Today was the day for cat links.

Infared cats.

Kitten review.

Of our feline residents, Kat is the smarter.

Unfortunately, he apparently wasn’t smart enough to tell the difference between a cast iron doorstop and a real cat. It took him about five minutes to get close, while in the meantime, any noise would cause him to levitate straight up and then back, as if he was about to be attacked by the ferocious creature.
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This is just neat. Make sure you click on the links to see the pictures.

A Dalek stolen from a Somerset tourist site has been found on Glastonbury Tor after thieves said it was “too hot”.

75 Minutes in Morgantown A photo collection of Morgantown. The only glaring error I found is that what he refers to as the Maglev is actually the PRT. (My first thought was, Maglev? What the heck is that?)

I heard a fascinating bit on Living on Earth last night on permeable concrete. According to the story, a gentleman accidentally invented water permable concrete. It took a bit for it to sink in why water permeable concrete would be a good idea–I do after all live in a fairly rural states–but after I thought about it for a second it struck me as sheer genius.

You can visit the website for the company that makes the concrete, Ecocreto (There’s a flash intro that I haven’t seen, since I don’t seem to have flash installed on this computer.)

Just imagine how different cities would be if the water went through the concrete instead of pooling or running off. Would it not make driving in the rain safer, since there shouldn’t be pooled water causing hydroplaning? Amazing.

Also, for your education and entertainment, a list of Teresa’s favorite rose names. I kinda like Lingo Muck, myself.

During our travels this weekend I decided that I really like Michael’s friend Chris. I’ve always been a bit uncomfortable around him, because he talks a LOT about drinking, and as someone who has a history with alcohol that has been tempetous at best, it always made me a bit nervous. Sunday however, removed my doubts. Anyone who has built their own Tesla coil out of spare parts, beer bottles, and aluminum foil, just for fun, qualifies as someone I really like.

The Science of Consistency: On fictional universes and the fans who rationalize them.

The fictional universes depicted in movies like the Star Wars or Star Trek series tend to get very complex (for beginners: the former features Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader, the latter Captain Kirk, the Enterprise, and a loyal crew made up of people like engineer Scotty; if you get them mixed up, you are worthless). That complexity means that—inevitably—the occasional “continuity error” occurs. In normal movie parlance, a continuity error means one of those embarrassing moments when, say, the bandage on an actor moves from the right hand to the left hand between scenes due to a mistake by the makeup department. For science fiction fans, though, continuity refers to the overall logical and historical coherence of our beloved fictional universes.

Enjoy…

I have a confession to make.

I love catalogs.

Not just the Land’s End catalogs with sensible clothing, not just the Gardener’s Supply catalogs with all kinds of neat garden implements to make things easier, but all kinds of catalogs.

I’m especially fond of supply catalogs. I used to receive a variety at my last job, where in addition to everything else, I was also in change of ordering supplies. I loved getting the supply catalogs, because if you look through them–and I mean really look–they incredible ridiculous. One of my favorite ads was for those stairs on wheels that you see at Lowe’s and Home Depot. The ad had a man carrying a very large box up the stairs–except that they shot the ad in front of a white background. Every time I looked at the ad I’d wonder, “Where the hell is he going with that?”

And then there were the people modeling different items. Often they looked like company employees who’d been pulled away from their desks for the photo shoots, so although they frequently had ridiculous expressions on their faces, but I loved the fact that they looked like real people. Not that professional ads are any better. For instance, have you ever seen a man standing around with one hand, half in his pocket, the other saucily planted on his hip? Or some of the postures the models are in; it makes your back hurt if you think about it for too long.

I used to point these things out to people. Often I’d go down the hall–giggling–to share these wonderful finds with Bob, who also seemed to appreciate the absurd ads.

Which is why when we all met for lunch yesterday, Bob had a catalog for me.

I was delighted by the wonders that were to be found within: an organ tunic (or better yet, an unhealthy organ tunic), your brain on beer, a fetus in a champagne flute. Fantastic! Bob really liked the Ciggy costume, and was considering it for a halloween costume, until he realized it was $700. Even the names are great, like Budget Bart Skeleton Model.

Some of the things are somewhat creepy–I found the expressions on the CPR dummys disturbing (although I liked the three baby CPR models peeking out of a carrying bag). And I don’t want anything to do with an Advanced Patient Care Enema Simulator.

But really, the whole thing is fascinating, and makes me long for the days when I received catalogs like this myself.

The book I’m reading right now describes one of the characters as beautiful, and by beautiful the author seems to mean that extraordinary that causes you to keep looking at the person, just because someone that beautiful can’t be real.

Beauty is a strange thing. For me beauty has always been a combination of the external and the internal: In my opinion, the most beautiful person in the world is my grandmother. That is one of my basic truths: Grandmom is the most beautiful person I know.

