Is So Long And Thanks For All The Fish A Book Or Film?

Lately I've been geeking out over long-range 'wuyan' forecasts and how people treat them like weather oracles. I tend to split my thinking into the short-term expectations versus the long-range probabilities. For day-to-day specifics — exact temperatures, timing of storms — the models are pretty solid out to about a week, sometimes a bit longer. Beyond that, chaos creeps in: small errors amplify, atmospheric waves shift, and the deterministic picture falls apart. So if someone hands you a single deterministic long-range map three weeks out, I treat it like a teaser rather than a plan. What I actually trust more is probabilistic guidance. Ensembles — many runs with slightly different starting conditions — give you a sense of spread. If 90% of ensemble members agree you'll get cooler-than-normal weather in a region two weeks out, that's meaningful. Seasonal outlooks are another animal: they aren't about exact days, they're about tendencies. Phenomena like El Niño/La Niña or a strong teleconnection can tilt months-long odds for wetter or drier conditions. Models have made great strides using satellite data and better physics, but uncertainty remains sizable. Practically, I look at trends, ensemble consensus, and well-calibrated probabilistic products rather than single deterministic forecasts. I also compare global centers like ECMWF, GFS ensembles, and regional blends to gauge confidence. Ultimately, long-range 'wuyan' predictions can point you toward likely patterns, not precise events — and I find that framing keeps my expectations sane and my planning useful.

I can't help but geek out over the hockey flow — it's one of those styles that looks effortless but actually wants a little intention. For a classic, wearable flow I aim for about 6–10 inches (15–25 cm) at the longest points: that’s usually the crown and the back. The idea is for the hair to sit past the ears and either kiss the collar or fall to the top of the shoulders when it’s straight. Shorter than about 6 inches usually won’t give you that sweeping, helmet-buffed look; much longer than 10–12 inches starts to feel more like a mane than a flow, unless you want a dramatic version. Sides and layers are where the cut makes or breaks. I like the sides to be blended but not buzzed — somewhere around 3–5 inches (7–13 cm) so the hair can tuck behind the ears or sweep back without looking boxy. Ask for long, textured layers through the back to remove bulk and create movement; point-cutting or razor texturizing helps thin thick hair so it won’t balloon out. The neckline should be natural and slightly shaggy rather than cleanly tapered — that soft, lived-in edge is part of the charm. Styling-wise, I keep it low-effort: towel dry, apply a light sea-salt spray or creamy texturizer, then either let it air dry or rough-blow and brush back with fingers. If you wear helmets, add an extra half-inch to the crown so the flow re-forms after sessions. Trim every 6–10 weeks to maintain shape, and be open with your barber about how much helmet time you get — that little detail changes the exact length I request. I love how the right length turns a messy mop into something that actually feels stylish and sporty.

If you're grinding hard clue scrolls in 'Old School RuneScape', the time to finish one can swing a lot depending on what steps it tosses at you and how prepared you are. Hard clues generally come with a handful of steps—think map clues, coordinate digs, emote steps, and the occasional puzzle. Some of those are instant if you’re standing on the right tile or have the emote gear ready; others force you to cross the map or even head into risky areas like the Wilderness. On average, I’d say an experienced tracer who’s got teleports, a spade, and a bank preset will knock a typical hard clue out in roughly 3–8 minutes. For more casual players or unlucky RNG moments, a single hard clue can easily stretch to 10–20 minutes, especially if it drops you on a remote island or requires running across several regions. One of the biggest time sinks is travel. If a coordinate pops up in a tucked-away spot (some coastal islands or remote Wilderness coordinates), you either need the right teleport, a set of boats, or a chunk of run time. Map clues that need an emote might only take a minute if you’re standing where you need to be; they can take longer if the map is cryptic and sends you on a small scavenger hunt. Puzzles and ciphers are usually quick if you use the community wiki or have a little practice, but there are those rare moments where a tricky puzzle adds several minutes. If you chain multiple hard clues back-to-back, you’ll naturally get faster — I’ve done runs averaging around 4–5 minutes per casket once I had a bank preset and a teleport setup, but my first few in a session always take longer while I round up gear and restore run energy. Practical tips that shave minutes: bring a spade and teleport jewelry (ring of dueling, amulet of glory, games necklace, etc.), stock teleport tabs for odd spots, use house teleports or mounted glory teleports if your POH is handy, and set up a bank preset if you have membership so you can instantly gear for emotes or wear weight-reducing equipment. Knowing a few common clue hotspots and having access to fairy rings or charter ships makes a massive difference — teleporting straight to Draynor, Varrock, or a clue-specific tile is game-changing. Also, keep a couple of spare inventory slots for clue tools and a decent amount of run energy or stamina potions while you’re doing longer runs. Bottom line: expect anywhere from about 3–8 minutes if you’re optimized and comfortable navigating the map, up to 10–20 minutes if you hit awkward coordinates or are underprepared. I love the variety though — the little micro-adventures are what keep treasure trails fun, and nothing beats that moment you dig up a casket and wonder what goofy or valuable item you’ll get next.

