Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Curiosity and intelligence
Curious Kitten (who is no longer a kitten, but we'll leave that to one side) has developed a fascination for what might be on top of the dresser. This, along with the top of the TV, is the only place outside of a closet or cabinet that the cats can't get to.
This lead me to think about curiosity generally. Cats are perhaps notoriously inquisitive; the fact that curiosity killed the cat is a cliche', testifies to that. People are also curious. Dogs are curious. Dolphins are, too. These are also intelligent species.
Does curiosity lead to, or require intelligence? Indulging in curiosity involves risk; it can lead on into dangerous situations where intelligence needed to survive - would evolution therefor tend to favor those who are both curious and intelligent, rather than just curious.
Not sure how to test that, though.
This lead me to think about curiosity generally. Cats are perhaps notoriously inquisitive; the fact that curiosity killed the cat is a cliche', testifies to that. People are also curious. Dogs are curious. Dolphins are, too. These are also intelligent species.
Does curiosity lead to, or require intelligence? Indulging in curiosity involves risk; it can lead on into dangerous situations where intelligence needed to survive - would evolution therefor tend to favor those who are both curious and intelligent, rather than just curious.
Not sure how to test that, though.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
X-ray Chapter 7, part 1
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The next day was Ian's first day off, and he awoke to the sound of the apartment's door closing as Sara went out for her morning run; it had to be within five minutes of 7 a.m. This was disappointing; he had hoped to see her before she left. He had a sense that he had been rude last night and besides, he missed their shared mornings.
"Of course," he thought aloud, "I suppose I could just wake up earlier. And she will be back in an hour or so." Until then, though, he saw no reason to climb out of the bed; as he discovered over the previous five days, the apartment was empty without her. Instead, he stretched out in the bed, luxuriating in the sense of having no obligations. He loved Sara, and found that he slept better when she was in the bed with him: deeper, sounder sleep, from which he awoke more refreshed. Not to mention that sharing a bed with her meant more intimacy, more returning to familiar favorites, more experimentation, of which Sara never seem to tire. Suddenly he felt very lonely. He ruminated on this for a moment, then rolled over on the bed and fumbled for the Kleenex box on the nightstand.
He was interrupted by the sound of the shower as Sara turned on the water. The front door's 'click' must have been Sara's return. It must be later than he thought – yes, the bedside clock said it was just after eight. Ian threw off his bed clothes and swung himself into a seated position. He could certainly join her before she finished washing her hair.
Mynx sat outside the bathroom door in the hopes that it might open. She slipped through as Ian opened the door, leaped onto the toilet seat and immediately began spinning the roll of toilet paper, spilling its contents onto the floor. Ian scooped the cat up and poured her back into the hallway, closing the door before she had a chance to turn around. Then he pulled back the curtain and joined Sara in the shower.
"Good morning," he said.
"Good morning," she replied.
Later, as they toweled each other off, Sara noticed the small pile of toilet paper on the floor. "She hasn't gotten past you in a while," she said, tearing off the spilled paper and tossing it into the trash.
"No," said Ian, shaking his head. "It has to have been a few months. I still can't figure out why she only does it when the shower's running."
Sara shrugged. She'd long since given up trying to figure out her cat's idiosyncrasies. She'd had a good run, and a good shower, and now she was ready for a breakfast.
First Post|Previous|Next
The next day was Ian's first day off, and he awoke to the sound of the apartment's door closing as Sara went out for her morning run; it had to be within five minutes of 7 a.m. This was disappointing; he had hoped to see her before she left. He had a sense that he had been rude last night and besides, he missed their shared mornings.
