03/31/04’s illustrious band:

The TaX Files

Brought to you by three government agencies.

Sister-san and Chef Jeff moved to Arizona last summer. Now it’s tax season, and they found that they needed a Minnesota Part-Year Resident form to complete their filing. Sister-san asked me to pick one up and mail it to her. I said I would. I figured it would be simple:

1. Drive to post office.

   
   

2. Take desired form from bin.

   
   

3. Mail form.

   
   

4. Eat lunch.

   
   

Alas, it was not to be. We’re talking about three government bureaucracies plus a blonde with a cell phone here, so you know it’s not gonna be that easy. Here’s what I actually had to do:

1. Drive to post office.

   
   

2. Search bins for desired form. Fail to find it. Ask bystanders if they know where to look. Receive blank stares. (Polite blank stares; this is Minnesota, after all.)

   
   

3. Get in line to ask a postal employee.

   
   

4. Learn from postal employee that the post office only stocks the basic forms; for the exotic stuff, you need to go to the library. Get directions to nearest library. Purchase sheet of Year of the Monkey stamps.

   
   

5. Head for library as per directions.

   
   

6. After 10 minutes without seeing library, determine that directions to not gibe with actual location of library.

   
   

7. Pull into parking lot. Call Information on cell phone. Connect with library. Get directions from librarian.

   
   

8. Arrive at library 45 seconds later.

   
   

9. Search bins for desired form. Find it quickly.

   
   

10. Return to post office. Return to line. Mail form.

    
    

11. Eat lunch.

    
    

Moral of the story: You can get just about everything you need from your local library and/or librarian. Except monkey stamps.

I don’t mean to imply that this errand was an odious chore; it was not. It was a beautiful day to be driving around a small Midwestern town with the windows down and the radio on, and I still had time to drop my coat off at the cleaners before heading back to Media Headquarters. All missions accomplished.

Today around the world: March 31 is would-be Prez Al Gore’s birthday. Not quite a national holiday, but hey, throw the poor guy a bone, all right?

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03/30/04’s illustrious band:

The Question Authority

Brought to you by SPC Skippy Schwarz

Yesterday, I ranted about people who don’t know how to question an authority. Today, here’s a tasty link to the exact opposite: the sage musings of one who found out 213 really interesting things when he dared to question that authority of authorities, the United States Army.

My personl favorite is probably #10: “Not allowed to purchase anyone’s soul on Government time” -- which implies that such purchases are perfectly fine when one is off duty or not serving in the military.

Enjoy!

Today around the world: March 30 is Spiritual Baptist Liberation Shouter Day in Trinidad and Tobago.

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03/29/04’s illustrious band:

Axgrinders Drononymous

Brought to you by the Association of Health Care Journalists conference our Award-winning Magazine staff attended this past weekend.

Don’t worry, this isn’t going to be like MarsCon week, where I regale you with several days’ worth of observations from my weekend activities. I just want to comment on something I found really striking about this conference.

The AHCJ conference was a gathering of journalists. These are people who interview other people for a living. People who should, by their very nature, be skilled and practiced at asking clear, concise questions, right? But they're not! They're really, really not!

Dr. Elias Zerhouni, the head of the National Institutes of Health -- a very important guy whose time one ought not waste -- gave the keynote address Friday evening. Some of the "questions" people stood up to ask were really just long, windy statements (like 5 full minutes) of their own agendas, i.e. "Do you now recognize the error of the NIH in not researching [insert journalist's pet topic here]?"

In courts of law, this sort of thing is called a leading question, and it usually provokes one or more attorneys to bolt from their chairs exclaiming “I object!” The offending party is then required to restate the question without bias, or shut up. I almost objected several times on Friday.

Dr. Z called quite a few people on their lack of technique, saying essentially, "I see that this subject is very important to you [a gibe, since journalists are supposed to remain objective] -- but what was your actual question?" several times. No one caught on, though. The ax-grinding continued until Dr. Z -- did I mention he's the very important head of a vital federal program? -- clearly frustrated, called an end to the Q&A. I was embarrassed for my colleagues.

