Nun denn, als Pfingstbeschäftigung habe ich
mit Ihr zwei Münchner Museen besucht-
eigentlich drei, aber das eine Bild
will ich euch außerhalb des Kontexts zeigen.
Kontext ist ja bekanntermaßen alles.
Zum einen die – sehr überschaubare – Ägyptische Sammlung,
die aber, wie fairerweise gesagt werden muss,
gerade neu gestaltet wird.
Wobei Fairness und das Alte Ägypten irgendwie nicht zusammenpasst
- alles schon sooooo lange tot,
die dürften sich nicht mehr echauffieren.
Zum Anderen die Ausstellung “Wolpertinger”
im Jagd- und Fischereimuseum,
die durchweg für Erheiterung sorgt.
Auf jeden Fall bewegend
Beim Besuch des Jagd- und Fischerei-Museums
ist aber allein das
Gebäude an sich
einen Besuch wert.
Auch wenn es ein bisserl nach Wildschwein müffelt.
Wenn sich jetzt jemand fragt,
woher ich weiß, wie ein Wildschwein müffelt:
Das dritte Museum ist ein Dauer-Favorit meinerseits:
Die Musik-Ausstellung (die mittlerweile ganz hip “Soundlab” heißt),
und sich unterm Dach des Münchner Stadtmuseums befindet.
Und dort ergab es sich, dass ganz hinten im Eck
ein ca. 50-Zoll Paiste-Gong der Symphonic-Serie herumstand,
und ich darauf rumklopfen konnte. Ernsthaft:
The most fun I had with my clothes on in years.
Hier die restlichen Bilder.
Ja, ist ja mal wieder Muttertag. Deswegen: Blümchen!
No one ever does live happily ever after, but we leave the children to find that out for themselves, don’t we?
– Dark Tower, S.King
(Ach ja, und falls sich jemand von der Bildqualität der Nikon D800E ein Bild machen will…. )
Ach ja,und noch ein Spruch zum Thema Jahrestage und Alter, aber nicht zur Person:
The less respect an older person deserves
the more certain he is to demand it from anyone younger.
Gib zu, dass du es dir bei dem Bild gedacht hast. Und ja, die Chancen sind gut, dass das jemand in Japan gerade als Vorlage benutzt, und wenn unsere Kanzlerin damals gefordert hat “Wir müssen werden wie die Japaner!”, dann hat sie vielleicht genau das gemeint und nicht die Arbeit. Denk dran bei der Bundestagswahl: Keine CDU/CSU – die führen Kriege und verlangen von dir, dass du dir Eidechsenpornographie anschaust.
Gather around, younglings,
and let me tell you a story:
I was three times at the zoo,
and all three times I missed the “Fishcat“.
Either asleep, invisible,
or simply not there at all.
When I was there the fourth time,
I got it on film.
(Shakespeare I ain’t.)
(Normal Edit). Okay, das Funktioniert also nur mit Text – bloggen per E-Mail aus IFTT heraus ist … unteroptimal. Außer, man beschränkt sich auf reinen Text, aber … das ist ja nicht so cool. Okay, hier als Ausgleich für die “Test-Posts” – von denen ich mir nicht sicher bin, wo sie überall hinfliessen – ein Bild.
There is a guy named Neil deGrasse Tyson. He writes a column in a magazhine, and “Death by black hole” is the titel of the collection of those. They should be mandatory reading for anybody who “engages in public debate”, e.a. dares to open his/her mouth anywhere I can hear them.
What are the lessons to be learned from this journey of the mind? That humans are emotionally fragile, perennially gullible, hopelessly ignorant masters of an insignificantly small speck in the cosmos. Have a nice day.
On the rotation of the earth, and the prof of its circle around the sun.
Not only does this experiment demonstrate that it’s Earth, not the Sun, that moves, but with the help of a little trigonometry you can also turn the question around and use the time needed for one rotation of the pendulum’s plane to determine your geographic latitude on our planet. The first person to do this was Jean-Bernard-Léon Foucault, a French physicist who surely conducted the last of the truly cheap laboratory experiments.
During our everyday lives we don’t often stop to think about the journey of a ray of light from the core of the Sun, where it’s made, all the way to Earth’s surface, where it might slam into somebody’s buttocks on a sandy beach.
On the properties of our sister planet:
Venus, named after the goddess of beauty and love, turns out to have a thick, almost opaque atmosphere, made up mostly of carbon dioxide, bearing down at nearly 100 times the sea level pressure on Earth. Worse yet, the surface air temperature nears 900 degrees Fahrenheit. On Venus you could cook a 16-inch pepperoni pizza in seven seconds, just by holding it out to the air. (Yes, I did the math.)In 1584, in his book On the Infinite Universe and Worlds, the Italian monk and philosopher Giordano Bruno proposed the existence of “innumerable suns” and “innumerable Earths [that] revolve about these suns.” Moreover, he claimed, working from the premise of a Creator both glorious and omnipotent, that each of those Earths has living inhabitants. For these and related blasphemous transgressions, the Catholic Church had Bruno burned at the stake.
