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Complex Numbers
Complex Numbers
A complex number is expressed in the standard form a + bi, where a and b are real numbers and i is defined by i^2 = -1 (that is, i is the square root of -1). For example, 3 + 2i is a complex number.
The bi term is often referred to as an imaginary number (though this may be misleading, as it is no more "imaginary" than the symbolic abstractions we know as the "real" numbers). Thus, every complex number has a real part, a, and an imaginary part, bi.
Complex numbers are often represented on a graph known as the "complex plane," where the horizontal axis represents the infinity of real numbers, and the vertical axis represents the infinity of imaginary numbers. Thus, each complex number has a unique representation on the complex plane: some closer to real; others, more imaginary. If a = b, the number is equal parts real and imaginary.
Very simple transformations applied to numbers in the complex plane can lead to fractal structures of enormous intricacy and astonishing beauty.
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Good news: They're going to send her home soon
Not so good news: Probably too soon - she's really not prepared to take care of herself; her son isn't in a position to do so; and the rest of her family isn't interested in the job.
Bad news: Because of this, she asked me if she could stay with me and my wife.
(Let me pause here for a moment to emphasize that there have been some seriously bad ideas in history. Custer's pursuit of a certain band of Indians. The Vietnam war. Paris Hilton. This ranks down there with the worst of them).
Really bad news: Instead, we have decided to help her make her own house more livable. This means work. More, this means cleaning, which is work I don't do for myself, let alone for other people. This was my wife's idea, incidentally - which makes it my idea.
Complication: it might have been home environmental issues that precipitated the pneumonia in the first place.
Anyone have any spare environment suits? Maybe I need to check with NASA. |
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As mentioned in "Strip Mining."  , my friend Ken wanted to go to a strip club for his 40th birthday.
Figuring that'd be cheaper than buying his midlife crisis a convertible, we arranged it - not on his birthday, but for last Saturday night.
Now, the first thing to realize is that Virginia doesn't have many decent tittybars. My source tells me there may be a few down in Chesapeake, probably 3 hours away, but the better ones are in West Virginia.
(cue Deliverance theme)
Immediately, I had these visions of strip bar owners tempting young girls out of the trailer park by leaving trails of Twinkies for them to follow. Then I remembered that my mother-in-law is from West Virginia. Well, that didn't help; not that she's unattractive - far from it - but she's my mother-in-law. So after applying brainbleach, I decided to keep an open mind about it.
The afternoon saw me, my wife, and Curly, Larry and Moe (for our purposes today, I'll be Shemp) out past Staunton for a small gathering at a mutual friend's new house. This put us closer to West Virginia - but we still had to drive north. Yes, from many places in Virginia you can drive north and get to West Virginia; look at a map.
I'm not going to give more detail than that; suffice it to say that it still took us well over an hour to arrive at the club which, for the purposes of this entry, I'll call Treasure Island (yes, I know it's cheesy. Show me a strip club with a name that's not cheesy and I'll show you a strip club I can't afford to enter).
It is not legal for them to serve alcoholic beverages at these sorts of clubs in West Virginia, but you get to bring your own. We walked in with a cooler containing ice and drinks, and I had a bag containing a bottle of Quintessential gin. I thought about picking up some olives on the way and at least pretending I was drinking martinis, but I didn't. "Curly" no longer drinks, and he was the one driving, so I wasn't too worried about overindulgence. There was a $20 cover charge trial membership fee, which we paid at the door. They take plastic, but I was reluctant to use a credit card at a strip club. At least, before I started drinking gin.
Now, as I said, I'd never been to a strip club, but I'd heard a bit about how they work. No touching, no kissing, no licking, no blowing,  and no propositioning. No cameras, no cellphones, no knives (duh). If you sit by the stage, you have to tip. If you don't sit by the stage, you should go up occasionally and tip anyway - it's just courteous. And as you might expect, courtesy is important in a place like that. People who act all rude are asked to leave - and one look at the bouncers, and I decided I didn't want them to ask me anything.
There's one woman at a time on stage, and she strips anywhere from slowly (if there aren't too many tippers at the stage) to lightning fast (if there's a lot of guys around the stage). The standard tip, believe it or not, is a dollar - which, I'm now convinced, is why dollar coins won't catch on in America for a very long time, if at all.