OK, time to get down off my soapbox and get on with the business of the day. This includes a conference-sponsored field trip to a medical device manufacturer’s headquarters. Mmm, gadgets!

Today around the world: March 29 is my late Dad’s birthday. It’s also Youth Day in Taiwan and Memorial Day in Madagascar.

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03/25/04’s illustrious band:

Pier Pressure

Brought to you by Cool Hand Andrea. Andrea recently took a vacation in Mexico. For something interesting to do, she took a “be a dolphin trainer for a day” course. For eight hours, she and other participants got to hang out with dolphins, learn about their habits and habitat, and learn hand signals to cue them to do tricks.

Andrea was excited to learn a new signal, one that asked her aquatic partner to follow her as she walked down the pier, slapping his tail on the surface of the water to produce big splashes. She was so delighted with the dolphin’s response, looking back over her shoulder, that she kept walking and signaling -- right off the end of the pier. The dolphin and his friends nudged her back toward the ladder.

Even better, though, was that the event was caught on film; participants in the course were given videotapes of themselves in action at the end of the day. Andrea’s got rewound and rewatched a lot.

Despite that one gaffe, Andrea liked the program and the program team liked her. They need more English-speaking staff during the summer, so she’s going to spend a month in Mexico being a dolphin trainer. Beats working at Wall Drug!

Today around the world: March 25 is Brother-in-law-san’s birthday. Happy birthday, Chef Jeff! It’s also Waffle Day in Sweden. Seriously! What’s for dinner, Jeff?

Editor’s note: The Media Sensation and her cohorts will be attending a healthcare journalists’ conference tomorrow, so there will be no Friday blog. Catch you Monday!

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03/23/04’s illustrious band:

Thrill 2 Chill

Brought to you by my new refrigerator.

Things are finally cooling down around Sensational Acres. The new fridge was delivered on time today and seems to be working beautifully. In fact, the delivery guys called before their projected arrival time and actually beat me to the house. Imagine that! I spent 10 minutes removing plastic wrap, packing tape, and foam packing wedges from the inside of the new fridge, but it was still easier to get into than a new CD.

Cleaning the fridge space after the old one was removed, however, was a lot less fun. Since I couldn’t move the old unit by myself, it had been quite a while since a wet rag made it into that corner. BLEAH! That won’t be a problem in the future, fortunately, since the new fridge glides about on wheels. Cool!

Today around the world: March 23 is World Meteorological Day. Uh, yeah, there’s weather happening all over the globe.

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03/22/04’s illustrious band:

Freaky Frank and his Blessed Buns

Brought to you by the Freaky Franks website. It’s been a busy day and I have no new tale to tell -- including the tale of a new refrigerator, because the delivery did not occur as scheduled -- so just click on this big juicy offering and make your own fun. Happy Spring!

Today around the world: March 22 begins the Week of the Fish in French Polynesia, a group of five archipelagoes in the South Pacific.

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03/19/04’s illustrious band:

Hasta Amana

Brought to you by my late, great Amana refrigerator.

I arose to greet the day early on Wednesday morning. My refrigerator did not; it had blown a fuse during the night. I reset the fuse, but when I got home from work that evening, the light was on, but nobody was chillin’; the food in the fridge was warm and damp. Since the unit was old anyway, instead of repairing it, I made plans to shop for a new one the next day.

After work on Thursday, off I went to a store where scratched and dented appliances are sold for reduced prices. I was befriended immediately by CJ the Salesman and His Amazing Salt-and-Pepper Pompadour. When we headed for the higher-end models, I quickly graduated from “Miss” to “Dear lady.” CJ, like his hair, was nothing if not smooth.

I had measured the space my fridge sat in so I’d know what dimensions to shop for. As we strolled the aisles talking capacities, brands and prices, I quickly realized I’d forgotten one important fact: the color. I could not for the life of me remember whether my kitchen appliances were white or bisque (off-white). How embarrassing! I’ve made daily use of these things for more than 3 years, yet I could not recall the color.

Technology to the rescue! I whipped out my cell phone and called the person most likely to have this information, Mother Media. She remembers important details like these. Unfortunately, she was not available, so I was left with two choices: Go home, check the color, and come back, or record some serial numbers, go home, check the color, and call back. I opted for plan B, and we proceeded.

