I have been resisting the urge to just post links, but I can’t not point to this auction of monkey space pants on eBay. via Boing Boing

It’s offered to your attention the “space pants” for macaque small monkey to wear it during the experimental space flight. This pants has been used for animals (monkeys) experiments in 1950-s - 1960-s in the USSR Institute of Biomedical Problems (IMBP, Moscow). The monkey’s “space pants” are designed with many clasps to fit bigger or smaller monkey. Below are the front and the back views.

It’s been a whirlwind weekend, not so much because it was chock full of good things, but rather, things both good and bad.

Bad: My glasses broke Saturday afternoon in a way that made repair impossible. My only backup was one pair of daily disposable contact lenses, which expired in 2003. We had just been preparing to leave the house, so our first stop was Parrelli Optical in Porter Square. Good sub-item: they were open. Bad sub-item 1: They wouldn’t sell me contacts since it’s been several years since my last checkup. Bad sub-item 2: No doctors were there to get an emergency check-up. Bad sub-item 3: They dropped my vision insurance plan (VSP) and I had to find a new eye doctor.

Good: We were headed to the Cambridgeside Galleria anyway, to go to the Apple Store, and there was indeed a VSP eye doctor located there who had a cancellation for 4:30pm. I took them up on it, and got a trial pair of contacts, and ordered a pair of glasses. I was hoping for a big fat Le Corbusier-style pair, but the pair I found were much along the lines of the old ones.

Good: I finally got the new PowerBook!

Bad: I haven’t had much time to play with it because…

Bad: I had to work most of Sunday on a project from Dullsville and I’m not even totally out of the woods yet.

Good: As Terri reported so well, we saw Of Montreal at the Middle East on Sunday night.

Bad: It was an all-ages show, and they were only intermittently enforcing the no-beer-in-the-main-area thing, so I did not realize this because nobody stopped us from bringing back our beers at first. When I went to get refills, I bought two, thinking I was stocking up for the rest of the night, since we were standing right in front of the stage, Terri’s fancy new camera in hand. Security guy stopped me. I made the less-than-good decision to just chug them both, despite having just had one, and I guess I should count the couple I had with dinner… I tell you, I have not been so violently and copiously ill (to quote Vyvian) in years.

Good: Again, I’m very happy with the new ‘Book! I may go into it in more detail when I’m not so witheringly tired.

I know it’s screwed up to want to mourn a TV bumbler and beatnik when so many thousands of people died in such horrible ways last week, but I can’t help but link to these two Slate articles:

Like Maynard G. Krebs, Gilligan was an endearing if hopelessly inept dreamer—in fact, 11 of the show’s episodes were structured around Gilligan’s dreams, in which he imagined himself, Walter Mitty-style, as a prince, a vampire, a caveman, or a secret agent. In episode after episode, the castaways’ elaborate escape plans were foiled by Gilligan’s clumsiness and sloth—when the crucial moment came, he always seemed to be off napping in a hammock somewhere. Did Gilligan even want to be rescued?

and

there’s something sweet about this story: the image of the then 59-year-old Mary Ann acting as Gilligan’s [marijuana] supplier; his loyalty in refusing to name her in court; and most of all, the image of an aging Gilligan/Maynard G. Krebs, still dreaming away in his hammock or jamming on his bongo drums, smiling, a little high, and not quite ready to leave the island yet.

I’ve felt I had little to add to the Katrina blather, but, after the feelings of sympathy and amazement at the devastation and devolution have passed, my lasting impression remains what today’s Onion totally nails: “God Outdoes Terrorists Yet Again“. I thought pretty much the same thing after the Iran earthquakes in 2003 and last December’s Tsunami. When God shows how he can wipe out thousands of people in any corner of the world with such casual ease, how can anyone either be a terrorist or seriously fear terrorists? I mean, this is not a being who needs help from his followers when he wants to do some serious killing.

Right now, if I’m Osama, I’d have to wonder if maybe even thinking I can come close to matching God’s murderous capacity is just blasphemy and self-flattery. And right now, if I’m me, I’m thinking, I’ve got no problem riding the subway everyday, but being so close to the Atlantic is maybe not such a great idea.

Thanks to Wikipedia, I just found out that I live about a mile away from “Grandfather’s House” (I always thought it was Grandmother’s House) of the famous American poem/song “Over the river and through the woods,” by Lydia Child, herself quite remarkeable.

Here’s another sibling puff piece, this time from the Houston Chronicle, about Simon and Frances, and how stylin’ they are. There are two factual errors. First, they got married in 1997, not 1996. Second,

He caught the ballet bug when he was 9 from his younger sister, April Ball. (She’s now with the Monte-Carlo Ballet). “I was drawn to try to do something I could never perfect,” he says.

Lies! He did it to be surrounded by adoring girls! He’d probably tell you the same thing if you’re not a reporter.
Also, if you ever get a chance to see the ballet Onegin, do. If you ever get to see Simon doing Onegin, definitely do; he’s such a bastard it’s heart-wrenching.