I'm listening to some horrendously terrible music today, thanks to a secret society of terrible music lovers.
And by terrible I mean kitschy goodness that ranges from the just plain awfulness of Sharon Tandy destroying an indistinguishable melody to the poppy, angry goodness of The Gore Gore Girls to, well "MacArthur Park". Oh, and a hilariously terrible Peggy Lee song about getting drunk and partying after a maudlin narrative of a childhood home burning down. It's odd. After the narrative about the circus, I was pretty sure the song would end with Peggy Lee, a bottle of pills and a fifth of bourbon. And her vocal sounds like she's already started hitting the bourbon.
I feel my walls turning to velvet and my rug shagging beneath my feet. Which is kind of gross. Plus I have a strange new fascination with France Gall, an American Idol of sorts in France in 1965. The song I'm enjoying is pure French pop. Yet, knowing her connection to Serge Gainsbourg, I picture her sweet as pie picture from 1965 transforming into . . . well . . . Nico wandering around New York, confused, drugged up and violated, in 1968.
Friday, May 28, 2004
Posting
I'm not doing that. I'm aware of this fact. And I'm sorry in a way. Sort of.
Thing is, I'm taking a week off soon and then I'm having parts of my bone structure ripped out of my face which will, I am told, take four days for me to recover.
So here I sit, busting my butt getting stuff done so that I can take my first vacation in four years. Yay.
Funny tidbit: Since that last vacation, my last two employers went out of business (well, one was assimilated by its parent company . . . a symbol of its pathetic, sadness . . .). No wonder why I'm a freelancer.
I recently gave myself a raise though. That was nice. And if I didn't have my office in the basement, I'd give myself a window.
Thing is, I'm taking a week off soon and then I'm having parts of my bone structure ripped out of my face which will, I am told, take four days for me to recover.
So here I sit, busting my butt getting stuff done so that I can take my first vacation in four years. Yay.
Funny tidbit: Since that last vacation, my last two employers went out of business (well, one was assimilated by its parent company . . . a symbol of its pathetic, sadness . . .). No wonder why I'm a freelancer.
I recently gave myself a raise though. That was nice. And if I didn't have my office in the basement, I'd give myself a window.
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
Sleep Update
An update to last week's sleeping post. That night Gertrude went to sleep with no complaint. No complaints ever since.
The little goober was just making sure we knew who was in charge around here.
I wonder if she reads the blog. With her designs for universal domination, early reading wouldn't be surprising. In fact, it would probably be beneficial.
The little goober was just making sure we knew who was in charge around here.
I wonder if she reads the blog. With her designs for universal domination, early reading wouldn't be surprising. In fact, it would probably be beneficial.
Monday, May 24, 2004
It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry
A note to a friend:
"A purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved." – Kurt Vonnegut
Life is difficult. Anyone who tells you differently is either selling you financial planning services or a complete idiot. I vote for the idiot distinction.
The important thing with any life is not to make it more complicated than it need be. For us humans, us poor, stupid humans, that’s the hardest part. We like to assign responsibility, blame, motivation and ideas where there are none. Or, worse, where we want to see something that isn’t there. We make excuses for each other but, in the end, we can only be responsible for who we are, what we do and how we treat each other.
Kurt Vonnegut, whose comments will be peppered throughout, once said, “We are here to help each other get through this thing, whatever it is.” How true, Kurt. No matter what hand life deals us, we just want to be able to look behind us and see that there’s someone standing there nodding and saying, “Yes, go for it.” For without that support, we’re nothing but our ideas, passions and choices. And, let’s face it; humans left to their own devices make perfectly horrible choices half the time. Mark Twain had it right when he said, “"The proper office of a friend is to side with you when you are in the wrong. Nearly anybody will side with you when you are in the right.”
And that’s why we search for love and commitment. For someone to constantly to be the one standing behind us nodding. Someone who will be willing to say, without question, “You are the biggest fool I know, but I’ll support you wherever you go.” If you’re lucky, and I know I am, you have someone who can do that.
Because life, no matter how you cut it, is a team sport. You just can’t do it alone. We like to pretend that we do, but it’s impossible to make it through without a coach, cheering section and, sometimes, pinch hitter. When you find that in your life it’s important to grab onto it and never let go.
But sometimes you also have to look at what you have on hand, what works, what’s broken, what’s just plain goofy and realize that in order to win; sometimes you have to give something up.
Bob Dylan, American Troubadour that he is, once wrote:
Sometimes, though, in the deepest overtures of love and friendship you do happen to fight, you do frighten, uptighten, chain, lock, shock and categorize. It happens. Because, any relationship has to grow, change and evolve with the people involved. Otherwise, all those involved simply become some sort of figurehead, you play a role. Most importantly, those who know you, who are involved with your life, eventually, have to stop and learn to see you for who you are, not how they perceive you.
And that is frightening. Yet, usually, the things that frighten us the most are the things that most need to happen. Sometimes it’s that fear that spurs life to move on to the next stage.
We’re on this planet, inhabiting this dumb, selfish flesh for far too short a time to not do the things that frighten us. To go get that job, kiss the girl, or let go of what we think is so important.
Sometimes you have to let go. When you let go, and give whatever it is that you’re holding so close to your chest its own chance at life, you give it the chance to enrich your life in a new way. Or, it may go away. That’s why it’s so frightening.
The key is to know when to let go. Do you hold it close to your chest until it can no longer breathe? Or do you risk everything and allow it to move on and grow knowing that, after the initial pain is over, it may come back to you. Stronger, smarter, more understanding.
Sometimes you have to let go or you may smother love. Letting go is difficult, it’s frightening. But when you let go, as long as you’re always reaching out, you’re never truly giving it up.
Don’t tie everything into a moment in time. Life can’t be captured in amber. It’s fluid, ever changing. Don’t assign roles based on the past, or even the present. Sometimes you have to stand up and let everyone around you chose what role they will play in your life. It’s their choice. Just as it’s your choice what role you’ll play in their life.
Just make sure you’re always reaching out.
Give life its own chance. See what it does. Let go of the handle bars and raise your hands. Maybe you’ll crash into the grass, or you may get the ride of your life. How will you know if you don’t try?
"We have to continually be jumping off cliffs and developing our wings on the way down." –Kurt Vonnegut
"A purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved." – Kurt Vonnegut
Life is difficult. Anyone who tells you differently is either selling you financial planning services or a complete idiot. I vote for the idiot distinction.
The important thing with any life is not to make it more complicated than it need be. For us humans, us poor, stupid humans, that’s the hardest part. We like to assign responsibility, blame, motivation and ideas where there are none. Or, worse, where we want to see something that isn’t there. We make excuses for each other but, in the end, we can only be responsible for who we are, what we do and how we treat each other.
Kurt Vonnegut, whose comments will be peppered throughout, once said, “We are here to help each other get through this thing, whatever it is.” How true, Kurt. No matter what hand life deals us, we just want to be able to look behind us and see that there’s someone standing there nodding and saying, “Yes, go for it.” For without that support, we’re nothing but our ideas, passions and choices. And, let’s face it; humans left to their own devices make perfectly horrible choices half the time. Mark Twain had it right when he said, “"The proper office of a friend is to side with you when you are in the wrong. Nearly anybody will side with you when you are in the right.”