You look at these things in movies or on TV and you get the idea that the women are either a) centerfold material or b) skank hos. But in reality, centerfolds don't dance naked for a dollar, and few people pay money to see skank hos. Not even in West Virginia. So what you get, in reality, are a few normal-looking college girls and a couple of older women who were more accomplished dancers. Only one of them had fake boobies (and yes, I can tell). Two had obviously given birth (and yes, I can tell) at least once, and they all came across as normal women trying to earn a few extra bucks.
You can say all you want about the exploitation and/or degradation of women, but consider the actual exchange that is going on here. You pay your money; they take your money. The customer has very limited say in what is going on; the women make all the decisions. For a price, you can sit there, fully clohed, with your hands by your side while she gyrates on your lap - we procured this service at one point for the birthday boy, who shall be called "Moe" for the purposes of my little narration. Some men seem to like it that way; Moe seems to be one of them. Now, who's being taken advantage of; who is actually being exploited, here? Hint: it's not the girl on the stage. Granted that no one forces them to dance, and no one forced us to come in with our money. Still, what are we paying for? A show; and, perhaps, the illusion, however brief, of intimacy.
I'll take the real thing, anytime. And perhaps my attitude is because I am married - but so is "Moe," though his relationship has a different character than mine. But I wasn't into it before I was married, either, or between marriages for that matter.
During a performance, the women who weren't dancing were roaming the club, wearing skimpy outfits that nevertheless would have passed muster at many beaches, and sometimes sitting and chatting with the customers. I don't know what they talked about; my exchanges with the strippers were limited to, "How much for a lap dance for 'Moe' over there?"
The customers, as you might expect, were about 95% male (okay, no, about 95% of the customers were 100% male; the other five percent, I wasn't sure of). Most seemed to be in their 20s, though there were a few exceptions other than the Stooges (us). It looked to be about maybe three dozen people in there at any one time.
I mostly sat in a comfortable chair and drank my gin. As the night wore on, I became more and more comfortable. Now, when I drink, usually what happens is I get more boisterous, and I laugh more often. I thought laughing at strippers would be rude, so I limited my intake of gin to just enough that I didn't much care about the passage of time.
I think we were there about four hours - maybe five, max. "Moe" had a good time, which was the point, as did his brother, "Larry." I had a good time because they did, and because every time they'd play a rock song, "Larry" and I would stand up and play air guitar/bass/drums and lip-synch.
I did mention I was drunk.
In any event, there really wasn't much to it. It's not glamorous, and it's not tacky; it's in that dead zone in between. It's not something I'd care to do again, though I won't say I never will.
But I'll never put a dollar bill in my mouth again. |
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http://www.digital-karma.org/science/medicine/whipping-therapy-cures-depression-...
Whipping therapy cures depression and suicide crises
The report was called “Methods of painful impact to treat addictive behavior.”
*puts on leather mask and codpiece, picks up whip*
The Doctor is In.
Russian scientists recommend the following course of the whipping therapy: 30 sessions of 60 whips on the buttocks in every procedure.
Line forms over there. Come and get it. One at a time. Okay, maybe two, if you're not too depressed.  |
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I was supposed to be going to a stripper bar tonight.
My friend Ken turns 40 today. I remember turning 40 - it was rough, and I only got past it by committing to start a business; it was either that, or buy a Porsche.
Ken called me last week and said, "What are you doing Tuesday?"
I said, "Working," because that's what I do a lot - see above reference to starting a business.
"Want to take a break? I'm turning 40."
"Aw, man, I'm sorry."
"And I've never been to a strip club, so let's go."
"Um... I've never been, either. But I know someone who has..."
So I called up our mutual friend, Ed. Ed and Ken were the groomsmen at my wedding. To Ed, 40 is a dim, fading memory. "Ed, what are you doing Tuesday night?"
"Nothing." (Ed doesn't own a business.)
"Ken's never been to a strip club, and it's his birthday Tuesday."
"Oh, okay. I have some 'friends' who have been to strip clubs. I'll check with them."
Of course, then I had to bring the subject up with my wife.
"Honey?"
"Yes, dear?"
"I'm going to a strip club with Ken and Ed on Tuesday."
"Have fun."
"You don't want to go?"
"I have a dance thing." (Said dance thing doesn't involve stripping, unless there's something she hasn't been telling me.)
