Yesterday I started the Couch to 5k running program—a plan to get a couch potato running a 5k race (or at least, able to run 5k) in nine weeks.
I also learned that my treadmill is programmable. The things you learn reading the user’s manual.
In other news, today is my birthday. You may all commence the celebration.
Either my blog has just made it into a new search engine, or the spammers are ramping up operations lately. Just today there were eight spam comments over here on BerthaBlog. Usually long URLs with .ru endings and generic statements like “Really interesting article!”
Nobody ever sees it but me (not even the search engines), because Akismet does a great job catching it all. So far it’s caught all the spam and none of the real comments. If I ever have an income again I plan to donate some money to its author.
Even on Twitter, the spammers lie in wait. I make a tweet about World of Warcraft, and I’m immediately followed by an account that has nothing but links to WoW gold sellers. I tweet about cleaning something, and suddenly I’m followed by “Phoenix Cleaning.”
The only thing more laughable than the spammers’ transparent efforts to garner attention is the notion that someone, somewhere, must respond to these tactics. Would someone actually hire a cleaning company just because their automated Twitter-bot triggered on a keyword mentioned in a tweet?
The regional airport where Alpha Geek’s flying club is based had a big “Family Fun Day.” They left the gates wide open and allowed the general public to come and go as they pleased. The various clubs and organizations based there were offering hot dogs and hamburgers and sodas. There was a biplane giving rides. There was a C-130 parked on the larger ramp (I didn’t even realize that runway was long enough for a C-130 to land on).
And several pilots brought their planes for sale out to get a good showing.
One of them was a Cessna 172. It’s in great shape, for a great price. Alpha Geek really, really likes it.
A few miles away from the airport, a new subdivision is under development. They’re selling plots of land, on which you can custom-build your own house. Practically unheard-of out here, where the developers stamp out their cookie-cutter subdivisions and you have to just take what’s already there.
We were wandering around the airport this afternoon, tossing around ideas like buying that airplane, buying one of those plots, and custom-building a house within walking distance of the airport.
You know, I don’t need to win a big lottery. Half a million would more than suffice.
I’d probably have more of a chance if I actually played the lottery. Although not enough of one to actually bother playing it. Then again, apparently it’s a better chance than I have of finding a damn job.
Earlier this week I saw a sports car with a personalized license plate reading “NOF@CHX”.
I find it convenient when people announce right up front that they’re asshats. Saves me the trouble of finding out after I’ve already wasted time dealing with them.
I guess “JACKASS” was already taken.
Last night Marquesa let me rub her belly!
She’s been working up to it. After the second or third week she was here, she started rolling onto her back and giving me the “See how cute I am!” look. But at first, when I started to reach over, she would bolt from the couch.
After a while, she wouldn’t run, but as soon as my hand touched her belly she would flip upright again.
Last night she rolled over onto her back, with her little white forefeet up by her chest, and gave me that appealing look. I reached over and gently rubbed her belly for a few seconds, then withdrew before she got too overwhelmed. She stayed on her back and looked thoughtful: she’s found a new way to solicit attention.
(We’ve decided to change the spelling of her name—I don’t know what Marchesa means, but Marquesa definitely suits her—not quite a duchess, but more than a countess.)
We’re watching Flyboys, a movie about combat pilots fighting for France in WWI.
It’s the penultimate aerial battle. Allied pilots are swarming around a zeppelin. German pilots are vigorously defending. Oh noes, here comes the black triplane flown by the German ace pilot, who has shot down many of our heroes in previous battles.
“Uh oh,” said The Artist. “It’s the Mother Fokker.”