"Of course," he thought aloud, "I suppose I could just wake up earlier. And she will be back in an hour or so." Until then, though, he saw no reason to climb out of the bed; as he discovered over the previous five days, the apartment was empty without her. Instead, he stretched out in the bed, luxuriating in the sense of having no obligations. He loved Sara, and found that he slept better when she was in the bed with him: deeper, sounder sleep, from which he awoke more refreshed. Not to mention that sharing a bed with her meant more intimacy, more returning to familiar favorites, more experimentation, of which Sara never seem to tire. Suddenly he felt very lonely. He ruminated on this for a moment, then rolled over on the bed and fumbled for the Kleenex box on the nightstand.
He was interrupted by the sound of the shower as Sara turned on the water. The front door's 'click' must have been Sara's return. It must be later than he thought – yes, the bedside clock said it was just after eight. Ian threw off his bed clothes and swung himself into a seated position. He could certainly join her before she finished washing her hair.
Mynx sat outside the bathroom door in the hopes that it might open. She slipped through as Ian opened the door, leaped onto the toilet seat and immediately began spinning the roll of toilet paper, spilling its contents onto the floor. Ian scooped the cat up and poured her back into the hallway, closing the door before she had a chance to turn around. Then he pulled back the curtain and joined Sara in the shower.
"Good morning," he said.
"Good morning," she replied.
* * *
Later, as they toweled each other off, Sara noticed the small pile of toilet paper on the floor. "She hasn't gotten past you in a while," she said, tearing off the spilled paper and tossing it into the trash.
"No," said Ian, shaking his head. "It has to have been a few months. I still can't figure out why she only does it when the shower's running."
Sara shrugged. She'd long since given up trying to figure out her cat's idiosyncrasies. She'd had a good run, and a good shower, and now she was ready for a breakfast.
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Sunday, January 18, 2009
STO'B 16
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
The bosun's mate and the Master at Arms each seized one of Wight's thin arms and roughly yanked off his shirt. They led him over to a specially prepared grating and lashed him to it. "Seized up, sir," reported the Master at Arms.
Philip paused. He was about to order punishment for the first time. He musty be sure that it was strong - an effective deterrent. "Off hats!" he ordered, and the entire ship's company stood before him, bareheaded. He removed his own hat and held it under the crook of his arm. "Two dozen," he said, and in the corner of his eye he saw a small grin cross the first lieutenant's lips. "Bishop, do your duty."
At this, the bosun's mate pulled his cat from its red baize bag and ran his fingers through its tails to untangle them. He considered Wight as the seaman stood there, swaying slightly as the ship rocked. He drew his hand back and wound up. "One," he said, a huge grin on his face as he swung the cat down over Wight's naked back with a tremendous 'thwack'. Wight cringed as much as his bound arms would allowed, and two or three ill-defined pink lines appeared across his back.
Bishop wound up again. His first blow had been off to the right and he adjusted his aim. "Two," he grunted, swinging the cat again. Closer to the target, but still off to the right.
"Three!" Now he was on target. He settled into an easy rhythm.
"Four!"
"Five!"
"Six!"
"Seven!"
"Eight!" Yes, this was much better. Instead of inconsequential pink welts, Bishop was now drawing rich, red lines. A thin stream of blood ran down his target's back. Much better indeed.
"Nine!"
"Ten!"
"Eleven!"
"Twelve!"
"Thirteen!" Something wet struck Philip's cheek. Rain? He mastered himself to continue to pay attention to the man he was having flogged.
"Fourteen!"
"Fifteen!"
"Sixteen!"
"Seventeen." Bishop's voice began to flag. His grin faded and he paused to catch his breath.
"Bishop?" Philip prompted.
"Yes, your honor," said Bishop, taking a deep breath and bringing his arm back again. "Eighteen!"
"Nineteen!"
"Twenty!"
"Twenty-one!"
"Twenty-two."
"Twenty-three."
"Twenty-four."
Wight slumped against the grating. He hadn't responded to the last two or three strikes of the cat, and his back looked like raw meat. Silence, except for the voice of the Badger herself, the ocean, and the wind in the rigging. "Cut him down," said the captain, and while the bosun and his mate freed Wight from grating and turned him over to the surgeon, "Master at Arms, bring forward the next case."
