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OH CHICAGO. Never stop being weird.

Coworker J, who is a native, came down to the desk this morning and said, "So do you know if we get mail today?"

"Why wouldn't we?" I replied, and I swear to god he said, "Because it's Cashmere Blasting Day."

"It's what?" I asked.

"Casimir Pulaski Day?" he said. "It's a national holiday, isn't it?"

"Are you screwing with me? Who the hell is Casimir Pulaski?" I asked.

So, apparently there's this Polish guy named Casimir Pulaski -- actually his name is Kazimierz Michał Wacław Wiktor Pułaski herbu Ślepowron, but we call him "Kaz-P" for short -- and after participating in a failed uprising in Poland he emigrated to America while it was still a British colony. He became a general in the revolutionary army here, which proves he must have been a sweet-talker because "failed to succeed at revolution" doesn't look all that great on your resume when you're applying for a job in another one.

Anyway, he trained the American troops, was later appointed head of the Cavalry, and was apparently all-round awesome.

So why does he have a state holiday in Illinois? There's a parade, and schools and government offices are closed, but it's in Illinois. Not, you know, Delaware or Georgia or somewhere that he actually went to and/or liberated.

As it turns out, and I didn't know this either, Chicago has the largest population of Polish people anywhere in the world outside of Warsaw. So, uh, dzień dobry, brothers and sisters in the motherland! Your native son and his tiny moustache are remembered fondly in Chicago!

I wonder if I can find some pierogis somewhere, for dinner. Considering we're apparently a colony, you don't see too many Polish restaurants around...

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And cleaning out my links file...

Nameless has Fanart! This is a rendition of the Dog Mask, not quite as I pictured it but it's always neat to see how other people interpret one's work.

Meant to post this days ago and forgot -- metallumai posted her recipe for Oatmeal Bread, which people had been clamoring for. To go with it, I happen to have the most amazing beatbox video ever:

Maybe It's Alien Celery.

You know, I'd really like to be able to blame the Rift for the strange people I meet, and with locals I can just about manage that. But frankly, unless its effect is a lot more widespread than previously estimated, I think the English are just weird.

For example, today. I was manning the Information Centre, posting sarcastic comments to bad musicians on myspace minding my own business, because the first part of the month tends to be a bit slow Riftwise, when this English bloke in a cricket uniform ran in. I've nothing against lost cricketers, but we don't see many in Cardiff. Plus he had a bit of celery pinned to his jumper, which is a rather daring fashion accessory even without the uniform.

"Have you got any guidebooks to the Brecon Beacons?" he asked me.

"They're out of date," I replied. "You don't want to go there, believe me. I've been."

"Right -- what about -- the big stone place, by the church?"

"Cardiff Castle?" I asked.

"That's the one."

"Should do," I told him, while he rifled the racks of postcards. I like to put them in a bit of disorder, just to discourage too much browsing. "We don't get many tourists on a Monday," I said.

"Is it a Monday?" he asked. "Which one?"

Which is when I knew he was probably an invading alien, because we only get one Monday a week in these parts, regardless of how many they have out in the Perseids or wherever.

"Perhaps if you tell me what you're looking for," I said, reaching for the Make Jack and Gwen come save me button.

"Aha! Got it!" he said, brandishing a tiny Welsh Dragon key fob, and ran out again. Left his celery behind too, poor sod. I'm willing to let the petty theft slide, because obviously he was in dire need of a dragon key fob and didn't look as though he had two pounds fifty on him.

So you see? We're an eccentric lot, but the English are a good deal more eccentric than most. When I lived in London you ran into someone wearing a vegetable or playing a penny whistle on the streetcorner or wandering around in a velvet jacket all the time, but you don't expect that from nice, sensible Cardiff.

Nope. We just get the blowfish in sports cars.

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Holy balls, the publishing-world racewank is still going on?

Uh, I mean, do what you gotta do, kids. I don't judge. (Wow.)

This afternoon was extra-special busy because apparently everyone in Chicago was struck down by The Stupid and kept thinking I held the answers to the universe. For all I know I might, but if so they're proving difficult to consciously access at the moment.

So, I'm going to go to Trader Joe's, buy pierogis and potato pancakes and sour cream, and then head to R's to cook them so that the leftovers will be in his fridge when he gets home tomorrow. Why yes, I am the best ex-roommate ever. Also I feel that tons of Polish food in his fridge will just muddy the whole "Amish" question further and can only end in hilarity.