?"
"Hee hee"
And today's post closes with words of wisdom from Guru Shroom.
"The way of true peace is not a destination, but a path."
"Also, birds are evil. Did I mention the birds? Birds are evil."
"Heh. Good post, Sal."
"Really?"
"Aww... shucks."
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Spine-Tingling
I get a physical thrill running up my spine on considering almost any of the phenomena of this universe which are different from our desperately tedious monotony of single gravity well and sun and atmosphere and tiny temperature range and so on. And on considering just how tiny and weird is this whole world even in the tiny context of this one sun, let alone the sweeping concentrated awe of galaxies and their cluttered dazzling cores, let alone the slow swinging dance of galaxies around each other, dragged and dragging, let alone the awesome vastnesses of emptiness which the superclusters wrap around and squeeze through like the membranes in a soapy bubbled foam.
And where other people see shooting stars, I see huge chunks of alien rock, dust, and ice, each one having looped around another chunk (itself so massive that its own weight is squeezing its component atoms into and through each other, for gods sake), both of them falling towards each other and missing for god knows how many millions of years and just this once, this one microscopic flicker-instant of its multi-billenia existence, its lonely cold immortal black path strays near another chunk, this one big enough to hold layers of gas above its core. And in one shatteringly brief suddenness, it dies. Long slow stillness suddenly reveals itself to be astronomical speed and in immortality-shattering seconds this chunk's gases strip away its ice and dust then boil its rock, literally boil its rock, in a flash flare of death agony.
And then its component parts spray down into the gas, a cooling cometary mist, to slowly drift into and onto the world, to form a part of every breath.
We breath space dust every day, you and I. It enters our cells -- we are each of us part comet.
I want to walk under other suns, to see a pink sky, to feel alien gravity drag at my spine and my outstretched arms of alien lead, to stand in 500mph winds too thin to more than shriek at me, to crouch and stare at life based on a chemistry I can't touch for fear of burning it with my superheated carbon-water self. I want to see the night sky at a galactic core flare and burn as bright as Earth's day. I want to see a star 1,000 times bigger than the sun spinning 10,000 times a second and throwing matter's death agonies out in long universe-spanning lasers. I want to go outside the Oort cloud and find out what it is in the interstellar vastness that stops the solar wind, that constant belch of self's vitals that pours out of our sun in every direction every second of the day, washing over us as a radioactive gossamer torrent. I want... I want... I want to have been born a space animal. Which 1,000 years from now our technology might allow us to imitate.
In the interim, I work on my immortality and watch the work of others working at the universe, worrying at it like a granny eating an apple with one tooth. And sometimes I'm lost in a photo's implications. And sometimes the hair stands up on my forearms. And sometimes I'm simply struck dumb by beauty and wonder. And sometimes I see something that powerfully expresses a little of the sheer triviality of this world and the potential disasters that always tremble incipiently just fractions of one percent away, of just how little a thing is "the whole wide world."
The richest nations on Earth took a decade to struggle up to our nearest neighbour, draining whole economies to land scraps of tinfoil and titanium on a chunk of rock so close we can read by it at night. And they discovered a moon literally blasted by collisions with other chunks of this solar system; so much so that the very dust was as fine and as glassy and as abrasive as our industrial diamond grinding dust. And this moon is right next door, chasing with us along the little corridor we're sweeping out around the sun. It's only our tiny little smearing of atmosphere that wards off the smaller chunks constantly sweeping over us. And the larger ones? Well... Tunguska...
As our sky-monitoring improves, the more aware we become of just how thick our surroundings are with substantial chunks of matter that could raise megaton clouds over random parts of our Earth.
From today's "Astronomy Picture of the Day" comes an animated gif which is worth watching for a hackle-prickling reminder of what the moon's shattered face tries to tell us every evening.
We don't arc through vacuum but swim through a cloud of lethal midges, bathed in the radioactive wash of the dying fusion reactor we're continually falling towards. A molten core of weird atoms ejected from supernovæ, creatable only by the death of other suns and still spinning within its liquid rock socket at Earth's pre-moon speed, protects us and our lower satellites from the sun. But our protection from asteroids is only our atmosphere.
Now, lean back and think for a moment on just how profound a protection that atmosphere is. Imagine a 6 foot man who put a half-inch (1cm) strip of something on top of his head and stood on a strip the same, and who then declared he was fully protected from the universe. Now imagine that strip of "something" is actually just gas. Gas so thin that you could only breathe the first 1mm of it.
Welcome to the world.
Don't be afraid, be Aware. Revel in Reality.
And where other people see shooting stars, I see huge chunks of alien rock, dust, and ice, each one having looped around another chunk (itself so massive that its own weight is squeezing its component atoms into and through each other, for gods sake), both of them falling towards each other and missing for god knows how many millions of years and just this once, this one microscopic flicker-instant of its multi-billenia existence, its lonely cold immortal black path strays near another chunk, this one big enough to hold layers of gas above its core. And in one shatteringly brief suddenness, it dies. Long slow stillness suddenly reveals itself to be astronomical speed and in immortality-shattering seconds this chunk's gases strip away its ice and dust then boil its rock, literally boil its rock, in a flash flare of death agony.
