Some day, my Nook will come
Yes, we bought a Nook. A Nook, not a Kindle, because Barnes and Noble is a blue company and Amazon is red (based on which politicians they fund), and more significantly, the Nook allows you to download free stuff from the Google Book Project / Project Gutenberg, and we like us some old books. Karen just got done reading Tarzan, Return of Tarzan, She, Return of She (am I getting those titles right? I don’t know! It’s late, I’m tired, you get the idea), and now she’s reading an Emile Zola novel. Oh, and the Nook let’s you loan out ebooks to friends.
We have a Sony ebook reader (that’s what Karen has been using to read the aforementioned books), but I dislike the dark gray text on the light gray background. I want black on white! And no, this is not simply a must-have compulsion for new gadgetry. We don’t own an iPhone. We have an iPod but we don’t use it (I won it at a supermarket, actually). I confess that when I heard about Apple’s upcoming tablet, I was intrigued, but I doubt I’ll get that, either. Knowing Apple, it’ll probably cost $4000.
Sometimes I think I should get some of this newfangled crap just to stay au courant. But then I remember that I have a Twitter account and a Facebook account that I never use. Not that I pay anything for these things, but it disturbs me sometimes to think of the fossilized footprints I’ve left on the web. Do yourself a favor and never google “angstwolf.” Some of those recipes (like the guacamole) are better off forgotten.
I’m going to bed.
D.
PS: Why do I really want a Nook? Because I’m fed up with buying books. Physical space books, that is. I have boxes and boxes of ’em and I don’t want to have even more boxes of ’em.
I need to donate.
Musical interlude
Video game music wasn’t always this good. Remember Pac Man’s tinny soundtrack? But things have come a long way since Pac Man.
For a quick eye-opener (ear-opener?), try Tin Hat Trio’s “The Longest Night,” from the game Triachnid. Then listen to Jami Sieber’s “Undercurrent” or “Maenam”, both of which you’ll hear while playing Braid. You’ll even hear “Undercurrent” backwards (Braid is a time-manipulating game), and it’s intriguingly good.
Even Civilization III had some decent music, although when you hear something ad nauseum, it still gets tiresome.
On the other hand, I can listen again and again to Portal’s “Still Alive,” the song that introduced us to Jonathan Coulton, and it never fails to make me smile. (Or maybe it was his, “Re: Your Brains.” Also good for grins.)
D.
Soft tissue is a piece of cake
It’s the inorganic world that defies me.
I’ve misplaced our mailbox key. Mind you, I’m not delighted that we have to have a key to our mailbox. Paranoid people like it, I suppose, since a key implies that no one can steal their mail. On the other hand, if you’re paranoid, you probably figure someone has already made a copy of your key, perhaps several copies, and the creepy guy who lives down the block and drives that battered Volvo is right now steaming open your American Express bill to discover just how many purchases you’ve made from Xandria this month.
So, really, I don’t understand the point of locked mailboxes.
It was a small key on a tiny ring attached to a circular, foil-rimmed, paper tag. I kept it in our Camry, in the detritus-catcher (cup holder) behind the parking brake. Sometimes I put it into the other detritus-catcher in front of the parking brake, but since Wednesday, it has been in neither place. I’ve tossed the car, twice nearly gotten my upper torso stuck in the driver’s side foot well (and, yes, it’s possible to reach the horn from there, just in case), and I am assured that the key has not fallen beneath either seat. It’s not in the crack between the seat bottom and back. It’s not in the ash tray. It’s not in the glove compartment.
I’ve checked all of my shirt and pants pockets. No go.
Today, I had the bright idea of looking into the recess from which the parking brake emerges. I could see something round, a glint of metal . . . my key, perhaps? And was this sufficient encouragement to rip apart something I would no way, no how be able to put back together? (Admittedly, I could possibly reach this object with any one of the long forceps I still own. Ripping-apart was and is an option of last resort.)
From private practice, I still have a flexible fiberoptic laryngoscope and light source. I broke it out, found an extension cord to power the light source, and went hunting. Sadly, the two round objects in the recess are (A) a washer and (B) a quarter. But I give myself points for resourcefulness.
I went to the post office, and they wanted $50 to change the lock and give us new keys. Then the woman helping me discovered that our homeowner’s association owns the boxes, so we’re out of luck for now.
I remembered that when we moved in, there were a buttload of random keys in a drawer. I was pretty sure we only had one mailbox key, but maybe, just maybe, one of those keys was a backup mailbox key. And maybe one is. I don’t know. I can’t find those damned keys anywhere.
Don’t get me started on how difficult it was to change the bathroom light bulbs.
D.
Second verse, same as the first
I’m having a hard time getting upset over today’s Supreme Court decision allowing corporations the ability to spend unlimited amounts of money to sway voters in federal and state elections. Keith Olbermann is calling this decision “our Dred Scott,” as if it’s some sort of pre-Enlightenment atavism, with the five justices writing in the majority a collection of chronologically displaced Australopithecines*. It’s the end of the world as we know it.
In reality, corporations have controlled our politics for many decades, and today’s decision merely legalizes something that has long been an institutional reality. Those like Olbermann who would bust an aneurysm over the loss of our cherished democracy are analogous to people who, upon hearing of the legalization of marijuana, would declare, “Now people might smoke it!”
Come to think of it, perhaps today’s decision will usher in a new era of realpolitik on the Court. They should legalize marijuana, do away with highway speed limits, ax jaywalking restrictions, shred all of the blue laws.
Hmm. When did I become a Libertarian?
D.
*No idea why my brain is breaking out the dictionary. No idea whatsoever.
Preparing for a talk . . .
. . . that I am giving tomorrow on tubes, tonsils, and adenoids. It’s for the pediatricians. I’m giving another talk this March for the pedis and the GPs on ENT urgencies (nosebleeds, ear trauma, laryngitis, and so forth), but this one’s all about the bread and butter.
No, not me. Too much hair.
Just looked through my slides and (A) I’m worried I don’t have two hours’ worth of material, and (B) many of my slides are too wordy. And (C), not enough pictures.
These folks are human, after all. They wants to see lots o’ pictures.
I’ll make it up to them in March.
D.
You know you play too much Oblivion when . . .
. . . you find yourself coveting Benirus Manor.
It’s in the coastal city of Anvil, and it’s a steal at a mere 5000 gold pieces. The place is a mess (hey, it’s sounding like my OTHER coastal home!), but once you rid it of its curse (rats in our Oregon house, ghosts in this one), it repairs itself (sadly not applicable to our Oregon house).
Why do you need a house in Oblivion? To store all of your crap, naturally. You know, the loot you find that you don’t want to use right now but don’t want to sell. Books that might turn out to be quest items. Various herbs and vegetables used in alchemy.
I was playing Dragon Age, and I think I’m about 5/6 finished with it, enjoying it very much — tremendous writing; the banter between characters is so good, I’m tempted to post a video — oh, hey, what the hell:
The woman, Wynne, is about 90 years old, but she looks pretty decent for all of that. She’s sort of a priestess mage and rather preachy. Zevran is the elf with the Ricardo Montalban accent. He’s an unrepentant assassin and he’ll screw anything with a heartbeat.
Anyway, I was playing Dragon Age, but got a bit of Dragon Age fatigue and decided to reinstall Oblivion. It’s a 2006 role-playing game with this rather novel plot about saving the world from the gates of hell blah blah blah. Terrible voice acting, mediocre writing, and yet there’s something about the world that draws me in and won’t let me go. It’s a huge world and you can explore just about every square inch — unlike Dragon Age, where your ability to explore is nonexistent.
Sometimes, a guy feels like exploring.
I want that house. And I can almost afford it. Right now, all I can afford is this shack:
. . . which is also on the waterfront, and looks a good deal like our house in Oregon when we first bought it.
I bet the shack has rats, too.
D.
Wordless
I have nothing to say. I suppose I could write one of those “what I did today” entries, but then you’d find out how much time I waste playing Dragon Age or Oblivion.
