DEBRIS.COMgood for a laugh, or possibly an aneurysm

(This weblogging thing is a whole lot easier than keeping a journal.)

The Moller Skycar: "No matter how you look at it the automobile is only an interim step on our evolutionary path to independence from gravity." (Thanks to Aaron for the link.)

The $50,000 communications satellite "PCSat" has antennas made from a metal tape measure from Home Depot. See also the PCSat site, which has photos.

Jacque Harper points out that SatireWire has a seemingly endless supply of great content today:

• Bush Faints After Choking “The” Pretzel, Not Choking “On” Pretzel
• Surprise Settlement Evenly Splits Microsoft; One Firm To Make Software, Other To Make Patches
• The Sou’wester Alliance: Afghanistan’s Forgotten Warriors

The Earth at Night — an awesome photograph (or composite) of the planet at night, depicting the spread of industrial civilization. Be sure to click the photo on the page above. This is part of NASA’s Astronomy Picture of the Day series. (Thanks to Chuck for the pointer.)

JWZ contributes an amusing-but-sad anecdote about public urination. I have to admit the main reason I’m mentioning that here is I’m looking forward to having lots of Google users, in a quest for “public urination” information, surf here in a few weeks.

A fantastic story of how AppleScript helped keep sensitive data from the prying eyes of a thief and helped recover a stolen iMac. (Seen at Camworld.)

How the Wayback Machine Works, an interview with Brewster Kahle about the construction of the Internet Archive’s 100-Terabyte archive of the WWW.

Scientific head-scratchers survive describes some common phenomena that you’d think we can explain… but we can’t. Why do flags flap in the wind? Who said all fingerprints are really unique?

Body odor could prove stronger than looks: “Study suggests women may be able to sniff out genetically compatible mates”

I can always tell when it’s a holiday because there are three times as many people as usual at the gym. As they sweat it out, red-faced and panting, two-sizes-too-large T-shirts pulled down to cover hips packed with years of dairy-product-based abuse, I grit my teeth and conceive of what could easily be the next fad diet plan, and make me immeasurably wealthy too: The Holiday Diet! Participants can eat and drink whatever they want all year round, but on the 8-10 US work holidays that occur during the year, they must give in to the staggering guilt and show up at the local gym early in the morning and work out as hard as possible. Then, assuming they have not had a heart attack, participants can reward themselves with a huge breakfast, and then lay around the house all day in a food coma, congratulating themselves for not working out more often because it makes them feel so bad when they do.

OK, so I probably won’t make any money on it, but at least I wouldn’t have to wait in line for a treadmill.

If necessity is the mother of invention, bad recipes are its ugly second cousin.

In preparation for a dinner party, I dug a fancy cookie recipe out of my collection of newspaper-food-section clippings: spiralled “black and white” cookies, made by rolling flattened chocolate and vanilla doughs together into a log, slicing into rounds, and baking. The procedure was horribly frustrating and messy, as one or the other of the two doughs was (no matter what I tried) either too stiff or too mushy to be rolled effectively. Then, even when cut with my newest, sharpest, imported German bread knife, the dough stuck to everything like snot to a mustache. In a momentary fit of physical violence that I reserve to express my opinion of machines or processes that are beneath me (e.g. all of them), I flung a dough scraper into the sink, propelled by a theraputic yell and as much force as I could muster without winding up. This provided a welcome moment of comic relief later that day when we discovered a blob of vanilla dough on the ceiling.

After all the pain I was excited to finally try a finished cookie. They looked great. But… they tasted like nothing at all: not chocolate, not vanilla. Pointless.

I never give up without a fight, so I was not yet ready embrace my backup plan (buy ice cream for dessert, and send the cookies to the recipe author along with a note suggesting where she could put them). In the end, elaborating on my wife’s idea to dip the cookies in melted chocolate, I spread melted chocolate on the bottom of each one, so as not to hide the cookies’ visual appeal, which at the moment was their only redeeming quality.

It worked well — the cookies were a big hit.

The only remaining problem was that one of the guests at dinner has a strong allergy to peanuts, “trace amounts” of which can apparently be found in the chocolate I used in the cookies. So she couldn’t eat them anyway, for as good as they looked they weren’t worth going into anaphylactic shock over. I should have gone with ice cream after all.