And that’s why we search for love and commitment. For someone to constantly to be the one standing behind us nodding. Someone who will be willing to say, without question, “You are the biggest fool I know, but I’ll support you wherever you go.” If you’re lucky, and I know I am, you have someone who can do that.
Because life, no matter how you cut it, is a team sport. You just can’t do it alone. We like to pretend that we do, but it’s impossible to make it through without a coach, cheering section and, sometimes, pinch hitter. When you find that in your life it’s important to grab onto it and never let go.
But sometimes you also have to look at what you have on hand, what works, what’s broken, what’s just plain goofy and realize that in order to win; sometimes you have to give something up.
Bob Dylan, American Troubadour that he is, once wrote:
No, and I ain't lookin' to fight with you,
Frighten you or uptighten you,
Drag you down or drain you down,
Chain you down or bring you down.
All I really want to do
Is, baby, be friends with you.
Sometimes, though, in the deepest overtures of love and friendship you do happen to fight, you do frighten, uptighten, chain, lock, shock and categorize. It happens. Because, any relationship has to grow, change and evolve with the people involved. Otherwise, all those involved simply become some sort of figurehead, you play a role. Most importantly, those who know you, who are involved with your life, eventually, have to stop and learn to see you for who you are, not how they perceive you.
And that is frightening. Yet, usually, the things that frighten us the most are the things that most need to happen. Sometimes it’s that fear that spurs life to move on to the next stage.
We’re on this planet, inhabiting this dumb, selfish flesh for far too short a time to not do the things that frighten us. To go get that job, kiss the girl, or let go of what we think is so important.
Sometimes you have to let go. When you let go, and give whatever it is that you’re holding so close to your chest its own chance at life, you give it the chance to enrich your life in a new way. Or, it may go away. That’s why it’s so frightening.
The key is to know when to let go. Do you hold it close to your chest until it can no longer breathe? Or do you risk everything and allow it to move on and grow knowing that, after the initial pain is over, it may come back to you. Stronger, smarter, more understanding.
Sometimes you have to let go or you may smother love. Letting go is difficult, it’s frightening. But when you let go, as long as you’re always reaching out, you’re never truly giving it up.
Don’t tie everything into a moment in time. Life can’t be captured in amber. It’s fluid, ever changing. Don’t assign roles based on the past, or even the present. Sometimes you have to stand up and let everyone around you chose what role they will play in your life. It’s their choice. Just as it’s your choice what role you’ll play in their life.
Just make sure you’re always reaching out.
Give life its own chance. See what it does. Let go of the handle bars and raise your hands. Maybe you’ll crash into the grass, or you may get the ride of your life. How will you know if you don’t try?
"We have to continually be jumping off cliffs and developing our wings on the way down." –Kurt Vonnegut
Friday, May 21, 2004
I’m Only Sleeping
Lately Gertrude has had a strange relationship with sleep. By “strange relationship” I mean “no relationship whatsoever”. Or, more to the point, it’s an adversarial relationship.
Our bedtime ritual has remained the same. Brush teeth, hugs and kisses, story, cuddle, crib. But she’s trying to throw a wrench in those works. It’s not that she claims she isn’t tired. Or that she doesn’t simply want to go to sleep.
No, Gertrude insists that she doesn’t need sleep at all. None. Nada. Zip. According to her two-year-old brain, sleep is for pussies. There are only 24 hours in a day, so why should she have to miss out on some of the best, darkest hours?
It must be noted that afternoon naps are not taboo for her. She takes those. Sleeps well. But when bedtime rolls around, all hell breaks loose.
It started with plaintive wails and vocal protests after being put in her crib. Then she started pushing the time of protest back. First she started extending her arms and legs into a locked position to block entrance into the crib. Like trying to put a cat in a bathtub, only more cunning. Then she rolled it back to protests and stalling during story time. Then the hugs and kisses grew into political demands. Refusing to brush teeth came next and finally, the most radical step, she complains about bedtime at 4 p.m.
“I don’t need to go to bed,” she tells me over an afternoon snack of some sort of fruit pressed into shapes. “I don’t sleep. I want to play!”
I explain to her that the only thing to do after 10 p.m. is to watch the news or Ron Popeil hawking his latest invention, The Ronco Home Prostate Exam®. She doesn’t care. She insists she doesn’t need sleep.
But, as her parents, we need an hour a day where we are semi-conscious where there are no demands put upon us. It’s like our quiet time before bed time. We unwind and pretend that we’re married and like each other.
Gertrude, though, is continuing her protests from 8 p.m. through and sometimes past 10 p.m. We’ve done everything that the parenting books suggest. Ignore it. Reassure her sense of security. Sing "God Only Knows". Give her a shot of whiskey. Ether.
But none of them work. She’s wound so tight that she fights sleep with a veracity that most people only reserve for the last piece of chocolate cake at a Weight Watchers meeting.
Periodically, we go in and give hugs and kisses, then a retuck. She stands there, little arms clutched around my neck, shaking with sadness and woe. She pleads with me and cries. But I have to insist that she sleep. I mean, it’s biological.
What’s worked best is to sit in her rocking chair while she falls asleep. I know all the parenting Nazis are going to tell me that this is wrong. I should remain tough. But the thing is she never really had trouble sleeping before. This is a new development and, to hear her cries, not just a ploy. She is worried about something.
I’m told that she may be going through separation anxiety. Perhaps. And, in her case, I think she’s afraid that we’re all going to move out in the middle of the night without leaving her milk or Graham crackers. I understand the fear. I have it too. Only I’m worried the family will take all my CDs. Or, worse, leave the CDs, all scratched up, and take the players.
So the nightly battles will continue. A mixture of sternness and loving tenderness while we try to sort out what’s wrong. When we figure it out, she’ll probably get over it and start revolting against something else.
But I have to reassure her that we won’t be leaving her. Somehow I have to make her feel safe and secure.
And honestly, I didn’t mean it when I told her she was interrupting the Daily Show.
It was a rerun, anyway.
Our bedtime ritual has remained the same. Brush teeth, hugs and kisses, story, cuddle, crib. But she’s trying to throw a wrench in those works. It’s not that she claims she isn’t tired. Or that she doesn’t simply want to go to sleep.
No, Gertrude insists that she doesn’t need sleep at all. None. Nada. Zip. According to her two-year-old brain, sleep is for pussies. There are only 24 hours in a day, so why should she have to miss out on some of the best, darkest hours?
It must be noted that afternoon naps are not taboo for her. She takes those. Sleeps well. But when bedtime rolls around, all hell breaks loose.
It started with plaintive wails and vocal protests after being put in her crib. Then she started pushing the time of protest back. First she started extending her arms and legs into a locked position to block entrance into the crib. Like trying to put a cat in a bathtub, only more cunning. Then she rolled it back to protests and stalling during story time. Then the hugs and kisses grew into political demands. Refusing to brush teeth came next and finally, the most radical step, she complains about bedtime at 4 p.m.
“I don’t need to go to bed,” she tells me over an afternoon snack of some sort of fruit pressed into shapes. “I don’t sleep. I want to play!”