And then its component parts spray down into the gas, a cooling cometary mist, to slowly drift into and onto the world, to form a part of every breath.
We breath space dust every day, you and I. It enters our cells -- we are each of us part comet.
I want to walk under other suns, to see a pink sky, to feel alien gravity drag at my spine and my outstretched arms of alien lead, to stand in 500mph winds too thin to more than shriek at me, to crouch and stare at life based on a chemistry I can't touch for fear of burning it with my superheated carbon-water self. I want to see the night sky at a galactic core flare and burn as bright as Earth's day. I want to see a star 1,000 times bigger than the sun spinning 10,000 times a second and throwing matter's death agonies out in long universe-spanning lasers. I want to go outside the Oort cloud and find out what it is in the interstellar vastness that stops the solar wind, that constant belch of self's vitals that pours out of our sun in every direction every second of the day, washing over us as a radioactive gossamer torrent. I want... I want... I want to have been born a space animal. Which 1,000 years from now our technology might allow us to imitate.
In the interim, I work on my immortality and watch the work of others working at the universe, worrying at it like a granny eating an apple with one tooth. And sometimes I'm lost in a photo's implications. And sometimes the hair stands up on my forearms. And sometimes I'm simply struck dumb by beauty and wonder. And sometimes I see something that powerfully expresses a little of the sheer triviality of this world and the potential disasters that always tremble incipiently just fractions of one percent away, of just how little a thing is "the whole wide world."
The richest nations on Earth took a decade to struggle up to our nearest neighbour, draining whole economies to land scraps of tinfoil and titanium on a chunk of rock so close we can read by it at night. And they discovered a moon literally blasted by collisions with other chunks of this solar system; so much so that the very dust was as fine and as glassy and as abrasive as our industrial diamond grinding dust. And this moon is right next door, chasing with us along the little corridor we're sweeping out around the sun. It's only our tiny little smearing of atmosphere that wards off the smaller chunks constantly sweeping over us. And the larger ones? Well... Tunguska...
As our sky-monitoring improves, the more aware we become of just how thick our surroundings are with substantial chunks of matter that could raise megaton clouds over random parts of our Earth.
From today's "Astronomy Picture of the Day" comes an animated gif which is worth watching for a hackle-prickling reminder of what the moon's shattered face tries to tell us every evening.
"How often does an asteroid whiz by the Earth? The above time-lapse animation follows the orbit of the Earth around the Sun for two months in 2002 as numerous asteroids, also known as minor planets, approach and pass by. Some asteroids appear out of nowhere as they are plotted only when they were discovered. Most asteroids plotted were discovered only during the previous year. Although none of the plotted objects came inside the orbit of our Moon, our Solar System is filled with objects as small as bits of sand, usually left by a comet, that appear as meteors as they streak into the Earth's atmosphere every day. The only objects displayed are those visible from Earth closer than 20 million kilometers, color coded by three-dimensional distance. In comparison, the Earth is a relatively small target having a radius of about 6,400 kilometers. One significant research area in modern astronomy involves trying to find the majority of asteroids that could pose a future collision threat with Earth."
We don't arc through vacuum but swim through a cloud of lethal midges, bathed in the radioactive wash of the dying fusion reactor we're continually falling towards. A molten core of weird atoms ejected from supernovæ, creatable only by the death of other suns and still spinning within its liquid rock socket at Earth's pre-moon speed, protects us and our lower satellites from the sun. But our protection from asteroids is only our atmosphere.
Now, lean back and think for a moment on just how profound a protection that atmosphere is. Imagine a 6 foot man who put a half-inch (1cm) strip of something on top of his head and stood on a strip the same, and who then declared he was fully protected from the universe. Now imagine that strip of "something" is actually just gas. Gas so thin that you could only breathe the first 1mm of it.
Welcome to the world.
Don't be afraid, be Aware. Revel in Reality.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Spot on
It must be Monday
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Hello Spring
The sun came out at last today;
I never knew the sun was gay.
I never knew the sun was gay.
Luxury
There's much joy in waking early to the cool breath of the barely-lit day and revelling blindly in the luxurious softness of warm cotton sheets and ear-wrapping eiderdown.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Ninja Nuns!!
OK, they're Iranian Policewomen. But I defy anyone not to think they're watching Monty Python clips when they see this. If you think the martial arts is hilarious, wait till you see the car chase.
How to pour Ketchup
I don't think I can put it better than this genius. GENIUS, I tell you!
Are you one of those people who taps at the bottom of an inverted ketchup bottle, waiting in frustration for the sauce to pour? ... Have you ever wondered if there is a right way to do it – a way that works, and makes scientific sense?
Yes, folks, there is a right way to do it, and it does make sense. Here is how, and why:
...
now you know the right way, thanks to the amazing power of the Internet to unleash this kind of information.
Monday, March 20, 2006
The Gathering
I feel again the urge to be participating, but lack all creative urge. Previously, it was the other way round. As I've said before (your honour), I really have to work on controlling my urges better.