Liddle was tried and convicted next. He received the same sentence, but Bishop was spent, and the job fell to the bosun himself. There were no other cases, so Philip dismissed the men and the orderly ranks of sailors and marines broke up. On the quarterdeck, Lieutenant Grey directed the disassembly of the grating and the washing down of the deck before taking up his customary on-duty position by the taffrail. The Master, frowning about something Philip missed, disappeared into the waist.
As Philip returned his hat to his head he remembered the rain that had fallen on him during Wight's flogging, and noted the absence of wetness on the Badger's decks. He touched his cheek.
It was not rain. It was blood.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
GLOSSARY
The bosun's mate and the Master at Arms each seized one of Wight's thin arms and roughly yanked off his shirt. They led him over to a specially prepared grating and lashed him to it. "Seized up, sir," reported the Master at Arms.
Philip paused. He was about to order punishment for the first time. He musty be sure that it was strong - an effective deterrent. "Off hats!" he ordered, and the entire ship's company stood before him, bareheaded. He removed his own hat and held it under the crook of his arm. "Two dozen," he said, and in the corner of his eye he saw a small grin cross the first lieutenant's lips. "Bishop, do your duty."
At this, the bosun's mate pulled his cat from its red baize bag and ran his fingers through its tails to untangle them. He considered Wight as the seaman stood there, swaying slightly as the ship rocked. He drew his hand back and wound up. "One," he said, a huge grin on his face as he swung the cat down over Wight's naked back with a tremendous 'thwack'. Wight cringed as much as his bound arms would allowed, and two or three ill-defined pink lines appeared across his back.
Bishop wound up again. His first blow had been off to the right and he adjusted his aim. "Two," he grunted, swinging the cat again. Closer to the target, but still off to the right.
"Three!" Now he was on target. He settled into an easy rhythm.
"Four!"
"Five!"
"Six!"
"Seven!"
"Eight!" Yes, this was much better. Instead of inconsequential pink welts, Bishop was now drawing rich, red lines. A thin stream of blood ran down his target's back. Much better indeed.
"Nine!"
"Ten!"
"Eleven!"
"Twelve!"
"Thirteen!" Something wet struck Philip's cheek. Rain? He mastered himself to continue to pay attention to the man he was having flogged.
"Fourteen!"
"Fifteen!"
"Sixteen!"
"Seventeen." Bishop's voice began to flag. His grin faded and he paused to catch his breath.
"Bishop?" Philip prompted.
"Yes, your honor," said Bishop, taking a deep breath and bringing his arm back again. "Eighteen!"
"Nineteen!"
"Twenty!"
"Twenty-one!"
"Twenty-two."
"Twenty-three."
"Twenty-four."
Wight slumped against the grating. He hadn't responded to the last two or three strikes of the cat, and his back looked like raw meat. Silence, except for the voice of the Badger herself, the ocean, and the wind in the rigging. "Cut him down," said the captain, and while the bosun and his mate freed Wight from grating and turned him over to the surgeon, "Master at Arms, bring forward the next case."
Liddle was tried and convicted next. He received the same sentence, but Bishop was spent, and the job fell to the bosun himself. There were no other cases, so Philip dismissed the men and the orderly ranks of sailors and marines broke up. On the quarterdeck, Lieutenant Grey directed the disassembly of the grating and the washing down of the deck before taking up his customary on-duty position by the taffrail. The Master, frowning about something Philip missed, disappeared into the waist.
As Philip returned his hat to his head he remembered the rain that had fallen on him during Wight's flogging, and noted the absence of wetness on the Badger's decks. He touched his cheek.
It was not rain. It was blood.
Author's Note|First Post|Previous|Next
GLOSSARY
Thursday, January 15, 2009
President Bush has left the White House
For my thesis, I'm researching some of President Bush, Jr's emergency management writings. I can no longer find anything he wrote at the White House website (www.whitehouse.gov), though they state that "many files associated with the previous administration have been removed from this server."