On the colour of light:
And I don’t care what else anyone has ever told you, the Sun is white, not yellow. Human color perception is a complicated business, but if the Sun were yellow, like a yellow lightbulb, then white stuff such as snow would reflect this light and appear yellow—a snow condition confirmed to happen only near fire hydrants. What could lead people to say that the Sun is yellow?
Cool stars are red. Tepid stars are white. Hot stars are blue. Very hot stars are still blue. How about very, very hot places, like the 15-million-degree center of the Sun? Blue. To an astrophysicist, red-hot foods and red-hot lovers both leave room for improvement. It’s just that simple.
When Cole Porter composed “Too Darn Hot” for his 1948 Broadway musical Kiss Me Kate, the temperature he was bemoaning was surely no higher than the mid-nineties. No harm in taking Porter’s lyrics as an authoritative source on the upper temperature limit for comfortable lovemaking. Combine that with what a cold shower does to most people’s erotic urges, and you now have a pretty good estimate of how narrow the comfort zone is for the unclothed human body: a range of about 30 degrees Fahrenheit, with room temperature just about in the middle. The universe is a whole other story. How does a temperature of 100,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 degrees grab you?
On the validity of religion.
The argument is simple. I have yet to see a successful prediction about the physical world that was inferred or extrapolated from the content of any religious document. Indeed, I can make an even stronger statement. Whenever people have tried to make accurate predictions about the physical world using religious documents they have been famously wrong. By a prediction, I mean a precise statement about the untested behavior of objects or phenomena in the natural world, logged before the event takes place. When your model predicts something only after it has happened then you have instead made a “postdiction.” Postdictions are the backbone of most creation myths and, of course, of the Just So Stories of Rudyard Kipling, where explanations of everyday phenomena explain what is already known.
Let there be no doubt that as they are currently practiced, there is no common ground between science and religion. As was thoroughly documented in the nineteenth-century tome A History of the Warfare of Science with Theology in Christendom, by the historian and onetime president of Cornell University Andrew D. White, history reveals a long and combative relationship between religion and science, depending on who was in control of society at the time. The claims of science rely on experimental verification, while the claims of religions rely on faith. These are irreconcilable approaches to knowing, which ensures an eternity of debate wherever and whenever the two camps meet. Although just as in hostage negotiations, it’s probably best to keep both sides talking to each other.
Examples? Here’s one on shooting a traveling-show, including underwater-scenes…
And then the real fun and games began. Keith, the cameraman, has the buoyancy of balsawood and even when he wore a weightbelt that would have sunk a killer whale he was still having trouble getting below the surface, especially as he was burdened with an underwater camera which floated. I had problems of my own though. My buoyancy vest leaked like a sieve so that it was a jetpropulsion pack. The torrent of escaping air rushed me around the reef like Marine Boy and frightened away all the fish too. It was a pathetic spectacle. The world’s most revered broadcasting organisation and we had a cameraman who wouldn’t sink, a presenter who was doing Mach 2 and a director who couldn’t dive and was forced to hang around on the surface with a snorkel.
And on flying a jetfighter (as passenger, not as pilot, for chrissake. The pilot is called Captain Gris Grimwald
And finally, there had been some ejectorseat training. If I heard the pilot say ‘bail out, bail out, bail out’ I was to brace myself and pull a big lever by my thigh, a lever that I was not to touch otherwise. Especially in a high-G manoeuvre when I needed something to hold on to. But would I have to wait for Captain Gris Grimwald to say ‘bail out’ three times, or could I go after one? Yes I could, but I warned him not to start any commands with the letter B, or he’d be flying solo in a convertible.
Once in a blue moon I need some horror / vampire / monster-novels. Far from sorting that as “guilty pleasure”, which is a bullshit-term if I ever heard one.
“Guilty” should be reserved for things that you can actually be guilty about,
like rape, pillage, becoming a politician and placing shopping-trolleys just around the corner of the shelves. Nevetheless, vampire-novels have recently gotten some sort of bad reputation – mainly because the “most prominent books” are on the level of third-class-housewife-fanfiction. But there are good monster books out there, and here are a few quotes from the exellent Asher/Ysidro-Series by Barbara Hambly.
She kept her eyes on his, positive she resembled nothing so much as a myopic rabbit attempting to stare down a dragon.
(This pretty much describes any glasses-wearing person.)
Over the years, Asher had picked up a fine selection of curses in twelve living and four dead languages, including Basque and Finno-Ugric. He repeated them all as he slid the ulster from his shoulders, left it draped like a corpse over the hay, and slipped through the close, dark warmth of the stable and into Blaydon’s back garden.
Beneath the barred window was only an ornamental ledge, and he exercised a number of plain Anglo-Saxon monosyllables as he disengaged his broken hand from its sling and hooked the tips of his swollen fingers over the grimy brickwork to edge himself along. At least, he thought wryly, this was one place where he knew the vampire couldn’t sneak up on him from behind. It was small comfort.