I do feel a faint pride that not only am I Google's top pick for world expert status in Concertina RSI, and, in light of the current Katrina-level hurricane hitting my home town, that Google also dubs me the perfect choice for learning what speed does a level five hurricane go at?.
But these are not posts proper.
And I just re-saw stuff I posted on Glass Friends' sites this week, and laughed, and then thought it a little sad that those things were sitting in the diverticulae of blogs' comments boxes. Seen by only a handful; lost to my own memory in future. So at the risk of upsetting the Jens, as I once upset Peter and also Vanessa, here's some things I posted previously as comments, but gathered into this one site. They're not truisms or profoundisms or standaloneisms, just me-isms, so they're here not on my Saltation site.
Jen had posted a quote from Bill Bryson,
So I posted:
Well, *I* laughed.
And then the other core Jen spun us a tale of her searchings and triumphs in tracing her ancestry.
And I posted:
Well, *I* laughed.
I do feel a faint pride that not only am I Google's top pick for world expert status in Concertina RSI, and, in light of the current Katrina-level hurricane hitting my home town, that Google also dubs me the perfect choice for learning what speed does a level five hurricane go at?.
But these are not posts proper.
And I just re-saw stuff I posted on Glass Friends' sites this week, and laughed, and then thought it a little sad that those things were sitting in the diverticulae of blogs' comments boxes. Seen by only a handful; lost to my own memory in future. So at the risk of upsetting the Jens, as I once upset Peter and also Vanessa, here's some things I posted previously as comments, but gathered into this one site. They're not truisms or profoundisms or standaloneisms, just me-isms, so they're here not on my Saltation site.
Jen had posted a quote from Bill Bryson,
"We are astoundingly, sumptuously, radiantly ignorant of life beneath the seas. Even the most substantial ocean creatures are often remarkably little known to us - including the most mighty of them all, the great blue whale, a creature of such leviathan proportions that (to quote David Attenborough) its "tongue weighs as much as an elephant, its heart is the size if a car and some of its blood vessels are so wide that you could swim down them." (some excellent photos and videos are here) It is the most gargantuan beast that Earth has yet produced, bigger even than the most cumbrous dinosaurs. Yet the lives of blue whales are largely a mystery to us.", then a day or two later wrote about being swamped by come-ons when she looked at an old social-account login for the first time in ages:
Holy mother of god. Within like 15 minutes I had 10 guys sending me pictures and IM's and blinking little flashing smiles and winks at me.
So I posted:
>'Do I want to date someone that sends me a message that says... "Ask me about my tongue"? No.'
oh you're so HARSH. how do you know it wasn't a blue whale? aching to get the chance to tell you that its tongue weighs as much as an elephant? and you've snubbed it. snubbed it! it has a heart as big as a car and so much to GIVE! it would give you its heart, and you could drive down the shops in it.
mark my words, you will have only yourself to blame when you find yourself alone with no groceries.
Well, *I* laughed.
And then the other core Jen spun us a tale of her searchings and triumphs in tracing her ancestry.
And I posted:
'wow. freaky. almost exactly the same thing happened to me, just this year.
WHAT ARE THE ODDS?!?!?!
i'd searched, and i'd searched, and i'd searched. and i'd fought around the resistance of the bureaucrats, and struggled to find the faces to match the names i'd found. i sweet-talked and tricked and cajoled the bureaucrats, and over the years learned how to trick them. how to bend them to my goal.
i found him finally, and went to his favourite bar, and saw him on the other side of the room and cried out "Dad! I've FOUND you."
he turned slowly around, and saw me, and he started to cry.
and with tears in his eyes he looked at me and he said,
"I swear I'm going to get a fucking injunction." '
Well, *I* laughed.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
The D-word
Those three little words that mean so much.
"Tee" "Ee-ee" "Th"
My own mum had all her teeth out when she was 15. This is why I'm against most females boxing. If you can't pick up after yourself (only other people) and you can't manoeuvre a machine around in public without complaining about how selfish everyone else is except you, you really wanna avoid activities that could have serious real-life consequences.
OK, mum never boxed.
But she DID have all her teeth ripped out when she was 15.
Dentures.
She could pop her teeth out at a moment's notice.
To this day, I can't work out why dad divorced her.
"Tee" "Ee-ee" "Th"
My own mum had all her teeth out when she was 15. This is why I'm against most females boxing. If you can't pick up after yourself (only other people) and you can't manoeuvre a machine around in public without complaining about how selfish everyone else is except you, you really wanna avoid activities that could have serious real-life consequences.
OK, mum never boxed.
But she DID have all her teeth ripped out when she was 15.
Dentures.
She could pop her teeth out at a moment's notice.
To this day, I can't work out why dad divorced her.
inspired by Babs' De-Toothy Re-Toothy
EDIT: weird mixmash post, this.
normally, anything fiction, i post as fiction on my Saltation site (see top left, or google "Saltation").
but this, while fictionish, is neither wholly fiction nor good enough to post on Saltation.
so i stuck it here. though it's not even mostly "blog", just a laugh.
oh well.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
White Rioja
Hair of the dog? Not bloody likely. Note to self: White Rioja: avoid. It's got the devil in it. Empty stomach since breakfast probably didn't help.