"I won't enjoy it, you know."
"I know." Damn, she knows me.
Thing is, I wouldn't enjoy it. It'd be something I could use as experience, maybe incorporate it into a story sometime, but I don't think I've had a desire to visit a stripper bar since I was, maybe, 16. To me, it's like going to a fancy restaurant, sitting down, reading the menu, watching everyone at the tables around me get served, and leaving after a couple of hours, broke and even hungrier than when I left.
Right now there's people going, "You're comparing women to food! Stop objectifying us!"
No, dear, I'm comparing strippers to food. Strippers encourage the objectification. I've heard strippers say that "I'm going to be objectified anyway, so why not do it on my own terms?" I'm sure that's not a universal attitude; still, if they can call it feminist to do the strip thing, I can call it feminist to refuse to watch them.
Incidentally, while I haven't been to a strip club, there was the bachelor party, which was also arranged by Ed. Probably a little more private than a bar, but it still wasn't my thing - though I appreciate Ed taking the time to set it up for us.
"I looked around and there's just nothing open on a Tuesday, not within driving distance." This was Ed, the next day. I knew the nearest one would be at least an hour and a half away; Charlottesville is too liberal to boast a tittybar.
"Aw, man. Ken's going to be bummed."
But when I called Ken, it turned out he was expecting his brother, who would also be joining us (I don't know him, though). But the brother isn't coming in until Thursday. "Another time, maybe," Ken said.
"Cool." So I don't know - maybe we'll do it another time, maybe not. Now I kind of want to go just so I can say I've been. Instead, Ken and I are going out for beers later. Or maybe beer, singular - his liver's been acting up.
Must be getting old. |
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I hate those little tags they stick on produce at the grocery store. I went to get some plums today, thinking, "cool! I get to eat me some plums!" I took them back to the office and started to wash them, then noticed the sticky tags. I tried to thumb them off - no luck. I got in a little fingernail action (difficulty: I trimmed them last night); still, no luck, even when I was digging them in as if it were a nose and the tag were a booger. Nope. Finally I gave up and sliced them - along with a good amount of plum skin and meat - off with a knife, thus ruining the pristine, shiny goodness of the plum.
Bleh.
You know what else I hate? I hate that whenever you buy something from, say, Stables or Office Despot, they're so overwrapped in 5-gauge plastic that you need the fucking Jaws of Life to extract the tiny electronic contents. And woe be thee if the thing you buy is a pair of headphones, because you're guaranteed to slice through the tiny headphone wires in your frustration. And maybe your fingers, too.
While I'm at it, what the hell is up with running ads before movies? I know they need to pay for all that stale popcorn and watered-down Coke, but I didn't pay $10 to see goddamn ads. I don't have cable TV because I refuse to pay to watch ads; why do I put up with it for movies? Here's a novel idea: start charging kids and seniors full-price. It'll be worth it for me if they'd only stop showing those godawfully stupid Sprite commercials.
Well. Hell. Next time I'll just bring some juicy, overripe, tag-less plums to the movie theatre and express my displeasure in the old-fashioned way |
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It's like someone said, "Hey... why don't we take one of the most disturbing scenes of all time from one of the most disturbing movies of all time, and make it MORE disturbing?"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j9ycqNIzHQk
Now I'm off to seek liquid therapy! |
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Huge chunks of Evan Almighty were filmed around here. For a while there, they were actually building an ark near Crozet
| That's a nearby community, pronounced the French way. That's because Claudius Crozet was French. He was a civil engineer for the Commonwealth of Virginia a long time ago |
So tonight the local fancy renovated movie theatre
| The Paramount, in which renovation I was marginally involved as a civil engineer |
It's not a movie I wanted to see in the theatre, and probably would not have gone without the freebie. Still, with the opportunity to be at the premiere - well, call me a sucker for that sort of thing. I figured it'd be worth seeing just for the local scenery, which I never get tired of. The director was there, introducing the film, and a lot of the people in the audience had been extras (sadly, none of them were elephants, giraffes, or lions).
So, should you see the movie or save your money?
(Fear not, no spoilers here. Nothing you can't glean from the previews.)
First, let's talk about God.