Oh, well. We’ll make it a Hoodia update. Yes, it works as an appetite suppressant, but I’m still not losing any weight. Not gaining, either, so that’s something.
D.
And now for something completely different
Doro wat . . .
This looks nothing like MY doro wat. But you get the idea.
I had a yen for a nice doro wat tonight. Ethiopian curries are like none other; I think it’s the combo of heat, spice, and sweetness from the berbere**. But man, is this a bit of work. Would have been easy on the weekend, but more than I really wanted to do on a week night. Anyway, here’s what you do:
Sprinkle salt on your chicken and throw it into a gallon bag. Add about a half cup of lemon juice, and let it sit for a while, turning the bag over and over every 10-15 minutes. You’ll be doing this while you work on the rest of the dinner. What kind of chicken? I used thigh/leg combos, three of them, but in the future I think I will use boneless meat cut into large chunks. Only trouble with that idea is, it’ll cook much faster, so I’m not sure whether the chicken will cook too quickly, well before the stew has a chance to develop its flavor.
Second, the berbere*:
One good way to donate
I’m sure there are many others, but MSF was my choice.
From their homepage:
MSF has already treated more than 1,000 people on the ground in Haiti following Tuesday’s earthquake, but the needs are huge. An inflatable hospital with operating theatres is expected to arrive in the next 24 hours.
D.
The latest
My scale seems pegged between 172.5 and 173.5. Yes, I know you’re not supposed to weigh yourself daily, but I can’t help it. I’m obsessed. And I’m half tempted to take a diuretic just for the rush of seeing a few pounds drop off in a matter of hours.
(And that’s why doctors shouldn’t treat themselves.)
I’m dieting, kind of, and still exercising, but it’s not happening fast enough for me. A pound a week, that’s all I ask for! Is that so much? I want to get back to 163. I look and feel good at 163. When I made it there before (scarcely two or three months ago), I decided wrongly that exercise alone would keep me there, so I stopped watching my diet.
Anyway, here is what my doc recommended:
Ram one of these babies down your esophagus, and you won't eat for days.
It’s hoodia, or Hoodia gordonii, a cactiform succulent from the Namib desert. Extracts supposedly act as diet suppressants, and since I’m not the suggestible type I’m going to assume that my current bloated feeling is proof of concept. I think I need to take the medication earlier, though, since the bloat struck well after dinner. On the other hand, I avoided dessert, which I usually cannot do. So perhaps we are getting somewhere.
Does it work? I mean, is there good solid evidence for this stuff? Wikipedia says only that it is “being investigated as an appetite suppressant.” According to some website called NaturalNews.com, a study from Leicester, England, showed that patients on Hoodia consumed 1000 calories per day less than controls. That’s remarkable. That translates to a two pound per week weight loss . . . if true. Obviously, I would have to continue exercising to keep up my muscle mass, watch my diet to avoid malnutrition, etc. But I’m not sure I trust a place called NaturalNews.com. It ain’t Nature, you know?
Then I had the brilliant idea: what does my friend the Fanatic Cook have to say about it? Since she’s my go-to gal for all things dietary. But, unfortunately, Bix doesn’t have much to say, other than she likes her appetite and doesn’t want to see it suppressed.
So I’m left thinking, “Well, if I can at least prove it won’t kill me, what’s the harm in trying?” Over at drugs.com, I learned
Hoodia has not been evaluated by the FDA for safety, effectiveness, or purity. All potential risks and/ or advantages of Hoodia may not be known. Additionally, there are no regulated manufacturing standards in place for these compounds. There have been instances where herbal/ health supplements have been sold which were contaminated with toxic metals or other drugs. Herbal/ health supplements should be purchased from a reliable source to minimize the risk of contamination.
So I should be good, provided my Hoodia doesn’t contain mercury, lead, cadmium, or Kryptonite. (Honestly, though, this is one of the few negative reports on Hoodia, but the strongest argument they make is that your Hoodia might be bogus.)
Oh, and I’m drinking green tea now, too.
D.