SpaceMika

Spider Robinson’s “Melancholy Elephants” short story collection might be the first science fiction I ever read. I’m frequently appalled by my fellow scifi geeks who haven’t yet experienced the joy, and buy copies of the now out-of-print anthology every time I discover it in used book stores.

The title piece, Melancholy Elephants” not only taught me how to spell melancholy, it also became a family catchphrase for a set of concepts regarding copyright law. If you haven’t heard of it, I highly recommend it as an afternoon read.

I want to try making this in my copious free time.

Hal Clement’s “Whirlygig World” essay is a strong influence on my opinions of science fiction:

Writing a science fiction story is fun, not work. … the fun… lies in treating the whole thing as a game. … the rules must be quite simple. They are; for the reader of a science-fiction story, they consist of finding as many as possible of the author’s statements or implications which conflict with the facts as science currently understands them. For the author, the rule is to make as few such slips as he possibly can … Certain exceptions are made [e.g., to allow travel faster than the speed of light], but fair play demands that all such matters be mentioned as early as possible in the story…

As it is easier to destroy than create, I usually focus on finding ways to support the science described than to chop it down, but otherwise I fully subscribe to the rules for playing with science fiction.

To further my affection for Clement’s writing, while doing research for a talk I’m giving for the Summer Science Program next month, I came across the following quote from his “Uncommon Sense”:

[F]or a scientist “belief” has not the same meaning as for a Fundamentalist; all scientific ideas, including the belief that the earth is approximately spherical in shape, are tentative and subject to revision if more and better data come in. (This is why the remark “Evolution is only an unproved theory” so often uttered by its opponents is so irritating. It’s a truth with false implications, like “Jerry Falwell was sober last Sunday. “)

I am delighted by the phrase, a truth with false implications.

Deadliest Catch

I’ve been looking for an excuse to post this photo, and now the latest issue of Knitty featuring a small stuffed crab is adding to the crab-frenzy. I might need to make a buddy for my tiny octopus.

So, you thought Saturn’s rings were flat, did you?

It’s been crazy-busy around here recently, but I always have time for neat astronomy.

Looking at US tax .pdfs (didn’t we already do this?), I burst out laughing when I saw the following:

Now with 100% recycled electrons!

That’s right: my electronic form is printed on 100% recycled paper on my monitor. I’m wondering if this is a new filing requirement: if I print on virgin fibre, will my claim be rejected?

As I just recently finished a course in satellite image interpretation, I was deeply amused by this technique for finding penguin colonies from space.

(thanks for noticing the missing link, JDLH; I forgot the text for the link!)

I was introduced to my sewing machine when I was a wee lass. By the time I was old enough to read technical writing, I’d lost the manual. Toss in a few moves, and I’m missing just about every accessory and tool that wasn’t attached (and a few that were)… I love my sewing machine, but it’s earned the right to be highly temperamental, and it takes advantage of it by mysteriously chewing up fabric, requiring abnormally frequent service, and refusing to maintain tension. It works well enough for me, but pretty much no one else can coax the machine into functioning.

My sewing machine is currently in storage, so when it came to doing my mending, I borrowed mum’s machine. I’m pretty sure it’s older than I am, and is a stately hunk of iron. I tried my best to treat it with care and respect, but that machine hated me! In mending one bag, I broke two needles, repeatedly snapped the thread, had the bobbin tangle so hopelessly I had to attack it with scissors, and finally called my mother to rescue me. Without her adjusting anything, the machine was on its best behaviour, and it took approximately 45 seconds to stitch the tear.

My only explanation is that sewing machines have demonstrable loyalty for their mistresses. That, or as skilled practitioners we are familiar with the quirks of our tools, but that denies me my anthropomorphism.

I maintain a presence on Facebook primarily because I have an unusual name, and if someone is looking for me I’d like them to succeed. I rarely update my status or anything beyond basic logistics, but I do have a Facebook page.

I created a twitter account for identical reasons, and then was faced with a dilemma: what to do with it?

