Some elaborate new update to their employee back-end just showed me this warning:
Seriously. If closing a browser window can fuck up my account, I really don’t have much faith in you chuckleheads holding on to all sorts of personal information safely.
Oh, and apparently it’s nearly all fucking FLASH. WTF?
Reasons My Son Is Crying is today’s winner in the “single serving Tumblr site” race.
Two words: Tentacle chandaliers. Maybe Mrs Heathen will want one over the dining room table?
As it turns out, I really AM riding the MS150 this year. Here’s my personal page, wherein you may support my efforts. Expect periodic hassles, and some of you will be getting email.
A special to loyal Heathen, and in the style of Kickstarter, I am offering the following entirely ephemeral and intangible benefits:
Grudging acknowledgement.
For each donor at this level, I will post to the Internet one picture of me after a training ride, sun- and wind-burned, covered in road grime and sweat, and wearing cycling clothing.
Lovelorn admiration (silent).
For each donor at this level, I will remove from the Internet one picture of me after a training ride, sun- and wind-burned, covered in road grime and sweat, and wearing cycling clothing.
Lovelorn admiration (effusive, on this blog).
I will kiss you SQUARE ON THE MOUTH (no tongue)
FIRST
We have returned from the mountaintop. We will now resume normal shenanigans, just as soon as our inner ears stop telling us that our townhouse is gently rolling in the blue, blue seas of the Caribbean.
SECOND
This month, it has been ten years since this happened. Accompanying us on our pilgrimage was John Roderick (among other amazing artists), who performed (among other things) this terrific, and terrifically moving, song apropos of 1 February 2003:
(Updated: Replaced original video with actual footage of the performance we saw last Tuesday.)
THAT IS ALL.
“Hey, these 1930s syphilis posters remind me of my wife!“
Astute Heathen will recall Mrs Heathen’s affection for unusual lunchbox purses; one of her favorites is decorated on all sides with reproductions of some of the posters included in the story above. Our favorite is the excruciatingly correct “WHOM have you exposed to syphilis?”, but they’re all great art-deco delights despite (because of?) the subject matter.
There’s a whole other story of how Erin ended up taking this purse to a super-proper, super-fancy baby shower in Memorial soon after moving to town; neither of us clicked to where the address was, and I had forgotten that K’s parents were rich. Erin showed up in Doc Martens carrying a syphilis purse; it was AWESOME.
No, seriously. Check it out.
For your Monday viewing pleasure, I present HadleighAndFrank.com.
(Psst: Just 89 days to go!)
The HeathenCats are, as you may recall, rather younger than the Ancient Cat well documented in Miscellaneous Heathen’s deep archives. This leads to more activity, apparently.
They don’t get into MUCH trouble, really; they just have some amusing ideas for self-amusement. Cat the Smaller (hereinafter Sari) enjoys stalking and capturing small (and, occasionally, not so small) textiles. This may include socks, Mrs Heathen’s cardigans, towels, small pillows, etc. We find them, occasionally, in a trail going back up the stairs and into our room, particularly if we’ve left laundry to be folded on the bed or in a basket. She is, clearly, very fierce; the items invariably have feline puncture patterns.
Cat the Larger, who is also Cat the Friendlier (hereinafter Wiggs), has been less prone to such hobbies. She has some — the’s a little thieving magpie when it comes to small shiny things — but even that has been sort of rare lately.
Until we left them alone for a week, at Christmas, and boredom set in. It seems Wiggs — who has always been fascinated by water — has discovered that her water bowl contains water, and that if she slides it around, it’ll move in weird ways. That this results in a splattered mess if of no account; it’s a necessary price to pay, we assume, for her important research. Said research has also begun to include the introduction of a single piece of kibble into the water, presumably to test flow patterns. (No, it’s not an accident, and no, it’s never more than one.)
This is adorable and all, but standing water on the wood floor has more annoying features than just wet socks, so we’ve set out to provide alternative methods of distraction. Oh, and a heavier water bowl.
It’s in this pursuit that I realize I have just come home from the pet store with what amounts to two robots to amuse our cats. First is one of these, which automates the already delightfully futuristic fun of cats plus laser pointers. Second is a circular captured-ball toy, but with a little difference: the ball blinks and squeaks in response to motion, which in turn triggers a strong magnet inside the centerpiece that encourages further motion.
It’s safe to say this one is also a success:
I’ve always found it astonishing that the private schools some of my friends attended started hassling them for donations while they were still making student loan payments.
On, and another winner, from the sidebar of that very page: Gorilla Sales Skyrocket After Latest Gorilla Attack.
Older dog teaches puppy how to climb stairs. No, I’m serious. Seen on Twitter.
Found on Reddit; h/t to Jay Lee on Twitter.
Recently, businesses that have my cell number have decided it’d be okay to text me.
I disagree. Texts are fine if you’re my friend, or co-worker, or know me in some legitimate way. However, I am in no way okay with receiving automated texts of any kind.
