Pandemic 2, the Game

http://www.crazymonkeygames.com/Pandemic-2.html

You can get a better score than swine flu.  I know you can.

This is actually a pretty fun game.  I was playing it some time last year or the year before... I always was a little put out, though, that everyone always freaked out so quickly about my  pandemics which caused dementia and sores.  : \  Where's the love...?

Ironically, on one game review site, someone comments about how unrealistic it is that all the countries in the game start declaring states of emergency and closing down borders for diseases, viruses, etc. which weren't even that fatal.

CDC Warning

****DO NOT DO THIS!!!!****



(Thanks to my father for this -- I think this is the only viral internet joke, no pun intended, that he's ever forwarded to me!)

I just reached the end of my stamina. Since Tuesday I've spent every day working full time, then spending another four hours (minimum) doing unpacking, and dishes, and laundry. I've also been helping Allan and my mother move boxes to and from cars. During this time I've been trying to schedule moving days; have been trying to manage to subsist day-to-day with not much money to work with; have dealt with a remarkably high number of personal insults and threats, and have been trying to work towards a resolution via mediation; have been trying to figure out my place in a brand new job, with a brand new job title, during a department-wide re-org; and today I just started my period, again.

This last part was the final straw. I managed to unload one last load of clean dishes -- and was trying to get another load of laundry out of the dryer when I realized that I just can't do any more tonight. I don't even know where my painkillers are, and I'm too tired to go get some from the store. (Not to mention I probably can't afford the extra expense right now.) I am way too full up on physical, emotional, and mental stress.

So the rest of the night is dedicated to curling up in my bed, reading one of the few books that isn't in a box, and then passing out. If I can convince myself that I have enough energy, maybe I'll even take a bath.

The house below me is yellow as the sun.
The house above me, suspended from the stars.
In Valparaiso,
I spent my mornings in the sky,
cradled in fog.
My feet and heart ache at the thought of
concrete.


Today we walked to Pablo Neruda's house, which is now a museum, and toured it. From there, we walked through the city -- first cerro Bellavista, then the downtown area, then the colleges. From there we found a cafe and stopped for sandwiches and a quick game of chess. We tried to walk through the cemetery, but were unable to figure out how to get to it -- perched as it was on the top of the hill between us and our inn. Having failed to figure out how to get to the cemetery, we returned to our inn.

All in all, we walked several miles, mostly on stairs. In the absence of stairs, we walked on uneven cobbles, dirt patches, slabs of upended concrete that may have once been stairs.

This morning I read an article that claimed that Valparaiso had 42 hills. ...And to think that I once thought that San Francisco's 14 were intimidating. All the same, part of me wants to watch the city and the ocean from the vista on each of those hills.

Valparaiso, in the morning, she is a city that tosses in her sheets. She raises the covers, fends away the morning light for a little while longer, and lets the sheets rest against her wet lips. Her breath is moist. Her tongue slides against her teeth. She closes her eyelids for just a few more moments.

And while she lays fitfully moving, her citizens are quiet, brisk, efficient. They move to her toes, which she has pushed into the wet silt of the harbor. They get coffee, go to work, move in intersections -- quietly. They do not wake her, and wish themselves back in bed.

The fog lays heavy on the city throughout the morning. Perhaps it's languor, or perhaps depression. Perhaps it's Valparaiso fighting the heavy pounding of a headache after a late night. Perhaps she simply knows that the air is cold, water-heavy, and that she prefers the warmth of her bed. Whatever it is, she waits.

She waits, and the sun pulls itself higher into the sky, and picks up momentum and strength. The heat sizzles against the fog. It thins it. Bakes it. Works against it.

By 1pm, the gray has dissipated and the Valparaiso is ready for the day. Her houses are bright and colorful. Her sky is full of yellow and blue. Dogs, big heavy dogs with thick muscles, run with her in excitement, loping through the streets. The cats are still sprawled in the streets -- even the sun won't get those Jezebels out of bed -- but the kittens totter and fix everything with large wet stares. Another block down, there is a child banging on a pot.

The rusted metal sheets are brighter, the brick more red. The sprawling morning glory are wide-eyed, and the cactus plants stand upright with taut, healthy skin.

When she is awake, she is a sight. That city. Her lips are parted, and her breath is warm.


...


We arrived today at our hotel room in Valparaiso. It is called the Robinson Crusoe Hotel, and it has a corner on the American market as it is the only hotel that uses Expedia.com. Whatever brilliant hint led it to discover online travel booking, it is not the slick and marble-polished Carlton or Hilton of the Latin world. It is a small affair, tucked in the BellaVista neighborhood, directly across from another hotel and sharing the same side of the street as a hostel.

