My sister sent me a link to an “identify the album” quiz. The page is no longer maintained — the link to the answers returns a 404 — and at least one of the identifications is wrong, but you might find it amusing anyway.

The above is one of my favorite covers, though the album, a collection of medieval dances, is too obscure to be fair game for such a quiz. Here it is in higher resolution.

*****

Is there a superhero in your neighborhood? Check the registry. (Via Ken the Brickmuppet.)

*****

Introducing Edward, the Veggie-Vampire.

*****

I’m an embarrassment to Barack!


I only scored 14 on the Obama Test

(Via John Salmon.)

… there is in fact no limit to dumbing down.

I shot about 1,500 frames at the dance rehearsal last night. There’s no doubt about it: this year’s bunch of kids can really jump.

Consider the Harding/Agnew ticket:

Remember when you vote that the Fringe Party, in matters of economics as in every other matter, stands in favor of good things and against bad things. No other political party can say that with a straight face.

(Via Erik and Mark.)

The advantage of dead guys in office: they might smell a bit, but they won’t screw things up any worse than they already are.

Update: Big steps require big feet: Bigfoot/Nessie ‘08

(Via Dustbury.)

Tribulus terrestris, a.k.a. puncture weed. One of the pleasures of bicycling in summer.

Close-up, showing the developing seed heads.

Public enemy #2 is the idiot who chatters on a cell phone while driving. #1 is the jerk who doesn’t look, doesn’t think and doesn’t care. All three are common in Wichita, particularly the last.

Right now I’m playing loud music to drown out today’s treat: a bunch of no-longer-young drag queens lipsyncing to mediocre music down at the corner. No pictures; I want to forget the images, not share them with unwary visitors. There’s also an ice cream vendor playing tinny banjo recordings of teevee themes in the parking lot across the alley.

You would like me to submit my tax return electronically. I would myself prefer to do my taxes online. Every year I visit your website and try to log on, and every year I end up yelling at the computer monitor. This time, I got this message after filling out several screens of forms:

You are not currently logged in. Please go to the WebFile Home page to login.

On the next screen, I get this:

You appear to be already logged in.

It’s been at least four years now, and you still can’t tell if I’m logged in. The hell with it. You’re getting a paper return yet again, and you will always get a paper return from me until you fix your !@#$ %^&* web site.

When the phone rings these days, I awkwardly rise out of my chair, lumber across the room with the walker and, struggling to not lose my balance, pick up the phone. It is a nuisance. I don’t mind making the efforts for friends and colleagues. However, when I put the receiver to my ear and hear a recording of a politician, I regret that I don’t know more maledictions. If you want to guarantee that I’ll never vote for you or any of your causes again, this is the way to do it.

Let’s take a break from ballet and look at some other kinds of dance. Via Mark Sullivan comes this example of dance as a martial art:

Bonus points if you can identify the pianist.

Via Robert the LLama Butcher, an outstanding canine performer.

And there’s the dancing stormtrooper of Akihabara.

*****

One more reason why I intend to remain the last person in North America without a cell phone.

*****

If three women together mean “mischief,” what would, say, three geeks mean?

*****

An epic win for the Japanese: the Gurren-Lagaan Jack. 

*****

Let’s get into the Olympic spirit: 

New York Times, R.I.P. (Via Chizumatic.)

How a topologist turns a sphere inside-out.

M.C. Escher and Legos.

It’s like having to go through rehab without having a drinking problem.

(I’d explain why I’m quoting TSO today, but who knows who might read this.)

Am I the last person in North America who doesn’t have, and doesn’t want, a cell phone?

I returned home a few minutes ago from renewing my driver’s license. During the time that I spent at the license bureau, at least two hundred people stood in line waiting their turns. Not a single person (other than me) brought a book to read.

No fair. It’s August, dammit.

Did anyone win the Tour de France this year, or was every single rider disqualified?