Does this make my bum look 200 million light years wide?

If you (or your ladyfriend) constantly whinge about the size of a particularly troublesome body part, you (and she) can relax. The most massive object in the universe has been found, and it's not jiggling in any bathroom mirror.

From Space.com:

An enormous amoeba-like structure 200 million light-years wide and made up of galaxies and large bubbles of gas is the largest known object in the universe, scientists say.
The galaxies and gas bubbles, called Lyman alpha blobs, are aligned along three curvy filaments that formed about 2 billion years after the universe exploded into existence after the theoretical Big Bang. The filaments were recently seen using the Subaru and Keck telescopes on Mauna Kea.

The galaxies within the newly found structure are packed together four times closer than the universe's average.

Some of the gas bubbles are up to 400,000 light years across, nearly twice the diameter of our neighboring Andromeda Galaxy. Scientists think they formed when massive stars born early in the history of the universe exploded as supernovas and blew out their surrounding gases. Another theory is that the bubbles are giant gas cocoons that will one day give birth to new galaxies.

Some of the gas bubbles are 400,000 light years across. It's just...inconceivable.

Someone I know once told me she has panic attacks whenever she thinks about how big the universe is. My stomach kinda goes funny when I think about it, too. Especially when thinking about something bigger that our universe might be inside of.

In the immortal words of Kelly Bundy, the mind wobbles.

Dizzy now. Must lie down.

The End Of The World - in flash animation

Hokay...so here's this.

It's from a few years ago and it popped into my head just last week and I wondered how I could find it again. And then I literally stumbled upon it tonight. Weird.

It's still funny.

The website that is hosting it did not create it. So if you know who the artist is, drop him/them a line.

Say it with me: Spoooooooon, spooooooon

A group of work colleagues and I were discussing a strange and wonderful thing this morning. It's something that each of us has experienced, but no one could think of whether it has a name or not.

I kinda hope it doesn't have a name. It shouldn't have a name.

We were discussing what happens sometimes when you repeat a particular word a number of times and how it becomes meaningless; nothing more than a grouping of random letters.

It usually happens with an everyday, ordinary word. Take 'spoon'. You say it enough times and it starts to sound funny.

It's a quirky little phenomenon and it always makes me laugh when it happens.

Believing, as I do, that life is random and that there is no vast guiding hand at the controls of the rock on which we spin, when I experience those tiny moments where my brain loses all personal connection to a word that had previously meant something, it reinforces my view that everything on this planet has meaning only because we have chosen to give it.

A very good friend of mine who is a staunch believer in God is terrified by the idea that there could be no ultimate meaning in this world. To think we are alone and adrift is intolerable to her.

I feel the exact opposite.

How does one find comfort in the idea that a god, with some mysterious "plan" that he's not sharing with any of us, is orchestrating events in our universe? Sitting on his cloud, one hand on his chin judgementally, the other hand pointing out who shall live and who shall die, what village shall be obliterated with a mud slide, what town shall be bathed in 70 degree sunshine.

In my eyes, it's better to be powerless under the arbitrary, callous laws of nature than powerless under an easily-offended god prone to mood swings (after all, even He admits he's jealous, angry, & vengeful, as well as loving and merciful..).

Is it really so scary to think we're alone? That when we die, we simply fade to black? And a bonus question just because I feel like it: Are we really so infantile that we need the threat of eternal punishment or the promise of reward from a father figure to stop us from being uncool to each other and other living creatures?

We are given a few short years to spend here, and when we die, the spark in our eyes is snuffed out, our bodies disintegrate, and all of our molecules disperse far and wide and eventually become a part of new stuff.

Just like the stars that are born and burn brightly until they die, or a mountain that slowly forms and slowly crumbles, we are simply another form of matter and energy on a planet that hums with random, chaotic movement.

It's amazing and beautiful that we and everything we see and touch exists at all. It seems rather selfish to insist that it has to mean something, as well.

We human beings like neat, tidy happy endings, though. But since they hardly ever occur in life, why would we think they occur in death?

"We were so happy on April 9, 2003 when the Americans came. But I've given up."

An article from The Times detailing the horror of Baghdad today.

Written strictly from the perspective of average citizens, there are - mercifully - no quotes from American military or government personnel trying to give it a whitewash glaze.