I explain to her that the only thing to do after 10 p.m. is to watch the news or Ron Popeil hawking his latest invention, The Ronco Home Prostate Exam®. She doesn’t care. She insists she doesn’t need sleep.
But, as her parents, we need an hour a day where we are semi-conscious where there are no demands put upon us. It’s like our quiet time before bed time. We unwind and pretend that we’re married and like each other.
Gertrude, though, is continuing her protests from 8 p.m. through and sometimes past 10 p.m. We’ve done everything that the parenting books suggest. Ignore it. Reassure her sense of security. Sing "God Only Knows". Give her a shot of whiskey. Ether.
But none of them work. She’s wound so tight that she fights sleep with a veracity that most people only reserve for the last piece of chocolate cake at a Weight Watchers meeting.
Periodically, we go in and give hugs and kisses, then a retuck. She stands there, little arms clutched around my neck, shaking with sadness and woe. She pleads with me and cries. But I have to insist that she sleep. I mean, it’s biological.
What’s worked best is to sit in her rocking chair while she falls asleep. I know all the parenting Nazis are going to tell me that this is wrong. I should remain tough. But the thing is she never really had trouble sleeping before. This is a new development and, to hear her cries, not just a ploy. She is worried about something.
I’m told that she may be going through separation anxiety. Perhaps. And, in her case, I think she’s afraid that we’re all going to move out in the middle of the night without leaving her milk or Graham crackers. I understand the fear. I have it too. Only I’m worried the family will take all my CDs. Or, worse, leave the CDs, all scratched up, and take the players.
So the nightly battles will continue. A mixture of sternness and loving tenderness while we try to sort out what’s wrong. When we figure it out, she’ll probably get over it and start revolting against something else.
But I have to reassure her that we won’t be leaving her. Somehow I have to make her feel safe and secure.
And honestly, I didn’t mean it when I told her she was interrupting the Daily Show.
It was a rerun, anyway.
Wednesday, May 19, 2004
Pride
While talking to my wife on the phone, Them's "I Can Only Give You Everything" was playing in the background. "Wait," she said. "That sounds like something else." The Troggs version perhaps?
"No. The guitar is lower and it's not garage."
O.K. How about Todd Rundgren's "Couldn't I Just Tell You"? No? How about the Wondermints' version of "Couldn't I Just Tell You"? No? How about Game Theory's?
I got the point. It wasn't any of them. She was adamant about the guitar riff. Treble Charger or Flashing Lights, she thought. No. We couldn't find it.
She was obsessed. Then, a bolt of lightning hit.
"'Devil's Haircut!'" she yelled. "Beck!", I screamed.
And the guitar was lower. Exact same riff.
I was proud of her for the obsession, finding the tenuous thread and following it. Not giving up.
Now she knows how I spend every waking moment. Everything is connected to something else. This song was done by this guy and played in this movie with this actor who was married to this writer who inspired this painter who became a children's television host who solicited a hooker who went on to Congress.
It's all connected damn it. Everything.
I'm so proud of her.
I need psychological help.
"No. The guitar is lower and it's not garage."
O.K. How about Todd Rundgren's "Couldn't I Just Tell You"? No? How about the Wondermints' version of "Couldn't I Just Tell You"? No? How about Game Theory's?
I got the point. It wasn't any of them. She was adamant about the guitar riff. Treble Charger or Flashing Lights, she thought. No. We couldn't find it.
She was obsessed. Then, a bolt of lightning hit.
"'Devil's Haircut!'" she yelled. "Beck!", I screamed.
And the guitar was lower. Exact same riff.
I was proud of her for the obsession, finding the tenuous thread and following it. Not giving up.
Now she knows how I spend every waking moment. Everything is connected to something else. This song was done by this guy and played in this movie with this actor who was married to this writer who inspired this painter who became a children's television host who solicited a hooker who went on to Congress.
It's all connected damn it. Everything.
I'm so proud of her.
I need psychological help.
Geek Remix Redux
I'm busy again, so today I'll leave you with two year old remarks about Wang Chung. Daily I receive roughly 30 hits from search engines for this, so I thought I'd share. Amazing isn't it? That 30 people a day give a rat's ass about Wang Chung? Anyway, here:
I was riding the elevator ascending to the swanky mid-town offices that is currently doing business as "McGraw-Hill." This building was designed by someone who was either blind, stupid or had some sort of fetish involving a checkerboard.
But I digress.
Playing, rather mawkishly, over the speaker in the elevator was a commercial for a local riverboat casino. Now, this riverboat isn't actually in a river. It's in a puddle next to a river. The boat doesn't actually move. I suppose it's really a building in the shape of a boat, imitating a boat. If the area flooded, would it float? Probably not.
But I digress.
The commercial informed me that, if I partake in the gambling activities that this particular casino offers that I could, in fact, "Wang Chung tonight." Yes. Wang Chung.
Now, I'm hardly a prude. I like adventure. I like doing things that are exciting and off the beaten path of normal entertainment. I enjoy letting loose and partying like it's 1999. I'm adventurous. I like offensive movies and music that no one has ever heard of. I'm not afraid of wearing Mickey Mouse underwear. Hell, I grew up in the eighties.
But, I have never actually Wang Chunged. I have gotten down. I fought for my right to party. More than once I've shook my groove thang and let my freak flag fly. I've even gotten the party started. However, I have never in my life had the opportunity to Wang Chung.
But the commercial went on. It was adamant. If I gambled there, I could Wang Chung.
Does this casino hold the secrets of Wang Chung? Could this casino actually be the center of the Wang Chung universe?
I don't know. Because, I have absolutely no idea how to Wang Chung. If I've seen Wang Chung in progress, I may not have understood it. Just like the time I went to the modern dance recital and watch the fall of Rome performed. I thought I was watching a reimagining of Fame. But I was wrong. But they had naked ladies cavorting and it was art.
Maybe that was Wang Chung? I don't know.
Once I went to an art exhibit where a man painted pictures of various religious figures out of dog feces. At the exhibit was a man with silver hair and a cane. He was followed by a group of young boys and a pale, rail thin woman. Perhaps they would Wang Chung later while drinking mimosas and discussing the finer art of dog feces.
What is Wang Chung? Is it a state of mind or an action? Is it an ancient Oriental art that has been passed down for centuries from generation to generation of the chosen people? The truly enlightened?
Did Buddha Wang Chung? What about Jesus? Or was Wang Chung before his time? Can you safely Wang Chung in the street, or do you do it in private?
Probably not. If you can Wang Chung at a casino, it must not involve anything perverse.
Can children Wang Chung, or is it an adult activity? If I happened to Wang Chung at Disney World, would I be asked to leave? Or arrested?
These are the things I think about. Welcome to my mind.
I have to go now. I have to find Mickey's Monkey who may be doing the Watusi with the Shimmy Shimmy Coco Pops.
Tuesday, May 18, 2004
The Neverending Project
Apologies to Limahl.
It's back again. The project from hell. They want it revised. Again. For the fourth time. They keep adding things to it. It's almost 200 pages long now. Each letter typed by me. I'm sleepy.
It's back again. The project from hell. They want it revised. Again. For the fourth time. They keep adding things to it. It's almost 200 pages long now. Each letter typed by me. I'm sleepy.
