I have expectations for today. The weather beavers foretell great fallings of dihydrogen oxide later in the day. My morning constitutional was passable however, on the edge between too warm and too cool, both of which are sensations, not thermodynamics and hence of great personal use in fundamental subjectivity.
Yesterday was actually useful since I was able to do a bit of work.Or I should say research, since it is not always clear that force nor distance is involved. But I was scratching a lot of ink onto paper in the form of equations and comments. Film at Eleven, if Eleven ever comes,
One of my colleagues, Magnetic Inductance Force, sent me a cartoon link [Link]
that reminded me, as intended, of how I was relieved of my lawn-mowing privileges, The only way I could abide the utter extro tedium of lawn mowing was to occupy myself figuring the optimal mowing path. Of course, I only worried this problem while actually mowing. As a result I tended to try to drive the mower up trees and over rocks and pine cones much to the despair of FD SCP and the other mothers in neighborhood who feared for the safety of their bairns and beasts. (And yes, those can be the same so long as the mother doesn’t have to admit it.)
Anyway, FD SCP claimed – erroneously as demonstrated by experiment – that I had become too dangerous and she revoked my privileges and engaged a service to mow the yard – I decline to dignify it with the appellation “lawn” – and since I would prefer paying the service than wasting my time in a pointless, repetitive torture, I acceded. Gracefully. At least as gracefully as I can be, which isn’t very. That’s why we don’t dance.
In a spuriously related matter, I noted [Link] that the campus of the Black Warrior has discontinued its yearbook. I have to admit to rather mixed feelings of this. I purchased yearbooks/annuals throughout high schule and undergraduate schule. In the former case I have the remembrance that the matter was not optional. And there was a rather raucous practice of passing annuals about for people one barely knew to inscribe some noxiously maudlin comment. Happily this practice died in college, along with so many of the noxious ilk.
But this weekend is the fiftieth anniversary of the first graduation from my high schule, which is my forty-eighth. FD SCP and I were invited to the drunken festivities but we declined since the EXTRO level is beyond painful. But I suspect there was much thumbing of annuals.
It is not that I do not stay in contact with fellow graduates on FaceScroll, but that is about the limit of my desire. I especially do not wish to suffer the painful crowding that such events exhibit, nor the loud, unpleasant (at best) music and the horrible food and the dipsomania. Sadly this year there were vicious personal attacks from former class leaders against those who declined to attend. I am repeatedly reminded of the Fukushima power plant.
I also have to admit to losing most of my yearbooks in the great house fire of 2001. The loss, I discovered, has been minimal. I do not spend much time looking at the pictures, mostly because as an intro, I knew so few and did nothing socially capturable. Still, the books do serve a marginally useful purpose to answer “who?” questions when some classmate is mentioned that I recall not. The picture almost never resolves the question. But it is never an important question. I had few friendships in high schule. Some acquaintances became friends in college. Most high schule friends are estranged or died in Vietnam.
Most of my friends are nerds, or, at least, geeks. A few are bogs. Very few are people I went to high schule with. A slightly greater number are people I went to college with. Most are people I worked with.
So maybe yearbooks are irrelevant.