I guess Bush is now the previous administration.
I guess Bush is now the previous administration.
Crib sheet
For those who need to brush up an a few basics:
source: http://dontclickthis.whatingods.name/cribsheet9.gif
source: http://dontclickthis.whatingods.name/cribsheet9.gif
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Flea treatment
It appears I've been going about flea treatment incorrectly.
From http://dontclickthis.whatingods.name/catproblem.jpg
From http://dontclickthis.whatingods.name/catproblem.jpg
X-ray Chapter 6, part 6
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"The call held us overtime by almost an hour and a half," Ian told Sara that night as they sat down to a belated dinner.
"What do they call you for?" Sara asked.
"Oh, that was the worst part. 'I can't walk,' she says we walk in. 'Well, how long has that been?' 'Three years.'" Ian paused suddenly. "By the way," he asked, "you don't have a twin sister, right?"
"What? No. Just Scott and Dan. Why?"
Ian shook his head and resumed his narrative, "'three years,' she says, 'three years.' And that's not the worst part, because I kid you not, looking out the window and across the street -- not even down the block but directly across the street is a big, glowing red and white sign: 'Gantry and Shipworkers Medical and Mental Health Center, Emergency.' Three years. She's never going to walk again..."
Across the table, Sara fork down. "Are you okay?" she asked.
The question broke Ian's train of thought. "What?" he asked.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Ian said, slightly confused. He stood up and went to the refrigerator for beer, more to keep himself in countenance than because he wanted one. "Do you want?" he asked Sara, holding a bottle up. He popped the caps off and handed one to Sara as he sat down. "Where was I?" he asked.
"I asked if you're okay." Sara answered.
"No, before that."
"The woman who couldn’t walk?"
"Yes," said Ian, "yes," he said again as he truly picked up this thread. "So across the street is the ER, for three years. 'What happened to make you call today?' Marcus asks. 'Well,' she says, 'I figured it was probably time to get it looked at.' She's never going to walk again."
Sara considered Ian as he paused take a drink and then stab some green beans with his fork. "This was your last day before the weekend?" she asked.
"Uh, yes," he answered. "Five on, two off, five on, three off, and repeat," he said. Surely he had explained this before?
He felt a touch on his thigh and he looked down. Mynx stood there, her front paws stretched up to him, clearly wanting him to make room for her in his lap. He looked at her for a moment, then gave an inward sigh and complied with her request; eating with a cat in his lap would not be easy.
"Ian," Sara said, and hesitated. She had already asked if he was okay, and he had said 'yes.' "Ian," she said again.
"What?" asked Ian.
"Why are you so agitated?" Sara finally asked.
"I'm not agitated." Ian said, standing up and forcing Mynx to spring to the floor. "I'm just -- tired." He ran his hand through his hair. "Just tired," he said, pulling another bottle of beer from the refrigerator and opening it before he realized that he hadn't finished his first. "I'll be in the other room," he said, and disappeared into the living room with a bottle in each hand.
In the kitchen, Sara moved her chair back in the table to allow Mynx to climb up, and they sat there, woman and cat, in front of a half-eaten dinner, pondering the man who had just left.
[END CHAPTER]
First Post|Previous|Next
"The call held us overtime by almost an hour and a half," Ian told Sara that night as they sat down to a belated dinner.
"What do they call you for?" Sara asked.
"Oh, that was the worst part. 'I can't walk,' she says we walk in. 'Well, how long has that been?' 'Three years.'" Ian paused suddenly. "By the way," he asked, "you don't have a twin sister, right?"
"What? No. Just Scott and Dan. Why?"
Ian shook his head and resumed his narrative, "'three years,' she says, 'three years.' And that's not the worst part, because I kid you not, looking out the window and across the street -- not even down the block but directly across the street is a big, glowing red and white sign: 'Gantry and Shipworkers Medical and Mental Health Center, Emergency.' Three years. She's never going to walk again..."
