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Fire...oh, wait, I had to cut that part...and Ice (with apologies to Pat Benatar)

Faithful readers (of which I’m not sure there’s any except me, and that’s mostly just to assure myself that I’ve been doing something other than watching old movies and eating starches) will have noticed that I posted nothing in July and minimally in August.   These months were the start of the doldrums, a time when I couldn’t get motivated to do anything creative.   The research tells us that the third quarter of an Antarctic winter stay has the highest incidence of winter-over syndrome, with insomnia, irritability, depression, and withdrawal dominating our interactions and behaviors.   The months are even named things like Angry August and Stabby September.   Despite knowing what might happen, and even telling others about Winter-Over Syndrome so we could watch out for each other, I nonetheless chomped down on the bait of sloth.   It’s not like we didn’t do anything…we’ll talk about some of these events in a moment. But on a daily basis, the combination of isolation and monotony an
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The French Connection

One of the bigger events over the past few weeks has been preparing for the Winter International Film Festival of Antarctica (WIFFA).   During both summer and winter seasons, all the outposts of every nation are invited to submit short films for consideration by their peers.   The WIFFA has two categories of films.   The Open Category films can be of any length and display any content.   I have previously noted that several months ago we had a Red Carpet Premier Party for our Open Category entry, but I couldn’t disclose about the film until now.   That celluloid diversion was “Polewatch.”   The first three minutes of the film is the extra-long opening sequence form Baywatch, with any number of requisite hardbodies dashing around the surf; this is followed by three minutes of our…well, bodies…skidding across the ice, capped by a shot of everyone rushing for their Extreme Cold Weather Gear before they die. The former one hundred and eighty seconds hormone-flushing adolescent fantasy is d
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Weird Science

  One of the podcasts I listen to while trodding the treadmill is Alan Alda’s “Clear and Vivid:   Conversations about Communicating and Connecting.”   At the end of each interview, he asks his guests seven questions.   In case I’m ever famous, I’ve got my answers lined up.   Being on his podcast is on my Wish List, along with being the Guest Celebrity on “Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me,” showing up as a clue in a Will Shortz crossword puzzle, and lamenting how no political party wants a post-middle age white moderate male on Margaret Hoover’s reboot of “Firing Line.”   I’ve given up on winning the Pulitzer Prize for humor, although it would be fun to be known as The Dave Barry of Medicine.   One of my prize possessions is a book my Dad had him sign inscribed, “To Howard, my idol, Dave Barry.”    Question one of the seven inquiries is “What is something you wish you really understood?” and I would really like to know how things work.   Take physics.   (Please.)   I took high school physics
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