This was pointed out to me yesterday–a lot of people have tattoos that bear the image of an anchor with the accompanying text “Refuse to sink” to some variation of the same.
Now, think about this while looking at a sample:
“Refuse to sink” is obviously meant as an affirmative phrase, so hooray for that. Affirmative phrases are good!
What is an anchor’s primary function? To anchor a water-going vessel–you know, a boat or ship. Perhaps a very fancy floating log. How does the anchor perform this function? By sinking to the bottom of the body of water and dragging/getting stuck in the muck/rocks along the bottom.
An anchor’s purpose is to sink. If an anchor did the opposite–float–it would be completely useless.
You see where this is going.
This is like the people using literally to mean figuratively.
“I literally just walked a million miles to get here.”
A “refuse to sink” anchor is as logical as a “refuse to fly” airplane. Perhaps the airplane secretly wants to be a truck. I don’t know. Who am I to judge? But really, this is kind of silly. I’m just wondering how this expression–which perhaps would be better-accompanied by an image of a buoy–becamse so popular, especially as a hard-to-remove tattoo.
The most generous take I have for now is people are weird.
Yes, I’ve made a major decision and shortened the title of these posts to simply be Cats, because that’s what these posts are about. Cats. Funny cats, specifically, such as those found on the internet.
I ask you, what is better than a cat in a hat? A cat in three hats, obviously.
This afternoon Nic and I drove down to Horseshoe Bay so Nic could use his keen photographer’s eye to get some pics of ferries so I might ponder how to use them for a potential book cover. We had it all planned out. Mostly.
It was a beautiful and unusually warm day–my watch told me it got up to 26°C, which is much warmer than normal for not-quite mid-May. Not that I’m complaining. I got downtown early, so I strolled around seeing what has changed, then went to Sunset Beach, where two women were in the water, not exactly swimming, but up to their waists in it and wearing what may have been, “What were we thinking?” looks on their faces. A short distance away several crows were pestering a seagull. I couldn’t determine why as there was no sign of food and I doubt the crows were nesting right where the tide comes in. They flow off after a few minutes, having forced the seagull to move about one meter away from its original position.
i wasn’t standing very close to the feathered fracas–I’m not big on volunteering to get pecked–so this is a fuzzy, zoomed-in shot of the action in which one of the crows looks more like abstract art, but when I have an iPhone 18 with super telephoto lens as standard, this would look way better. So just pretend for now.
Crows vs. seagull. No matter who wins, somebody is getting pooped on.
I then met Nic and we had a nice lunch at the Fountainhead Pub on Davie Street. Given the weirdly warm weather, there was lots to look at, namely hot young guys that made me feel like a dirty old man. I remember walking down Davie Street when I was their age. It was when parachute pants were legitimately in style. For a few weeks, anyway.
Off we went to Horseshoe Bay next. Getting there was pretty straightforward, though we were caught in the middle of the lanes reversing when we got on the Stanley Park causeway (strangely, this happened on the way back, too. I’m still amazed there aren’t more accidents when they switch the traffic flow). Once we got to Horseshoe Bay we spent literally the same amount of time that it took to drive there (30+ minutes) looking for anywhere to park. About half a dozen drivers managed to nab spots just before we got to them. At first it was annoying, then maddening and finally, as expected, kind of hilarious. On one of our final go-rounds we actually came across a spot and parked in glorious triumph (for two hours, anyway).
We headed a few blocks down to the bay to await the ferry’s arrival, which we didn’t actually have to do at all, since it came in while we were trying to park. I was more worried it would leave before we could get out of the car to take any pics.
But we did get pics and I’m perusing them now. We’ve made tentative plans for a zany day trip to Nanaimo, as I suspect we can get even better images at Departure Bay.
Also, I got a sunburn on my neck. I have no idea how that happened. I mean, I understand the science behind getting burned skin from exposure to the sun, I just have no idea how my seemingly minimal time out in the sun led to a burn. So yes, the neck is feeling a little warm. Also my upper arms, too. At least I’m not getting a sunburn on top of my allergic reaction rash. I’d probably look like a boiled zombie.
Before leaving we got a couple of waffle cones and they were good. I did not dribble ice cream on myself, something I do almost as if it is a requirement every time I have an ice cream cone, so that was nice.
Here’s one shot of the ferry I grabbed. It’s the Queen of Oak Bay in all her marina-crushing potential:
Queen of Oak Bay tooting out of Horseshoe Bay. A bay in a bay, as it were.
On the way back to the car I got a photo of a children’s boot perched near a giant propeller because why not? (Nic also took a shot of this, but my angle was approximately 500 times more dramatic.)
Big prop, little boot.
All in all, a pleasant little outing, other than the (unexpected) difficulty in parking and the (in hindsight, inevitable) sunburn. I really ought to just slather myself in sunscreen from now until October. And next time we’ll probably take the bus.
A few minutes ago, as I was writing the previous post, my Brother MFC-9130WC printer (that name just rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it? At least Apple knows how to name things. Their printers were called ImageWriter and LaserWriter. Catchy, hip, easy to understand. Both also long dead. Moving on.) suddenly came to life and looked like it was about to print a job. Then just as suddenly it stopped, wound down and is now silent again.
I asked my partner if he’d sent anything to be printed. Nope. I asked myself, “Did I just have a blackout episode in which I attempted but failed to execute some sort of a print job?” and I’m pretty sure the answer is still nope.