Sometimes, I fancy myself a writer. A writer can be considered the God of his or her own story. The writer makes the decisions, sets everything up, and has sole discretion over the way things are. The reader can dislike the writer's decisions, but she can't argue with them - usually (present company and rate/review system excepted). The writer can be right or wrong, but she's always the writer.
Now, here's the thing - as soon as you put God in your story as a character, you have what I call the "infallible narrator." The writer can still be wrong, but God-the-character is always right. This is because, if God-the-character were ever wrong, she or he would lose all credibility as God and become someone who plays at being God.
So you have to handle God carefully if you write her into a story. Kevin Smith knew this on a basic level, and so his God in Dogma (which, spelled backwards, is Am God), played by Alanis Morissette, was mute.
The God of Evan Almighty, as with Bruce Almighty before it, was played by Morgan Freeman, and I have to say he does a kick-ass job as the Big Guy. Still, the importance of point of view can't be underestimated: God tells Evan to build an ark. We see God telling Evan to build an ark. We, the audience, are convinced the guy in the white suit is really God even before Evan is - thanks to a few shortcuts by the author. So we sympathize with Evan's plight, to some extent or another, because we know that God, in the context of the story, really did command him to build an ark.
But here's the thing - again, not giving away much here - with point of view: Anyone comes up to me and says, "God told me to do such-and-such," and I don't care what it is: kill their family, feed the homeless, build an ark, whatever - I won't believe them. So I have a lot of sympathy for the other characters as well. They haven't had "signs." They haven't had Morgan Freeman doing parlor tricks around them. The audience, I think, is supposed to believe that the supporting characters are supposed to accept it "on faith" that God spoke with Evan.
And that's where the movie fails, for me, as a movie. It was funny - funnier than I expected it to be, with the physical slapstick humor kept to a fairly small segment of the movie. The animals were cute. The plotline was - well, I've seen a lot worse. There were too many Messages in it, but that's related to my main point, which is that when you put God in a movie, or a story, you're cheating.
Now - this is not to say that you can't portray people believing in God, and the movie kind of starts out that way - people who have a simple faith in God, and who pray. Nothing inherently wrong with that.
It's when the one you're praying to shows up with piles of wood that you have to wonder.
The main message? Be kind to each other. Well, hell, I don't need a movie to tell me that.
Basically, it's a fun movie, not to be taken seriously - it doesn't take itself seriously - and better than I expected it to be.
And the scenery is awesome. |
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http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/6747807.stm
The rolling hills around Charlottesville are the sophisticated cradle of the Commonwealth of Virginia.
Oh, I live in a cradle now. A sophisticated one.
This is where Thomas Jefferson, that most famous of American Renaissance men, kept his ebony toothbrush, surrounded by his inventions, his fine French wines and, of course, his slaves.
Will people get off the slave thing already? Slavery was an established social institution for thousands of years. Tom was just going with the flow. He was a wealthy colonial landowner; of course he had slaves. I don't want to get shit from the establishment 250 years from now because I owned a computer.
The town of Charlottesville itself is a gracious home to one of America's oldest and most venerable colleges, the University of Virginia.
Don't tell that to the Virginia Tech people.
The town centre is more lively and funky than perhaps any other in the state.
Sadly, it is also the home of two abominations: the Pavilion (which I call the Great White Suck) and the Transit Center, which is ironic because almost no one uses public transportation here.
For the first, even the Pavilion's website only shows a photo of a small portion of this execrable construction, failing to show its complete lack of integration into the surrounding architecture: http://www.charlottesvillepavilion.com/
For the second, I don't know how they managed to get money for this thing, but some architect had a field day. Fortunately, it's right next to the Great White Suck, so all the ugly is concentrated in one spot. To see it, though, you'll have to download a pdf from this site: http://www.charlottesville.org/Index.aspx?page=1556 (go to the Transit Center slideshow thingie).
Okay, so much for local color. Snarkiness about this guy's take on Charlottesville aside, that case occupied local newspapers for far too long. I don't know how far the news spread, but as the writer said, it almost got to the Supreme Court.
Now, I don't know if Matt Frei there is a Briton working in the US - it's more likely he's an American correspondent to BBC, and I'm too lazy to check. Clearly, he's writing for a British audience, which gives the article some tone of outsider's perspective - which we certainly need as a reality check sometimes.
The "selective puritanism" of the US that he describes is very much alive and well, and influences public policy in a way all out of proportion to its social importance.