In the end, I bought the most expensive refrigerator I looked at. It has the freezer on the bottom, accessible via a slide-out drawer rather than a door that would require me to stoop and reach for contents. This puts the chocolate milk at eye level. This fridge also has deep door pockets and adjustable glass shelves that won’t leak liquid spills into the space below. No icemaker; it’s not compatible with my plumbing scheme. The slight dent on one side will be out of sight against a wall. I went all out with the extended warranty, too. Gotta spend that huge tax refund somehow! I’m expecting delivery Monday during the lunch hour.

Oh, and the color? Bisque.

Today around the world: March 19 is St. Joseph’s Day in quite a few countries.

BND BONUS: Bury St. Joseph

originally posted in early July, 2001

As legend has it, St. Joseph was the patron saint of carpenters, and therefore of homebuilders. Someone who is selling a house is supposed to bury a likeness of St. Joseph in the yard for good luck with the sale. The likeness can be a medal, a statue, or a picture. Depending on whom you ask, he should be facing either toward the house or toward the street, or both. After the sale, you're supposed to exhume St. Joe and take him with you to your new home for continued prosperity. I don't know whether he goes inside the new house or back into the turf, though.

I first learned of this little rite during my recent [July, 2001] sojourn in Missouri, where my grandmother's house was slated for auction 6/30. Has anyone else heard of it around here? Anyway, the family, with all due ceremony and colorful party horns, buried color printouts of St. Joe downloaded from the 'Net, which we left to biodegrade in the back yard because Granny isn't buying a new house. No word yet on how the auction went, but I did take a few moments on Saturday to chant the ritual prayer: Go, Joe! Go, Joe! Go, Joe!

[Editor’s note: The auction fetched a reasonable price.]

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03/18/04’s illustrious band:

Map Light

Brought to you by MarsCon 2004.

Did you think I’d forgotten you? No, no, you’re not getting away so easily. I’m still blogging along. I’ve just been busy recently with a four-day seminar followed by catch-up time at work. But I’m back in the groove now. So here we go.

A perennial feature of the sci-fi conventions I’ve attended is the musical entertainment. As you’d expect, you can hear sci-fi movie themes played by fannish musicians in robot suits and haunting odes to dragon love (don’t ask) wailed by comely lasses on hiatus from the nearest Renaissance festival. At midnight there’s usually a drum jam where you can bang out some otherworldly rhythms or practice your belly dancing.

There’s also a large comedy music component, in which the musicians may replace familiar lyrics with more Hobbit- or Star Wars-oriented words, a la Weird Al Yankovic’s timeless classic Yoda, sung to the tune of Lola. When heavily laden with puns and in-jokes, these works are called filksongs; to sing them at a rum-fueled after-hours room party is to filk. A filksong usually has twice as many verses as the original, and you can bet each and every one of them is gonna get sung.

Sometimes the artists compose original tunes that poke loving fun at various geek icons, or compose original silly songs that have nothing whatsoever to do with science, science fiction, fantasy, or role-playing games. Such is the case with this year’s one-off hit, Turn Off the G*dd*mn Map Light, written and performed by the Great Luke Ski with some help from his friends, the three guys who comprise the Worm Quartet. (The Great Luke Ski is also the author of last year’s infamous Hobbit rap Golleminem.)

Mr. Ski travels to numerous cons around the region, usually by car, usually accompanied by his long-suffering wife Steph. Map Light is the musical version of the conversation they have when he’s driving long distances at night and she won’t turn off the offending illumination until she has finished eating her burger, cleaning her purse, fixing her hair, etc. Both tempo and volume increase as the “discussion” wears on. It’s a pretty good song, as songs about map lights go, and the chorus is catchy: “Turn off the g*dd*mn map light!” Just chant it four times in a row, with feeling.

Reaction roundup on a scale of 1 to 10

Sci-fi relevance: 4 -- highest relevance rating yet!

