I'd take a Jean any day.
They have an army.
He has a Jean.
Just I can't even!
I still can't believe this isn't a Roland Emmerich movie.
I'm sharing my just-published open-access article. I'm so geeked-out happy :)
“SHIT! THERE’S TIN FOIL ON THE RUNWAY!” (more…)
I was surprised by my own mild reaction when I woke today and saw the first of many subtle tweets about Terry, though I guessed immediately what they meant. I was surprised by just how many of those tweets were also some flavor of subtle or mild or restrained. I didn’t see many all-caps primal screams or 140-character duets for Emoji and exclamation point.
Of course, I peer out at the universe through a knothole as tiny as anyone else’s and the plural of “Twitter stream anecdote” is surely not “data,” nor even a distant relation to data, nor even a part-time and barely convincing cosplay of data.
And yet I think there’s something natural and inevitable about this quiet reaction. It’s not merely that we’ve all known for some time that Terry had to be passing soon, that we’ve been forced to think about it, that he had the chance to say so much about it.
When some people die, they leave the rest of us with a sense that they’ve packed their words and warmth and hauled them along like luggage for the trip, that we can never hear from them again. Terry gave us so much of himself, though, so damned MUCH— seventy books, just for starters, and a world and its inhabitants that might as well be a religion for millions. A good religion, a useful religion. The sort where there’s always a little golden light flickering behind one of the church windows at any hour of the night, so you know there’s someone there to talk to you about anything, and they won’t have locked the doors. They won’t even have put locks on the doors. Some asshole suggested putting locks on the doors once, many years ago, and everyone else in the church carried that person out of town and threw them into a pond. That’s a Terry Pratchett sort of church. That’s a Terry Pratchett book. And he walled us in with them. He stacked them high all around us, and they’re all him, they’re all still here, and they’re going to be here so very long after you and I and everyone else reading this have gone off for a last walk WITH THE ONLY PERSON IN THE UNIVERSE WHO SPEAKS NATURALLY IN ALL CAPS AND WE DON’T REALLY MIND AT ALL, IT’S JUST THE WAY THINGS HAVE TO BE.
Terry Pratchett can die, and fuck everything for that sentence. Fuck those four words. I am feeling the cracks starting to appear in me now. I’ve lost the mildness and quiet I had this morning. But here’s the point. Terry Pratchett can die, but he can never go away.
Any hapless twit with sufficient fortitude of ass and typing fingers can leave a pile of books to the world, but too many of those books will be disconnected and unrevealing. Too many of those writers will leave nothing but layers of affect and encipherment between themselves and the reader. Terry didn’t leave us anything (despite the obvious depth and subtlety of his work) that needs Bletchley Park to decode. Terry wrote himself… Terry’s books are Terry. They are full of his everything. All his keen wonderment, all his flaying sarcasm, all his brimming love for the cracked vessels we are as individuals and as a whole.
Sixty-six is a good span of years, but Terry Pratchett was walking proof that we can have a world and a society where sixty-six is too young to go, too impossibly unfairly fucking young by far. All around us, people are trying to destroy the very possibility of that world. Some of them work with machine guns and some of them work with balance sheets, but Terry Pratchett was visible evidence that they all have to be mocked and scorned and hunted and fought. There can’t be Terry Pratchetts in the world they intend for the rest of us, which is proof enough that their world is a pile of shit.
So even though there are things now rolling down my cheeks as I write this, I think my initial reaction was inevitable. What he gave us was just so big, so rich, and so real. It’s hard to feel a chill when none of the warmth has vanished.
You’re not really going anywhere, you know.
(Cross-posted from my blog. Fear not, Tumblr, I’m just trying to turn the lights back on at my own place. I don’t know how to quit you.)
Pretty much every pet ever...
February 02, 2015
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I’m just gonna leave this here for y’all.
Mine too, Leela. Mine too.
I think I've said before that science is just non-fiction for your imagination. So science is just boring imagination, and thus math is boring boring imagination. No wonder so many kids drop out of STEM related courses.
Missed yesterday (again), so there'll be a day with two comics sometime this week. Thanks.
PHD UNKNOWN: New page up! A glorious splash page!
Explains so much!
"Well, we finally chased the human race back to a few scattered caves and threw down their puny civilization. What do we do now?"
"Let’s build giant indestructible glass dicks literally everywhere!"
Sarah, #TeamRickman! And totes!
I was talking to a girlfriend about how you could divide everyone in the world into people who do or do not have a crush on Alan Rickman and she agreed, saying, “Oh he’s hot. I would totes swipe right for him.”
And I was like, “Ew. You should already be wiping right. Do you not wipe unless you think you’re going to get lucky? Because that’s how you get a urinary tract infection.”