Every time I read an article like this, I always ask the same question: Did we really think we could just waltz into another country with a red, white, & blue bow-tied gift basket and say, "Here. For you. Freshly-baked Democracy!" and expect it would take a strong, firm hold?

It seems to me that it flies directly in the face of a psychological truth: one can't truly appreciate and properly care for something that hasn't been achieved as a result of one's own hard work.

These are innocent peoples' lives uprooted and destroyed by the pen strokes of a few power-hungry suit-wearers in the West who clearly didn't think this idea through.

And then, the other question: What is The Decider and his crew gonna do about the mess that's been created? Continue to point his fucking finger of strength and defiance in our faces right to the bitter, bitter end, I imagine.



Not that finger!


This one. The one that says, "Lemme tell ya what I been told is wrong about what yer sayin'..."

Syd Barrett, reunited with his mind

Very sad (and unexpected) to hear that he's gone.

If the story of him burning his diaries and paintings is true, he took all his reasons and answers with him, cruelly rendering us forever vexed over the mystery, leaving us to continue combing through decades-old lyrics for hints and clues.

He will continue to be missed.

SHE TOOK A LONG COLD LOOK

She took a long cold look at me
and smiled and gazed all over my arm
she loves to see me get down to ground
she hasn't time just to be with me
her face between all she means to be
to be extreme, just to be extreme
a broken pier on the wavy sea
she wonders why for all she wants to see
But I got up and I stomped around
and hid the piece where the trees touch the ground

The end of truth that lay out the time
spent lazing here on a painting dream
a mile or more in a foreign clime
to see farther inside of me.

And looking high up into the sky
I breathe as the water streams over me

Your identity crisis is over, Upper Peninsula of Michigan

The 'Michigan is shaped like a mitten' thing bothers me.

Michigan is more than just a hand, you know. It's cute, but it must be like tiny daggers to the heart of the U.P. folks' self-esteem every time they see someone pointing to their palm, big dopey, happy grin on their face, saying "I live...there!"

The people who live in the remote areas of the Upper Peninsula should have some cutesy ways of describing where their towns are located.

Thus, I propose: The Flying Scottie Dog. Or the Jumping Scottie Dog. Or, the somewhat troubling albeit rather more accurate, The Punted Scottie Dog.

Can you see it? He's facing to the right.

Way up in the tip of the tail is Copper Harbor.

In the tip of the front paws lies Menominee.

The tuft of beard in the front is Drummond Island.

St. Ignace is in the jaw.

Sault Ste. Marie is in the nose.

Ironwood lies in the back paws.

And -everyone's favourite- Ontonagon is in the ass.

Think of the T-shirt sales Ontonagon alone could generate.

Personally, I love it. Going up to The Dog sounds so much better than saying "The Yoo-Pee". And suppose you're going to Detour or Hulbert (and why the hell wouldn't you?) - when people ask where specifically that is (and they will), you can just say, "The snout." and they'll know!

And how ridiculously cute does that sound?

Really, this should catch on. It's adorable.

By the way, I camped all through The Dog a few years ago and spent considerable time in The Ass. It was lovely...

I Kill Sick Children

Me: Good evening, St. Jude Medical Pacemakers.

Mumbling Man, Probably Drunk: (slurring words) Hi. I donate. I'm a Vietnam Vet, and I just received notice that my donation card information has to be updated 'cos it's expired.

M: (puzzled) Err...you donate? To St. Jude Medical? The pacemaker company?

V.V.: Yeah. The children's hospital. I'm a Vietnam Vet - a disabled Vietnam Vet - and I donate and they sent me a card that I needed to update my card and I'd like to do that now.

M: But this isn't St. Jude's children's hospital. This is St. Jude Medical, a pacemaker company. It's an entirely different organization.

V.V.: Okay, hold on. (he begins grunting softly as if shifting his position, the sound of papers shuffling and a drawer being opened is heard) Hang on, I can't find a pencil. I'm disabled. Let me go look for something to write the number down.

M: Wait! Sir, I-
(he sets the phone down, the sound of a tv playing softly in the background is heard)

M: Sir? (sighing)


(a full minute ticks by before he returns)

V.V.: (breathing heavily) Okay, what's the number?