It's footprint is tiny, and it is squeezed into the neighborhood as if it first held its breath. But what it lacks in footprint, it makes up for in height. A treehouse that has grown past the point of needing a tree, the hotel is all vertical. A tiny waiting area greets visitors, but any visitors wanting to lounge away a few hours (or, as in our case, show up early and wait until rooms are available) can do so at the crown of the structure -- only after ascending the steep staircase, and bypassing the doors of each room.

The entire interior, though, is a delight to climb past -- featuring harnesses, bellows, flowers, porcelain, carved and stained wood, and all sorts of memorabilia. The art in particular is out of place, being interesting and well done; most hotels seem to shun anything that might be worth looking at. This place will fill a room with three pieces, with no similarity besides being delightful.

Once you have achieved the full height of the building, you are greeted with a dizzying view of Valparaiso. You can see the city and all her dwellings -- foundations gripping the mountains and then relaxing and standing tall in the basin of the city. The harbor is cupped in the center of the city, and the skyscrapers are sentinels looking over it.

It was in this observatory that Ted and I waited, my eyes full up with the city whose fog and brightly colored houses reminded me of my home, San Francisco. After a while we were shown to our split room -- and for the first time in days I was able to lay down on a bed that was longer than me. On a bed where the sheets were thick and the comforter was warm and pillowy. And pillows, pillows, and pillows were at the top. I don't think I realized exactly how uncomfortable the bed on the cruise boat was until I came here.

Later on, after we had settled in, we went out for dinner. The owner of the hotel recommended to us a place called "The One Eyed Cat." It was two blocks down to the right -- a quick but slightly uneven walk down the broken-down stairs that are on either side of the small, cobbled streets. The streets here are nearly all hill. When we arrived, the restaurant was closed (they say most places are closed because it is Monday?), and we settled for a place next door.

Never have I been so glad to have accidentally found a restaurant. The hostess, waitress, and cook were all the same woman -- the wife of the proprietor. She had beautiful brown hair, and thankfully could speak English fairly well. I had quinoa with avocado -- the avocado at the center of a patted cake of quinoa mixed with a salty, creamy base. The next course was two fillets of mahi-mahi, served with melted cheese and shrimp in the middle of the fillets, over a bed of freshly fried potato slices. Ted had beef, which was cooked in this delicious pepper marinade. Slices of the pepper were served next to the steak and we both had a burning desire to try these. They were good, and our desire was satiated -- especially the burning part. Desert was crepes with a strawberry sauce, caramel, and white chocolate filling -- strawberries littered across the top. And to drink was water -- we could choose between limon or albacca (sp?). Our hostess did not know how to describe the albacca in English (it was a green, leafy herb mixed with sliced limes). A quick sniff of the original herb revealed that albacca is basil. Fresh, delicious basil.

After dinner we walked down to the downtown district, descending twisting side streets and stairs. We passed dogs, and dogs, and dogs. We passed worn down metal sheeting, crumbling concrete, uneven cobbles littered with shit. On our walk, we rounded a corner to two surprised kittens -- not more than seven weeks old, if I am any judge -- walking alertly, and slightly wobbly, up the stairs. One of them approached us and nuzzled our legs, while the other stayed nervously to the side and waited for us to move on. We passed a group of teenagers smoking out. We passed a discotheque styled after Pink Floyd's The Wall. We walked down a busy street -- thick with pedestrians -- for a couple of blocks before ducking back into another side street. After passing by a "grow shop" and a tiny metal-head shop, we took a funicular back up to the BellaVista neighborhood.

There was graffitti all over the city -- some of it beautiful, some of it scrawled. But when we reached the top of the funicular, we saw a sign that read, "BellaVista, Sin Vista?" I wonder what the sign is about... Why no view?

When we reached the hotel, the hotel owner told us that the restaurant that we had found only served traditional Chilean cooking -- he asked if it was okay, but then assured us that the owner and his wife were good people after our affirmation that we liked it.

I'm upstairs now, watching the sun retire. The dogs are serenading me now, or possibly berating the settinng sun. They are topped occasionally by a human shout. The shout doesn't stop them -- they keep barking until the sun has set and the city puts on her evening eyes.

I am about to disembark the ship. Thirty minutes to go. In the meantime, I have just eaten breakfast perched high above the docks, watching the funiculars slowly edge their way down and up the hill above the docks. This city reminds me of San Francisco in the morning -- gray fog, tucked tight around a patchwork of different color houses stretched across hills. I'm looking forward to exploring.

