The other day I stumbled into the Quit Slashdot! home page.
All I have to say is: right on, brother. The thing about
Slashdot is that
every time that they post an article on a subject that I know anything about (such as
astrophysics or “nanotechnology”), the commentary is so riddled with inanity and
pseudoscientific blather that I can’t help but read it. Maybe some
people are hardwired to like awful, awful things. I wish I could get over it, like
that guy in that old Onion article,
“Aging
Gen-Xer Doesn’t Find Bad Movies Funny Anymore“:

Erdman, however, is not so certain about his changing sensibilities. “I used to be able to
take great pleasure in not enjoying things,” Erdman said. “But these days, the only things I
like are things I like. Christ, I feel so old.”

If only I were in Erdman’s (fictional) shoes. Sigh.

The sad thing about the Slashdot science articles is that occasionally some poor sap of a
graduate student gets fed up with this foolishness, damnit, and
posts a reasonably literate critique of whatever nonsense the Slashdotters are debating.
It’s irrelevant, of course. Like passing out copies of Our Bodies, Our Selves
at an NRA convention. I want to scream at these grad students, “Stop wasting your
time! Get back to work on your thesis!” But what’s the point? I can’t save the
world. I can’t even save the Johns Hopkins University Physics Department. Bleah.

What else? Saturday night I went rock climbing with Brian and about 60 friends from
One Brick.
I had never really done any serious rock climbing — not anything with ropes and all —
so it was pretty fun. However, it was a mistake to allow myself to get cajoled into
participating in the boys vs. girls speed-climbing race. Picture me in line, arms all noodley
from three previous climbs, hemmed in by seven or eight bad-ass climber dudes.
“You’ll do fine!” Brian said. Clever bastard — this was just his way of getting me back for
refusing to go to our five-year college reunion.

In the good-news department, I went to Target this weekend to buy a lamp for the
apartment — one of those mix-and-match the base and lampshade dealies. Anyway,
on my way out, the security guard complimented me. “Nice lamp,” he said. And as
I walked through Macy’s to get to the parking lot, one of the makeup ladies flagged me
down. “That lamp is so cool!” she said. “Where did you get it?” So things are
looking up, career-wise. I clearly won’t make a very good fireman, Army Ranger, or
Emergency Mountain Patrol Rescuer, but I might very well have the potential to be
a fabulous interior designer.