But why is there puritanism here? Well, because England got rid of its Puritans a few hundred years ago, shipping them off to Boston and Jamestown.
So, Britain, it's all your bloody damn fault. Take your puritans back. Now. |
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She's better. My ex-wife may even make it - though it'll be a long road to full recovery.
We went to see her last week, and she was finally out of bed and sitting up in a chair - still incoherent, though, and not very responsive, mostly because of the drugs. Then later in the week, she was feeling better, sitting up again, though still in ICU. She was responsive this time, but as she had a massive tracheotomy, she could not talk.
She kept trying to tell me something, but I wasn't getting it - she tried basic ASL, which I never did learn (girls in high school and college always used it to try to talk about me in front of my back, but I never did pick it up) so I was wishing Tigger thinks of Prancer  was there to translate. Then the nurse came in and did nurse stuff.
"You doing okay?" she asked her.
Susan nodded. I just said, "We're having some trouble communicating."
The nurse said, "Well, maybe we can see about changing that trach soon so you can talk."
I said, "Nah, she's my ex-wife. We're used to not being able to communicate."
Both of them laughed at that, which is when I knew Susan would be okay - if my jokes don't kill her first.
Well, over the weekend they moved her out of the ICU and into a standard hospital room. Yesterday, she was able to talk - though barely above a whisper - and we brought her some books on CD so she wouldn't die of boredom.
Some people may think, "she's your ex; why do you care?" Well, she's a human being that I know, so I care. Life's too short to hold grudges. |
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July 7, 2007 - just about a month away, now - marks the 100th anniversary of the birth of Robert A. Heinlein.
Devoted readers of this blog (all of you, of course) will recognize one of my perennial sources of quotations, as well as one of the major influences on my life.
Some of you haven't read anything by Heinlein. And you call yourself a writer.
Over the next month, I hope to examine Heinlein's life, career and legacy in some depth. Don't worry, though; I won't be going there every day - I'll be sure to intersperse the time-wasting links, questionable comedy and dime-store philosophy you've all grown to love.
But for now, a brief overview: He was born, as I said, on July 7, 1907. The significance of 7/7/7 is nonexistent, but it's a rather easy number to remember, easier by far than the September 23, 1949 birthdate of Bruce Springsteen (incidentally, the Three Men I Admire Most are Bruce, Robert A. Heinlein and Nikola Tesla - in case you were wondering). Heinlein died on the far less prosaic date of May 8, 1988 - and yes, I know exactly where I was and what I was doing when I heard. In between, Heinlein changed the world.
Oh, the same can be said for any number of people. But for our purposes, the important thing is that Heinlein changed the world by writing. It was from reading his works that I first thought, Hey... this writing thing... I bet I can do that. It was because of him (and other science fiction writers) that I chose to pursue a career in engineering - and while my life turned out less glamorous than those of the fictional engineers who solved massive transportation problems or built better spacecraft, the influence was undeniable.
More than the science, though, was the social context. How would society react to technological advances? And how would technology change to suit the changing societies? What kind of society - what kind of human - could live in future utopias or dystopias?
And where the hell is my flying car, anyway?
Point is, Heinlein was one of those science fiction writers who began to incorporate the human characterinto a genre then overwhelmed by heroic starship captains and desperate alien girls. Mmmm, desperate alien girls... wait, what? Sorry, I digress.
Anyway, I expect I'll go into more detail later. What exactly was it that made Heinlein stand out? After all, there were plenty of people who could write, even within the science fiction field. Heinlein's contemporaries, Asimov and Clarke, come to mind. And it could be argued that among science fiction writers, another of his contemporaries, L. Ron Hubbard, made more significant changes to the world with Dianetics and Scientology (for better or worse, I'll leave to the reader's discretion). But Heinlein created his own far-out religion - more than one, in fact - and there's a rumor that it was a wager between the two that resulted in Scientology. If true, that wager also resulted in Stranger in a Strange Land and thus fueled, if not kick-started, the counterculture movement of the sixties.
Far out, man. |
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While in Floriduh last weekend, we saw Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End - appropriately enough, considering we were maybe an hour from Disneyworld at the time.
