I Am Not Here

Seasonal gig. Doin' math. Algebra. Lotsa algebra.

(I should be done in a coupla weeks.)

In the meantime, here's a poem about space travel.

EVERYTHING IS CLOSER

And the sun revolves around the moon

Incandescent, belching tongues of flame

Into the oily black

At the tip of my outstretched glove

As I twirl in the void, anchored

To a spinning, sparkling starfish,

Miles above the frosty face

Of the sky.

I'm Not A Sexist, But I Play One On TV

It's probably the sort of thing I ought not to admit, but as soon as I saw the headline Striking Nurses Seek Meal, Break Time, my first thought was, "Well, if they're that good-looking, they should get whatever they want!"

Modernity!

The Wifey has always been nutty for cool new cars. The smaller, the cuter, the more fuel-miserly, the better. This is the latest discovery. It's electric, it'll tell you where the nearest coffee shop is, and the wheels pivot so you can drive it sideways into a parking spot. Of course, there have been prototypes with pivoting wheels for the last half century, and they never catch on, mainly because they're not cars. They don't feel like a car, drive like a car, they're just not cars.

This specimen lead to the following dialogue between 'imself and the Wifey:

The Wifey: hee hee

'imself: Cute!

'imself: But the problem is, it isn't a car.

TW: well, no

TW: it's a moped in bubble

'imself: With directional casters

TW: the sideways parking is cool, though

'imself: It's a La-Z-Boy-In-A-Bubble!

Which prompted TW to send me that little animated laughing emoticon that never fails to remind me of that scene in Independence Day when they fire off the nuclear warhead into the heart of the alien mothership.

All that prompts me to dig out and post a picture of what my pal Doc Nagel described as possibly the last, best use of a Truimph TR6.

Although I'm not at all sure this is (was) a Trimph. In fact, I'm not sure what the hell it is (was).