Can anyone tell me where I am? I'm a bit confused. On the one hand, there's Argentina. On the other, there's Chile. And there doesn't seem to be much middle ground between the two. On the other other hand, there may be a bit of middle water. And I'm in it. But I seem to have forgotten the name of the place. It's a canal, I'm pretty sure.

Today I've achieved maximum wooziness throughout the ship. I may be content to wooze in my cabin later, but in my moment of triumphant woozing, I've decided to relax and keep sniffling time with a live jazz band. It's all 4/4, so I even have a decent chance of not blowing it. Literally. (You may blame my current state of punning on the illness.)

I am attending to my health though. I've had plenty of limes (in the form of a Mojito) to make certain that I don't get scurvy on top of anything else I've gotten; and I've had banannas too! (Okay, technically I've had a "dirty bannana", but it did come with vitamins and plenty of cleansing and restorative liquors. They're sterile, for sure.)

Putting the wooze and the booze aside, I really do think that by tomorrow I'll be in better health. Tonight we get to read through the immigration paperwork which will be given to the Chilean authorities, and make sure it's completed correctly. An earlier attempt this morning made it very clear that this was only paperwork to fill out when not exhausted, scatterbrained, or otherwise unable to focus. There was a section that said that we must declare if we brought any of the following items into the country. One of the items listed simply read, "Any reproductive materials, including semen." It took me a couple of very shocked and confused seconds to figure out that this fell under the broader category of animal and farm related materials. So, no, human reproductive materials don't count. Although, technically, they do say that any items brought into the country are only allowed if they're for personal use or a gift. So don't expect to go selling any of your reproductive fluids in Chile. That's right out.

We have successfully passed around Cape Horn -- an area of water that many refer to as Sailor's Grave. It's rocky, turbulent waters have been the death of so many sailors, and the end of many ships. Our ship's navigator happens to be first class though, and got us around the cape despite stormy conditions and waves of nearly 10+ ft. This was the outer edge of the storm we left Antarctica to avoid; in the more southern parts of the ocean, the waves were reaching 40+ feet.

The irony of all of this is that I got through nearly 24 hours of ridiculously turbulent conditions without becoming sea-sick. Not only am I not inheriting my mother's inability to stomach movement in any way, shape, or form, but I'm pretty sturdy in the face of conditions that made most other passengers greener than mold. And yet, despite whatever fortitude got me through that, my body is still not able to handle a common cold.

As a result, I have spent all of today sniffling, sneezing, wheezing, and woozing. You might ask what woozing is. It's the condition of being woozy in an active manner. I've been woozing all over the room, the hallway, the dining area, and will soon be woozing in the grand Princess Theaters in time for the afternoon movie. I'm gonna wooze all over this place, and by the time I'm finished the ship won't know what hit it.

I've got my fingers crossed that I'll be better in time for whatever day trip we have planned tomorrow in Ushuaia (my memory supplies information suggesting that it may be a lengthy, physically demanding hike through beautiful, amazing, old growth forests). Somehow, though, I doubt it's going to happen. My immune system doesn't handle illness well in normal circumstances, and it was already dealing with hormonal unpleasantries... My guess is that tomorrow will be just as full of wooze as today.

So much for having a sailor's constitution.

The surf here is, in fact, up.

This morning began well before 6 am, a light haze filling the sky. The ghost of the sunrise, haunting our window. She would peer in as a swell tugged our curtains apart. Restlessly, I watched her grow in strength until the sun began to overtake her, and quickly drowned her out.

With the sun came the profile of Elephant Island -- growing on the horizon as if trying to reach up and capture the escaping sun. White capped, foam moving fitfully against its shores, the island was the only point of land around us. The waters had grown mild during the dim early morning, and destination seemed the source of the calm. Harsh waves dissipated, and clouds were sparse -- the island was waiting.

By 9 am, we were at the top deck of the boat, pressed against the railings with dozens and dozens of others. A step back would have yielded a view of passengers from all corners of the world, crowded together, elbows against elbows, anxiously snapping pictures. A step forward, though, among the throng, yielded something majestic enough to momentarily forget the crush -- The full sight of mountains rising from the sea, ice coated and capped. Only the lands craggy toes peaked through at the water line, and those too gave way to ice in many places.

A look to the waves, too, yielded delight -- brought by a small flock of chinstrap penguins, breaching the waves in short jumps. A quick series of sleek black bodies piercing through the curtain of waves, followed by moments of nothing. We scanned together, myself holding my breath, until the next bit of white froth signaled the location of the next group of jumpers. At one point I caught sight of two seals, stomachs catching light beneath the waves and sun.

