Nothing To Report
It’s been a few weeks since my last posting, and other than a few enjoyable outings to the Hill Country in which I communed with nature, a spur of the moment trip to Vegas* and a day trip to the Shiner Brewery (Dee-runky-poo!), there is nothing exceedinglyinteresting to report.
I finally get my shipment in on the 9th, which means I get my camera, so thereafter I’ll be taking lots of pictures, not the least interesting of which will be my bizarre steering wheel tan lines, and the pictures I plan to take of the country roads whose asphalt occasionally reverts to liquid form in the midday sun, or the two Texas longhorn steers I have befriended (purely platonic you sickos), or the cactus whose thorny transgression upon my big toe has spawned plans for a revenge killing, or the erstwhile nest of Texas Red Wasps (Polistes carolina)** I dispatched with a few deft sprays from a garden hose and only a few episodes of girly arm-waving and very little fleeing in panic, plus many more of the curiosities I have found that are making me dig my adopted home more and more as time goes by (really, not being sarcastic this time).
All is well with work, everyone is cool enough, and we’re planning an office outing to South Padre Island sometime this season, which is good, ‘cause that way I can dip across the border and get my illicit-and-currently-dwindling supply of licking-toads replenished.
Woot. Hope you're enjoyin' your summer too.
* I came off the Pai Gow table flush, but I spent all of my winnings on worthless Elvis memorabilia. I swear, every time I go to Vegas or Atlantic City, I turn into a retard who can't resist shiny things. I'm beginning to think that they pump small amounts of nitrous oxide through the ventilation ducts.
** Picture the largest wasp you have ever seen, and triple its size. Then paint it Devil’s Arse Red and steal its cookie.
Sweet Steaming Jesus On a Shish Kabob
Yes, I know its wrong of me to complain so soon about what might be the defining feature of my new hometown, but holy fucking bloody apeshit asshole burning in hell, it is hot.
Okay, so it's not quite Surface-of-the-Sun hot (I’m looking at you, Phoenix), but goddamnit, it is hot. It is May, you see – and all the climatology data I’ve used as a basis for understanding my new home's weather patterns has been hucked out mother nature's window. Not following? Here’s a little chart to illustrate my point (with the days I’ve been here highlighted):
Average daily high for San Antonio in May (in fifty-one years of records)? 86°. Average rainfall? 4.76 inches. Current Average High for month of May? 94.8°. Rainfall to date? 0.00 inches.
Perhaps this is SA’s way of saying “Welcome to Texas, Gringo!”, and if so I can take a good joke, but man, It's not funny so much anymore. Sure, I appreciate the average humidity of this period being near 40% (comfortable in most cases), but humidity doesn’t tend to matter when you are standing in a fucking smelting furnace, now does it?
Oh, it’s alright. It’s not too bad, really. The heat is manageable. What really pisses me off is that I haven’t had my $200 prescription sunglasses this entire time, and I can’t go out and get a replacement pair because my prescription is out of date, and I probably look like I am perpetually grumping in my pants, the way I am squinting all the time. “Why not just get a pair of cheap sunglasses and wear them over your glasses?” they say. Well, it’s simple. Because I’d rather suffer a constant cornea-searing ultraviolet bombardment than look like a complete windowlicker. Call me vain, I don’t care.
I’m not the only one in a relatively constant state of squidge. I can’t be quite sure, because he always plays it close to the vest, but I think Dog might be planning a bloody nighttime mutiny. I’ve taken steps, though. I’ve taken to hiding the truck keys in the bathtub (he’ll NEVER find them there), and I’ve explicitly told my auto insurers that he is NOT authorized to drive my vehicle. I’ve also greased up the doorknobs in the apartment with Crisco. Why? Well, a few nights ago I think I walked in on him while he was building a bionic opposable digit. Hopefully the Crisco’ll put the kibosh on that plan.
