The Foxfur Nebula?


It Exists!

The Foxfur Nebula

Details: This nebula is about 2,700 light years away, and is a red emission nebula, although it contains some blue sections.  I’m hoping to add color data to this later, this is a narrowband Hydrogen Alpha image.  Notice the Cone Nebula on the left side, made famous by the Hubble picture of it.  I’ll have to take a closer up view of the Cone with the C11 at a later time.

From the Buena Vista Observatory

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Some blogs that I enjoy


I still haven’t figured out how to post links to my favorite blogs on the homepage so I’ll do it here…

I’m Going to Burning Man, whatever shall I wear? A blog by a friend who is a crafting queen, awesome outfitter, and funny girl. Not to mention hot, mreow…

DustyCouture.com By Dusty Bacon, Burning Man’s fashion authority! See my earlier post “Dusty Bacon on Foxfur”. Visit his site if you have no idea what Burning Man is or what outfits one could possibly wear in the middle of the desert.

Redneck Fag An interesting gentleman. His description of himself: “Calling this blog “Redneck Fag” is meant as a joke in reaction to the sanctimonious Leftists. I’m not a real redneck. I’m really just a middle-aged, middle-class, middle-brow, middle-of-the-road, “don’t tread on me”, “don’t fence me in” classical liberal Republican farmer and businessman who just so happens to be a fag.” Recent posts include topics such as astronomy, philosophy, lady pirates (with guns, hot!), and literature.

Big Gay Al’s Big Gay (Gun) Blog “From the Coordinator of the Michigan Pink Pistols, a GLBT and Kink friendly, shooting sports group. It’s called “Big Gay Al’s Big Gay (Gun) Blog,” as it’s mostly about guns and gun rights, Open and Concealed carry, and sometimes about other things, and it’s so GAY!” What is it? It’s super, thanks for asking! Again, this is not another single issue blog (Boring!). His status updates at the end of each post crack me the hell up…  “Current Mood: Calm
 Current Music: Rocky Horror Picture Show – Sweet Transvestite
My Carry Pistol: RIA M1911-A1 .45ACP 100 years old and still going strong”

More to come…

Favorite quotes


These are some quotes that just tickle me…

“You go into any men’s section and it’s all blacks and browns, walk over to the women’s area and it’s like getting a blow job from a rainbow.”

Her: I’d totally make out with you!
Me: What??!!?!
Her: Sorry, I was talking to her (points at the girl working next to her).
Last time I was at the Dairy Queen drive thru…

“I need a platonic sugar daddy.”

“Telling a guy I work with to try a sandwich shop down the street,
His response:
“Na, I want something smothered in something” ”

“Embrace your freedom to be angry and eat junk food.”

“Larry says to bring him a toothbrush. And some Crest whitening formula! He’ll gift you a Pall Mall nonfilter…”  Me to another person when I told them I was camping with Larry Harvey at Burning Man.

 

Dusty Bacon on Foxfur


Last month I was fortunate enough to attend Controlled Burn’s Compression Fire & Arts Festival in Reno, Nevada. I had a blast meeting, in person, so many people from the Burning Man community that I’ve met in various online forums.

I brought with me some of what I will be wearing at Burning Man including the infamous shoulder armor rig. It began as a 3 dollar second thought at a thrift store and soon took on a life of its own and consumed over 100 hours of my time bringing it to its present form. I was hanging out around Espressodude’s up-armored Xterra and Kernul Killbuck’s Urban Assault Vehicle on the bridge when I was approached by Dusty Bacon. Yeah, THE Dusty Bacon. Burning Man’s fashion expert himself asked if he could take a photograph of me wearing the armor. You know me. I’m rather shy, hesitant to share, and bashful, but he coaxed me into it… He took three photos that I have been dying to see. Today I found them. He wove them into a wonderful video highlighting the burner fashion that was all about on that beautiful summer day in downtown Reno. I won’t tell you where I appear in it as you really need to watch the entire video to appreciate the day’s fashions and Dusty’s photography. Three minutes of bliss…

Compression! A Fine Example of Reno’s Burner Styles 

I have not embedded Dusty’s video or screencaps here because they are his, not mine, and you need to see his burner fashion site to believe it.

