2007 — 19 Feb: time to get organised
In what must be a time-related phenomenon that Einstein failed to investigate, I find I have less time and more tasks in retirement than I ever seemed to have in supposedly gainful employment. For example, it's 20 minutes after midnight, I have yet to read the third of my Mac magazines (iCreate) which not only looks enticingly glossy but is produced and published just down the road in Bournemouth. I have only just scanned the cover artwork for the six delicious DVDs that fell within my range this afternoon. And I haven't even mentioned the two books I acquired on Saturday in Beastleigh.1 Or said "hello" to Janice and Dave whom we met there.
Now I have an original model XBox so I need to prevail on chum Brian to help me hack it into Linux sensibility in one of the ways outlined in the Google video I watched a week or so ago. (For "week or so" read nearly a fortnight.) And we've already started on the delicious paté that was our "reward" for the pleasurable task of overseeing feline ingestion for 24 hours. The stinky cheese, however, is a nasal time bomb currently safely still under wraps in the fridge.
Then I find an irresistible line in an online book review:
Mr. Nehamas's prose is so slyly witty ("I can remember, and I hope you do too, how lovely it felt when I began to hate Hermann Hesse") that it's easy to underestimate the implications of his argument.
Just wait until the new toys are delivered.
Time to get dressed?
Though it would mean missing a couple of minutes of Harry Shearer's "Le Show" on NPR. They're talking about life and politics in post-Katrina New Orleans. I don't get all the named references, but the problems and situations are somewhat familiar after close study of West Wing and Boston Legal. I hope my friend Carol in New York caught this as, for two years running, she's been down there to volunteer her help over the Christmas period. It seems "The mayor is a more thoughtful man than might be thought from some of the decisions he makes!"
You've gotta love the Interweb
So I'm reading about bacterial resistance to antibiotics. My life was saved by antibiotics in the early 1990s when the two of us simultaneously succumbed to nasty double pneumonia, but that's another story. But it reminded me. One human generation ago, I wrote to Carol:
Have been enjoying my sore throat for 29 days now, but it's finally starting to fade. Don't know what this new generation of viruses is coming to, but I don't approve. Once worked out, while idly standing at a bus stop, that — allowing, say, 45 years, since bacteria were first exposed to penicillin — germs which reproduce (am I allowed to say that over VNET?!) even only twice in one hour have had getting on for
quick drop into CMS SUBSET for my calculator, here!
788,400 generations to evolve ways of dealing with our primary antibiotic. That's the equivalent of over 14,000,000 years of human evolution (14,191,200 allowing 18 years per generation...). Since we've only been around for perhaps 3,000,000 years max (and I, personally, feel as if I have!) is it any wonder the little devils have got the drop on us?
Anyway, the article was interesting enough that I decided to check out the home page of Wired magazine. My eye is caught by mention of Bruce Sterling's blog so off I click. Somewhat disappointed by that. So I skim over to the left hand margin to see the other blogs. Given my recent purchase, Cult of Mac obviously catches my eye. It delivers a wonderful new PC v Mac ad regarding the security provisions within Vista.
But wait! What's this? Sex Drive Daily (another Wired Blog). That yields the following quote:
Q: How can I know when my girlfriend is having an orgasm?
A: Do you mean to ask, "How can I tell if my girlfriend is faking an orgasm?" Well, my friend, there's a school located somewhere in the jungles of South
America where all women go to learn how to fake an orgasm for those instances when a man initiates sex during the commercial break just before the start of "American Idol."
So how do you tell? If she's a good student, you can't.