So far, the only actual recourse I’ve found is to insist that these businesses delete my cell number. It’s apparently now a given that, if they have that number, they’ll generate automated texts. There’s no opt-out, short of zapping the number, which is annoying — if they want to call me, that’s fine. I just don’t want the texts.
It turns out that there ARE ways to block some kinds of automated texts, but I’m not 100% sure this will work — the culprits for me are reservation or appointment systems, but it does seem possible that they’re using the same internet-gateway type approach.
This set of interactive data visualizations is pretty amazing. You can filter by gender and by causes or groups of causes (say, communicable vs noncommunicable disease), with each change showing you the “probability that a 15-year-old in that country will die [of the displayed conditions] before reaching age 60 if mortality trends in that country remained the same.” It’s really a fascinating tool.
Via io9, who quite reasonably ask what the hell is up with the poison boom?
This was forwarded to me on Twitter a few days before Christmas:
And in those days Caesar Augustus decreed that all must return to the town of their birth, that they might sort out their parents’ computers.
It made me laugh. And then I got to my mother’s house, where in the course of about two days, I:
It’s a new holiday tradition!
Seriously, though, it’s good to be sure they’re properly configured, on good hardware, using good services, and that it’s all ship-shape.
PLEASE DONT GO. This one reminds me of certain Heathen-area cats…
Pardon, me, sir, but might I bother you for a bit of petting?.
Whoa:
The owner of this apartment, Mrs. De Florian left Paris just before the rumblings of World War II broke out in Europe. She closed up her shutters and left for the South of France, never to return to the city again. Seven decades later she passed away at the age of 91. It was only when her heirs enlisted professionals to make an inventory of the Parisian apartment she left behind, that this time capsule was finally unlocked.
Via Kadrey.
On the other hand, it IS his birthday.
Behave accordingly. If memory serves, thus begins the last year of his thirties. This leaves, I believe, only one other member of the Great Houston Heathen Cohort south of 40.
We have, thus far, failed to give any of them a secret Narnia entrance to their playrooms.
I think it’s about time we taught children that the Pilgrims were intolerant, fundie assholes and not charming buckle-hatted travelers just seeking a place to practice their faith. Sure, that was part of it, but they wanted more than that: they wanted religious hegemony, which is the absolute opposite of religious freedom.
Happy Thanksgiving anyway.
I advise giving him a wide berth, though, if he’s got that shopping cart with him. Happy Birthday to very longtime Heathen Edgar, my fellow “accomplished deviant.”
Bless your heart.
Fuck. You.
Incidentally, if any Heathen know anything about insurance law, email me privately. I have questions.
So this guy moves into an old house in Connecticut, and the basement is full of crap. Landlord says he can have any of it he wants.
He finds some clothes. They fit. It’s only after a closer inspection that he realizes who the clothes used to belong to.
I’m still kind of amazed she went along with it.
Happy 7th anniversary, Erin. Here’s to many more to come.
This piece on leaving Moscow is pretty great, and reminds me of stories told my a certain immigrant Texan I know…
We love the new guys, but we still miss Bob.
Today, I am extremely pleased to have heard this sentence in conversation with my friend Igor: “A friend of mine met her years ago in the jungles of the Yucatan.”
(And yes, it’s a statement of literal truth.)
This will be ALL OVER THE NET today, but you really shouldn’t miss the footage of the koala who hitched a ride on a canoe.
Here you go: the entire Curiosity descent, sped up so you can watch it quickly. Amazing.
Some days, it takes very little to achieve deification:
I choose to believe my beloved is not sullying our correspondence with sarcasm.
I’m sure Gore Vidal hated it when people called him gloria, though.
(Seriously, you don’t get many obituaries as much fun as this one. I’m sorry it omits the oft-repeated anecdote of Vidal’s response to Norman Mailer’s literally knocking him on his ass at some party: “Words fail Mailer again!”)
We always said we didn’t want any kids, but…
In Soviet Russia, you FEED FOX!
Wait… that’s not right…
Kiese Laymon on How to Slowly Kill Yourself and Others in America: A Remembrance.
No, really. Go read it. Make time.
Via MeFi.
This is Mrs Heathen:
It is her birthday. She is impossibly awesome. Behave accordingly.
Sure, I’m two days late. Sue me. But once you get over your shock at my delay, read this. (Via MeFi).
If you stop moving long enough, ants will eat you. Especially if you are a dead lizard.
It’s time for the Overthinking Person’s Drinking Game.
This guy decided hide and seek, his toddler, and his head-mountable video camera made for a great combination.
Via MeFi.
If you, as I, have crossed into 40 and that vast middle of life, and find yourself no longer the youngest guy in the room, well, Florida will fix that.
Why do you ask?
(Electrical tape, natch, because the yard’s too small to put anything up on blocks.)
“Since I bought a brand new bike at noon, let’s go ride at noon!”
(Via MeFi.)