Point Wild was visible -- a small pyramid of stone, one of the few free of ice, standing just in front of another mountain, rising far above it. Morning continued to pass, and by 2 pm, we had circled to the belly of the island, where the Glacier Endurance was flowing in achingly frozen slowness to the sea. The glacier itself was flattened in the center, most likely where it had met the water and moved to capture the form of the liquid expanse.

It is now near four (although it feels like noon), and we are moving quickly. We have left Elephant Island and are now at Gibbs Island. Glaciers flow more like waterfalls caught mid-plumett here, for the cliff faces they flow down are more steep. Some are split, as if slashed several times across their throats, for the steep grade breaks apart the once smoothly flowing ice.

I feel in awe, and somewhat irreverent (although at times giddy) about the incredibly luxurious conditions of this voyage. While watching Elephant Island, Ted and I both sipped our Red Bull Power Float (an ice cream float in a Red Bull energy drink). The vanilla ice cream resembled a miniature glacier in my cup. Later tonight, while the sun is still strong in the sky, I'll sit in a hot tub, feeling the arctic air around my face. Part of me wishes that I could make this journey in rougher conditions -- in order to connect more with the landscape and sea. Another part of me knows that a journey like that would be lost to seasickness -- and not the mild nausea that floated around me during our journey through the Drake Passage. This would instead be a stomach clutching illness, feeling the entire time as if I were upside-down, head caught in a helium balloon.

So as I was turning off lights throughout the house, I heard a strange sound and noticed that Val and Piglet (two of the household kitties) were staring at the front door. Peaking out the window, I see Darth Paw and a black cat, two cat bodies forming an L. Both had their ears laid back, and both had their tails held close and low -- curved like a ladle against their lower legs. The black one looked as though he was whispering in Darth Paw's ear.

The sound picked up at this point: a wailing moan, but stuttered and enunciated at times, so it sounded like a banshee conscripted to a Gregorian choir. Both cats were participating. Almost as if in an answer call form. So perhaps one gregorian monk and one banshee, both at a Southern Baptist revival?

I watched for a little bit, and neither cat attacked the other. Neither made any move to copulate with the other. Neither relaxed. Both remained, faces close enough together that one could lick the other. Wailing. And mumbling. I walked away for a minute and came back. Same scene. For all I know they're still doing it.

Do you think that Darth Paw is raising the dark side of the kitty-force outside of the house? What other explanation can be given for this strange behavior?

Our household has just moved to the spoon economy. Obviously this means a trip to Ikea or Goodwill for cheap spoons, and lots of spoon decoration following this. In the face of numerous spoon puns or jokes that can be made, I would like to address this transition in a more serious and sinister way. I will only say this:

One spoon to rule them all, one spoon to find them...

Stolen from spooky_lemur -- this is the freakiest looking squid you've ever seen.

http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2008/11/081124-giant-squid-magnapinna.html

The opening words which played on my headphones exactly as I started the video, "Now, relax and watch," (spoken at the beginning of the MTV version of Sound Garden's Blow Up The Outside World) created an even weirder viewing experience. 

Does anyone have any recommendations for VNC clients that run on Windows XP? 

The house is dim -- pools of yellow light spread across the corpus of darkness. The music in the room is low; you can hear an occasional snore overpowering the volume of the low-tempo melody.

The cats patrol the hallway. Two of them check in on the room. The small white cat pays attention to the heavy black one. Two eyes set in a dark face glance up at the bed, at me, at the computer. She assesses the situation. A leap and mid-air wobble, followed by desperate scrambling at a severe miscalculation. Then she is on the bed, attentive, mewing.

I try to keep reading, and so she turns her attention to the book. It is a thick book -- Ulysses by James Joyce -- and it is cupped inside a larger open book of annotations for Ulysses. The weight of the books combined could compete with the weight of the cat -- either books or cat are large enough to be awkward to hold.

She alternates between sneezing and smothering the corner of the book with her muzzle. Purrs rise up, almost louder than the music.

I snort and think, "Well, at least someone is enjoying the book."

She pauses suddenly, and, in a finale sneeze, covers the right page of the book with mucus.

"Okay...," I look down at the page, coated with specks of cat snot. "Maybe she wasn't enjoying it either."

She wobbles to the edge of the bed again, while I try to salvage my reading, and thumps to the ground. The younger cat waits until she is already half way out the door to chase her the last few feet.