Entertainment value: 6 to 8, dependent upon whether you’re already a fan of the performer

Number of other songs about map lights that I know of: 0

Number of other songs about map lights that I’d like to hear: 2

Average cup size of the men performing this song: C

Today around the world: March 18 is Men’s Day in Mongolia. You go, boys!

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03/10/04’s illustrious band:

Wise Cracker

Brought to you by MarsCon 2004.

At 11:00 on Saturday night, two dozen people crowded into a hotel conference room to watch a man crack a whip. The man was Robert Dante, Guinness record holder for most whip cracks in one minute: 203. He informed us that the “popper” on the end of the whip is traveling faster than the speed of sound when it generates its crack, which is certainly fast enough to lacerate flesh and break bone. Dante dressed in a Doc Holliday frock coat and string tie and sported a full head of shaggy white hair under his black hat. His assistant, the brave and daring Tina, wore a dancehall costume of tight bodice and tutu-like skirt, with a strip of lace around her slender neck.

In classic Wild West fashion, Dante used his whip to cleave a sheet of newspaper into smaller and smaller pieces as Tina held it carefully away from her torso. He snapped a playing card from her fingers and a cigarette from her lips; he even whipped the flame off of a candle in her outstretched palm without splattering any melted wax. Dante also flicked plastic strips held behind his back himself, out of sight. And he demonstrated his control of the lash by causing it to wrap around Tina’s limbs or waist to pull her toward him for a peck on the cheek.

The most interesting part of the act was the black light show. The piping on Dante’s lapel, boots, belt buckle and hatband was done with paint that glowed under black light. He had a couple of whips that glowed and a great stock of expendable glowing Styrofoam strips. It was really cool to see the visual vapor trail left by the fluorescent lashes -- especially cool when he wielded a whip in each hand in alternating rhythm.

Then, of course, there was the makeup. Despite the intimate size of the room, both Dante and the brave and daring Tina wore full stage makeup. It didn’t look out of place on Tina, or even on Dante; both had clearly applied their pancake with experienced hands. With the overhead lights on, they looked fine. But under the black lights, the makeup showed up as a vaguely shimmery purple-black, with startling white spaces for eyes and teeth. On Dante it wasn’t so distracting. His hair and shirt collar framed his face, so there was no other exposed flesh for the makeup to contrast with. But Tina had her hair pulled back in a tight bun, and her costume didn’t start until several inches below her chin, revealing a very distinct makeup line at her jaw. No blending, just a sharp on/off.

Still, it was one of the best makeup jobs I saw at the convention, and the whips were pretty cool. No complaints.

Reaction roundup on a scale of 1 to 10

Sci-fi relevance: 0

Entertainment value: 7

Number of people out of every 10 who flinched each time that whip cracked: 9

Length (in feet) of Dante’s whip of choice: 6

Number of audience members who took up the challenge to stand in for Tina once: 1

Number of daiquiris it would take to talk me into it: 3

Today around the world: March 10 is Harriet Tubman Day in the U.S. of A. Harriet Tubman, you’ll recall, was a former slave who became a conductor on the Underground Railroad and helped numerous other slaves to freedom.

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03/09/04’s illustrious band:

The Embellished Bra

Brought to you by MarsCon 2004.

Every sci-fi convention I’ve attended has included a large contingent of belly dancers. I’m not sure why. Most likely they’re sci-fi fans who also happen to enjoy belly dancing and dressing up in exotic costumes, same as the Jedi knights and Hobbits. They’re also assured of a generous reception at cons, because an audience that accepts multicolored, multilimbed alien life forms as de rigueur isn’t going to blink at women who bare their bellies to dance, even if they’re not “swizzle sticks” (as I heard one fan refer to contestants on America’s Next Top Model). And these ladies aren’t.

MarsCon was no different. In fact, one of the guests of honor this year was a woman named Dawn Devine “Davina” Brown, who teaches Middle Eastern dance and costume design. I skipped her workshop on “the embellished bra,” not being much of a seamstress myself (OK, I missed out on a Girl Scout merit badge in sewing because I couldn’t sew the badges on my sash). However, I’ve long been intrigued by the moves and by the rhythms of the music, so I did attend a session on beginning belly dancing. Here’s what I learned.