Foxfur in armor. Weapon and helmet courtesy of Kernul Killbuck.

A closeup shot of the armor showing a few of the message plates.

 You may notice that there are V’s where U’s should be. I lost the U stamp in my set so had to make do. Thanks ancient romans!

Each plate was beat to hell and dented up, stamped with messages, hammer contoured to fit the specific spot on the armor, riveted or bolted in place, chemically antiqued, buffed, and paint filled to enhance visibility of the messages. There are more than 30 plates.

Wheee!

Disabled Relationships


Today is Sweetpea’s 40th birthday. We were planning to go to a rock and gem show, to a lunch at a Japanese restaurant that we’ve not been to together in years, and then I planned to surprise her with a new car. This morning started off quite well. Her pain level was at a “dull roar” as she put it. I was very excited as that is sometimes a good sign that we will make it out the door together. As the morning went on I could tell that her pain was increasing by a number of signs. The amount of time she was able to move around without sitting to rest, the length of her shower, the length of her sentences or the timbre of her voice. Truthfully, I knew that it was most likely that we would not make it out today. But I had the hope that we would. As it turned out, she did not feel well enough to leave the house today.

13 years ago, less than a year after we were married, a careless driver in a large truck made a stupid decision that resulted in a broken neck, a spinal injury, a twisted back, a dislocated shoulder and various other smaller injuries. It robbed of her health and vitality and took from us all of the plans we had made for our future together. It took away the body that she had so proudly trained and disciplined in the United States Army. It took away choices that should have been ours to make. It changed both of our lives in a way that we had never imagined possible when we stood together in the rose garden under a blue sky, daffodils and trees in bloom, and pledged our love and lives to one another.

She suggested that I go out and enjoy the beautiful weather that we are fortunate enough to have today. She suggested that I perhaps go to my favorite spot in the park near our library and watch the ducks, watch the people, or sit and type on the notebook. She said that she would be fine curled up with her book and our kitty by her side. 

The park is beautiful today. The ducks are up to their usual ducky activities. The violets, pansies, ans alyssum are beaming at every passerby. The people are walking and talking, sitting and running doing their thing. At this very moment two ducks are busy making baby ducks less than fifty feet away(!). Of all this I am glad. I only wish that she were well enough to sit beside me and take all of this beauty in together. Her limitations are something that I have no control over and that is a very frustrating situation for one who can repair almost anything that almost anyone can break. She is the one intricate machine that I have no skills to restore of perfect. Acceptance of this, of her condition, of the limitations that it places upon our relationship, is a difficult proposition. Acceptance has been gradual over the past years and is a progressive process that cannot be accelerated or hurried. It is not always a forward and linear process. It will see ups and downs, progress and recess, but it does continue.

We are entirely dependent upon each other. She on me for emotional, physical, and financial support. I on her for strength and purpose. I am so very glad that that I can be here for her. in fact I am happy that I able to do so. I cannot imagine her on her own trying to deal with a life disarranged by chance and circumstance. We do the best we can with what we have. As she reminds me, it could have been worse. She is not paralyzed. She is not dead. We still have each other and she is my world. She is the reason I get up every morning. She is the reason that I do not give in to despair. She and her outlook are the reasons I keep on going.

She heals me.

It could always be worse...

Out of the mouths of babes


Miss Bee and I spent a great afternoon together recently. Gabbing up a storm and, surprise, went out for sushi. Sushi Mio is a new favorite of mine. The creamy scallops are out of this world…

After sushi we took a stroll through the park and saw that the kids had been writing with chalk on the walking path. The kids are alright

It made our day.

Little things like this remind us that we’re never too old to decide not to grow up.

Email from Adam Stennett


I emailed Adam to let him know that I had blogged him. This was his response:

“Thanks Steve!

It’s always nice to hear from people who really connect with my work. Thanks for sharing it on your blog.
I see you are going to Burning Man.
I have had many good times there.
Have fun!

Adam”

Why am I not surprised that he’s a burner?

Scroll down a few posts to see his art and a link to his website.

Dear seared albacore roll, I hate you!


What did you do to me? Why? All I wanted to do was enjoy you. I’ve always loved you in a can. I even got with the times and adjusted to your new foil-pak outfit and discovered that it was still the same beautiful you inside. I have always savored your delicious flavor and incredible texture. You are simple and yet complex. What I’m trying to figure out is why you turned on me the other evening.