I have to say, I never expected to hear Eliot's The Wasteland compared to a Duran Duran music video.  But...?  Yeah, it just happened.  Sure.

Maybe I'm just sleep deprived, but my lit. classes lately have been really hilarious.  My other English teacher was talking about Joyce describing a bite of meat, and started to recommend that the next time we take a bite of meat to think about this phrase.  Then he suddenly paused, and said, "Oh.  Wait.  I forgot it's not in fashion to eat meat anymore."  Another pause.  "Well, the next time you eat a portobello mushroom!  When you take a bite out of it, just pretend like it's meat and think about Joyce."

Wow.  If I were a plant, I'd be a freaking methyl salicylate factory this semester!

And speaking of plants, check this one out:  N. macrophylla.  When I first saw the price, I thought, "That must be a typo.  Surely they meant $24.99..."  Nope!  That plant is actually selling for $249.95. 

From the Sarracenia Northwest Newsletter, CARNIVOROUS PLANT CARE FOR AUGUST section:

Pitcher plants will slowly fill up with insects. Brown spots will occur along the pitcher. This is perfectly normal. It means that your plant is indeed capturing bugs!

Sarracenia Northwest, dear god, thank you.  I was about ready to freak-the-fuck-out and start tearing my hair out.  There's nothing worse than having put all the time and effort into making sure that your outdoor plants have constant moisture, proper care, enough sunlight, and plenty of food (they're gorging themselves on ants, flies, and wasps) -- only to start seeing spots on them.  I was bracing myself for yet more of my plants to kick the bucket watering can.

And, speaking of my adorable meat-eating babies, this weekend I'll be attending the Bay Area Carnivorous Plant Society's 2008 Annual Show and Sale. 

I probably won't be entering most of my plants for display or for the competition...  My Sarracenias are freckled in the afore-mentioned spots; my Pinguiculas  and my new Nepenthes haven't been in my care for long enough (not to mention that the new Nepenthes have no pitchers out yet); my sundew, while doing great, needs grooming and is in a pretty weird impromptu terrarium; and my Nepenthes mikei isn't pitchering (I'm giving it some diluted fertilizer in hopes that I can get it to pitcher next spring).  That leaves my Nepenthes x Red Dragon, which is actually doing pretty damn well -- but I'm uncertain whether I should bring it, given that it's actually two plants in one container.   Maybe I'll end bring my Nepenthes x Red Dragon (and possibly groom that sundew and drag it down anyhow).  Maybe.

Regardless of whether I bring along any of my plants, I'm definitely planning on enjoying the other plants on display, the auction and raffle, and the other feature events.

And finally, I've gotten the last of my stained-glass crafting supplies in the mail.  That foil tape is super important, seeing as how the projects I'm working on aren't lead came appropriate.  With any luck I'll have a few new terrariums constructed and ready to go by next spring.  I've got several plants that will need new homes by then, including two new sundews (one of them forked!) that are making a temporary shelter for themselves at the feet of my Sarracenia.

As I was leaving work today, late, bringing my work home with me, I looked up at the sky. It was streaked with gray and pink, clouds like water-color-blotches seeping up from the horizon. A raindrop hit my windshield. And as I watched the faintest echo of color deepened. Soon I was able to see a full and vibrant rainbow crowning the clouds. It stayed with me all the way home.

I finally broke down, after about 4 years of lusting after this book. I bought myself a copy of Insectivorous Plants by Charles Darwin, and it just recently arrived.

I am in looooove.

389 pages, plus index, of in-depth scientific discussion of carnivorous plants.

The first 11 chapters are devoted almost entirely to a discussion of the common Sundew -- Drosera rotundifolia. The 12th chapter tackles other species of Drosera, such as anglica, intermedia, capensis, spathulata, filiformis, and binata.

Chapter 13 takes a sharp turn and talks about Dionaea muscipula, aka. the famous Venus flytrap. The next few chapters are a brief tour of other carnivorous plants, such as Drosophyllum, Pinguicula, and Utricularia.

Oddly, there is no discussion at all of pitcher plants, either American or Asian.

However, even with the majority of the book being devoted to a single carnivorous plant, I'm very happy. The discussion of the plant begins with a detailed description of the plant's anatomy, and then launches into a thorough study of the plant's movement, digestive capabilities, and how it is affected by various substances and temperatures. Having long ago memorized the very generic guidelines for growing carnivorous -- saline free water, lots of sunlight, high humidity and constant soil moisture, nutrient free soil -- this is an almost dizzying amount of detailed knowledge.

So happy!