M: I don't have the number to St. Jude Children's Hospital. You've called St. Jude Medical which is not affiliated with the children's hospital.

V.V.: But I've got a card right here.

M: Did you call information to get the number you called me at?

V.V.: Yeah.

M: They gave you a wrong number. You'll have to call them back. Tell them it's St. Jude CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL that you need.

V.V.: Can you transfer me?

M: I'm sorry, no.

V.V.: But you're a part of St. Jude, right?

M: No, this is St. Jude pacemaker company

V.V.: (angry, indignant tone) Fine, whatever. Let children die, then.

And then he hung up.

And then I hated humanity just a teensy bit more.

A random citizen angrily sounds off

'Soundoff' invites readers to call a telephone # and record a message to vent about the serious hot-button issues of the day or anything that concerns them. The comments are then published, verbatim, in the paper.

Here is my favourite from last week's edition:

"I hope the thieves who stole my gnomes and yard animals gain as much pleasure as they brought me."

Poor old dear. You can almost hear the poyester bathrobe.

Perhaps she will soon begin receiving post cards from them as they travel the world.

The Freedom Fighter

It was very early morning in the deserted suburban Detroit parking lot. Parked about 80 feet from the row of closed shops, I was sitting behind the wheel of my car, drinking coffee, the radio playing quietly.

It's a good way to organize your thoughts, sitting in parking lots, watching the mesmerizing flow of traffic, and I do it every so often.

There was another car two rows across from mine that had been there when I drove up. A man sat inside, not drinking coffee, not looking particularly relaxed.

He's here pretty early, I thought. The shops wasn't due to open for another hour and a half and it seemed odd to think a man would wait that long to get a garden hose or paper towels that were on sale. A woman might, sure. But a man? Never.

About 10 minutes after I pulled in, a late model Chevy pulled into the lot's north entrance and drove straight to the side of his car.

The man got out and walked over to the Chevy's driver side window and bent his head down to say something to the driver. Reaching through the window opening, he shook the driver's hand, then put his hand into his pocket.

He bent down and said something else to the driver. And withdrawing his hand from his pocket, he reached in to shake the driver's hand again.

The man straightened his posture and began to walk back to his car. The car that had met him turned around and drove back toward the north exit. The man got into his car, started the engine, and drove toward the south exit.

Hmm, I thought, 30 seconds of interaction and two handshakes in the middle of an empty parking lot could only mean one thing: I had just witnessed one of the tiny battles that are waged every day in the War On Drugs.

I don't advocate drug use. I don't do them, and if asked for my advice, I would certainly caution most people against using them regularly enough to risk becoming addicted. But I certainly understand the appeal.

And I don't believe they should be illegal.

Even the really hard, nasty ones.

Our current laws are a joke and an insult to the intelligence of the American people. Arbitrarily sanctioning some substances, but criminalizing others is hypocritical. That it's occurring in a country that so loudly boasts about how free it is, makes it disgustingly so.

The War On Drugs hasn't worked. It's another wasteful government program and a way to make nanny-state-loving, middle-American busy-bodies feel like something is being done about the problem.

Until we, as citizens, start behaving like adults and look at the issue honestly, and our politicians and law enforcement agencies stop deluding themselves that the bullshit is actually working, it will continue to fail.

We allow alcohol to be freely sold, possessed, and consumed. So that means we agree that it's okay for adults to alter their reality if they so choose. Alcohol is much more detrimental to a person's health and far more addictive a substance than, say, marijuana is. So why have we decided that alcohol is okay, but pot isn't?

As an intelligent, responsible, law-abiding American citizen, it's infuriating.

So in thinking back on that quiet, early morning parking lot rebellion that I witnessed, the good guy won, as far as I'm concerned.

The freedom-hating oppressors were not able to block that citizen's chosen method of pursuing happiness and I was thrilled.

And whilst watching his tailights disappearing into the morning fog, I took a sip of my coffee, lit another cigarette, and silently wished the brave rebel soldier a good time as he went home to celebrate his victory.


The November Coalition

Stop The Drug War

Two dollars, please, on Surly Gal to show in the second.

There is no way to introduce this without sounding like a whimpering 8 year old, so I'm just gonna say it:

An old woman on the betting window at the horse track was really mean to me tonight.