And I think I just spoiled a scene in a feature movie. I forgot they were filming "Lady Penelope" in our alleyway today -- stumbled out and into the middle of a lot of strange people walking funny and shooting me dirty looks, then walked into the film crew. Oops.
Odd how the surroundings have now been descended upon by truly gorgeous girls. Moths to a flame, pretty girls to a camera. Attention.
OK, I definitely need the hair of the dog.
And I think I just spoiled a scene in a feature movie. I forgot they were filming "Lady Penelope" in our alleyway today -- stumbled out and into the middle of a lot of strange people walking funny and shooting me dirty looks, then walked into the film crew. Oops.
Odd how the surroundings have now been descended upon by truly gorgeous girls. Moths to a flame, pretty girls to a camera. Attention.
OK, I definitely need the hair of the dog.
Alcohol is not the answer
Trouble is, I can't remember the question.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Speed of Delight
Hello, everybody! Professor Sal “Astro” Gation here!, bringing science into YOUR home. Everyone needs science, especially busy househusbands and lazy businesswomen, who can easily run out of science halfway through the afternoon with no chance to nip down to the labs.
Speaking of lazy, it won’t even be ME who brings you today’s science portion. In the spirit of the age, it’s been outsourced.
BUT, flying in the face of convention (leaving a little white splodge) and in fine contrarian fashion, I’ve actually flown to India and outsourced to America. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, right?
So what will a nice man somewhere in a vast country somewhere down the end of a cable be teaching us today?
Well!
Oh, sorry, I thought you were going to ask me how I was.
Anyway, this guy, right, he’ll be showing you:
While we're in science theme, and while I've got you on the modem, here's 3 quick other BlueSci-entifical news gummings (They would have been newsbites but Babs nicked my teeth):
Speaking of lazy, it won’t even be ME who brings you today’s science portion. In the spirit of the age, it’s been outsourced.
BUT, flying in the face of convention (leaving a little white splodge) and in fine contrarian fashion, I’ve actually flown to India and outsourced to America. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, right?
So what will a nice man somewhere in a vast country somewhere down the end of a cable be teaching us today?
Well!
Oh, sorry, I thought you were going to ask me how I was.
Anyway, this guy, right, he’ll be showing you:
How to Measure the Speed of Light using chocolate chipsI should warn you that ordinary budget household chocolate chips are only correct to an accuracy of 0.04%, as shown here. Fine for students, but I would recommend that serious scientists use only aeronautical or racing chocolate.
"Over the past week, I’ve been really busy with exams and projects.
Trying to save time by finding the speed of light on Google, I stumbled upon an extremely interesting article on measuring the speed of light with a microwave. As any decent cook knows, microwaves do not heat evenly. In fact, this article explains their heating patterns are relative to the speed of light! ...
Where do the chocolate chips come in?
Chocolate chips are perfect for measuring the distance between melted spots."
("You can microwave anything that melts."
Puppies melt?
I never knew that.
I guess that DOES explain all those ads saying "Don't leave dogs in hot cars.")
While we're in science theme, and while I've got you on the modem, here's 3 quick other BlueSci-entifical news gummings (They would have been newsbites but Babs nicked my teeth):
- Alpha versions of StarTrek's Tricorders are now available:
- Phone-sized Remote Spectrometers
"On board [NASA's next Mars mission] will be a tiny laser device about the size of a cell phone, which will be able to fingerprint minerals in the Martian soil and rocks" ...
'I know that Miami Police Department has about 220,000 spectra of all the illicit drugs that are out there in the world. You just take these things; you can shoot them and ten second later you know what they’re holding: is it baby powder, is it cocaine? Really easy to tell. This little white powder that came in envelopes that the post office was getting.
Bonner Denton has a demonstration he uses upstairs. He takes a bottle of Tylenol, a white plastic container and the pills are inside. You can shoot the Raman and a laser goes through that white plastic, it identifies the three parts of Tylenol and it tells you what the plastic is made out of. It works on leaves. I can identify the species of trees by shooting their leaves. I don’t think the biologists are aware of this yet.' - Fly through GoogleSpace:
- SearchSpaces:
kinda halfway between a cyberspace flythrough and googlemaps.
Essentially maps the density of Search queries to particular Manhattan addresses, representing them by height, as "buildings" constructed of the search query strings that make them up. It then lets you "fly" through the resultant model of the city.
Click&drag on the plan and elevation views on Left to "fly". Note you can adjust your height, and can even fly under the city.Each person constructs his/her image of the city. This image is made out of facts, memories, experiences, stories, news - mostly invisible data, and not only of architecture, buildings and streets.
"SEARCHSCAPES: MANHATTAN" is an attempt to create a tridimensional map of Manhattan, using existing data from the web.
The objective is to compare the city's "physical spaces" and "information spaces" (search results). This is an attempt to materialize information: to give it dimension and physicality.
"SEARCHSCAPES: MANHATTAN" was developed as a thesis project at the Interactive Telecommunications Program at New York University. - Walking on Sunshine:
- ...over the Grand Canyon...
Some bright spark with a love for technology and a weak grasp of human psychology, has declared he’s suffering from “MoreMoneyThanSense” syndrome and is building a purely glass, wholly transparent, walkway that extends over the Grand Canyon.