Open Letter to Network TV Executives
Schedule (noun) - Sched´ule - an ordered list of times at which things are planned to occur.
Admittedly, my wife and I don’t watch much of your work. Generally, we’re bored by it. Given the choice, we’d find something interesting and innovative (read: Doomed to Fail) on a cable channel. On a given night we might watch Curb Your Enthusiasm, Good Eats, Farscape, The Office, or any number of shows that you neither produced, funded or otherwise had a chance to ruin.
However, when we do find a show we enjoy on network television, we like to watch it with regularity. Doing so proves difficult when you take it off the air randomly to show reruns of some dumb ass cop show that will probably be spun off into seven other dumb ass cop shows.
You see, Mr. Executive, you provide us with a schedule and we, the consumer, decide upon what to watch based on the results of this schedule. If we are told that something is going to be on Monday at 9, well, we kind of expect it to be on Monday at 9.
But you don’t agree. Because something doesn’t get enough viewers in a certain time slot, you decide to move it. Which is fine with me. Except for one thing:
You forgot to tell the damn viewer.
Your profits are based upon the number of people who watch a given program. Therefore, it is beneficial to you to actually provide the consumer with the opportunity to watch the show.
Let me put it another way. If the show isn’t on when I expect it to be, how in the living hell do you expect me to watch it you syphilitic-two-dollar-entertainment-slut?
Think of it this way: How profitable would a store be if they changed their hours and location without notice? Not very. In fact, eventually the customers would give up and go elsewhere. Better yet, try and change your time and location on your wife. How long would that last before she was wearing your testicles as baubles?
So, please, get out a dictionary. You know what that is, don’t you? The big book with all the words in it? Yes, I know all books look big and wordy to you. However, if you used this one periodically you might understand the other books. So, open your dictionary and look up “schedule”. Pretty easy to understand, right?
Well why don’t you apply that definition to your schedule you moron. Loosen your tie. You’re not getting enough oxygen.
Oh, one more thing. Quit trying to remake British shows for American audiences. The remakes aren’t funny. Leave David Brent alone.
Sincerely,
Gary O’Brien
P.S. Use that dictionary. Seriously, it’ll do you some good.
Admittedly, my wife and I don’t watch much of your work. Generally, we’re bored by it. Given the choice, we’d find something interesting and innovative (read: Doomed to Fail) on a cable channel. On a given night we might watch Curb Your Enthusiasm, Good Eats, Farscape, The Office, or any number of shows that you neither produced, funded or otherwise had a chance to ruin.
However, when we do find a show we enjoy on network television, we like to watch it with regularity. Doing so proves difficult when you take it off the air randomly to show reruns of some dumb ass cop show that will probably be spun off into seven other dumb ass cop shows.
You see, Mr. Executive, you provide us with a schedule and we, the consumer, decide upon what to watch based on the results of this schedule. If we are told that something is going to be on Monday at 9, well, we kind of expect it to be on Monday at 9.
But you don’t agree. Because something doesn’t get enough viewers in a certain time slot, you decide to move it. Which is fine with me. Except for one thing:
You forgot to tell the damn viewer.
Your profits are based upon the number of people who watch a given program. Therefore, it is beneficial to you to actually provide the consumer with the opportunity to watch the show.
Let me put it another way. If the show isn’t on when I expect it to be, how in the living hell do you expect me to watch it you syphilitic-two-dollar-entertainment-slut?
Think of it this way: How profitable would a store be if they changed their hours and location without notice? Not very. In fact, eventually the customers would give up and go elsewhere. Better yet, try and change your time and location on your wife. How long would that last before she was wearing your testicles as baubles?
So, please, get out a dictionary. You know what that is, don’t you? The big book with all the words in it? Yes, I know all books look big and wordy to you. However, if you used this one periodically you might understand the other books. So, open your dictionary and look up “schedule”. Pretty easy to understand, right?
Well why don’t you apply that definition to your schedule you moron. Loosen your tie. You’re not getting enough oxygen.
Oh, one more thing. Quit trying to remake British shows for American audiences. The remakes aren’t funny. Leave David Brent alone.
Sincerely,
Gary O’Brien
P.S. Use that dictionary. Seriously, it’ll do you some good.
Today in Listening To . . .
Is dedicated to Jeff who, quite forcefully through mix tapes and oratory dissertations, turned me on to the greatness of Scott Miller (No, not that one . . . no, not that one either . . . not him . . . yes, that one) in 1998, even going so far as to take me to see the Loud Family in the world's smallest venue. Sugarplastic opened. I wish I could remember more of the show. Scott wandered around the room before the Loud Family went on, drinking beer and looking like a slightly bewildered Dr. Who.
So today's sixty or seventy songs (that you can't hear, obviously) are for him. Especially "Asleep and Awake on the Man's Freeway" to which I will no doubt air guitar.
If you're reading this tomorrow or another day and I'm listening to Lancelot Link and the Evolution Revolution, well . . . I like simian pop too.
So today's sixty or seventy songs (that you can't hear, obviously) are for him. Especially "Asleep and Awake on the Man's Freeway" to which I will no doubt air guitar.
If you're reading this tomorrow or another day and I'm listening to Lancelot Link and the Evolution Revolution, well . . . I like simian pop too.
Friday, May 14, 2004
What's More Fun
Than scanning documents and converting them into PDF files?
That's right. Everything. I'm bored out of my skull. The little light goes up and down, I convert, I save, I check, I print, I smile. Rinse, lather, repeat.
As Joe Henry once wisely said:
I'll keep your monkey, I'll treat him good. I'll talk to him like he talks to you.
That's right. Everything. I'm bored out of my skull. The little light goes up and down, I convert, I save, I check, I print, I smile. Rinse, lather, repeat.
As Joe Henry once wisely said:
I'll keep your monkey, I'll treat him good. I'll talk to him like he talks to you.
Have I Mentioned Lately
That Brad Bird, John Lasseter and Pixar are my new heroes?
Drool.
Check out the camera movements and the beauty of the animation. Sorry, but no other computer animation outfit can match the artistry of these guys.
Now, if I could only get them to send me an official Ugly Shirt . . .
Drool.
Check out the camera movements and the beauty of the animation. Sorry, but no other computer animation outfit can match the artistry of these guys.
Now, if I could only get them to send me an official Ugly Shirt . . .
Oh, to Live on Sugar Mountain
Though you're thinking that you're leaving there too soon,
You're leaving there too soon.
In roughly a month, young Matilda will be turning nine. Nine! Not so long ago, when I met my wife and Matilda, she was barely older than Gertrude is now. She still took naps, drew in scribbles (albeit, very precise scribbles). I’d go visit them and she’d kill me at Barnyard Bingo. Back then, she was afraid of bugs, slides, dirt, the wind, and anything else that wasn’t apparently pretty.
Matilda and Mom used to sit in front of the window, wrapped together in a blanket, watching the rain or the wind blow the grass. She’d put on elaborate productions of interpretive dance and would fudge her Rs into Ws.
She was, unequivocally, a child.