1. The hips are where it’s at, so tie something around yours so you know where they are. For Davina, that meant a scarf hung with hundreds of tiny metal disks. For me, it was a jacket.

   
   

2. Bend your knees a little and use your legs to shake what you’ve got. Don’t worry if it keeps on shaking after your legs have stopped. Nobody cares.

   
   

3. When you bump your hip out toward the audience, lift and turn it a little so your fringe/coins/sweatshirt sleeves accentuate the movement. When you sway, let your hands echo the motion.

   
   

4. Choose men in the audience upon whom to focus your attention, for just a few moments at a time. Make eye contact. Flirt outrageously. Want to shimmy your shoulders? Bosom? Bottom? It’s all good. If you’re not sure, just watch the object of your affection changing color and squirming in his seat.

   
   

5. Making a figure eight with your rear end while walking to the beat and mastering arm motions is really hard. Save that for the second class.

   
   

6. If you’re bending forward toward the audience, coyly cross your arms in front of you to give “the girls” some coverage, unless you want to risk popping out of that embellished bra, or want viewers to think you might.

   
   

7. Come on, keep shaking it.

   
   

8. Take a bow. Wasn’t that fun?

   
   

Yes, it was fun. And I used some side abdominal muscles that I don’t usually use. Had we done more dancing and less talking, I would have considered it good exercise, but time and space, even at a sci-fi con, were limited. I may have to purchase a CD of those groovin’ tunes and practice at home.

Reaction roundup on a scale of 1 to 10

Sci-fi relevance: 0

Entertainment value: For me as I was giving it a try, 8; for those watching, apparently 9.5. Plenty of cameras in play. I regret to say that a friend of mine, Captain Steve, may have captured portions of my debut on film. Don’t get your hopes up, though; I have some blackmail material on him, too.

Entertainment value for those focusing on the male Klingon warrior who joined the class: 11. Who knew belly dancing could be so macho? Or involve so much leather?

Likelihood you’ll catch me belly dancing in public: 4

In costume: 2

Today around the world: March 9 is Baron Bliss Day in Belize (formerly British Honduras). Baron Bliss was an Englishman who left his home country to spend his last days in Caribbean comfort. Although he never set foot on land in Belize, and in fact died within two months of reaching its waters, he was so impressed with the beauty and hospitality that greeted him in Belize that he decided to leave the country the bulk of his fortune.

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03/08/04’s illustrious band:

Evil Tom

Brought to you by MarsCon 2004. I attended this sci-fi/fantasy convention this past weekend -- probably my last for a while -- and brought back a few tales with which to regale the less geeky among us.

Friday night, I ended up on a packed elevator with a man whose convention badge identified him as Evil Tom. In the Star Trek universe, as everyone knows, you can tell which characters are from the evil alternate universe because they wear goatees (the men, anyway). Since Tom was clean-shaven, I was unconvinced of his evilness. So, being in a dangerous mood, I asked for proof.

The elevator emptied on the 11th floor, which was the con suite and party floor. (No House of Toast party at this convention, to my great dismay.) Evil Tom popped open the black box he was carrying, not unlike a doctor’s kit -- which was fitting, since the theme of this year’s con was “Let’s play doctor.” Inside the box were all the raw materials you’d need to completely repopulate the Earth with balloon animals.

Evil Tom whipped out a flaccid white balloon and a device that resembled a ketchup bottle. He slipped the mouth of the balloon over the nozzle and braced the bottle at groin level. With a series of pelvic thrusts that would have made Elvis blush, he used the bottle, now revealed to be a hand pump, to inflate the balloon. A flurry of twists and tucks turned the tube into a poodle, which Tom presented to me with a flourish.

Well, that wasn’t so evil, I thought.

I began to walk away, but Tom bade me stay. He repeated the pump-thrust-twist-tuck routine with a blue balloon to produce a second poodle. And then he joined them together, one atop the other, so that they appeared to be getting a really good start on that repopulation project, if you know what I mean. I declined Tom’s offer to make the sculpture into a hat and congratulated him on being truly evil indeed.