Now I have the urge to write a spooky story about a printer that spits out creepy jobs on its own. I’m sure it’s been done a billion times and started three centuries ago with stories about feather quills that appeared to write ominous notes on sheepskin without any human assistance, so it’s not a strong urge.
Still, it’s kind of weird. Also the printer is loud when it does anything, so it was also annoying.
When I was a teenager and had my own bedroom I would put posters up on the walls. These were usually maps of amusement parks like Magic Mountain or Disneyland, or “funny” posters such as the “Instructions to patrons on premises in case of nuclear bomb attack” one which had these last steps:
7. Immediately upon seeing the brilliant flash of nuclear explosion, bend over and place your head firmly between your legs.
8. Then kiss your ass goodbye.
This poster would have gone up around 1980 so the advice was actually pretty spot-on given global politics at the time.
As an adult I’ve never put up posters or any kind of art on the walls and I’m not entirely sure why. I obviously wqouldn’t put up maps of amusements parks and I’d stay away from “humorous” posters, too, but surely there must be something I’d like to have hanging on the wall besides errant spider webs.
And now there is.
Last year I bought a 13 x 19 inch poster and a few weeks ago finally got a frame for it and it now hangs resplendently in the computer nook:
It inspires me to be aloof and to chase laser pointers and hunt birds. And maybe write, too. We’ll see.
I have one other good spot for another poster or print in the nook, so I am mulling what to get as I am absolutely delighted by this cat (the design is by the artist Rachel Caldwell).
If you ask someone to choose between three things, most will not find the task difficult. Expand those choices to ten and it requires more thought and investment in time, but most could still make a final selection using appropriate criteria.
Further expand those choices to, say, a hundred, and now you’re looking at a take-home assignment. And the person asked to choose may drop your class before reaching a decision.
This is the paralysis of choice.
I signed up to the three-month trial of Apple Music, mostly because the iOS 11.3 update seemed to add annoying pop-ups to the music app, bugging me to really try Apple Music, seriously, you’ll love it. So many songs. So much music.
I gave in and signed up to the trial and it’s true. There is a whole lot of music.
And I have no idea what to listen to because there is too much to choose from.
There are radio stations and playlists, but these just underscore how out of touch I am with current pop music. I recognize some of the names, but not all or even most of them. And these are for the music genres I like. I suppose exposing myself to new artists and the sounds they make is all part of this grand experiment, so I’ll give it a shot.
But really, my first pick was playing a song from the Styx album Kilroy Was Here. Not an auspicious start.
Also, I have some thoughts on the Apple Music interface as it relates to iTunes (PC and Mac versions), but it’s challenging formulating my impressions without lapsing into a rant, so I’ll need more time to gather those complaint-y thoughts into a more reasoned look at how Apple integrates its streaming service into the much-loved* iTunes software.
I mean, we all know what the moon is, how it affects tides here on Earth, how it’s not really made of cheese. We have some nice rocks from it. But after just a few years, starting in 1969 and ending in 1972, NASA sent astronauts to the moon and then…stopped.
No other country or organization has ever landed people on the moon. It’s all been probes in orbit since, with a few rovers landing now and then. And I wonder why.
It’s easy to see how conspiracy theories start. Is there something tucked away on the dark side we’re better off not seeing? Scary moon men? Giant moon cheese monsters?
I don’t know.
But we should totally go back and find out. Even if it’s just more rocks it would be nice to see people bouncing around the surface again, this time in 4K resolution. And sponsored by some horrible techbro company.
There’s an entire section of the food industry devoted to Goldfish crackers. They come in a variety of sizes and flavors, but all of them are shaped like goldfish and usually orange-colored. For obvious reasons, they have chosen not to emulate the look of a black moor, since a black cracker would be kind of gross-looking (they do come in brown, though).
I’m guessing–because I’m too lazy to search the internet right now–that someone thought it would be cute to make little orange crackers shaped like fish, but not tasting like fish, as that would also be gross, like black crackers.
But who wants to eat a cracker shaped like a fish? It’s not like it’s a great association. Fish are stinky and slimy, crackers are crunchy and yummy. Fish can be yummy, too, but science has yet to transfer that into cracker form (or maybe it has. Like I said, I’m too lazy to check).
Now, Goldfish crackers are indeed yummy. I can open a bag and my hand assumes an automatic motion where it grabs crackers from the bag, shoves them into my mouth, then continues until the bag is empty or I exercise the barest smidgen of self-control and place the bag on the top of a difficult-to-reach shelf. Still, Goldfish crackers do not taste like goldfish, so the whole concept is wrong. It’s like making crackers shaped like worms. No one wants to eat worms, not even cracker worms. Okay, someone out there probably does, but there’s no way they’re getting them (unless they already exist).
Anyway, now I want some Goldfish crackers, so I guess you win this round, Goldfish crackers!
I remember eating grapefruit as a kid (not at the same time as corn dogs) and it always involved two things:
that weird triangle-shaped spoon you used to cut into the grapefruit flesh:
lots of sugar
Adding sugar to a grapefruit basically turned it into sour, sugary candy fruit. There’s some nutritional value buried under all that sugar, but really, why not just eat something not incredibly sour-tasting that you won’t drown in sugar? And every kid I knew did this–and every parent let them. The Sugar Days, as we called ’em.
We were kind of dumb in the old days. Do people still eat sugar-encrusted grapefruit now? My hunch says…yes. Maybe they use Splenda instead, though. “Just one drop, Jimmy, that’s all you need. Jimmy, don’t squirt the bottle on it!”