Turns out that she said she’d “swipe right” which is apparently what you do on the Tinder dating app when you like someone’s picture and are interested in them. That made more sense but I can’t help but think that maybe some of these people are single because of communication issues like this where you never have a second date because the person thinks you don’t wipe correctly. Long story short, I think Tinder is trying to keep people single in order to keep up demand for their product.
PS. Please wipe correctly.
PPS. Also, stop using the word “totes.” Unless you’re using it ironically. Or you’re talking about plural tote bags.
I'm so there!
ALL HAIL HYPNOCAT
HYPNOCAT THANKS YOU FOR YOUR SUPPORT BUT ORDERS YOU TO TEMPORARILY FORGET ABOUT REGAL
That iguana is waaay nicer than that a**hole one we had at McWane.
I WENT TO THE CAFE DOWN THE STREET AND THERE WERE A BUNCH OF PEOPLE THERE CELEBRATING THIS LIZARDS BIRTHDAY
HE HAS A LITTLE PARTY HAT
You and my girlfriend think alike. There was a… disagreement on whether or not the book should contain even more Regal.
A few days ago we posted about science trying to understand the "if I fits" mentality of cats.
We agreed that cats are weird and you all submitted some awesome memes on the subject.
Here are some of the best.
"Dancing Pyres of Igneous Doom" is the name of my next band.
Yeah, I like magma cones much better. In my head they’ll always be dancing pyres of igneous doom.
Sharing for 1) the lyrics, and 2) Lynch's comments. Love both!
Us Camorri Girls
Fancy skirts, with daggers on top
Long red hair, so hot
We’ll melt your popsicle
Now put your hands up.
No, seriously, put your hands up. Now give me your money. Good.
Okay, I recognize the Katy Perry costume, and the sharks, no problem. I recognize the dancing surfboards. But what the shmeckity-hell are those scaly red things? Are they meant to be crabs? Another masterpiece, Picasso. Are they shrimp? Are they… magma cones? Is this whole dance number about how the ocean is thick with cruel and indifferent predators, and how even that is meaningless in the face of inevitable geothermal upheaval? That would be pretty amazing, and significantly more lyrically challenging than “Firework,” I gotta say.
Dragons burn, coffee burns. I figure caffeine headaches are equivalent to being impaled on a dragon. I could be wrong but do you have a dragon nearby to allow me to scientifically test my theory?
WIRED: I was asked a few months ago to join a group that is contributing to WIRED magazine for their Chartgeist segment, and I got a chart accepted for their April issue. It is quite possibly the dumbest chart I have ever come up with, but I now will have had my work in a national publication. So there's that!
Posted by Instagrate to WordPress
Ugh. Today, goddammit. Those days where you semi-emerge from a period of bad anxiety and all the wonderful artifacts of depression, and discover all the Things That Need Doing. Oh shit, not the goat too… !
Okay, so I missed this when it was first posted, and don't need to read through all of the Scalzi-fan comments. But I did want to comment on the pain-thing.
I prefer NOT to get the novocain shot when getting something drilled. Why, you ask? Do I enjoy pain? NO, I do not. That is why I don't get the shot. 1) The shot hurts like the bejeezus, and 2) I still feel everything with the drilling because novocain does not work for me, other than making me feel all discombobulated about where parts of my face are.
So, if I get a shot, I have the pain of the shot, AND the pain of the drilling, PLUS weird face crap. No shot means just the pain of the drilling (which they can put a local on the nerve ending when they get to it).
I was at the dentist’s yesterday to get a small filling done, and while I was there the dentist, his assistant and I had a discussion about painkillers, and the fact that some people — not a huge number but not an infinitesimally small number either — prefer not to use them when getting their teeth drilled. The thinking there, as far as I can tell, is that the momentary displeasure of a high speed drill on your tooth is not worth either a needle being jabbed into your gums, or having half your face numb for a couple of hours, or both.
I personally think this is incomprehensible — please, numb me up and numb me up good — but I’m also aware that my tolerance for pain is not, shall we say, Olympic.
So let me ask you: When at the dentist, do you prefer to be numbed up into oblivion? Or do you prefer to ride it out without the Novocaine? Or does it depend on the procedure? I’m genuinely curious. Let me know in the comments.
Well, the real secret is that when Locke leaves the map room feeling awesome about himself, that’s when the curator slips back in and removes the “Locke’s World” signs that had temporarily been placed over all the “Sabethavania” signs.
It’s like walking in a sunlit meadow and discovering a basket of kittens, and then the Free Cupcake Truck drives by, just in time for the twenty-dollar bills to start raining from the sky.