In which the elder Free-Ride offspring channels Descartes.

At bedtime, after the reading of the stories, the younger Free-Ride offspring lay upon Dr. Free-Ride’s better half, and Dr. Free-Ride’s better half responded by making strangling noises. Of course, I called in from the other room to remind the children that homicide, whether intentional or accidental, is forbidden in the house.
Younger offspring: I’m not killing him! He’s pretending!
Dr. Free-Ride’s better half: Actually, I’m pretending to be alive.
Elder offspring: Pretending means you are alive. If you weren’t alive, you wouldn’t be able to pretend anything.
Dr. Free-Ride: Well played, child!

Not dead yet.

Somehow, without actually planning it, I ended up taking a ten-day (give or take) hiatus from the internets, during which I immersed myself in the three-dimensional world. During my time offline, I learned many things, among them:

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Science Scout badge tally.


You may recall a couple years ago when the Order of the Science Scouts of Exemplary Repute and Above Average Physique started issuing badges.
Now, the Science Scouts have a spiffy new webpage and many new badges … and there are rumors (or should I say rumours) that actual, physical badges, suited for stitching onto sashes or lab coats, will be available.
So it seems like a good time to review the badges I have earned thus far as a Science Scout.

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Boston dispatch #3.

After a good long while hanging out and sucking wifi from MIT, I decided it was time to walk along Mass Ave to Harvard Square. The walk seemed significantly shorter than when I was a college student twenty (plus) years ago.
Possible explanations:

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Boston dispatch #2.

The torrential rain stopped (at least temporarily), so I got a chance to walk around a little. Having met my high school friend in Kenmore Square, I walked on Comm Ave (toward the Boston Commons) and hung a left on Mass Ave.
I decided I needed to check the functioning of the Harvard Bridge.

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Twenty years ago today.

Twenty years ago this spring, after finishing my last round of final exams as a college student, I was enjoying a civilized custom called “senior week,” a break of approximately seven days in length between finals and commencement. The campus had largely cleared of students who were not seniors, and suddenly we had time to relax and enjoy our beautiful campus before it was time to move on and become adults (or some close approximation).
One of those afternoons during senior week, I was out on the deck on the roof of my dorm, sunbathing (because 21-year-olds care not about incremental increases in skin cancer risk) and reading Newsweek.

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