I owe many people many emails. I’m working through my inbox now, so replies are forthcoming. So all of you thinking “Will that Eric scum ever write, or does he just not care about me?” (you know who you are): I care, really I do! I just got carried away, but I’m getting back to what’s important. Writing to you.

Iron Chef vs. Bob. This week’s theme ingredient: low-quality ground beef. More cartoony goodness from Ruben Bolling via tom the dancing bug.

SuperPants is on vacation. While they’re away, they’ve left us a nifty javascript goodie to gawk at.

Less Gilliland is a cowboy for the White Sands Missile Range in New Mexico. This is his story. I wouldn’t be suprised if I’ve met him. Much of the range is in the territory served by Socorro Electric Cooperative, where I put in a couple years as an engineer. I did a lot of work on the range, and saw many amazing things. For example: they have a massive cable that stretches between two mountain tops. About two miles long. It’s connected to huge winches that raise and lower the cable to the valley floor. When the cable’s down, they attach helecopters or jets or tanks or whatnot to it and winch it up, suspending the item several thousand feet in the air. And then they shoot missiles at it and hope they don’t hit the cable. As far as I know, they haven’t yet, but if they do, they’ll just buy another one. Hmm… maybe I’ve said too much.

I’m a big fan of the cacophony society. Of all the groups here and there, the model seems to be the one in L.A. Last week, the city hosted the Democratic National Convention, and the LA Cacophony society was there: Zombies for Gore at the DNC. “A camera crew from MTV stopped to ask us questions about “what our message was,” and we said, “grrrr” in various modulations. Miffed, the newscaster said in her best spoiled-little-white-girl voice, “but this is your chance to get your message out.” We said “grrr” again and tried to eat her, but she was able to run away. " (via The Extremely Sexy Cardhouse Weblog Scene 2000.)

Barney Greinke is a nuclear tourist, driving around the country on a tour of the cold war. His objective: to visit the many “Battlefields of World War III” that lie scattered across the USA. In September 1998 he visited the missile silos of Montana, and got a chance to “be a guest” of the FBI and Air Force security officers. All turns out well. . . or does it?

My new kitty displayed an amazing amount of smarts while I was away. I cleaned the litterbox for her before I left, but she then proceeded to fill it in short order. As kitty lovers know, they don’t much care for soiled litter boxes. When the box gets messy, they find other, cleaner places to do their business. Usually, the places they choose are not at all good for the humans involved. I can imagine my Sherry running around the house thinking, “I’ve got to go! Got to go! Where’s that boy? My box is dirty! Got to go!” She got to the kitchen, got onto the table, and spotted my sugar canister. I keep my sugar in a large glass jar with a metal screw-on lid. Sherry’s seen me use it on many occasions, and I guess she thought the powdery sugar would make an excellent litter substitute. First, she unscrewed the lid and knocked it aside. She then tipped over the jar and rolled it to the edge of the table. Then, somehow without knocking to jar to the floor, she scooped a bunch of sugar out of the jar and onto the floor. When she had a nice pile (a couple pounds’ worth), she jumped down and took a whiz. As it turns out, sugar really does make a nice litter substitute. It clumps nicely. It’s easy to clean. It masks the odor perfectly. Still, she was very happy that I scooped out her box as soon as I walked in the door.

New dad Mike Gunderloy at Larkfarm pointed to UFO netzine Saucer Smear. Lo and behold, the current feature story is new developments in the famed Socorro, New Mexico UFO landing. Physics professor emeritus Charles Moore, the man behind the Project Mogul balloon flights that almost certainly led to the Roswell hulabaloo, suggests that the Socorro sighting may have been a lunar lander flight test that went off course from the White Sands Missile Range, south of Socorro. Regular readers of Kestrel’s Nest know that I went to school in Socorro, and ended up staying in town for eight years. I’ve met Lonnie Zamora and have seen the area where the sighting occured. For much of the time I was in school, psychology professor Dr. Frank Etscorn, inventer of the nicotine patch and all around really smart guy, was dean of the school. He was fond of telling the story behind the sighting. I don’t recall all the details, but his story involved a couple of students (Tech students are notorious pranksters), back projection, and making “eep eep” noises while wearing strange coveralls. He giggled when telling how these students managed to fool not just Officer Zamora but also a horde of UFO experts.