Other than those few things, everything is fine and dandy out here! Hope all is well in your neck of the woods!
p.s. – save me
Big Trip Log Part 3: Arrival and Acclimatization
Well, I made it. I’ve actually been here since last Monday, but life intrudes. Lessee here: I could regale you with stories about my stint in the DFW metro with my brother, or perhaps I can give you a little bit of the flavor of San Antonio I’ve indulged in so far, or perhaps I can talk about how ruthlessly efficient the Texas Department of Public Safety is… Or, wait a sec… maybe I could use paragraphs and subheadin’s to do all three! Gawsh. What a novel idea.
Living La Vida Borracho
I love my brother. We don’t get to see each other often, as he has for the past 15 years or so maintained a significant geographic separation from me. Not that he’s done so on purpose, mind you – life often rends perfectly good relationships asunder – but for us, it only means that when we do get together, it is an occasion to get completely shithammered and laugh about stuff only he and I ever laugh about.
Oh, and engage in often risky but always entertaining behavior. (see fig. 1)
Thus I am here to explain about how we had a good ol’ time out in his neck of the woods (“Unincorporated Ellis County” to be exact) where few laws apply that cannot be enforced with a polite wave, or when push comes to shove, a shotgun blast or two. Kidding of course. He lives in a perfectly genteel suburban Dallas neighborhood in an awesome house with a nice big yard and plenty of decent neighbors. Anyway… We spent a good deal of time buying beer – I think the tally at the end of my stay was one (1) case of Miller Lite, one (1) case of Dos Equis, one (1) 12pk of Tecate, and one (1) half-keg of Michelob (see fig. 2).
We did some yard work in order to feel like we accomplished something, and we then proceeded to drink a lot. And laughed. I got a cramp in my abs so bad that I had to walk around with my hands over my head and my back arched backwards like a rebo for 15 minutes. Good times.
We said our goodbyes, knowing that for once we'll be living within a decent drive of eachother. After almost a week on the road and a few days off to chill and hang, I had to drive the ~275 miles from Dallas to San Antonio. I drove straight through Austin, too... even though I promised to stop and see a friend there. I’m probably gonna make it up to Austin sometime this weekend, If I can… even after a week or so, I’m still as road weary as it gets.
Wherein I Ask Around for Good Mexican Food and End Up in South East San Antonio
So, two people I’ve met so far have invited me out to dinner at a place called Don Pedro – apparently this is the go-to joint for sabor autentico – and it was good food, but the atmosphere was the best part. Being the big white guy in a room full of Tejano fans is fun in an odd sort of way… Like being a guest on the set of one of those Univision telenovelas where the big breasted and drop-dead gorgeous latina is fighting with an evil mother-in-law over who has the better relleno recipe or who shot su papa to usurp some land in Baja he was going to deed to his only son… so sitting at the bar waiting for a table like we did was just fine for me. Though I did have the “I’m a total gringo!” experience with the bartender when I smugly said “¡Muchacho! Dos cervezas y una margarita con su tequila mejor, por favor!” To which he replied in a fairly deep Texas drawl “Fine. Y’all want some pretzels, too?” But mostly I had fun marveling at the parade of beautiful if overkempt (word?) women at that place. I’ll be going back eh-chortly.
Taquerias: There are thousands of them, it seems. Taco Expresso, Taqueria Jalisco, El Nayarit and Rocky’s are the four I have tried as of this posting; happy to report that I have not had any unexpected gastric distress, and of the four, Jalisco es lo mejor. With extra jalapeños, por supuesto.
Driving around with Maryland plates had me a little worried – my brother had said that 5-0 makes a point to look for hippy mules like me – but even with a few cervezas under my belt, i made it home safely. One night I was driving home from somewhere and I stopped at a red light, because I obey most traffic laws* when I heard this crazy swarmy chirping noise coming from a group of mature Mesquite trees beside the road. “Wow” I thought to myself, “Those birds are up late, they must be having a block party or summit.” The next day I relayed this tit-bit to a coworker, to which he replied “Oh nah man, those are the bats.” Yes, it seems that the largest swarm of Mexican free-tailed bats in North America (or any sort of bat, really) just happens to be in this city, at this time, to mate and poop on stuff. Cool.