Hunting down vintage cartoon fish merchandise feels a bit like going on a tiny treasure hunt, and I love every minute of it. I usually start online — eBay and Etsy are the obvious first stops because they have huge archives and you can set searches and saved alerts for keywords like 'vintage fish toy', 'retro fish plush', or 'cartoon fish pin'. Mercari and Depop are great for younger sellers unloading attic finds, and don't forget specialty auction sites like Heritage Auctions or LiveAuctioneers for higher-end pieces. Outside the internet, I haunt local thrift stores, estate sales, and flea markets. Antique malls and specialty toy shops often have hidden gems; I’ve snagged odd ceramic fish figurines and enamel pins at weekend markets. Comic-cons and vintage toy shows also host dealers who specialize in character merch — even if you don’t buy, it’s a good way to learn makers' marks and price ranges. A few tips I swear by: take lots of photos and ask for provenance if the seller claims it’s collectible; check for maker marks, condition issues like paint flake or hairline cracks, and be mindful of repros. For fragile or high-value items, factor in shipping insurance. It’s such a satisfying hobby — finding a quirky vintage fish pin or a faded lunchbox feels like rescuing a tiny piece of someone’s childhood, and that thrill never gets old.

Oddly enough, the history of cartoon fish is messier and more charming than you'd expect. I like to trace their roots back to the very birth of animation — the 1910s and 1920s — when film pioneers were doodling all kinds of creatures, including sea life, as part of experimental shorts. Early animated loops and novelty films often used fish and underwater scenes because they were visually playful and let animators stretch physics for gags. By the 1930s, studios like Disney and Fleischer were churning out theatrical shorts that featured anthropomorphic animals and occasional fish characters, giving those creations wider exposure in movie theaters. So pinning a single "first popular" fish is tricky: popularity came in waves. The medium matured through decades, and then later decades gave us unmistakable mainstream fish icons — my favorites being the bright, personality-driven characters from films like 'The Little Mermaid' and 'Finding Nemo'. Those later hits crystallized what a beloved cartoon fish could be, but the lineage goes back to those early silent-era experiments, and I find that long, winding evolution pretty delightful.

I used to think mastery was a single destination, but after years of scribbling in margins and late-night page revisions I see it more like a long, winding apprenticeship. It depends wildly on what you mean by 'mastering' — do you want to tell a clear, moving story with convincing figures, or do you want to be the fastest, most polished page-turner in your friend group? For me, the foundations — gesture, anatomy, panel rhythm, thumbnails, lettering — took a solid year of daily practice before the basics felt natural. After that first year I focused on sequencing and writing: pacing a punchline, landing an emotional beat, balancing dialogue with silence. That stage took another couple of years of making whole short comics, getting crushed by critiques, and then slowly improving. Tool fluency (inking digitally, coloring, using perspective rigs) added months but felt less mysterious once I studied tutorials and reverse-engineered comics I loved, like 'Persepolis' or 'One Piece' for pacing. Real mastery? I think it’s lifelong. Even now I set small projects every month to stretch a weak area — more faces, tighter thumbnails, better hands. If you practice consistently and publish, you’ll notice real leaps in 6–12 months and major polish in 2–5 years. For me, the ride is as rewarding as the destination, and every little page I finish feels like a tiny victory.

Lately I’ve been obsessing over the tiny decisions that decide whether a print lives for a week or a century, and that curiosity led me to a rather nerdy breakdown of prints in darkrooms. If a print is properly developed, fixed, washed, and dried, and you then tuck it away in true darkness, it can last decades or even over a century depending on materials. Silver-gelatin fiber prints that were well processed and optionally toned (selenium, gold) are famously durable. Color prints are a different beast — they’re much more sensitive and won’t tolerate the same long-term treatment. In an active darkroom under safelight, though, the story changes: safelights (red/amber) are designed to let you work without fogging paper, but papers have different safelight ratings. Resin-coated (RC) papers tolerate safelight exposure longer than some fiber papers, but I wouldn’t leave a print sitting under a safelight for hours; fogging can creep in. Practically, I avoid leaving important prints exposed to any safelight for more than the short time needed to handle them; for overnight storage in trays I put them in envelopes or cover them. If you’re storing prints long-term, use archival, acid-free sleeves, stable cool temperatures, and low humidity. I’ve rescued prints that were decades old and still gorgeous because someone cared about processing and storage—proof that darkrooms can be safe havens if you respect chemistry and climate.

Douglas Adams wrote 'So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish', and I still grin at that title every time I say it out loud. I love how the line feels both silly and oddly philosophical — very much his trademark. The book itself is the fourth installment in the 'The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy' series and follows the oddball aftermath of Earth's destruction, Arthur Dent's unlikely romance with Fenchurch, and a whole lot of Douglas's dry, British humor. I first discovered the book through a battered paperback someone left on a bus, and reading it felt like finding a secret club where wit and absurdity were the membership card. Douglas Adams's timing and playful twists on logic stick with me; you can feel the radio-series roots in the pacing and dialogue. If you like whimsical sci-fi with sharp observations about humanity, this one never disappoints — and for me it still sparks a smile every few chapters.