Long ago, Dementia and I attended a panel at a con where the project was to map the characters of Star Wars (only three movies, at that time) onto the Major Arcana. I was the only male in the room. There was general lamentation at the dearth of female characters. "You're forgetting one," I offered, "The Millennium Falcon." This was met with consternation and general resistance, which ruined the credibility of moderator for me.
Ships are feminine, always and forever, from the Argo to the Enterprise, from the Nautilus to the Serenity, from the Black Pearl to the Millennium Falcon. And if you don't understand that, you don't know what a ship IS.
I was on a bench with my back to the Great America Carousel, playing PokeGo. I looked up and saw five teenagers on a bench across the midway from me, a boy in the middle and two girls on either side. I grinned, waited for a break in the traffic, and walked straight toward them; I was four or five paces away when they noticed me. I pointed at the boy. "You," I said, "Must be doing something right," and spread my hands to indicate his companions. The boy grinned broadly, and they all laughed.
Shaving with a new razor blade after about a year is kind of a religious experience. My beard is pale (even thirds dark brown, ash blond, and red, before it all went gray) and grows slowly; I have never had to shave more than every other day, and only every third since the color went. And I have thick hide that tolerates a LOT of scraping with a dull razor, so I just don't bother to change the blade often. But the contrast between a 100-plus shave blade and a new one is kind of a shock...
Apropos of nothing...
A few years ago at an SF convention, I fell into conversation with a friend and a young woman I didn't know. It was night; we were high up in a dimly lit hotel atrium; they were leaning against the railing against the abyss, and I was facing them, leaning against a wall between two room doors. The woman was wearing a black top with a vee front that ran from her shoulders to her navel, the structural improbability of this solved by a panel of fishnet fabric. The main local light was from a small lamp near each of the doors, and this created an interference pattern of shadows through the fishnet onto her substantial cleavage that fascinated me. I was engaged in the conversation, but I could NOT look away.
Eventually this earned me a, "My eyes are up here," comment, and I sheepishly explained what it was that I had been looking at. The woman expressed her skepticism.
My friend bailed me out. "He's telling the truth," he said. "I've known him for years, and it's not the tits, it's the math."
It wasn't where is was supposed to be. Retrace steps, look in all the places it MIGHT be, spiral outward with increasing franticness, lather, rinse, repeat, each time expanding the pattern. And then, on the fifth (or was it the sixth?) return to the starting point, there it was, exactly where it was supposed to be all along. There are two possible explanations. I am inclined to prefer poltergeisen to insanity; your mileage may vary.
Before the movie today, there was an ad for the new Infiniti Q60. Kit Harrington (of "Game of Thrones") climbs into the sexy red car, starts the engines, and procedes to drive it hard while reciting William Blake's "The Tyger". It's a cool ad anyway, but I LOVE the idea of selling modern tech with a poem that is over 220 years old...
"Bite the horizon." -- An expression of boundless, sanity optional enthusiasm, from "Going Postal" by Terry Pratchett
Dementia was practicing "Wayfaring Stranger" on her ukelele. She asked, "Where does the word 'wayfarer' come from?"
Hyena looked up. "Where does the word 'seafarer' come from?"
Dementia replied, "Oh. So he fares on the Way. He's a Taoist."
Hyena rolled his eyes.
I love my wife...
Good day at Bristol. Saw Bounding Main three times, the first time I have seen them live since I have become familiar with their music. Let a pretty barmaid talk me into singing the first half of "Spacers Home", and she DANCED.
The old Firebird filk album "Carmen Miranda's Ghost", that I once had nearly memorized, is long out of print, and our only copies were long dead cassette tapes. I found a (wildly inaccurate) set of lyrics on line (as well as most of the songs in mediocre condition on YouTube), and was surprised to find a title I didn't recognize at all in the song list. I read the lyrics for the missing song, and realized I HAD heard it before, but had no idea of the tune. 18 hours later, I was crossing the bridge at Bristol, and found myself humming a tune; I pushed a little, and the lyrics came in. My brain had rebuilt the melody from the lyrics. And it IS the original melody...
So Very Not a Musician (Weird Neurological Stuff):
I realized this weekend that I can't clap in time to music if my eyes are closed, but I CAN if I sync the image of a leader clapping with the sensation of my hands impacting each other. With my eyes closed, I can hear that I am out of sync, but I can never fix it. Also, apparently, I can't sing and clap in time at the same time (though I have never had trouble singing in time...).