Phrase of the day

From a conversation with Lopez:

MONKEY-RESISTANT

VEGETABLES

I (yi-yi), Robot

This is how it starts, y'know. Did we not learn anything from the replicants and Skynet?

From Live Science:

Scientists have created a robot controlled by a biological brain made of rat neurons. The robot, named Gordon, is not exactly an Einstein but represents a remarkable bridging of the gap between biology and technology. Gordon relies a dish with about 60 electrodes to pick up electrical signals generated by the brain cells. The brain drives the robot's movements.

HOLY SHIT. And then there's this:

The robot has no additional control from a human or a computer, the scientists state. Its sole means of control is from its own brain.

It's own brain, you doomed meat-sacks! And finally:

The researchers aim to get the robot to learn, by applying different signals as it moves into predefined positions. That might allow them to witness how memories manifest themselves in the brain when the robot revisits familiar territory. They hope the work will eventually lead to a better understanding of Alzheimer's, Parkinson's, stroke and brain injuries.

Yeah, right. You know what that robot's going to learn?


Exactly.

My mouth is dry and I can't find the pillow

When I woke up from a dream at about 5:30 this morning, I found myself blinking at the soft, pre-dawn light outlining the blinds I could see across the bedroom. Which was weird, since I wear glasses and usually can't see shit without them.

And that's when I realized I WAS wearing them.

Huh.

My dreams are usually pretty mundane, with the exception of The Giant Talking Cockroach Dream, The Awesome Flying Dream and The Zombie Hoard Dream. Otherwise it's always something like me talking to people at work, or at a sedate get-together if my brain's feeling particularly frisky. A lot of times there are complete strangers in my dreams, and I wonder if my sleep is populated with the faces of people I see on the street.

Often I write in my dreams, and if I can remember enough of it I'll scribble it down. When I look at it later there's a fifty percent chance it's the kernel of an interesting idea, and half a chance that it's something completely ridiculous that doesn't make sense even to me. I did write a Halloween poem in a dream that ended up winning third place in a real-life school contest once, so that was cool.

Exciting stuff, right? My dream last night wasn't an exception:

I was in an office that was an wide-open space, with great big windows along one side and the back (the direction I was facing), and for some reason I think it was in Canada. It felt Canada-y. And I was talking to some woman (another stranger) who had given me a piece of paper to look at; I got the feeling that I wasn't just looking at it, I was evaluating it. Basically, I was some kind of low-level boss (even in my dreams I try to avoid too much responsibility).

And I had taken my glasses off to look at whatever tiny spot I was supposed to looking at, because I'm near-sighted and I can see things that are close-up better without them. I told her something (approved! I'm a good boss!) and REACHED DOWN AND PUT MY GLASSES BACK ON.

[end dream]

So I think I reached out and put my glasses on IN MY SLEEP! And I never do things like that! Except apparently I do.

Consider this a warning if you see me wandering the countryside in the late-hours, glasses in hand and trying to hand you imaginary pieces of paper.

Spiced ham, part 2

Awww ... the Internet really does care about me. Why else would it send me this e-mail?

"Relax. Take a Deep Breath.
We have the answers you seek."

Enlightenment and "impressive growth!" Thanks, Internet!

Honestly, a fire was probably just a matter of time

I know it will never — and probably shouldn't — happen, but if newspapers gave their reporters some sort of prize for best quote of the week, Zahria Torres would've been the winner.

This is from a story about a fire and some unruly customers at one of the restaurants of legendary El Paso chain, Chico's Tacos:

"We understand the sacrifice they had to make leaving possibly a double order of Chico's Tacos with extra cheese behind, but when an emergency response agency asks you to evacuate, including firefighters and police officers, it's usually because it's an emergency," said Lt. Mario Hernandez, the spokesman for the Fire Department. "So hopefully they'll realize this morning that they overreacted a little bit."

When you're interviewing someone, every now and then you get this moment where there's a part of your brain screaming, "This quote is GOLD!" And if you're from El Paso, this quote is even better (you can tell that cop knows what he's talking about ... oh, he knows).