I'm still not quite sure what sparked her fuse. But her exasperated sighs and impatient demands of "What is it that you want?!" suggested it was my fault.

This was my third time betting on the horses. And since no one yelled at me the first two times, I thought I was doing it right. But apparently not.

It's very petit-bourgeois, I realize, to expect any degree of customer care at a shabby, rundown horsetrack. Establishments whose toilet-paper dispensers are dotted with dozens of cigarette burns aren't generally the sorts of places that offer their guests a complimentary pen, a comment card, and a smile.

But in my defense, I really wasn't looking to have my ass kissed. Just civility.

People in customer service have it rough. In the list of shit jobs, it ranks right up there. Every bit as monotonous and tiring as working on a manufacturing assembly line, but bumpers and windshields don't complain, whine, or threaten to have your job if you're rude to them as they glide by.

It doesn't normally bother me if someone behind a counter is short with me. Having done customer service, I know your last customer will affect how you treat your next. And if I'm ever not treated very well, I generally blame it on the asshole that was standing in line ahead of me.

But once in a great while, someone crosses the line and I get upset.

Since I'm still rather intimidated with race track procedures, I like to take a few minutes to scan the employees in the betting windows. I hope to find a kindly-looking older woman. Preferably for one who is smiling. I somehow think she'll lovingly & gently guide me through the betting process, patiently understand my nerves, explain the things that are confusing, and wink to reassure me that, yes dear, you're doing just fine, and your Nana is so proud of you!

But I now realize that woman doesn't work at the race track. That woman works at Hallmark.

As I stepped into the mean lady's queue, I saw her smile at the man ahead of me as he was leaving her window. I heaved a sigh of relief, thinking I'd found my kindly Aunt Bea.

I was intending to place bets with her for six races, but we only managed to get through the 1st before she turned into Patti Duke Astin in 'Please Don't Hit Me, Mom'.

"Okay," I said slowly and clearly. "In the second race, I'd like Number Four to win. I'd like Number Two to place. I'd like--"

She interrupted me.

"Ho, ho, hold on a minute! Are you now betting on the second race?", she demanded.

"Yes.", I said.

She asked me to repeat what I wanted. I did, and again she interrupted me.

"You're not making this very clear at all!", she barked, lifting her hand off her little machine and slapping it on the counter, as if surrendering all hope of ever being able to comprehend my nonsensical ramblings.

Her irritation with me was so over-the-top that I did something that I rarely do. I told her off.

Sorta.

As her outraged fit concluded, she asked me to explain *sigh* once again my confusing wishes.

Instead, I took a breath and raised my palms in a let's-just-stop-here pose, and quietly said, "Forget it. I'm going to go to another window." I pulled some money out of my wallet, avoided eye contact, and then I squeaked, "Because you're very rude."

She acted surprised; shocked to be receiving such a blind-sided blow. But her voice softened, and she said, "I'm not being rude, but you've got to tell me what you want."

I kept my eyes downcast as I paid for the bet that she printed and stepped away from her window without saying another word.

It felt liberating, until, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her lean back in her tattered chair and turn her head. "What a cunt!", I heard her say to the woman sitting in the next window.

She called me a cunt.

In my head I imagined walking back up to her and asking, "What did you just say?" And then I imagined her leaning forward, defiantly crossing her arms, giving me an icy glare, and replying: "I said 'What a cunt.', cunt."

To which my only reply would have been: "Okay, that's what I thought you said." Which would have been embarrassing. Because what was I going to do? Ask a 60 year old lady to step outside? I just let it go.

It's not in my nature to get in anyone's face. And this woman, obviously hardened by years spent sitting in a grimy window, is probably a zen master in the confrontational arts.

I considered reporting her to a manager. But looking around at all the rough, seedy characters lingering about, intently studying racing programs, and twitching with pent-up expectations, the idea of complaining about being called a name seemed very suburban-white-womanish and trivial.

No, best to just let this sleeping cunt lie, I decided.

So I went two windows down to another joyless, dour-faced woman, and nervously placed my bets with her without incident.

Happily, two of my bets came in winners. And there were four more races left, but I didn't bet on any more horses.

I was spooked.