Across the table, Sara fork down. "Are you okay?" she asked.
The question broke Ian's train of thought. "What?" he asked.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Ian said, slightly confused. He stood up and went to the refrigerator for beer, more to keep himself in countenance than because he wanted one. "Do you want?" he asked Sara, holding a bottle up. He popped the caps off and handed one to Sara as he sat down. "Where was I?" he asked.
"I asked if you're okay." Sara answered.
"No, before that."
"The woman who couldn’t walk?"
"Yes," said Ian, "yes," he said again as he truly picked up this thread. "So across the street is the ER, for three years. 'What happened to make you call today?' Marcus asks. 'Well,' she says, 'I figured it was probably time to get it looked at.' She's never going to walk again."
Sara considered Ian as he paused take a drink and then stab some green beans with his fork. "This was your last day before the weekend?" she asked.
"Uh, yes," he answered. "Five on, two off, five on, three off, and repeat," he said. Surely he had explained this before?
He felt a touch on his thigh and he looked down. Mynx stood there, her front paws stretched up to him, clearly wanting him to make room for her in his lap. He looked at her for a moment, then gave an inward sigh and complied with her request; eating with a cat in his lap would not be easy.
"Ian," Sara said, and hesitated. She had already asked if he was okay, and he had said 'yes.' "Ian," she said again.
"What?" asked Ian.
"Why are you so agitated?" Sara finally asked.
"I'm not agitated." Ian said, standing up and forcing Mynx to spring to the floor. "I'm just -- tired." He ran his hand through his hair. "Just tired," he said, pulling another bottle of beer from the refrigerator and opening it before he realized that he hadn't finished his first. "I'll be in the other room," he said, and disappeared into the living room with a bottle in each hand.
In the kitchen, Sara moved her chair back in the table to allow Mynx to climb up, and they sat there, woman and cat, in front of a half-eaten dinner, pondering the man who had just left.
[END CHAPTER]
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Monday, January 12, 2009
The Richmond
The plan was to steal the Richmond, a locomotive, from Halsey Junction, behind enemy lines.
"That won't be easy."
"There will be a diversion at Lewistown."
"Lewistown? Lewistown is twenty miles away."
"Thirty miles, by rail. But that doesn't concern you. Your concern is the Richmond."
"Just the engine?"
"And the tender. What you do with any rolling stock is up to you." One-Eye pulled a wrapped packet from his satchel. "Do you wish to take the job?" he asked, still holding the packet in his hand.
Will looked at the packet, then down to the table, trying to find guidance in the stains and cigarette burns that marred the wood. He was a small man, who looked even smaller as he slumped in his chair. He looked older than his 24 years - the result of hard living. "It'll make us even?"
"Yes."
Will kept his gaze on the table. One-Eye's empty eye socket always unnerved him. Why couldn't the man at least cover it with a patch, or something? He nodded.
"Very good," said One-Eye. He said something else, which Will didn't catch, placed the packet on the table, and left.
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GLOSSARY
"That won't be easy."
"There will be a diversion at Lewistown."
"Lewistown? Lewistown is twenty miles away."
"Thirty miles, by rail. But that doesn't concern you. Your concern is the Richmond."
"Just the engine?"
"And the tender. What you do with any rolling stock is up to you." One-Eye pulled a wrapped packet from his satchel. "Do you wish to take the job?" he asked, still holding the packet in his hand.
Will looked at the packet, then down to the table, trying to find guidance in the stains and cigarette burns that marred the wood. He was a small man, who looked even smaller as he slumped in his chair. He looked older than his 24 years - the result of hard living. "It'll make us even?"
"Yes."
Will kept his gaze on the table. One-Eye's empty eye socket always unnerved him. Why couldn't the man at least cover it with a patch, or something? He nodded.
"Very good," said One-Eye. He said something else, which Will didn't catch, placed the packet on the table, and left.
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GLOSSARY
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