Reaction roundup on a scale of 1 to 10

Sci-fi relevance: 0

Entertainment value: 6

OK, I’d had a couple daiquiris by then: 8

Likelihood Evil Tom gets hired for a lot of children’s parties: 0

Likelihood Evil Tom gets hired for a Superbowl halftime performance now that the nation is crying out for higher standards in prime-time entertainment: 9

Today around the world: March 8 is International Women’s Day. Chicks rule!

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03/04/04’s illustrious band:

Toodles to Noodles

Brought to you by Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. It’s the cheesiest.

Kraft mac & cheese has been part of my gustatory life for as long as I can recall. It’s one of the first foods I remember eating. It’s the first dish I learned to cook from a recipe, carefully measuring the 1/4 cup of milk and 1/4 stick of butter into one of Mother Media’s grey metal pots and stirring with a long-handled wooden spoon. It’s the first recipe I memorized, and I know it still. When I was old enough not only to babysit Sister-san, but to cook her dinner, too, it became the first food I prepared for someone else. (In what can only be called a miraculous coincidence, Kraft introduced spiral macaroni noodles in 1975, the same year Sister-san was born.)

When I ditched my college dorm for my first solo apartment, Kraft mac & cheese came with me. A thrifty student, I tried the generic store macaroni dinners, but none of them lived up to the gold standard set by Kraft. I cooked several boxes of it a week in my tiny basement room, where I had to unplug the refrigerator while using the microwave to avoid blowing a fuse. By that time I had grown savvy enough to combine the water-boiling step with the noodle-boiling step, cooking both at once to save myself some important study time. Some times I mixed in a hot dog for protein. I drained the pasta in the bathroom sink because that was the only sink I had, then mixed everything up in the cooking bowl and ate from it as well. I washed my dish immediately afterward, too, because it was too big to leave in the sink.

When I went to grad school, I carried my mac across the country, and when I moved back to the Midwest after completing my studies, mac came too. In every apartment and house I’ve lived in, I’ve dined on this staple. It’s a thread of continuity reaching back to a happy childhood. If a person could have a food security blanket, Kraft mac & cheese would be mine.

Since I came to work for the Award-Winning Health Magazine, my macaroni consumption has declined. As I’ve grown more aware of its nutritional attributes, or lack thereof, I’ve eaten it less and less. When I decided to nix processed white flour and white pasta from my diet, I cut the Kraft almost entirely. But I’d still pick up the familiar blue and yellow box, reminiscent of the azure skies and golden grain fields of my South Dakota home, every couple months when I needed a little comfort food. It was OK to indulge once in a while.

Alas, my relationship with my longtime love had begun to sour in recent months. The less white flour and white pasta I ate, the more I noticed a cardboardy aftertaste whenever I did have some. Most pizza crusts and many cookies, for instance, have become unpalatable, throwing me into paroxysms of junk food withdrawal. But I could still turn back to my mac; the fluorescent powdered cheez covered the pasta’s sins. Mac was always there for me.

Until last night. Last night I broke up with Kraft mac & cheese for good. It was a wet, chilly night and I had a lot of work to do. I wanted something quick, easy, and friendly for dinner, so naturally I turned to my old standby. After months apart, I expected the usual happy reunion.

But it was awful. Awful! I couldn’t tell whether I was eating the macaroni or the box it came in. Or perhaps I had tucked in to a pile of salty orange Kleenex. I ate half a dozen bites and threw the rest out, and then carried the garbage outside. The woody fallout lingered all evening in my mouth and nose, not to be vanquished by either red wine or dark chocolate. My mac done me wrong. We can never be together again. It’s the end of an era.

Farewell, old friend. We’ll always have Paris, won’t we? Sniff.

Click here to read about the history of Kraft mac & cheese.

Today around the world: March 4 is Town Meeting Day in Vermont.

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03/03/04’s illustrious band:

Conticipation

Brought to you by my growing excitement about attending this weekend’s science fiction/fantasy convention, MarsCon. Can’t wait to see those ultra-serious suburban Klingons with fake ridgy foreheads that don’t match their natural skin tones.