With no visible supports.
Tourists will be able to walk out and gaze down in awe at the yellow waterfall curtain spilling over the edge of the glass all around them and down, down, DOWN into the abyss below.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Joke of the Day
- "So your grandmother died?"
- "Yeah it was very peaceful. She just sat down in the chair and closed her eyes and she was gone."
- "So it was really peaceful?"
- "Not really. It scared the hell out of the dentist."
brought to you from Finland by HyperBob
Oh, del icio us
I finally decided to give Del.icio.us a go and am quite happy with its usefulness as a breadcrumber on my gallivantings round the net. Be nice if it had a formal "Importance" or "Interest" slider you could set for each, but hey: you can't argue with the price.
And I just looked at my tags, after this week or three of deliciousing stuff, displayed as "Cloud" and "at least 5 uses".
Top Line:
hurhur, video, science, anthropology, sociology, devel, astronomy
Bottom Line:
python, the, women, WoW
Now, THAT'S what I call a mind-map.
And I just looked at my tags, after this week or three of deliciousing stuff, displayed as "Cloud" and "at least 5 uses".
Top Line:
hurhur, video, science, anthropology, sociology, devel, astronomy
Bottom Line:
python, the, women, WoW
Now, THAT'S what I call a mind-map.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Things that keep bringing me back to Blog-land
I am very glad to have "met" and been part of the Glass People. And I am intermittently profoundly reminded of how much, and why.
Jen it was whose post re her marriage on the sadly missed Blorgy led me to post a comment something like "it's things like this that keep me hoping, keep me striving, keep me alive," and to blogroll her immediately.
Today she's captured another glory:
Jen it was whose post re her marriage on the sadly missed Blorgy led me to post a comment something like "it's things like this that keep me hoping, keep me striving, keep me alive," and to blogroll her immediately.
Today she's captured another glory:
Sunshine On My Shoulders Makes Me Happy
I wish I could freeze dry days like today into a pile of dazzling, sparkling little crystals. I'd store them in a pretty amber bottle, and top it with a cork. I'd keep it in my kitchen window, within easy reach, so that whenever a dreary, wearing down type of day came along, in desperate need of a dash of sunshine, I could sprinkle the stored up granules about and run barefoot through the resulting wonder.
It should be just as simple as that. Good days at the ready for the uncorking, perched on every windowsill.
Into every life, a little spring must fall.
7 Things
I randomly clicked through an unusually-named commenter on JonnyB's plaintive appeal to the LazyWeb and saw yet another blog"meme" variation: "The Meme of 7’s".
Oh, what the hell, why not:
Oh, what the hell, why not:
- 7 things I’d like to do before I die
- 1. Live forever.
I'm wAITinggggg!!
*impatient foot-tapping*
The REAL problem with being immortal is it takes bloody forever. - 7 things I can’t do.
- 13. Count.
- 7 things that attracted me to my partner.
- Orgasms
- 7 things I often say.
- 1. "If you're not going to eat that, do you mind if I do?" , while pointing at her crotch.
2. "Ow!"
3. "Ow!"
4. "Ow!"
5. "Ow!"
6. "Ow!"
7. "Ow!" - 7 films
- You want to know 7 films to see? Buy a bloody newspaper, you stingy bastard!
- 7 Books
- Buy a bloody library, you stingy bastard!
Friday, March 03, 2006
Flashback
I FEEL like posting something but I couldn't be arsed thinking.
So here's one of a few posts I've been thinking about recording on Saltation.blogspot.etc.:
...dotdotdot...dumdumDUM!
SEE NEXT POST!
So here's one of a few posts I've been thinking about recording on Saltation.blogspot.etc.:
...dotdotdot...dumdumDUM!
SEE NEXT POST!
International Sal of Action
There I was, dangling from a cliff on a burning rope over a pit of radioactive tigers, when suddenly my phone rang.
I was so embarrassed.
I'm always forgetting to switch the damn thing off when I go to the library.
This, of course, was no ordinary library.
I'd started the day at home, Chez Sal (sea shalls), as is my wont, with my feet up on a steaming cup of tea, perusing the Sunday papers hungover in my usual Wednesday morning attempt to come up to speed with the week. I gave it up as a bad job halfway through page one. Too many words. I essayed "Hello!" magazine and gave it up halfway through page one. Too many turds. "Front", too many birds. "Ornithology Today", too-- hey, there's a coincidence.
I rapidly came to the conclusion there was too much of everything.
Well, when I say "rapidly," I mean more in the sense of the third cup of tea and second eye-opener.
I looked at my watch. Good lord. I was wearing a verb. Pants? Same. Jacket? Ick. Pass the tissues. Coat? Quite. I swiftly di-vested myself of my shirt to maintain grammatical consistency and sprang to my feet with a spring in my in-step. I paced the floor. 20 feet by 15.
Not good enough.
I needed reading matter of even lighter weight than "Hello!" and "Front."
Not an easy task.
With me, as you know, or at least you do now, the thought is the deed.
I couldn't think of anything.
Thus I just stood there for a bit.