I caught a glimpse of you as you slid your way toward me in your smooth and practiced linear fashion. I saw you beckoning me and giving me that come hither look. You looked so fine and inviting, sweet and hot. Throwing all caution to the wind, I swept you up, placed you on the bar in front of me, and gently removed your top. You were so beautiful, so alluring, so inviting. Your nori corset held you as though the two of you were born as one. The grains of rice that adorned you were divine, glistening. Your green onions and red sriracha made you look as though you were the Christmas present I’d always wanted but never knew to ask for. I gazed down upon your delicate flesh and eagerly anticipated the moment that was to be ours. It was to be our first time together and the visions of ecstasy that awaited us momentarily obscured my vision. It seemed that I could taste you before you had even entered my moist, warm mouth. Oh the things I imagined doing to you my teeth, my tongue, my hard palate… I smeared you with wasabi and showered you with soy sauce and then lovingly guided you between my open lips in a slow, passionate, deliberate celebration of your form. I took you in deeply. I couldn’t imagine a more loving and tender moment between us as I began to manipulate you, to blend our flesh together, to become one with you and you with me. And then?

Then you shit in my mouth. I was aghast! At first I thought it must be some kind of synesthetic confusion brought on by the woman sitting across from us in the über busy red Ross Dress For Less pantsuit with the purple flowers, the green piping, and the gold fringe accents. I thought that her outfit must taste just like what you were doing to me at that moment, that once special moment. But it was not synesthesia. No. You were indeed shitting upon my tongue. The more I tried to deny that fact the more you shat upon my most delicate and sensitive organ. Its moistness sullied by your astringent tissues. Its sensitivity ruined by your acrid green onions. Its curiosity dashed by the sriracha that had adorned you and made you look like a goddess on that conveyor belt catwalk. I contemplated pushing you out of me immediately but I couldn’t bear the thought of squandering all of the desire that I had already invested in you. I believed that if I allowed myself to continue to completion with you that everything would be alright and that I would make you mine. After all, true love is about accepting the faults of others. I was in a profound state of denial, like an abused lover believing that if I just gave you another chance that everything could be the way it was before. That’s where I really fucked up.

 I should have rejected you as soon as the passion had turned to poison. I should have spat you upon your creator who was only mere feet away. But no, I just had to keep going. It was a huge mistake, like masturbating and crying at the same time, I should have pulled myself together and had the strength to say no. But alas, I did not do so and so you continued to torment me unrelentingly. I left the restaurant in tears clutching my take out tray tightly to my chest. I left your two awful companions sitting on the bar, the bar that was to be our gateway to a love bigger than you and I put together. I ran to my truck fumbling for my keys, desperate to climb into the womb-like safety of the cab where I could be alone and be far away from you. The next few minutes were a blur. I remember yelling, a lot. I remember shouting “WHY?”. Then I remember being on the open road trying to flee that awful rendezvous with you and your tongue-shitting ways. Oh dear, what was I to do? What could I do? I frantically searched the center console, the armrest, and the door pockets for a mint. Just one mint. That’s all I needed, all I wanted. I could find none. I greedily slurped down half of the contents of my 64 ounce insulated travel mug hoping that the soothing flavors of my carbonated beverage would rinse the taste of shame and humiliation from my mouth and move it closer towards my digestive tract. But it did not. Oh no. Not even close. You cunning little bitch. Did you, Satan, and the Pepsi Cola corporation sign a blood pact to intensify my oral and olfactory agony? I would argue in the affirmative.

The next logical action to take was at hand. A cigar. I lit it and drew so deeply that my forehead made a popping sound like a freshly opened jar of applesauce. But the relief, the relief that I expected, that I needed, was not to be had. No. No, you tenaciously held to my tongue like a barnacle holds to a whale’s adipose vent and ruining forever what once was good and clean and pure. I finished that cigar and immediately lit another. Again, I found no relief from your putrescence. Why oh why would you not leave me to my misery, allow me to be alone and ashamed of what I had done in the peace and privacy that I yearned for at that moment? I needed no further reminders from you of what a fool I had been, of what weakness I had displayed in accepting your advances, of my short-sighted decision made in the heat of the moment. My drive home was not a short one. In fact, it was rather long and made only longer by your continued insistence on fouling my palate with your disgusting residual ridicule. And when your filth finally started to fade and I thought that I might just make it out alive after all, you came back! I burped. I burped and there you were! It was as though our first congress had begun all over again. Each and every time I burped you came back to me. Each and every time I burped I shouted “FUCK!”. I will never be able to estimate just how many times I screamed “FUCK!” during that seemingly endless drive home but it sure as hell was a fuck of a lot. My world was simply full of fuck.