When the second movie came out, I indicated that I wasn't impressed by it. Well, I was a bit more impressed by this third movie - the pirate accents were somewhat less thick, and I could understand most of what they said. The plot took enough turns to keep things interesting, and a lot gets wrapped up; there's not much more you can expect from the last of a trilogy.
Damn thing was long, though - and I hear they had to cut it even to get it to where it was.
But I've come to a broader conclusion than mere movie criticism:
I don't like pirates.
*waits while someone revives Problematic Content *
No, I haven't turned into a ninja.
The movies are fun and all, but the more I think about it, the more I don't like the glorification of being a pirate. "Take what you can... give nothing back." Seems to me that such an attitude is the problem, not the solution.
In the same theater, on a previous visit, I saw Superman Returns when it came out, so I couldn't help contrasting Superman with the whole pirate thing. I got to thinking: Superman (not a ninja) is the polar opposite of a pirate. I'd expect his philosophy to be more on the lines of "Give what you can, take nothing back." Less fun? Maybe, but...
I keep running into people who are proud of how they scorn rules and such - the pirate way. Others claim to follow rules but don't - which is, admittedly, worse, because at least with the first group you know where you stand (with your hand firmly clenched around your wallet). Thing is, rules and laws and so forth were put there to help us get along with each other - something that becomes ever more important in a society where global communication is nearly instantaneous. At a time when we need to be more careful of other people, we're becoming less so.
Robert A. Heinlein once wrote (paraphrasing here) that the decline and fall of any civilization begins with a breakdown in interpersonal courtesy. I'm not really sure if he had facts to back this up - all civilizations fall eventually, and one culture's courtesy can be another culture's mortal insult - but I wouldn't be surprised if there were a correlation. But no - we find it "cool" to insult each other, especially in the safety of the basement of the Internet, and insults have been big business for a long time.
"So people need to stop being thin-skinned." The problem with developing a thick skin is that you lose sensitivity.
Even the fictional pirates had a code - today's "pirates" don't seem to have even that. They take what they can. They give nothing back - except the ubiquitous clever, rude insult.
Do I want to see things become more politically correct? Not I - far from it. There's a line, though, and most of us don't seem to know where that line is. Probably has something to do with the Monkeysphere I posted about a while back. Some people just don't register as people, not when there are six and a half billion of us crowding the planet.
"The world's a smaller place now"
"No - there's just less in it." |
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It's not a lack of material that's kept me from updating, lately. It's more an attempt to reboot myself, to try to make sense of stuff.
Ha. Springsteen's "Growing Up" just came on WFUV.
I took month-long vacations in the stratosphere and you know it's really hard to hold your breath.
I swear I lost everything I ever loved or feared, I was the cosmic kid in full costume dress
Well, my feet they finally took root in the earth but I got me a nice little place in the stars
And I swear I found the key to the universe in the engine of an old parked car
I hid in the mother breast of the crowd but when they said "Pull down" I pulled up
Ooh-ooh growin' up. Ooh-ooh growin' up
Well, it's a little late to be growin' up, but I say it's never too late to think about where you're going. Also appropriately enough, the Google quote of the day was by Kurt Vonnegut: "We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be." And I've always felt I've been pretending. Hell, I'm pretending right now. People talk about being "authentic," but I have no idea what that's supposed to mean.
Don't interpret this as anything going badly for me. It's not. I've just been too busy thinking to write down what I've been thinking. I suppose I should just do a core dump - a freewrite, disconnecting my ever-present internal censor. But I won't be doing that here.
I haven't been writing much lately, either. That needs to change. But I feel like I owe some people here some stuff first. I'll get to it. |
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I'm travelling again - Floriduh, this time, to see my father-in-law and drink as much as possible. I haven't done any of the latter yet, since today's my only chance to put together next week's Comedy newsletter - which will be on the subject of (you guessed it) travelling.
Or I could do it on the subject of Floriduh - there's plenty of material here. |
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I'm more than happy with Carrion Luggage, however.
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For your inventive entries in [Link To Item #2213121] ! Thanks for the great read!](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/Kudos-High_Five.gif)
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For winning 3rd Place in [Link To Item #2213121] . Congratulations!](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/general-Enlightening.gif)
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For your awesome Klingon Bloodwine recipe from [Link to Book Entry #1016079] that deserves to be on the topmost shelf at Quark's.](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Quarks_Bar-2046190_12.gif)