TDPS: Ruthlessly Efficient in Servin’ Y’alls Innerest
So yeah, the Texas DPS is ruthless. It cost me $177 to get my truck inspected and registered here. They give you these two big-assed stickers – something I’m not used to at all – and the Texas plates with the Space Shuttle (cool I guess), so now the only way I could possibly raise the suspicion of local law enforcement is by driving like a rational human being. Service roads? WTF? I asked my brother what the secret is, and he said its simple once you give up a good portion of your instinct for self-preservation: “Drive Fast. Brake Hard.”
The DPS is also where one goes to get a concealed-carry permit for a firearm, as well as (I think) a liquor license. You'd think mixing those three into one agency would be a recipe for disaster, right? I'll have to keep an eye on those folks. I've seen cop cars with DPS on 'em, they are like the State Troopers here in Texas. My brother said that the DPS guys would ticket their own grandmother; but he put it this way: “ Even though between cops, you usually just need to flash a badge to get cut some slack, those DPS guys are hardasses. Show your badge or ID and they'll say 'Hey, that's one shiny badge! See you in court.'” The Texas Rangers are like the State-level FBI**. For such a free-spirited state, there is a serious profusion of police bureaucracy. Who knew.
Oh Yeah! The Weather
It was oppressively hot and muggy twice last week, and there was a stint of some wicked weather, but since then it has been mild and in the low 80's. I was really starting to like it, actually -- then the Time Warner Cable guy (also a network flunky, so we chatted) said "Joo ain' see nothin, maink. Ees gonna get hotter than a snake's ass is a wagon rut here directly." Oh well. I'm wearing cotton; it breathes.
*This is Texas, after all. If Dubya and Rover have proved anything, it's how flexible a Texan's relationship to the law can be.
**Think Chuck Norris and a karate-choppin' brother in a cowboy hat.
The Master Lists - Selected Items of Interest
Like any semi-organized and self-sufficient adult in today’s fast-paced world, I’ve taken to making lists to keep myself on top of my responsibilities, personal, fiscal and dietary (hah) goals, and of course, the order in which I dress myself (Pants AFTER underwear! Pants AFTER underwear!).
In order to cope with the sea change that will be moving to The Lone Star State, I have created just such a list. Two master lists, actually; one for here and one for when I get there¹. So we have the Here Master List: stuff like move boxes, sort books, sell profusion of midget porno at local Baptist church swap meet, et cetera, and the There Master List. Today we’ll be examining part of the latter.
Part four of the preamble’s appendix, garnered from some of my research deals with stuff like rattlesnakes, blue laws, fireworks, and titty bars. Ready access to cultural decompression –i.e. proximity to the liberal stronghold of Austin– is handled in the “Pressing Eventualities” section of the “Use Extreme Caution” addendum, located in the first interstitial précis (After the section on ‘Mexican Food-Related Emergencies’).
Further down the list, scanning over such items as “Unpack toiletries” (#3) and “Find place of honor for expected I Can’t Believe He Ate All Them Grits coffee mug/trophy from the Bayou La Batre, AL. Waffle House” (#4), and “Walk the dog” (#5), you can see I’ve worked hard on simplifying… nay, clarifying the list. After “Find real place to live” (which squeaks in at number eleven) but before “Buy ranch big enough to start Brazillian Tea Cult” (#21), we come to list item number twelve. This item is highlighted and starred several times. There’s even a little glitter.
12. (Sublist follows) Find and purchase a red 1976 Cadillac El Dorado convertible with ivory-colored leather interior. Make the following changes/additions. See attached image. (Click for enlarged rendition and sublist).
Ooops, almost forgot. I need to make an appointment for the fitting of my personalized “Don’t Mess With Texas” belt buckle. That moves up to #16, while “Hijack buffalo jerky truck, pin crime on transient Briton” slides to #17.
¹Do not question the logic of two master lists. It is not your head we are working in here.