Upon arriving home, Sweetpea came running to my side. She had heard the wail of “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!” as I tore ass up the mountain. She was crying, as was I, and pleading with me to tell her what had happened, what was wrong, what could she do for me. I brushed her aside and bolted for the one place that I knew that I could find reprieve: the bathroom. I ran to the sink, grabbed the toothbrush from its old and crazed plastic preschool juice and crackers cup, squirted gobs of red jellied toothpaste upon its bristles and jammed the salvation on a stick into my mouth. I went at it with a ferocity that I’d never imagined my vanilla whitebread ass to be capable of. I brushed and cried, cried and brushed, and brushed and brushed and brushed. At last, when the gums surrounding each and every tooth, facial and lingual, mesial and distal, were awash in the blood of my shattered heart, I decided that was enough. I spat the crimson mess into the sink and stared into the mirror at myself. I shall never forget the eyes that looked back at me. Hollow, empty, devoid of the spark of life that they once held. The face that I beheld was one that was lacking the humanity that it had once had in abundance. A defeated visage of the man I once was. A spectre. A lad insane.

Long into the night as I lay curled in a fetal position on the couch, alone and shaking, the only sound that could be heard to escape my lips was a low and moaning “fuuuuuck….”.

I will never, Never, NEVER again pollute my mouth or taint my soul with another seared albacore sushi roll. My last words to you are a haiku that I hope you will take to heart and remember.

Fuck you albacore

I will never be the same

Your taste lingers on

Adam Stennett – Artist


In 2005 I was stumbling around the internet when I happened upon this:

What an interesting photograph… I searched around and found more.

Stunning! How did he manage to get these mice posed let alone to hold still as he photographed them?

It was with this photo that I realized these were not photos. They were paintings! It was the reflection of the matches that revealed this marvelous fact to me. I decided it was time to track him down. I found his website and fell in love all over again.

His paintings are so incredibly detailed, so realistic, so vibrant. They grabbed my by the imagination and shook my perspective. I get lost in the detail. He is a gifted man whose art touches my soul. His subjects are many and his talent is deep.

Here’s the featured work on his homepage as of this morning:

Visit him at The Paintings of Adam Stennett

Share The Road!


I like bicycles. A bicycle was my first means of transportation and a dandy one at that. They’re neat. What’s not neat? A couple of Lance Armstrong wannabe’s on my two lane rural road. When I attempt to pass you, Mr. Tour de Farce, the last thing you should do is swerve to the left over the center of the road. I don’t know what it is that you were trying to do but I am big and hard and you are small and crunchy.
You have the right of way but I have a shaken can of Diet Pepsi with Lime.
You should not smack the passenger door of a truck as it attempts to pass you in a slow and safe manner. You should not shower a driver with profanity and throw your water bottle at him as he is contemplating your inexplicable behavior. You should not call a driver out of his truck in an attempt to instigate a violent confrontation. You should not run towards a driver who has just stepped out of his vehicle after an extremely dyspeptic dining experience and a frustrating day of rewiring his camping trailer. You should listen to your buddy when he tells you to cool it or you will get in trouble. Again. You should know that a can of any soda with a citrus product in it, even an artificial one, will sting your eyes. You should know that if you throw your water bottle at a truck that you will not have said water to rinse warm Diet Pepsi out of your eyes with. You should know that folks out here carry ax handles (or worse) but that some of them will show tremendous restraint and employ much funnier means of self defense. You should know that you cannot outrun the long arm of the law on a bicycle no matter whose logo you have on your shirt or whose tires are on your carbon fiber rims.
And finally, you should know that the driver has refused to press charges because he is still laughing his ass off.
Sharing the road. It goes both ways!