In the ensuing years of our relationship, she’s taught me more than I think I’ve taught her. In the exposed nature of a step-father’s role, where I am being trained and accepted into a pre-existing relationship, the early stages are always shaky and tough. But, more like an adult relationship, Matilda and I grew to love each other. I started out as Gary, moved to Daddy-Gary. There’s a certain security in a relationship that has a specific beginning. Because you learn to love each other, warts and all, through tempers, tantrums, obsessions, arguments, skinned knees and hurt feelings.
Because, let’s be honest, any relationship hurts for a variety of reasons. When you love someone, however, those hurts are just potholes in the road. You shake off the dust and move along to the next stop.
The past years have taught me a lot. I never knew the joy I would feel when I took off her training wheels, or the abject terror of watching her audition for the school talent show (my terror, not hers) and the sheer pain when a friendship of hers was broken. I never dreamed I would cry like a baby when she boarded the bus to go to kindergarten (which she teases me about) or that I would give up waiting at the bus stop after school with a pang of sadness. Despite her insistence that she can make it from the corner to the porch, I still wait on the porch. I just pretend I’m working and not watching her the whole way.
She stands on the precipice of a major life change, one that I believe she’s started easing herself into. At nine, friendships stop being about playing together and pecking orders are established. You start sharing feelings. School gets harder, successes become bigger, failures become more dramatic. At eight, she could still be considered a little girl, not too far from that little blonde who used to collect rocks. At nine, she’s interested in Pop music, dancing with her friends and, yes, gossip.
She’s become a Vulcan in the last year or so. When she talks to us now, she gives us the bare bones info. When something happens that she would have once bounced off the walls for, we got the stock Spock shot of a non-reaction. “Cool”, she’ll say blithely. And that’s it. She’s already moving into her divine indifference phase.
And next it will be make up and boys. Going to movies alone, begging me to drive her to the hot teenie bopper joints. Requests for more CDs will come (the one request I’ll never turn down, I promised) and calls from boys. Fights, conflicts, arguments. Some with me, some with mom, some with her sister, most with her circle of friends. Tears before bedtime will be replaced with tears on the telephone. Tears that won’t necessarily be shared with me.
I look at this kid, not a child anymore, and see how quickly the next five years will go. How much we’ll go through together. And I hope, I truly hope, we’ll value each other through the conflicts and arguments. And I hope she’ll come to me when some jerk boy needs an ass kicking.
Because I’ll do it proudly.
She’s growing. We’re starting to watch from the sidelines, mere advisors in this endeavor. We’ll need to let her stumble, but be close enough to pick her up.
But, for the time being, the child going on woman still plays in the bathtub and still throws her arms around my neck at bedtime and says, “I love you Daddy.” She’s dropped the Gary altogether. And when the going gets tough, she still falls in my arms, sobbing, just like a little girl.
I am a child, I'll last a while.
You can't conceive of the pleasure in my smile.
You hold my hand, rough up my hair,
It's lots of fun to have you there.
God gave to you, now, you give to me,
I'd like to know what you learned.
The sky is blue and so is the sea.
What is the color, when black is burned?
What is the color?
You are a man, you understand.
You pick me up and you lay me down again.
You make the rules, you say what's fair,
It's lots of fun to have you there.
God gave to you, now, you give to me,
I'd like to know what you learned.
The sky is blue and so is the sea.
What is the color, when black is burned?
What is the color?
I am a child, I'll last a while.
You can't conceive of the pleasure in my smile
--Neil Young
You're leaving there too soon.
In roughly a month, young Matilda will be turning nine. Nine! Not so long ago, when I met my wife and Matilda, she was barely older than Gertrude is now. She still took naps, drew in scribbles (albeit, very precise scribbles). I’d go visit them and she’d kill me at Barnyard Bingo. Back then, she was afraid of bugs, slides, dirt, the wind, and anything else that wasn’t apparently pretty.
Matilda and Mom used to sit in front of the window, wrapped together in a blanket, watching the rain or the wind blow the grass. She’d put on elaborate productions of interpretive dance and would fudge her Rs into Ws.
She was, unequivocally, a child.
In the ensuing years of our relationship, she’s taught me more than I think I’ve taught her. In the exposed nature of a step-father’s role, where I am being trained and accepted into a pre-existing relationship, the early stages are always shaky and tough. But, more like an adult relationship, Matilda and I grew to love each other. I started out as Gary, moved to Daddy-Gary. There’s a certain security in a relationship that has a specific beginning. Because you learn to love each other, warts and all, through tempers, tantrums, obsessions, arguments, skinned knees and hurt feelings.
Because, let’s be honest, any relationship hurts for a variety of reasons. When you love someone, however, those hurts are just potholes in the road. You shake off the dust and move along to the next stop.
The past years have taught me a lot. I never knew the joy I would feel when I took off her training wheels, or the abject terror of watching her audition for the school talent show (my terror, not hers) and the sheer pain when a friendship of hers was broken. I never dreamed I would cry like a baby when she boarded the bus to go to kindergarten (which she teases me about) or that I would give up waiting at the bus stop after school with a pang of sadness. Despite her insistence that she can make it from the corner to the porch, I still wait on the porch. I just pretend I’m working and not watching her the whole way.
She stands on the precipice of a major life change, one that I believe she’s started easing herself into. At nine, friendships stop being about playing together and pecking orders are established. You start sharing feelings. School gets harder, successes become bigger, failures become more dramatic. At eight, she could still be considered a little girl, not too far from that little blonde who used to collect rocks. At nine, she’s interested in Pop music, dancing with her friends and, yes, gossip.
She’s become a Vulcan in the last year or so. When she talks to us now, she gives us the bare bones info. When something happens that she would have once bounced off the walls for, we got the stock Spock shot of a non-reaction. “Cool”, she’ll say blithely. And that’s it. She’s already moving into her divine indifference phase.
And next it will be make up and boys. Going to movies alone, begging me to drive her to the hot teenie bopper joints. Requests for more CDs will come (the one request I’ll never turn down, I promised) and calls from boys. Fights, conflicts, arguments. Some with me, some with mom, some with her sister, most with her circle of friends. Tears before bedtime will be replaced with tears on the telephone. Tears that won’t necessarily be shared with me.
I look at this kid, not a child anymore, and see how quickly the next five years will go. How much we’ll go through together. And I hope, I truly hope, we’ll value each other through the conflicts and arguments. And I hope she’ll come to me when some jerk boy needs an ass kicking.
Because I’ll do it proudly.
She’s growing. We’re starting to watch from the sidelines, mere advisors in this endeavor. We’ll need to let her stumble, but be close enough to pick her up.
But, for the time being, the child going on woman still plays in the bathtub and still throws her arms around my neck at bedtime and says, “I love you Daddy.” She’s dropped the Gary altogether. And when the going gets tough, she still falls in my arms, sobbing, just like a little girl.
I am a child, I'll last a while.
You can't conceive of the pleasure in my smile.
You hold my hand, rough up my hair,
It's lots of fun to have you there.
God gave to you, now, you give to me,
I'd like to know what you learned.
The sky is blue and so is the sea.
What is the color, when black is burned?
What is the color?
You are a man, you understand.
You pick me up and you lay me down again.
You make the rules, you say what's fair,
It's lots of fun to have you there.