After constantly running into dead-ends while on a coffee-shop study-date and sadly bemoaning my loss of productivity-points, Joanne recounted a conversation where someone unclear on the Points concept inquired if she tracked her points online. After giggling, we realized they were brilliant: it’s the perfect use for Twitter!

My challenges are:
- posts for points
- full concepts and complete thoughts
- using exactly 120 characters

I still have no clue why anyone would want to read twits, but at least I know what to write!

I wrote this during my ridiculously long stopover at LAX (I was overly generous in allotting myself time for immigration, baggage claim, customs, re-depositing baggage, re-checking in, and security).

Being in the US again is really strange, yet comforting. The PA announcer voices are so nasal they sound like someone mocking the American accent. People speak Spanish, not Italian.

After getting spoiled by all-fancy-coffee-drinks-for-the-price-of-filter in Melbourne, I couldn’t bare to pay a premium for a coffee-based drink and got something tea-based instead. It was downright startling to realize tax wasn’t included in price, and I swear the American $5 bill has been updated since last time I saw one.

I’ve had quite a few pleasant conversations this journey so far. The man next to me for my long flight was mostly incredibly quiet, but we started talking when he asked for help reading his customs form (he spoke fluent English, but was more comfortable reading in French). He, too, is heading home after 6 months in Melbourne (with side trips to Sidney) where he was visiting extended quasi-family. We shared a giggle over noticing the absence of green visa-cards in all the rows surrounding us and the heavy use of “eh” and concluding we were a pack of misplaced moose heading home.

I’m falling into a practiced swing of explaining my journey, I’ve been asked so often. I’ve been in Australia for six months, exploring the country, playing with rocks, and meeting my boyfriend’s family. I had a great time, but I’m very excited to be home again, and to see my family. The gate staff for my final flight leg sympathised with my desire to get home, and seated me as far forward in the plane as she could, on an aisle seat, so I can be one of the very first ones off and through customs and get home those few minutes faster.

I’ve had some funny conversations with the customs officers. One was deeply curious as to why I was travelling with cleaned rocks of no economic value (”I’m a geologist! Collecting rock samples is what we do!”), another admired the handwriting on the address label of my box, and one wished me and my Monkey a safe journey.

My small plush Monkey is causing quite a stir. He’s been traveling by poking his nose out of my knitting bag, hands carefully tucked through the handle of my laptop case to prevent him from spilling out unnoticed. When I departed the Land of Oz, Elka commented on his pose being that of an exceptionally well-behaved child. On my intercontinental flight, he spent most of it perched on my lap, and at one stage attracted the cooing of a flight attendant who pet his tiny nose before moving down the aisle to attend to her duties. While checking in for the last leg of my flights, an elderly gentleman in line behind me asked permission to introduce himself to the Monkey; I think his poor eyesight may have deceived him into perceiving an actual small child or animal poking out of my bag. Un-dissuaded by the realization of Monkey’s plush nature, the elderly man called out a goodbye to us as we left the line for the upper reaches of security check-in. Finally, as I settled myself in my gate’s lounge to get some work done in the remaining five hours of my layover, an elderly woman initiated conversation with, “So, what’s the story with the monkey?” We then chatted about computers (she left the workforce right as they were being introduced, so knows nothing of them), knitting (our mutual dissatisfaction with the knitting-needle ban, and showing off finished objects), and the economic crises (particularly with the modern demand for her former profession, Collections).

Everyone is commenting on my hats. Some staff are asking why I have so many hats, others think the two-layer stack is one highly unique hats; most fellow travelers give me a double-take, then a nod of recognition as they figure out it’s a hat-transportation method. A lovely Canadian woman responded to my “classically Aussie” self-depreciating comment on the jarring style of my hats with my outfit by telling me that I looked lovely and it was a unique style. This was later reinforced by another staffer, who declared it would make people notice me which was always a good thing. I started a side conversation with fellow-travelers about how I didn’t think it was necessarily a good thing to stand out in a crowd, especially when airport security is concerned…