The whole story is pretty funny actually, and for you lazy mugs out there it's also short, so go read the whole thing before it's lost to archiving.

Photo lifted from Interstellarlass' Flickr site

It's pink and it's oval

Man, I'm tired of writing obits — I thought I was done with that! Seriously, it's a habit that needs to be broken.

So, to shake that off I give you today's best message line from the junk folder:

"Turn your garden tool into a POWER DRILL!"

Some random thoughts

• Like a big, hairy baby, a lack of sleep makes me cranky.

• So the national economy is collapsing under its own weight, so badly people are finally beginning to at least whisper the word "recession" out loud. It's going to get worse before it gets better, the average citizen is going to suffer the brunt of the downturn, and the government and banking industry are still trying to act like they're trying to save a burning building even though they provided the matches and oily rags. And I'm wondering if there's an accidental silver lining in all this: Before the economy became the Big News (what do you mean people are dying in Iraq? Afghanistan who?), there was a disturbing rise in Administration rhetoric about Iran. Sabres were rattling and experts were actually coming out and saying, desperately, "No! Bad!" but it didn't look as if anyone was listening. Now the Administration is forced to pay attention to something else. Here's my question: Did the failing economy save us from war with Iran?

(At least temporarily. I'd predict that as soon as the economy improves, or at least stabilizes, we'll be hearing more about how scared we're supposed to be of people who speak Persian. It'll be a non-starter, but still — the Administration's nuts.)

• I've got some really good friends, and I feel very lucky about that.

• That Tribeca coffee at Einstein Bagels? That's pretty good stuff right there.

• My wife is also awesome.

• I just found out that this blog is the first result if you Google "worst soup flavors."

• I haven't gamed (RPG) in something like two months. Why have the 12 Gods forsaken me? Why?!?

• If I could, I would totally grow a big ol' handlebar mustache.

Cutting the cheese: In which I make a completely sexist observation

Why can't most women cut it?

Wait — let me amend that. Why can't any of the women I know slice?

Specifically, I'm talking about cutting and slicing of the deli persuasion, and I'm basing this on these completely baseless observations: My mom is notorious for literally hacking at blocks of cheese as if she were really lactose intolerant; my wife, Lopez!, cuts at a slant no matter how hard she tries; and every time I go to get some meat and cheese at my office common area after a female co-worker, it looks like a murder scene.

Lemme 'splain that last part. The company I work for deals with a lot of outside vendors, independent companies and service providers that help produce our end product. So, during the holiday season they tend to send us stuff in appreciation of the working relationship we share.

In other words, we get sent a lot of free stuff, most of which you can eat.

I'm new to this department, but since it works most heavily with vendors its' end-of-year booty is legendary. Tins of cookies and popcorn, smoked sausages and cheeses, even smoked salmon and whole spiral-cut hams find their way to the office. It's like heaven, and God is the head manager at a really good Hickory Farms.

Today we received a couple of sausages and blocks of cheese, and that's when I noticed that — like my wife, mom, grandmother and sister — the women I work with apparently don't slice straight, either.

Whuh? Is it because the whole turkey-carving, a-dull-knife-is-more-dangerous, Jim-Bowie-died-fighting-with-a-knife-named-after-himself thing is one of those macho rites of passage passed down from father to son? This theory, of course, doesn't include women who are professional cutters like butchers, surgeons and that girl who tore my heart out in fifth grade. I'm talking about the average woman who seems to leave a ragged trail of destruction and mutilated foodstuffs at cutting boards everywhere.

Of course, I've seen plenty of men who wield a knife as if it were a broom they were using to put out a flaming mouse. But generally, I've noticed this more with women.

So answer me this — do the women you know stink at cutting the cheese?


(Hey guys — Nel here. Obviously, this is meant to be tongue-in-cheek. OK? OK! And ladies, seriously — what did that block of muenster ever do to you?!?)