God gave to you, now, you give to me,
I'd like to know what you learned.
The sky is blue and so is the sea.
What is the color, when black is burned?
What is the color?
I am a child, I'll last a while.
You can't conceive of the pleasure in my smile
--Neil Young
Thursday, May 13, 2004
News Flash
I don't have time to fix your computer 24 hours a day. Especially if your "fix" requires me to undo something you don't know how you did.
I will also not sit on the phone with you while you navigate a website trying to figure things out.
Look, I sympathize. I really do.
But I have a job.
I don't get paid when I help you.
Sorry.
Go away.
I will also not sit on the phone with you while you navigate a website trying to figure things out.
Look, I sympathize. I really do.
But I have a job.
I don't get paid when I help you.
Sorry.
Go away.
Geek Remixed
Found something I wrote a few years ago. Since summer is on its way, and we'll hear more about West Nile, I thought it would be fun to repost it. That, and I'm too lazy to do anything today. I want cheese.
Basically, I was making fun of terrorists. Isn't that fun? So . . . You know. Anyway, here it is:
Memo
Date: August 1, 1999
To: Sheik Osama Bin Laden
From: Biological Infection Section
Re: West Nile Virus and The Death of The American Infidel Pig Dog Bastards
Sheik Osama,
We have been studying very hard this “West Nile Virus” you have asked us to investigate. We’ve discovered that most people who contract the illness exhibit fever, headache, and body aches. In some cases we can even get them to get a rash. However, we’ve found that when the infirm are exposed, they also get symptoms of encephalitis, which include severe headache, high fever, stiff neck, confusion, loss of consciousness, muscle weakness and brain swelling. In extreme cases, this results in the death of the Infidel American Pig Dog Bastard.
We have discovered, however, that this only happens in the elderly, transplant patients and people with an otherwise compromised immune systems.
Delivery is also an issue. We cannot get an airborne strain. However, we can deliver it by injection by mosquito. Yes, this sounds like a radical idea. However, we’ve hired a group of out of work minstrels to inject several million of what the Pig Dogs refer to as “Skeeters” with the virus.
We will then release the bugs in New York and allow their natural mating habits (they copulate like Saddam on Viagra and whiskey!) to spread the disease throughout the Pig Dog’s nation.
Our only set back at this point is finding needles small enough to inject the bugs. Also, our workers keep missing the bugs and injecting themselves. They are all complaining of muscle aches, fever and headaches. But they have not taken the day off to recover! Right now there are fourteen miserable minstrels injecting mosquitoes!
I know what you are thinking, Sheik Osama. What good does it do us to kill the elderly and infirm?
I’m here to tell you, my Sheik, that it would cripple their economy. Right now, as we speak, millions of elderly American Pig Dogs are sitting down at an Infidel establishment known as Denny’s to eat the Super Bird at wildly discount prices because of Super Senior Savings Saturday. Not only do they eat the Super Bird, but also Grand Slam Breakfasts, Denny Burgers and Ice Cream Sundaes. Symbols of American Pig Dog excess!
But if we were to eliminate the main consumers on Super Senior Saving Saturday, we would cripple the Denny’s monopoly, thereby creating a domino effect. First, Denny’s would fold because of the lack of senior citizens. The Egg Council, who is inexorably tied to the Omelet Cartel, would shortly follow this. Of course, this would cripple the all-powerful American Pig Dog Chicken farmer. Additionally, Major League Baseball would lose a huge purveyor of their “Flip Action Sluggers Coin Cards”. By losing this outlet for their merchandise, Major League Baseball would then fall. Without baseball, men across America would fall into a deep depression, thereby compromising their immune system making them susceptible to the West Nile Virus.
The American Pig Dog would therefore be wiped off the Earth.
I will continue my research, Sheik Osama, with your blessing.
I look forward to seeing you this weekend at our 401(K) planning retreat.
Also, I need next Thursday off to wait for the cable guy.
Basically, I was making fun of terrorists. Isn't that fun? So . . . You know. Anyway, here it is:
Memo
Date: August 1, 1999
To: Sheik Osama Bin Laden
From: Biological Infection Section
Re: West Nile Virus and The Death of The American Infidel Pig Dog Bastards
Sheik Osama,
We have been studying very hard this “West Nile Virus” you have asked us to investigate. We’ve discovered that most people who contract the illness exhibit fever, headache, and body aches. In some cases we can even get them to get a rash. However, we’ve found that when the infirm are exposed, they also get symptoms of encephalitis, which include severe headache, high fever, stiff neck, confusion, loss of consciousness, muscle weakness and brain swelling. In extreme cases, this results in the death of the Infidel American Pig Dog Bastard.
We have discovered, however, that this only happens in the elderly, transplant patients and people with an otherwise compromised immune systems.
Delivery is also an issue. We cannot get an airborne strain. However, we can deliver it by injection by mosquito. Yes, this sounds like a radical idea. However, we’ve hired a group of out of work minstrels to inject several million of what the Pig Dogs refer to as “Skeeters” with the virus.
We will then release the bugs in New York and allow their natural mating habits (they copulate like Saddam on Viagra and whiskey!) to spread the disease throughout the Pig Dog’s nation.
Our only set back at this point is finding needles small enough to inject the bugs. Also, our workers keep missing the bugs and injecting themselves. They are all complaining of muscle aches, fever and headaches. But they have not taken the day off to recover! Right now there are fourteen miserable minstrels injecting mosquitoes!
I know what you are thinking, Sheik Osama. What good does it do us to kill the elderly and infirm?
I’m here to tell you, my Sheik, that it would cripple their economy. Right now, as we speak, millions of elderly American Pig Dogs are sitting down at an Infidel establishment known as Denny’s to eat the Super Bird at wildly discount prices because of Super Senior Savings Saturday. Not only do they eat the Super Bird, but also Grand Slam Breakfasts, Denny Burgers and Ice Cream Sundaes. Symbols of American Pig Dog excess!
But if we were to eliminate the main consumers on Super Senior Saving Saturday, we would cripple the Denny’s monopoly, thereby creating a domino effect. First, Denny’s would fold because of the lack of senior citizens. The Egg Council, who is inexorably tied to the Omelet Cartel, would shortly follow this. Of course, this would cripple the all-powerful American Pig Dog Chicken farmer. Additionally, Major League Baseball would lose a huge purveyor of their “Flip Action Sluggers Coin Cards”. By losing this outlet for their merchandise, Major League Baseball would then fall. Without baseball, men across America would fall into a deep depression, thereby compromising their immune system making them susceptible to the West Nile Virus.
The American Pig Dog would therefore be wiped off the Earth.
I will continue my research, Sheik Osama, with your blessing.
I look forward to seeing you this weekend at our 401(K) planning retreat.
Also, I need next Thursday off to wait for the cable guy.
Today in "Listening To . . ."
Is a selection of songs from Pale Fountains, Shack and Michael Head and the Strands. All fantastic stuff. Lush, hooky, pop which moves between mid-era Beatles to Forever-Changes-era Arthur Lee to, at times, that same mid-eighties, New Wave brazenness that XTC once had. Of course, those songs were recorded in the mid-eighties when Pale Fountains were a brazen New Wave band. So I guess that's logical.
