Scientists! Fuck yeah! You can bring down the phone lines and the Internet. You can refuse to let journalists and the U.N. into your country. (Should that have periods? I don't care.) But geeks with satellites will know if you are burning villages and massacring people.

Socially committed scientists: the ultimate radicals? Discuss.

And the guy's name? Lars Bromley? What a fucking scientist name.

shut up, Beavis In general chemistry, words have different meanings than they do in Marrit.

(I put a comma after that introductory phrase because the American Chemical Society's editorial style guide says I should.)

Do not get too excited about a Dewar flask: It's not altogether exciting. But of course when I read it I went, "Huh huh huh."

I go "Huh huh huh" whenever I encounter lithium, especially when it's lithium carbonate (once so far).

I chortled at "stopcock" yesterday.

For some reason I love to say "terbium."

omg coffee One of the best things about returning to an office with coworkers is that we have this sweet coffeemaker. It siphons hot water directly from the faucet! It's coffee magic! It sounds like somebody's launched an RPG in the break room. I ran it myself this morning even though I'm the FNG, and it was delightful. Damn fine coffee, Diane.

And of course we have Wacky Science Mugs. They are printed with structural formulas for undrinkable stuff, things like that. Mine has a graph correlating the rising average global temperature with a rise in the population of pirates. I like to mark it up.

nursecution I feel kind of sorry for Bill Maher and those other guys saying that breastfeeding a baby in public is like masturbating in public. I feel sad for them because it's clear they've never seen a woman masturbating, otherwise they would know the difference. So I'll explain.

When a woman breastfeeds a baby, she produces a food-grade substance that goes into the baby's mouth the same way a cheeseburger goes into yours. Keeps the baby alive. Evolutionary imperative. Protected by law.

Masturbating is a little different. Imagine that instead of feeding the baby the woman just takes off her top and caresses herself for gratification. Probably some evolutionary imperative, but not protected by law. It occurs to me that I've never seen another woman do this in public (nor have I tried it myself) but I've seen various acts of male self-gratification on the MBTA and a couple of times was an unwilling party to one because the car was so crowded nobody could move. And if you want to compare that to a woman feeding her baby, you simply have no grasp of qualitative difference.

dear authors Now that we have proportional fonts, you don't have to type two spaces after a period concluding a sentence. Unless you're using a typewriter and your choices are "pica" and "elite."

And there it is.

dear yenta My blog stats indicate that it is semi-worthwhile to ask this question: Are any of you geeky hot lesbians? (And now Googling "geeky hot lesbians" will bring them here!)

I ask because I have this bread baked by Aunt K. Did I mention that we work in the same office now? It's a total sitcom. Anyhow, the point is that she baked this bread and brought it to the office because she has such free-floating love and culinary skill that she just had to and I wound up with it because I am Wacky Best Friend. And it's good bread; don't get me wrong. I was happy to find it passively tucked under my wiper. (What, you can't say hi?)

But Wacky Best Friend is a second banana. We need Love Interest. So holla if you're a geeky hot lesbian into Battlestar Galactica, house cats, Linux distros, and artisan breads, and I'll hook you up.

AC/Hell You know, I went to ACL one year, and after watching the Pixies reunite while I was surrounded by Frisbee guys on the surface of hell, I decided that the experience, though not without merit, would not be repeated. I'll be inside, listening to recorded music while drinking liquor I already paid for and eating a family-sized $6.99 manicotti while enjoying the air conditioning. That's just how I roll. It's not ACL, it's me.

Aunt K. seems to be enjoying herself, though, and that's good.

cinematexas Cinematexas is no more.

and now: killer bees New Orleans can't get a break.

no football And this is why I say no football. Ever.

I wasn't born to be a sports mom but I can deal with athletics as long as it doesn't involve continually crashing into other people or walls. Human bodies were not designed to be continually crashing into shit. Especially growing human bodies. We have light, flexible bones for walking upright. And yes, J., that includes hockey. Hockey is for other people's children. The first time Baldo got checked into a wall, I'd be on the ice swinging. Nobody puts Baby in a corner!

Now, soccer--that's you a youth sport.

mom/writer So I'm working on sort of a big story, and in transcribing my four tapes' worth of interviews, I've realized something. I am such a mom.

Not only has my voice apparently gone up an octave from talking to babies, but I am relentlessly positive and reassuring ("Really? Wow, that's great!").

Most embarrassing: I talked to a guy who was on his cell in Union Square Park, and at one point in the call a fire truck went by audibly. And oh, yes, I really did say, "Hey, it's a fire truck! Cool!"

:headpalm:

happy birthday, Other J. I offer birthday congratulations to the man behind the curtain, the Other J, who has been my best friend since we were in 11th grade together. He noticed me because I "acted just like a guy." (I'm still not sure what that means, except that once I made the universal sign for masturbation in English class.) I noticed him because he was from Catholic school in Ho-ho-kus, New Jersey (yes, it's real), and that made a person exotic in north suburban Houston in 1989. Plus he liked Glass Eye and gave me his tape of Pretty Hate Machine after he replaced it with one of those newfangled compact discs--long box and all.

In other words, we are old. May we be old together.

september song Holy crap, it's September. Back to school, festival season September, with its bug bites--I look like I've been shooting drugs in my feet; I haven't--and hot, endless afternoons. The movies get better in September.

And there's kindergarten. Have I mentioned today that kindergarten is lovely--even when you sign up to bring the class snack? (Grapes, peeled carrots, and low-sugar cereal, thanks for asking.) I've gotten completely past weeping in the hallway before pickup. Totally over that now. The lined-up backpacks on hooks--with blankets inside for naptime--don't make me freak out, even though the children who carry them are so tiny and hopeful with such funny little shoes, and when one of them balks *all* the parents crumble like levees along Lake Pontchartrain. We can't help it. We're too vulnerable by design.