I know I’ve read somewhere that you should use vacations to reflect and pick up little lessons to help with life. One lesson I learned while away, while at a Sonic in Beaufort, South Carolina, was “When the gas guage reads empty, get gas before you get the cherry limeaid. " Luckily, a gas station was practically across the street.

My minivacation was as fantastic as it could get. Two days of perfection. That’s not to say there weren’t adventures. For example, we knew that the gates to the park close at 10pm and if we didn’t make it by then, we would have to sleep in the car. We planned on getting there by 8pm and leisurely setting up the tent in the twilight, but as is to be expected, we left Athens two hours late. And took a few wrong turns. And got pulled over by a very nice South Carolina police officer (Going 46 in a 30. We were in a small town, and I had to swerve around a car that pulled right in front of me. Doing so sped me up some, and the policeman passed me right as the limit changed from 30 to 45. I was very polite and explained what had happened. He asked if we were going to the beach, and I told him how excited I was to be visiting Hunting Island. I gave him my papers, but not before noticing that my insurance card had expired several months ago. Not the policy – just the card. I must have been mailed a replacement but overlooked it. I pointed that out to him so that he wouldn’t discover this for himself. He took the papers and went back to his car. When he returned, he told me it was a serious offense in South Carolina to be driving without proof of insurance. And reminded me I was speeding. And gave me a verbal warning on both counts and wished us a safe journey. Thank you, Mr. Officer!). As the milage between us and the park diminished, the clock ticked nearer to 10pm. We pulled into the campground at exactly (by my car clock) 10:00. We saw no gate, nor did we see anyone at the ranger station. After nosing around for a few minutes, we spotted a park truck driving up. “How’d you get in here?” the ranger inside asked. He’d just returned from locking the gate – we’d in fact passed him on the way in. He pointed us to our pre-paid campsite and sent us on our way.

The site was feet away from the beach. We could look out of the tent and see the surf and the expanse of water. My virst visit to the beach was only a couple of months ago (well, there was nighttime christmas quick stop at Galveston many years ago courtesy of Marjorie, but that was quick, and at night, and at Galveston) so I couldn’t have been more tickled. With the moon full, we swam together under the clear night sky. The water was warm and salty and fairly calm. The ocean’s a big place, but to me it felt like it was just me and her.

We spent a good part of the next day biking up and down the beach. On the sand, in the water. I found it great fun to bike in the breakers – the crashing water pushed me to and fro as the tires kicked it up even more and doused me. At some points both tires were completely underwater and it took all my strength to keep going. We biked out across shallow water to a sand bar and explored. We got stung by jellyfish and ate peaches and climbed to the top of the lighthouse and got squirted by a conch.

That evening, after a fabulous low-country boil (lobster, crabs, shrimp, oysters, corn, and potatoes), we did the moonlight kayak expedition. Oh my goodness. There were ten of us, and we were led by a ranger that knew (I’m pretty sure) everything. He showed us jellyfish that glow in the dark. He showed us plankton that glow in the dark (they’d light up as our paddles hit the water, leaving twinkling wakes behind us). After she and I were both savagely stung by something very, very, very painful, he showed us the wasp jellyfish – “The Terminator” – a jellyfish that has a complete jet propulsion system and eyes. It’s the only jelly fish that actively hunts it prey. A variety in Australia is deadly, but the Carolina variety just hurts an awful lot. He showed us an electric fish. Modified optic nerves on the top of its head shoot bolts of electricity. We paddled around the salt marsh, and a lagoon, and a salty river, and along the shore. Why hadn’t I ever done this before?

The next day (after swimming for several hours), we leisurely made our way back home. But not before stopping at a local seafood company and filling our cooler full of food. Whole live crabs for a dollar a piece! We got a dozen. And shrimp. And oysters. And fish. We filled the cooler for $20. I still can’t believe it.

It was only four hours away. Hunting Island was the best state park I’ve ever been in. It was kept immaculately. They have a large variety of programs. The staff was more than helpful. The beach was incredible. If you’re ever in southern South Carolina, go. You owe it to yourself.