Mr. Egan, in an obituary he wrote weeks ago that was posted on his law firm's Web site after his death, said that he had arranged for his ashes to be spread at Yucca Mountain, in Southern Nevada, with the words "radwaste buried here only over my dead body."
Mr. Egan's wife, Patricia, said by telephone on Friday that Mr. Egan had been cremated, adding, "We are going to do it."
I still remember riding the 7F from SFO, one rainy winter's night long ago, with a passel of convivial engineering geologists en route to a conference, and how they so generously entertained my novice-on-fire conjectures about the obscenity that has long been the federal government's plans for Yucca Mountain.
Later, there was whiskey.
Later still, a shift from somewhat-rarified social science shenanigans to an "emphasis on geography".
We have this old pal who has this great bar, which has a history of hosting some freakishly satisfying interesting times.
This Sunday continues the trend:
[..] meet our independent presidential candidate Ralph Nader, his VP running mate local badass Matt Gonzalez, and the legendary Jello Biafra AT OUR HOME BAR this Sunday morning. Come on out and show your support, ask the burning questions [...]
But no way am I wearing the funky, funky eyepatch.
Last night, on the way home from The Super Spectacular Funtime that was the Maker Faire, I had a baffling visual SNAFU that kind of made me want to pull over but mostly made me hyperaware of my pristine driving record and how that doesn't translate into flying privileges, dammit.
This morning, things are even odder: my right pupil is dilated to about three times the diameter of my left. I look like a bifurcated Keane lemur. It's kind of cute, but kind of looks like the result of Wes Boreland and Marilyn Manson's most vehemently denied yet epic lost weekend.
I could dress it up, take it out, and start a new trend, perhaps get it in the lexicon of steampunk haberdashers [poised for world domination in 10... 9... 8...]. But I could also turn super clumsy, somewhat addled, and survival-mode-cranky in not-just-public-but-in-the-company-of-several-fabulous-supergeniuses.
So I'm staying home. Phooey.
The seal then alternated between resting on the penguin, and thrusting its pelvis, trying to insert itself, unsuccessfully. After 45 minutes the seal gave up, swam into the water and then completely ignored the bird it had just assaulted, the scientists report.
(sing it like KC and the Sunshine Band)
This weekend will be All That, and a Paucity of Playadust. Come play.
is the one that comes when you're living your dream. As long as you don't look down and see your exposed femur and start to think of it as a creepy nightmare. Here's hoping it was fast and surreal and not as scary for Adrian as for everyone else.
Jima reminds us that todays is Happy Codpiece Day!
Tomorrow: No Pants Day
Someone - Howard Dean, say, or maybe Al or Tipper - should tell her before she embarrasses herself further: Hillary, dear, your Bush is showing.
"Considering his financial advantage, the question ought to be, why can't he close the deal?" Mrs. Clinton said outside a polling place in a northern suburb of Philadelphia. "Why can't he win in a state like this?"
Eugene: Let's get off-point. Let's just... have fun.
Dillhole: Have fun?
Eugene: What's your favorite sandwich?
Dillhole: I... I think I'll go with, uh, Roast Beef?
I am not normally a fan of teh panda. However:
and because it gives me hiccups every time I look: