Concerning Sea Monkeys

Okay, Christen, just for you.

When I was young, I convinced my mother to buy me a Sea Monkeys set, probably because my friend Jake had them. I don't really remember much about the experience, except that mine were never as big as his and had a disappointing tendency to die. And despite the claim of the Sea Monkeys website that their name is due to their playful, monkey-like behavior, they were boring as hell.

Still, sure that there was a way to make them more fun, I pored over (not "poured over") the accessories catalog, assuring my mother that it was absolutely crucial that my sea monkeys have not only a five-star luxury aquarium, but also their own racetrack. Fortunately my mom is the type to cap her son's allowance at $10 and suggest used mattresses, so there was no budging her.

It has been brought to my attention recently that sea monkeys are neither monkeys, nor from the sea. Both points are correct. "Sea Monkey" is actually a patented, genetically engineered variation of Artemia salina, or brine shrimp, which is native to salt lakes and evaporation flats. Some consider Sea Monkeys to be a separate species, designated Artemia nyos, but they are incorrect--at least insofar as Artemia nyos does not fulfill the requirements of the International Code of Zoological Nominclature (I bet you didn't know that). The nyos, by the way, is not Latin, but stands for "New York Ocean Science Laboratories."

The real marketability of Sea Monkeys are their ability to be packaged and shipped in "instant hatch" formulas. This is because the brine shrimp, in some environments, enters cryptobiosis ("stasis," for the Star Trek fans among you). Sea Monkeys have been tweaked for finer control over this condition, so they may hatch more "instantly" when placed in the specially formulated water.

Both the first-day purifier packs and the second-day egg packs actually contain eggs, I guess so you'll see them sooner, and various salts which (a) allow the saltwater species to survive and (b) make them have lots and lots of sex.

Besides the instant hatching, Sea Monkeys are genetically modified to live longer and grow larger. So maybe that's the problem: Jake had sea monkeys and I, being my mother's son, had some off-brand brine shrimp.

By the way, for those of you who checked out the racetrack link... did you find that commercial as creepy as I did?

(Untitled)

i was a key.
...the heavy clunk of a deadbolt sliding into place
......the symmetry of a locked room
but that use is gone.
...twisted, mottled metal, more rust than shine
......forgotten in a drawer, scratched by other metal
.........that used to be something
awaiting a new purpose
...a ribbon to dangle from, perhaps, and a child to carry me
......releasing what i used to mean
.........so i can have meaning again

Obedience to authority

Natasha just handed me my iPod with the blog entry interface already loaded, suggesting nonverbally that she wants me to write an entry. Unfortunately, I am entirely at the mercy of the creative muse, which is not currently present, and so here ends my post.

Where am I again?

At our old house, my mother's desk was in the southwest corner of her bedroom.  It was a decent-sized desk, though it was still challenged to house a computer and monitor, a scanner, and at least one printer, as well as what was often a clutter of paperwork.

I have since read that it's bad feng shui to have a computer, or other work paraphernalia, in the southwest corner of a room (particularly a bedroom), and I took this quite seriously when arranging my bedroom last year.  This year, however, the limitations of my apartment have forced me to break that rule and put my desk in the southwest corner of my bedroom, where it has access to what is literally my apartment's only three-prong power outlet.

Something about this desk is throwing me off today.  It must be some combination of the way the soft, cloudy-day light seeps through the blinds, and the way my desk is arranged with a printer newly sitting to the left of my monitor, and the layer of clutter that necessitates an archaeological expedition just to find my notepad, but I keep getting this eerily certain feeling that I'm in my parents' bedroom back home, working at the desk there.  I am actually surprised each time I remember that I'm actually in my apartment in Richmond.

Weird.

Feetwashing and Protest

This past summer, while working for a nonprofit called Pace e Bene, I had the opportunity to converse with Father Louie Vitale, a Catholic priest and social activist who started the organization twenty years ago. He was talking about a vigil he'd attended at a military base in the southwest many years earlier, and the religious elements that were made elements of the action.

The protesters divided into two groups, one of which crossed onto the military base to be arrested and one which stayed behind to be a continuing witness. From just outside the line that marked the beginning of government property, a group of Episcopalians gave communion to their friends who had chosen to cross over. But what Father Louie said was the thing that most struck him was a group of Brethren, who set a bench across the line and knealt to wash the feet of those who were about to be arrested. That image has been a powerful memory to him even to this day, twenty or thirty years later.

It wasn't until after he told that story that he remembered I was Brethren. How glad I am to see our quiet witness making such lasting impressions.

On slander

This post title doesn't apply. In print, it's not slander: it's libel. And when true, it's neither.

I try not to vent frustrations about people with whom I deal, but some people are making that very difficult. I really want to drop sharply worded hints about who they are and why they're screwing me.

But I won't.

Damn.