Thanks David for providing me with some killer tracks. It's damn fine music.
And if you haven't heard any of this, you should feel shame. Much like I did. Honestly, this music is too good to be ignored.
Thanks David for providing me with some killer tracks. It's damn fine music.
And if you haven't heard any of this, you should feel shame. Much like I did. Honestly, this music is too good to be ignored.
Wednesday, May 12, 2004
I’m Not Young
I stumbled into a very strange area this morning, thanks to a two-year-old and a tube of toothpaste. It went something like this.
“I can’t get the toothpaste out!” (Note: She thinks she’s old enough to not only brush her teeth by herself, but to combine several noxious chemicals as well.)
“Here, let me help.” (Note: This was a stupid thing to say)
“AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! WAAAAAHHHHHHH!”
“It’s too early in the morning for this. Let’s go to your room.” (Bad move. The change of venue puts us on her turf.)
“I don’t want you to use the toothpaste!”
“I understand honey. But there are still some things you can’t do on your own. You’re just a toddler.”
“I can do it myself!”
“Listen sweetie, you need help with the toothpaste and brushing your teeth. You could hurt yourself, fall down or swallow toothpaste. You’re too young to do it by yourself.” (At this point, daddy is dead.)
“I AM NOT YOUNG,” says a surprisingly strong voice. “I AM BIG. I CAN DO IT BY MYSELF.”
“But I . . .”
“I AM NOT YOUNG. I AM A BIG GIRL.”
“But honey, you’re only two-years-old.”
“I’M NOT TWO-YEARS-OLD! I AM TWO. I AM BIG.”
Now, keep in mind she was not yelling. She was just being very adamant about this. To make sure I understood that she is not a baby any more and I should stop treating her as such.
So, we settled our differences and decided to work on her teeth together. Something Congress can’t even do. But I got a two year old to compromise. Take that Trent Lott!
She’s apparently hit maturity. Last night we found out that she’s physically stronger than mom and can pin her to a three count. Today we find out that she’s independent. What’s going to happen tomorrow? Are we going to discover an offshore bank account where she’s been putting the royalties from her first two books, “Potty Training: Ten Steps to Parental Independence” and “Batting Your Eyes & Training Dad : He Is As Gullible As He Looks”.
We put on her shoes, together and got ready for her to go to Grandma’s. I handed her the car keys and said, “Be back by four. And watch the traffic on the bridge this morning; I hear it’s a bitch.”
Hey, she’s two. It’s not like she’s a baby anymore.
“I can’t get the toothpaste out!” (Note: She thinks she’s old enough to not only brush her teeth by herself, but to combine several noxious chemicals as well.)
“Here, let me help.” (Note: This was a stupid thing to say)
“AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! WAAAAAHHHHHHH!”
“It’s too early in the morning for this. Let’s go to your room.” (Bad move. The change of venue puts us on her turf.)
“I don’t want you to use the toothpaste!”
“I understand honey. But there are still some things you can’t do on your own. You’re just a toddler.”
“I can do it myself!”
“Listen sweetie, you need help with the toothpaste and brushing your teeth. You could hurt yourself, fall down or swallow toothpaste. You’re too young to do it by yourself.” (At this point, daddy is dead.)
“I AM NOT YOUNG,” says a surprisingly strong voice. “I AM BIG. I CAN DO IT BY MYSELF.”
“But I . . .”
“I AM NOT YOUNG. I AM A BIG GIRL.”
“But honey, you’re only two-years-old.”
“I’M NOT TWO-YEARS-OLD! I AM TWO. I AM BIG.”
Now, keep in mind she was not yelling. She was just being very adamant about this. To make sure I understood that she is not a baby any more and I should stop treating her as such.
So, we settled our differences and decided to work on her teeth together. Something Congress can’t even do. But I got a two year old to compromise. Take that Trent Lott!
She’s apparently hit maturity. Last night we found out that she’s physically stronger than mom and can pin her to a three count. Today we find out that she’s independent. What’s going to happen tomorrow? Are we going to discover an offshore bank account where she’s been putting the royalties from her first two books, “Potty Training: Ten Steps to Parental Independence” and “Batting Your Eyes & Training Dad : He Is As Gullible As He Looks”.
We put on her shoes, together and got ready for her to go to Grandma’s. I handed her the car keys and said, “Be back by four. And watch the traffic on the bridge this morning; I hear it’s a bitch.”
Hey, she’s two. It’s not like she’s a baby anymore.
Tuesday, May 11, 2004
Deadline
I'm under one. Or three, actually. And I think I may actually die trying to meet them. Add to the stress level that my lovely wife is under a deadline as well, plus school is ending for Matilda soon and we have a vacation looming. And, I need to pick up two more projects I need to start soon as well as launching two others I have here but am waiting for materials on.
Why did I become a freelancer? Oh yeah, so I could spend more time with the kids. You know, what's her name and the other one? They still live here, I think. I wouldn't know. I'm in the basement resetting tabs on 19 chapters of a book. For all I know it's Lord of the Flies up there.
I'm sleepy. And crabby.
Yeah. That's no different than any other days except that I'm not claiming to be happy.
At least I have good music to listen to. And a vacation to look forward to. And the fact that, because of the deadlines and prior commitments, we haven't had time to do the laundry or grocery shop.
We're all hungry, stressed out and naked.
Yep. It's Lord of the Flies.
As Piggy once said, "We did everything just the way grownups would've. Why didn't it work?"
Well Piggy, because everybody's a bastard. That's why.
Why did I become a freelancer? Oh yeah, so I could spend more time with the kids. You know, what's her name and the other one? They still live here, I think. I wouldn't know. I'm in the basement resetting tabs on 19 chapters of a book. For all I know it's Lord of the Flies up there.
I'm sleepy. And crabby.
Yeah. That's no different than any other days except that I'm not claiming to be happy.
At least I have good music to listen to. And a vacation to look forward to. And the fact that, because of the deadlines and prior commitments, we haven't had time to do the laundry or grocery shop.
We're all hungry, stressed out and naked.
Yep. It's Lord of the Flies.
As Piggy once said, "We did everything just the way grownups would've. Why didn't it work?"
Well Piggy, because everybody's a bastard. That's why.
Monday, May 10, 2004
Groovy
Blogger relaunched itself today with new features and an entire new UI. Well, it didn't relaunch itself. Odds are the web monkeys took care of it. Very interesting. I like the new features. Like the integrated comments. Look up and you'll see them. Groovy. Go ahead and comment all you like. We'll make more. Or less. I don't know.
But the new design of their UI? Well . . . it's . . . bubbly. It's all round and soft and happy. I prefer the old, harsher, utilitarian design that would have made Ayn Rand proud. This one is perky. Merry even.
I am not a merry man.
But the new design of their UI? Well . . . it's . . . bubbly. It's all round and soft and happy. I prefer the old, harsher, utilitarian design that would have made Ayn Rand proud. This one is perky. Merry even.
I am not a merry man.
Friday, May 07, 2004
Quote of the Day
By me:
"You never know when you'll need to pull out that Dylan Thomas imitation."
