RTT: Baby, It's Cold Outside!

If you like Random Thoughts Tuesday, take a look at the Un Mom. She invented it. Go ahead, it won't kill you.



There exist activities in life that are lonely. Long distance running, writing poetry, taxidermy, watching CSPAN. But none hold a candle to the stark solitude of the King of Seclusion: Astronomy.

Sure, it sounds sexy and sophisticated. When I tell people at parties that I am an amateur astronomer, I can see that they naturally want to get closer to me and spend the rest of the party with me holding court over their fascinated faces. It shows in their eyes. Those expressions cannot mask the feelings of attraction and enchantment. Undeniably alluring, as you no doubt will agree.

Yet somehow, people are always too shy to ask more, and they turn away. Perhaps it's their embarrassment of not understanding the Messier Catalog, or their confusion over even the simplest aspects of astronomy, like Stellar Magnitude. Even when I explain the most seductive topics, like Kepler's Laws of Planetary Motion with regard to Orbital Mechanics (I see that come-hither look in your eyes already) people naturally cut and run, rather than succumb to their greater desire to spend an evening of star gazing ecstasy.

Therefore, it is my lot in life to spend those long, ebon-blanketed nights with my notebooks and charts, peering through the atmosphere into the deep chasm of the cosmos, keeping all of my heavenly euphoria to myself. But what is seclusion, if not the joy of spending one's time with the company of inner greatness and divinity? Oh yes, some have scoffed at that. But I showed them. I showed them all! When I bring out my completed Messier Certificate and flash that baby at the Scoffers, who has the last laugh, I ask you? Hah! I say. Hah, hah!

Hah! One last time. And last night, while I watched the partial Lunar Eclipse, who had the Divine power then? Was it those in slumber? Of course not. Even my own wife, warmly tucked under the blankets, could not stop my visual caressing of the Lunar surface.

She could, however, lock the house up, forgetting that I was standing in the yard, with the nighttime temperature of 20°F compressing itself into my body, seeping deep into my bones themselves.

You know what? Forget it. Astronomy sucks. I think I'll learn chess. Enjoy the friggin' picture of the Moon, from the other post, Scoffers!

Hungarian Rhapsody No. 12 by Some Cool Kid

Have to say, I'm digging this piece of music. It helps that the kid playing it is my son, Wolfgang Amadeus Marshmallow. You'll need either 11 spare minutes, or a good touch with the FF controls on your player.

It looks great at Original Size and Full Screen Mode. Pardon the sound, this was recorded on my iPhone.

Friday night, December 10, 2010.

Hungarian Rhapsody No. 12, by Franz Liszt.

RTT and a Bottle of Rum

Keely, the Un Mom is the creator of RTT so go see her, ask for Banana Pancakes, and show some damn manners while you're over there.

Coconut Rum, to be exact. Not for me. For a friend who loves the stuff. Me, I'm a lightweight. Single Malt Scotch Whisky, from Islay, Scotland. The real smoky, peaty stuff. Laphroaig, Bowmore, Bruichladdie. Yum!

But only a wee dram at a time. And I'd be lying if I said it were for medicinal purposes, because it's strictly for life extension purposes.

I think of it as a version of Pascal's Wager, but for booze. If I believe it will help me live longer and better, then by drinking it I may live longer. If it doesn't help me live longer, then I still get the satisfaction of that taste and feel. I win either way. Just don't introduce any other possible outcomes to me (like liver disease), and I'm good to go.

Also, don't bother me with details about how this is a totally shitty way to look at Pascal's Wager. I already know that, but this is my RTT fantasy, and I'll strangle you with the crook of your own arm if you try and ruin it for me.

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Diddle Diddle Dumpling, my Son John's Hands

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If you ever find yourself in the position to see this sight, remember to enjoy it, but also remember to get under cover. And for god's sake do not look straight up in awe and say, "Wowwwww!"

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On a related note, my wings are tarnished, but please don't tell anyone. 

On a note unrelated to the thing the other note was related to, but related to the previous note itself, I always liked Ginger way better than Mary Ann. Seriously guys, M.A. was all sugar and spice and coconut cream pie nice, but who are you really staring at the whole time? Be honest.

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Oh, and if you've enjoyed any of this, found it tolerable, want to bear children with me, or just want other people to share in your misery after reading it, please do recommend this blog. It would mean a lot to me, and it would mean the world to Buster. So if not for me, then look into his eyes, feel his neediness, and do it for Buster.