In response to Mr. Stoke’s excellent recent post, I decided to do a little image searching on my work computer. I can’t even begin to understand the result:

What terrifies me the most is just how frickin’ sexy I think it is.

[We at Overthinking It are pleased to welcome David Shechner as the newest member of our dysfunctional blogging family. Dave is a scientician (biochemist), cartoonist, and saxophone colossus (anyone? anyone?) and today weighs in on the death of Arthur C. Clarke. —Ed.]

With the jarring loss of Dubba-G behind us, most of us in the Anne McCaffrey reading community had only recently reached some sense of closure, and returned to our daily lives this week. Pi day helped (Look ma! I DO go out on Friday nights! Yeah, it was to a math lecture…). Again, however, our comfortable little worlds were rocked like Alderaan, when we learned this morning of the passing of another great Sage of dorkdom: Sir Arthur C. Clarke.

Excuse me if my typing seems a bit cramped but this is being written – as per my usual idiom – from within the confines of my locker, into which I’ve been unceremoniously stuffed. Frankly, I’d hoped that such treatments would see their conclusion when I graduated from High School. Twelve years ago.

Stupid Chuck Peterson, thinks he’s so great.