The phone rang. This put me in a rather difficult position. It was quite loud and right behind me, you see, and I was still feeling quite delicate, so when it rang the second time, I observed it wide-eyed from the light fitting I now clung to on the ceiling. As I mournfully debated my options at this height, traditional British workmanship saved the day and on the third ring, I stood up from the pile of rubble and dust next to the phone and answered it debonairly.
"Chez Sal."
"Say that three times fast."
"That that that."
"Hang on, there's someone knocking at the door, I'll ring you back."
"No, you fool, that was me."
"What?! Well, stop mucking around and come in, then. There's no time to waste."
I opened the door and sauntered into his office.
"You probably should have put the phone down first, you know."
We gazed briefly but pensively at the cord running out his door and down the street in the direction of my house.
"You really should get a mobile phone, Sal."
"I have one of those too. But anyway, ALL phones are mobile."
"Not public phones. They're fixed in place."
"They must be mobile, otherwise: how would they have got there in the first place?"
"Good point."
"That puts me up 180 points to 17, doesn't it?"
"I'm biding my time for my comeback."
"You have one?"
"..."
"So, why am I here? What urgent matter requires the presence of Sal?" I struck a pose, which got angry and gave chase. Now, I don't really like chase, but I didn't want to be rude, so I thanked it and put the chase in my pocket, where it started to run. Which explained all those pants. I hoped they stayed pants and not stains.
"I need a book."
"There's a coincidence."
"So it is."
We gazed briefly but pensively at the coincidence in the corner.
"You don't see many of those nowadays."
"Funny, I was saying the exact same thing just this morning."
"Well, anyway, back to the book. As you know, the Dr Fu Manchu Philanthropic and Totally Not Evil Association's Christmas-In-July Party is coming up and they want to reserve Wembley Stadium for the pre-dinner drinks session. Something about preferring a grassy surface to save on the cleaning up. But... well... we fear nefarious prior booking may have occurred. I have heard rumours, Sal, dark rumours. And the name whispered in hushed and frightened tones is always the same.
"Mrs. Elspeth Groatington-Smythe."
Each syllable fell like lead, yet the name hung in the air.
Groatington-Smythe. Mrs.
My arch enemy.
We'd been mortal foes ever since the Gastric le-Frux Town Fête's WI Spiced Cake Stall Crisis of 1974. I hadn't been there nor been involved in any way --I've never even heard of it before I mentioned it just now, to be honest-- but I, Sal Tation, stand for Justice in all its forms. It makes my life damn difficult from time to time, but I can not stand by and see injustice dealt to the helpless and weak, the forgotten downtrodden, the volunteer groups' spiced cake bakers of this world. But Groatington-Smythe was no pushover. A merciless, implacable enemy of all that was good and right, she. We battled not just the once, but again, and again. Each time, she escaped justice with her animal cunning, genius intellect, powerful frame, and supernaturally strong ginger biscuits. Fiendish plots, frenzied baking, and barely-escapable deathtraps were her stock in trade. Why, I can remember when...
But this is not the time.
"Tell me more."
And the story unfolded. The only way to determine whether Wembley Stadium was booked for the 5-7pm first sitting on Friday was to track Groatington-Smythe (Mrs.) down to her lair, penetrate it as no one had ever penetrated Groatington-Smythe (Mrs.) before, find her heavily defended secret underground library, and inspect the book's page for Friday to see what Wembley's Maitre d' had written.
At last.
A plan.
I sprang into action. "Action" is the name of my shower. I'm no good at all until I've had my shower.
Refreshed, I put a spot of Sal-talcion, then I got into my Sal-suit, donned my Sal-utility belt, climbed into the Sal-mobile, and tore off in a cloud of Sal-rubber. With my Sal-sexlife, you see, there are always so many used rubbers that lots escape even the most fastidious of cleaners. And, to be frank, the most fastidious of cleaners resign pretty bloody quickly after starting at Chez Sal, so I'm left with the dregs, not just in terms of cleaners but also in terms of random refuse lying about the place.
But all that was behind me now as I set off on my Quest to Save the Dr Fu Manchu Philanthropic and Totally Not Evil Association's Christmas-In-July Party's Friday Early Booking!
The story's for another time, I'm not being paid for this. It is one of wonder, of high adventure and high risks, of nail-biting hair's-breadth escapes from certain doom as I sped about the globe, of crossing the Andes (which I regret to this day-- if you think it's a light matter to be trailed ever since by the world's longest and highest (in terms of distance from the centre of the earth) mountain range screaming red revenge in its volcanic basalt heart, I can only shake my head and pray you never need learn better), of endless false leads and endlessly renewed detective work, of shady contacts in shady bars, of old connections and old favours, of deals struck and deals broken, before finally tracking down the arch-fiend later that afternoon to her new lair in the deepest darkest most god-forsaken reaches of the Chiltern Hills, unknown to man nor beast, apart from the local Ramblers Association and the Number 15 bus.
From a gentle cruising speed of 280mph (damn school zones), I slewed the Sal-mobile to a broadside halt in a convenient parking space outside at the end of a 100-yard four-wheel locked-brake skid and a shower of tortured rubber. Surprisingly sticky, those things. Tenacious. Like me. Groatington-Smythe (Mrs.) had met her match. But not at Wembley. Not if I had anything to do with it!
I consulted the Secret Lair Plans I'd purchased surreptitiously from a little stereotypeman in the stereotype quarter of a far away stereotype.
And entered the Lair.
I won't bore you with the details. I'm sure you all have lots to do.
In what seemed like no time, but in fact took about 40 years off my life and added several years to my sentence, I'd overpowered the guards, scaled the walls, cracked the safe to discover the secret combination written down inside to let me open it to find the key inside to the front door to let me in, cured cancer and all known diseases, sneaked past a contingent of 12,000 heavily armed soldiers, run away from 12,000 heavily legged soldiers, eaten my lunch, caught cancer, delved the upper cave system, penetrated the lair via the usual succession of deathtraps, and found and entered the library.
At last, the library. A large silent cavern, stalactites and stalagmites twinkling overhead in the harsh halogen lights as they argued about which had to get down. And behind the stern, forbidding Enquiries Desk was my goal. I laughed when I saw the final deathtrap, the last obstacle between me and triumph. How tedious. The old Keep It At The Bottom of A Bottomless Pit Of Radioactive Tigers With Only A Burning Rope Leading Down trick. This was last year's black.
I sprang into action. And by god, I needed it. I stank.
Refreshed, I bounded over the lip of the pit and swarmed hand-over-hand down the burning rope towards the ravening jaws of the radioactive tigers prowling around the book --the Book!-- lying open to Friday's page on the plinth in the middle.
And then it happened.
My phone rang.
I'd forgotten to switch it off when I went into the library.
I was so embarrassed.
I was so embarrassed.
I'm always forgetting to switch the damn thing off when I go to the library.
This, of course, was no ordinary library.
I'd started the day at home, Chez Sal (sea shalls), as is my wont, with my feet up on a steaming cup of tea, perusing the Sunday papers hungover in my usual Wednesday morning attempt to come up to speed with the week. I gave it up as a bad job halfway through page one. Too many words. I essayed "Hello!" magazine and gave it up halfway through page one. Too many turds. "Front", too many birds. "Ornithology Today", too-- hey, there's a coincidence.
I rapidly came to the conclusion there was too much of everything.
Well, when I say "rapidly," I mean more in the sense of the third cup of tea and second eye-opener.
I looked at my watch. Good lord. I was wearing a verb. Pants? Same. Jacket? Ick. Pass the tissues. Coat? Quite. I swiftly di-vested myself of my shirt to maintain grammatical consistency and sprang to my feet with a spring in my in-step. I paced the floor. 20 feet by 15.
Not good enough.
I needed reading matter of even lighter weight than "Hello!" and "Front."
Not an easy task.
With me, as you know, or at least you do now, the thought is the deed.
I couldn't think of anything.
Thus I just stood there for a bit.
The phone rang. This put me in a rather difficult position. It was quite loud and right behind me, you see, and I was still feeling quite delicate, so when it rang the second time, I observed it wide-eyed from the light fitting I now clung to on the ceiling. As I mournfully debated my options at this height, traditional British workmanship saved the day and on the third ring, I stood up from the pile of rubble and dust next to the phone and answered it debonairly.
"Chez Sal."
"Say that three times fast."
"That that that."
"Hang on, there's someone knocking at the door, I'll ring you back."
"No, you fool, that was me."
"What?! Well, stop mucking around and come in, then. There's no time to waste."
I opened the door and sauntered into his office.
"You probably should have put the phone down first, you know."
We gazed briefly but pensively at the cord running out his door and down the street in the direction of my house.
"You really should get a mobile phone, Sal."
"I have one of those too. But anyway, ALL phones are mobile."
"Not public phones. They're fixed in place."
"They must be mobile, otherwise: how would they have got there in the first place?"
"Good point."
"That puts me up 180 points to 17, doesn't it?"
"I'm biding my time for my comeback."
"You have one?"
"..."
"So, why am I here? What urgent matter requires the presence of Sal?" I struck a pose, which got angry and gave chase. Now, I don't really like chase, but I didn't want to be rude, so I thanked it and put the chase in my pocket, where it started to run. Which explained all those pants. I hoped they stayed pants and not stains.
"I need a book."
"There's a coincidence."
"So it is."
We gazed briefly but pensively at the coincidence in the corner.
"You don't see many of those nowadays."
"Funny, I was saying the exact same thing just this morning."
"Well, anyway, back to the book. As you know, the Dr Fu Manchu Philanthropic and Totally Not Evil Association's Christmas-In-July Party is coming up and they want to reserve Wembley Stadium for the pre-dinner drinks session. Something about preferring a grassy surface to save on the cleaning up. But... well... we fear nefarious prior booking may have occurred. I have heard rumours, Sal, dark rumours. And the name whispered in hushed and frightened tones is always the same.
"Mrs. Elspeth Groatington-Smythe."
Each syllable fell like lead, yet the name hung in the air.
Groatington-Smythe. Mrs.
My arch enemy.
