GalacticMu

Here’s an integral part of understanding my personality: once, when reading a book about sharks¹ I had to close the blinds of the window next to me because I was so overwhelmed with apprehension that a shark could smell my fear.  In my defense, I lived only a mile away from the ocean.  Okay, an inlet.

Meanwhile, scientists are just now catching up to the idea that sharks may not “accidentally” eat the shit out of people all the time, as they so vehemently insist on insisting.  For years now I’ve wondered, why shouldn’t we be applying the same logic to human murderers?  That psychopath mistook that woman for a ham sandwich, he didn’t mean to kill her.  Look, he only stabbed her twice and then he ran: proof that he suddenly became aware that she wasn’t the ham sandwich he had hoped her to be.

What if – and bear with me here, I know it’s hard – what if the sharks know full well that we are made out of delicious, soft meat and in fact mean to eat us?

WHAT ABOUT THIS IS SO SURPRISING TO YOU?  You’re telling me that billions of years of evolution towards the most efficient predator on the planet might only be just now doing the math on consuming the other other white meat?   Hell, human beings just determined that giraffe milk is kosher, why not.

“Have Sharks Acquired a Taste For Humans?” via Swim At Your Own Risk

¹I assure you: not for fun.  For research.  Also, like Sun Tzu, I believe in knowing my enemy.

According to My Heritage, I am Japanese.

Find out what race you apparently are at My Heritage’s extremely accurate celebrity face recognition page.

Special thanks to Flickr user lalalaa Dolce Vita for pointing out this thrilling technology.

After promising months ago that I would cry myself Chinese at the Johnson Space Center (and then failing to deliver) I instead unexpectedly lost it at the National Air and Space Museum in Washington DC. I just wasn’t expecting to see SpaceShipOne hanging there, sun-bleached, battle-worn and triumphant. I just wanted to touch it, to feel something that had done the fucking improbable. “It’s so small,” Halcyon whispered. “Yeah,” I smiled.

image credit to Sunday Williams – that’s me!

Hi. My name is Sunday. You may know me as “Subspace,” or, the girl who ostensibly has a website. No? That’s okay.

Let’s pretend the last few weeks of nothingness never happened.

That sentence didn’t make a whole hell of a lot of sense. Looks like I still got the magic!

Y’all are probably already on top of it, but Mozilla-gened Songbird is on the scene, a little application that aspires to be Firefox for music collections. And, as I already described to Quagmire, a system for finding DRM-free downloads a.k.a., the probable death knell. All I know is that I go through these periods where I crave a song I’ve heard but as someone that doesn’t really listen to music on a regular basis (more on that in a moment), I can never justify buying an album. Additionally, I have a lasting resistance to iTunes after it crashed two of my laptops. Sure, that was years ago, but I have digital scars like some people have emotional ones.

Generally speaking, I have only a few times where I actually want to listen to noise above and beyond the sound of my own degenerating biomass. I can’t listen to music while writing unless it is either so totally familiar that I can hear it without actually registering it on my forebrain, or there is nothing even closely resembling human speech. This narrows down my library considerably. And eclectically.

My recent music crack has been the Swedish pop star Robyn (whose website, it needs to be noted, looks suspiciously like something GalacticMu’s own Leesa “BattleGate” Leva would have designed), and if I want to listen to “With Every Heartbeat” seventeen times in a row, then by damn it, that’s my right. Not actually, but I’m an American so I have to say that at least once a day or they take my apple pie away. Anyway, the reality is: my writing mixes are often a mix of Gorillaz, Toto, Robyn and Vangelis, and no self-respecting person actually admits to that sort of thing unless they’ve got ladyballs of solid adamantium.

I’m going to go keep playing with Songbird some more in an attempt to procrastinate writing the articles I need to get written from the last two weeks. Whatever, I got until Monday.