This was, of course, shortly after I imitated Dylan Thomas working at McDonalds. Christy knows what I'm talkin' 'bout.
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Cheeseburger
"You never know when you'll need to pull out that Dylan Thomas imitation."
This was, of course, shortly after I imitated Dylan Thomas working at McDonalds. Christy knows what I'm talkin' 'bout.
Do Not Go Gentle Into That Cheeseburger
Brilliant!
Buy a cable channel based on technology with a decent following and available on many cable and satellite offerigns and then fire the staff and relocate everything to a crappy tech network that no one watches.
Good idea. Even better idea, piss of techies and hackers. You know how well geeks handle rejections.
I don't know the business model or revenue for either station, but Tech TV isn't exactly the Style Channel. People watch the channel. I watch the channel.
And move it to LA, the blackhole of technology. The city that takes every good idea and turns it into bottled water. Brilliant!
G4. Heh. Idiots.
Oh well. More time to watch Alton Brown and his Julia Childs meets Mr. Wizard, geeky cooking show.
Discuss
Good idea. Even better idea, piss of techies and hackers. You know how well geeks handle rejections.
I don't know the business model or revenue for either station, but Tech TV isn't exactly the Style Channel. People watch the channel. I watch the channel.
And move it to LA, the blackhole of technology. The city that takes every good idea and turns it into bottled water. Brilliant!
G4. Heh. Idiots.
Oh well. More time to watch Alton Brown and his Julia Childs meets Mr. Wizard, geeky cooking show.
Discuss
Thursday, May 06, 2004
Posting?
Yeah. Well . . . Busy. Tired. Burned out on somethings. Trying to work extra hours to pay for the laptop. Ironically, not working from the laptop because I have to work on some wood pulp thing.
I'll get back to it soon, promise.
So, anyway . . . Reading a good John Varley book that's been out of print for many years. Shh. Don't tell anyone. Found it for a buck at a book fair last weekend.
I also picked up Boys From Brazil. Never read it. Kinda curious.
Found some examples of my snarkier comments for StreamSearch on The Wayback Machine. This was during a period where I was writing the entire site, after they laid off all my friends. Admittedly, I had some fun . . . (WARNING: These pages are sloooooooooow.)
This is where we started.
Notice, only one strange comment. Only a simple statement below the titles. That would change, since we were bankrupt and I had nothing to lose. Too bad I couldn't find the day when I featured XTC's "Mayor of Simpleton" and compared the titular character to my company's CEO.
Example 1:
This one has a ton of French jokes. And this was long before it was patriotic to hate the French. Huh. I don't hate the French. I just think they are funny. All the film comments in the blue and gold section are pretty strange. Enjoy.
Example 2:
In this one, make sure to read the bits on The Forsaken, Amelie and Atlantis, about which I was very, very, very wrong. I'm a sucker for Steam Punk.
Example 3:
Notice the music comment. The French again. And a monkey. Heh. All the movie ones are pretty snarky. Tomb Raider and FOTR.
Example 4:
More snarky comments. A plug for The Green and Yellow TV.
Example 5:
Snarky movie comment about Jurassic Park III. But, then, notice how I took over the music section. Adventures of Jet, Elvis, Linus of Hollywood (I was always proud of that description) . . .
Okay. Goodnight Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are.
Discuss Stuff and Things and, Well, Stuff
I'll get back to it soon, promise.
So, anyway . . . Reading a good John Varley book that's been out of print for many years. Shh. Don't tell anyone. Found it for a buck at a book fair last weekend.
I also picked up Boys From Brazil. Never read it. Kinda curious.
Found some examples of my snarkier comments for StreamSearch on The Wayback Machine. This was during a period where I was writing the entire site, after they laid off all my friends. Admittedly, I had some fun . . . (WARNING: These pages are sloooooooooow.)
This is where we started.
Notice, only one strange comment. Only a simple statement below the titles. That would change, since we were bankrupt and I had nothing to lose. Too bad I couldn't find the day when I featured XTC's "Mayor of Simpleton" and compared the titular character to my company's CEO.
Example 1:
This one has a ton of French jokes. And this was long before it was patriotic to hate the French. Huh. I don't hate the French. I just think they are funny. All the film comments in the blue and gold section are pretty strange. Enjoy.
Example 2:
In this one, make sure to read the bits on The Forsaken, Amelie and Atlantis, about which I was very, very, very wrong. I'm a sucker for Steam Punk.
Example 3:
Notice the music comment. The French again. And a monkey. Heh. All the movie ones are pretty snarky. Tomb Raider and FOTR.
Example 4:
More snarky comments. A plug for The Green and Yellow TV.
Example 5:
Snarky movie comment about Jurassic Park III. But, then, notice how I took over the music section. Adventures of Jet, Elvis, Linus of Hollywood (I was always proud of that description) . . .
Okay. Goodnight Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are.
Discuss Stuff and Things and, Well, Stuff
Tuesday, May 04, 2004
The Project That Never Ends
And I'm in the middle of it. I've turned it over twice and had to go back to it. Now I have to add something to every chapter. And yet, they complain that they don't have the money to spend on it.
Here's a clue: Don't send it back to the freelancer for four drafts. Especially for things you can do yourself.
But I have another week with it.
I think I'm going to have Gertrude punch me in the groin again. That was more fun.
Complain About Your Job Here.
Here's a clue: Don't send it back to the freelancer for four drafts. Especially for things you can do yourself.
But I have another week with it.
I think I'm going to have Gertrude punch me in the groin again. That was more fun.
Complain About Your Job Here.
Monday, May 03, 2004
Seeking Theories
Gertrude just walked up to me, punched me in the groin and said, "Honk Honk." That it happened in the middle of Walgreens just makes the humiliation greater. I couldn't tell if she was laughing at what she did, or the way my eyes were watering and I was turning purple.
Now, the question is why did she do it? To make sure she always stays the baby? Possible. But that seems too easy.
What's your theory?
Respond many times. I doubt my groin will ever have another discussion dedicated to it ever again. Let it enjoy its time in the spotlight.
Now, the question is why did she do it? To make sure she always stays the baby? Possible. But that seems too easy.
What's your theory?
Respond many times. I doubt my groin will ever have another discussion dedicated to it ever again. Let it enjoy its time in the spotlight.
Network
Yeah. I got me a new wireless network. All set up, figured out what music folders to open to the network . . .
Laptop arrives tomorrow. My ability to follow Matilda to all of her summer activities and classes while still being able to work is nearly complete.
Let the brain tumor from the wireless signal begin!
Complaints to stop surfing the Internet in bed a midnight also start tomorrow.
Construction on the Death Star halted due to a labor dispute.
Laptop arrives tomorrow. My ability to follow Matilda to all of her summer activities and classes while still being able to work is nearly complete.
Let the brain tumor from the wireless signal begin!
Complaints to stop surfing the Internet in bed a midnight also start tomorrow.
Construction on the Death Star halted due to a labor dispute.
Saturday, May 01, 2004
Magnetic Fields Tickets . . .
Purchased.
Wonder if I bring my ukulele if they'll let me sit in on "Nothing Matters When We're Dancing" . . .
Wonder if I bring my ukulele if they'll let me sit in on "Nothing Matters When We're Dancing" . . .
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