We'd been mortal foes ever since the Gastric le-Frux Town Fête's WI Spiced Cake Stall Crisis of 1974. I hadn't been there nor been involved in any way --I've never even heard of it before I mentioned it just now, to be honest-- but I, Sal Tation, stand for Justice in all its forms. It makes my life damn difficult from time to time, but I can not stand by and see injustice dealt to the helpless and weak, the forgotten downtrodden, the volunteer groups' spiced cake bakers of this world. But Groatington-Smythe was no pushover. A merciless, implacable enemy of all that was good and right, she. We battled not just the once, but again, and again. Each time, she escaped justice with her animal cunning, genius intellect, powerful frame, and supernaturally strong ginger biscuits. Fiendish plots, frenzied baking, and barely-escapable deathtraps were her stock in trade. Why, I can remember when...
But this is not the time.
"Tell me more."
And the story unfolded. The only way to determine whether Wembley Stadium was booked for the 5-7pm first sitting on Friday was to track Groatington-Smythe (Mrs.) down to her lair, penetrate it as no one had ever penetrated Groatington-Smythe (Mrs.) before, find her heavily defended secret underground library, and inspect the book's page for Friday to see what Wembley's Maitre d' had written.
At last.
A plan.
I sprang into action. "Action" is the name of my shower. I'm no good at all until I've had my shower.
Refreshed, I put a spot of Sal-talcion, then I got into my Sal-suit, donned my Sal-utility belt, climbed into the Sal-mobile, and tore off in a cloud of Sal-rubber. With my Sal-sexlife, you see, there are always so many used rubbers that lots escape even the most fastidious of cleaners. And, to be frank, the most fastidious of cleaners resign pretty bloody quickly after starting at Chez Sal, so I'm left with the dregs, not just in terms of cleaners but also in terms of random refuse lying about the place.
But all that was behind me now as I set off on my Quest to Save the Dr Fu Manchu Philanthropic and Totally Not Evil Association's Christmas-In-July Party's Friday Early Booking!
The story's for another time, I'm not being paid for this. It is one of wonder, of high adventure and high risks, of nail-biting hair's-breadth escapes from certain doom as I sped about the globe, of crossing the Andes (which I regret to this day-- if you think it's a light matter to be trailed ever since by the world's longest and highest (in terms of distance from the centre of the earth) mountain range screaming red revenge in its volcanic basalt heart, I can only shake my head and pray you never need learn better), of endless false leads and endlessly renewed detective work, of shady contacts in shady bars, of old connections and old favours, of deals struck and deals broken, before finally tracking down the arch-fiend later that afternoon to her new lair in the deepest darkest most god-forsaken reaches of the Chiltern Hills, unknown to man nor beast, apart from the local Ramblers Association and the Number 15 bus.
From a gentle cruising speed of 280mph (damn school zones), I slewed the Sal-mobile to a broadside halt in a convenient parking space outside at the end of a 100-yard four-wheel locked-brake skid and a shower of tortured rubber. Surprisingly sticky, those things. Tenacious. Like me. Groatington-Smythe (Mrs.) had met her match. But not at Wembley. Not if I had anything to do with it!
I consulted the Secret Lair Plans I'd purchased surreptitiously from a little stereotypeman in the stereotype quarter of a far away stereotype.
And entered the Lair.
I won't bore you with the details. I'm sure you all have lots to do.
In what seemed like no time, but in fact took about 40 years off my life and added several years to my sentence, I'd overpowered the guards, scaled the walls, cracked the safe to discover the secret combination written down inside to let me open it to find the key inside to the front door to let me in, cured cancer and all known diseases, sneaked past a contingent of 12,000 heavily armed soldiers, run away from 12,000 heavily legged soldiers, eaten my lunch, caught cancer, delved the upper cave system, penetrated the lair via the usual succession of deathtraps, and found and entered the library.
At last, the library. A large silent cavern, stalactites and stalagmites twinkling overhead in the harsh halogen lights as they argued about which had to get down. And behind the stern, forbidding Enquiries Desk was my goal. I laughed when I saw the final deathtrap, the last obstacle between me and triumph. How tedious. The old Keep It At The Bottom of A Bottomless Pit Of Radioactive Tigers With Only A Burning Rope Leading Down trick. This was last year's black.
I sprang into action. And by god, I needed it. I stank.
Refreshed, I bounded over the lip of the pit and swarmed hand-over-hand down the burning rope towards the ravening jaws of the radioactive tigers prowling around the book --the Book!-- lying open to Friday's page on the plinth in the middle.
And then it happened.
My phone rang.
I'd forgotten to switch it off when I went into the library.
I was so embarrassed.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Wikipedia's One Millionth Article!
There's something fitting and rather poignant about the fact that the ENGLISH wikipedia's ONE MILLIONTH article is on the subject of trainspotting.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Lent!
Fell over.
Note to self: wall is further away away than it appears.
So, guess I've stopped now. Thank god. The sacrifice was killing me. I'd given up giving things up. Nearly every day today had been agony.
Note to self: wall is further away away than it appears.
So, guess I've stopped now. Thank god. The sacrifice was killing me. I'd given up giving things up. Nearly every day today had been agony.
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