But I had a bit of a shock as I went through old family pictures–pictures from when my father was a child, and even from when Grandmom was a child. In those pictures I look at her not as I know her now, but as she was years and years ago–as a stranger to me. What I found shocking is that the woman in those photographs isn’t the beauty that I see when I look at Grandmom. I’m not saying she’s ugly–just that in looking at a stranger I do not see the woman I know, and so all that I know of her is stripped away, and I am left with only the image.

I had a friend in college who many I knew thought was gorgeous. But I never saw it. What I mean by that is that he was certainly pleasing looking, but when I looked at him I saw not just his physical looks, but also the childish habits that drove me crazy. I loved him as a friend, but I never found him attractive–despite what other women felt.

Sometimes I think I’m alone in feeling this. I look at models and actors and can’t understand why they are considered so beautiful. (With some exceptions of course.)

Is everyone as obsessed with superficial style and image as they seem? It’s not like the phrase “What does he/she see in him/her?” is an uncommon one.

I knew another woman in college–a friend of a friend–who did some modeling in her spare time. The strange thing was that if you saw her going to classes, you would never believe that she was a model. She wore sweatpants and pulled her hair back, and barely put on makeup and looked like every other female college student. But when we went out she pulled out all the stops, doing her hair and make-up, and transforming into another woman entirely. I was fascinated by the whole thing, and to be honest, still am. She was the same person, regardless of how she dressed or did her hair, yet the reactions to her in her different states were almost shockingly different.

It’s something I’ve always kept in the back of my mind, when considering beauty. How make-up and clothes and hair can completely change the way others view us.

And I try to keep it in mind for myself, as well.

Friday evening I went to the new Target to get some of my shopping out of the way. (Morgantown is apparently attempting to become the shopping mecca of West Virginia, with shopping centers open or planned for each of our five Interstate exits.)

As I was pushing my cart to towards the back of the store, I heard and odd sound, and then heard it again. It took me a moment to realize the sound was someone calling, “Mom!” and that the call was coming from an eleven or twelve year old girl walking down the aisle towards me. After another moment to realize that a woman who was most likely her mother was walking beside her, helping her push the cart. The I realized that the girl was walking rather oddly.

I panicked and immediately jerked my eyes down to my empty cart. The girl seemed to be blind and deaf. And I had been STARING at her.

Don’t stare at people, it’s rude.

I didn’t meant to stare. I was just trying to figure out what was going on.

But then again… I’ve heard those who are visibly different complain that people won’t look at them—will walk by as if they aren’t there.

So.

Now I desperately wanted to escape—to duck down an aisle, except that I was in the clothing section, and even more embarrassing than getting caught staring, is getting caught looking at cropped tops and short shorts. (I’d never be able to explain that one.)

So I walk past staring blankly at my empty cart, wracked with guilt, feeling like a jerk, all because I don’t know what they hell I’m supposed to do.

I considered what I normally do when I’m out in public: I watch people. I love to watch people. All the body shapes and hair styles and clothing disasters. It’s free entertainment. I watch people and then when they get closer or look as if they might look my way, I glance away at someone or something else. (Because eye contact means I might actually have to talk to someone.)

No help there.

So I still don’t know I’m supposed to do in these situations.

No wonder I don’t go out in public very often.

We’re going to see Mountainstage tonight! Woo hoo!

Edwin McCain
Klezmatics
Vic Chesnutt
Serena Ryder
Jesse Malin

I’m quite looking forward to the Klezmatics, who I believe I’ve heard before on Mountainstage. (That was their first time on Mountainstage. No clue where I’d heard them before.)

This is absolutely fascinating–you can look at names and track their popularity through time. My name went as high as 4 in the 1970s (surprise?) but has declined since then. I found out that my great-grandfather’s name was quite popular at the turn of the last century, and then dropped off the map.

That Susan did, in fact, come to Morgantown.

Plus, a road sign outside Pittsburgh warning of the Moon Beaver. Coming the other way it tells of the Airport Beaver.

And yes, that is, in fact, snow in a picture that was taken the 24th of April.

China’s break-dancing grandmother

There’s been a lot of mourning recently. People mourning Terri Schiavo’s death, her life, the death of the pope. But how sorrowful can the death of a stranger make you?

Mourning is accompanied by grief–the kind of loss that drives the breath from your body. Grief lasts more than a day, more than a week. It’s an acknowledgement of something very important in your life that you have lost.

But you can also mourn for something you’ve never had. For something you always wanted but have never been able to obtain. Grief happens when you finally learn that you won’t be able to achieve your desire.

But that kind of grief is hard. If you lose a loved one–that’s something people can understand. It’s tangible. It’s comprehensible. It’s something everyone has experienced. But this other kind of grief–it’s strange.

There are no words or phrases that come to mind.

No words of explanation or comfort, except “I’m sorry.”