Yes, I AM an economy-sized geek. And proud of it. Always have been. Growing up in a very quiet (some would say lethally boring) Midwestern cow town, I had plenty of time to devote to escapist fantasy. I loved Star Wars, Star Trek (both the TV shows and the movies), and sword-and-sorcery novels of all kinds. Why sit around whining about how dull my hometown was when I could join great heroes to journey among the stars or work magic against dragons? There’s never a dull moment for a kid with a library card, and I made good use of mine.

Time has broadened my horizons and taught me not to greet everyone with Mr. Spock’s split-fingered “Live long and prosper” salute. While I’ve developed a lasting affection for the classics, I haven’t forgotten my adolescent crush on sci-fi. However, I have developed a sense of humor about it -- so I was delighted to come across The Standardized Should I Stalk William Shatner test.

I love the fact that there’s not only a test for determining your devotion to the man who brought Captain Kirk to life, it’s a standardized test. What standards, exactly, are being employed here? How many of these tests are there, and who takes the time to compare them to one another?

I took the SISWS test, of course. I scored relatively low, but only because I have a job and some social skills. Left alone with my collection of vintage Trek books and videos and an unlimited supply of takeout pizza, I’m sure I could boost my score.

Yep, I’m getting primed for 48 hours of complete silliness. Don’t worry; I’ll keep you posted on the haps at the con. I know you’re looking forward to it as much as I am.

Today around the world: March 3 is when they celebrate Declaration of Establishment of Authority of the People in Libya.

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03/02/04’s illustrious band:

Snooze

Brought to you by whoever invented the snooze button for the alarm clock.

I love the snooze button. This is the magical switch that gives me nine more minutes under the covers on a cold, wet prespring morning. Those nine stolen minutes, a gift to myself that puts off leaving the nest just a little longer, are the sweetest moments of the day. The pillow is just right, the blankets are just right, the light coming in through the window is just right. The cat that has been doing the breakfast march across my head for the past half-hour will settle down to snuggle and sleep during snooze time. Even if I’ve lain awake all night, even if I really need to go to the bathroom, even if I’m looking forward to a good day, I always sleep soundly through those last-chance snooze minutes. I’ve sometimes considered setting my alarm clock an hour early just so I can have the pleasure of hitting the snooze button nine or 10 times. Snoozing is my way of telling the world of responsibility, “Not yet. You can’t have me yet. For nine more minutes, I’m still the boss.”

I have a snooze function on my electronic task list at work that I value at least as much as the one on the alarm clock. I’ll program a pop-up reminder for hours, days, or even weeks before I really need to get something done, for two reasons. One is, again, simply to have the pleasure of delaying it and starting the project on my own terms. The other is a little more productive: Every time the reminder pops up, I’m reminded of the task, even if just for a second, and can put my subconscious to work on it. That way, when it comes time to truly complete something, I will already have done half the work in my head without fretting over it.

Which just goes to show that hitting the snooze button makes you more productive. I think we should all do more of it.

Today around the world: March 2 is Ashoura for followers of Islam. This day marks the anniversary of the death of Imam Hussein, a spiritual leader of the Shiite sect. Hussein, grandson of the prophet Mohammed, was murdered by a corrupt caliph whom he refused to recognize as the legitimate leader of the Islamic community. Hussein knew that his unwillingness to pledge allegiance to this caliph would cost him his life, and he left Medina so that his blood would not soil such a holy place. At Kerbala, on the bank of the Euphrates River in modern Iraq, the caliph’s men besieged and killed Hussein and his followers. Although Hussein died, his courageous stand inspired his community to return to pure Islam and not tolerate unworthy and unfaithful leaders.

Shiites today commemorate this tragedy by shedding blood to demonstrate their faith, like Hussein did for his people. Most Shiites around the world merely hit themselves rhythmically in the chest as a symbol of the larger Shiite community’s shame for not going to help Imam Hussein when he stood against an overwhelming enemy, but in Nabatieh, Lebanon, the self-punishment has been exaggerated to include a graphic display of blood and gore.

March 2 is also Texas Independence Day. Texas declared its independence on March 2, 1836, and existed as the Republic of Texas, until joining the United States on December 29, 1845.

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