Picking Up the Slack
Since both tfg of assclown fame and ACW of necrophilial infamy have seemingly both surrendered to The Man, and some sort of conventional need to “do their job” so they can “get paid” and “eat food”, I guess I’m responsible for picking up the slack and BRINGING THE PAIN!!! (if pain is what makes you laugh like it does for Dick Cheney and me).
As Henry David Thoreau (or as I called him, HD-Thizzle) once intimated, modern man prosecutes life plagued by stillborn rage and quiet desperation – an existence that rarely affords him the opportunity to succinctly communicate his innermost frustrations or openly expound on the principles he holds dear. No, more often than not he is restricted to things like, oh, I dunno, explaining to someone who is comfortably out of earshot the virtues of autocopulative activity, or extolling the benefits of picking a lane, or, by extension, learning how to fucking drive. If he does have a chance to confront his abuser, he often gets some ten steps away before he finds the perfect thing to have said – this only serves to further his simmering frustration, which – at least in my experience – can only be slaked by hiring a Filipina hooker to stomp on his beanbag.
Oh, but sometimes his moment comes. Perhaps he’s been waiting for it, ammo in hand – or perhaps he’s had his grapenuts in the morning. (BTW - Grape Nuts? wtf is that about?)
So I’m out on the deck this fine evening searing up some of my famous cow cakes – light beer in hand, cigarette dangling from my lip. Not being a total reclusive sociopath, I was also peering through the sliding glass door, trying to watch the latest episode of The George W. Bush Foot-In-Mouth Show (as presented by CNN), when off to my right I hear:
Hat: “So, you barbecuin’ again tonight?”
Me: “Yes. Just some burgers.”
Hat: “Beef?”
Me: (tempted to say nope, your whiny fucking feral cats) “Yep.”
Hat: (feeling the need to spread his misery about the tree bark his wife makes him eat) “That red meat is no good for you. It’ll take years off your life.”
Me: (without making eye contact) “Really?”
Hat: … (sensing my level of support for his new career as a nutritionist) …
Me: “I heard the same thing about not minding your own business.”
Hat: (his sliding glass door closes, with him on opposite side.)
Well, suffice it to say, I almost soiled my pants in self-satisfaction. Now I can call Yao-Tran and cancel my appointment with her stillettos of discipline.
PodWatch 2005
The annual non-faith-specific gift-giving period is pretty much over for this fiscal year, and, seeing as how I spent a load on gifts for others this go ‘round, I figure the few hundred I had left over in the budget should buy me (me! me! me!) something quite pointless and quite novel, and so incredibly ridiculously trendy that it makes my head hurt ever so slightly. "Hey!" I said to myself, "I like music! I like technology!"
Well–In accordance with my own secret wishlist and a subsequent oversight on Chanukkah Harry’s part (snub!), I decided this past Mondee to gank a Thirty Gigabyte Fifth Generation iPod with Video Playback from the Apple.com Store… complete with personalized engraving and a handful of other ass-essories to make my podding experience richer. I got a Speck Toughskin™ shell, a pair of nifty Sony headphones, and a cassette adapter for Willis (my truck). I laid out 13 extra bones for FedEx’s “2day Shipping”, of course. What Apple failed to mention in their glossy sales pitch, however, is that this magical mystical 2-day shipping applies to items that ‘exist’ within CONUS; so if say, iPods were manufactured, assembled, and customized in Shanghai, PRC, I’d have to wait until myPod was in Oregon or California to start the clock. Pfft. Tricky bastards.
So here it sits, my lonely rubberized iPod sleeve, along with it’s friends the Sony headphones and the cassette adapter, waiting for the JoshPod to show up so I can load it down with Bluegrass and System of a Down and Terry Pratchett books — or some of the other 80+ Gigs of “media” I have floating around on my network. I can say this about the headphones: besides feeling initially quite bizarre (the first 10 minutes or so) stuffed in your ears, they reproduce quite an amazing range.
And yeah, I went with the black iPod. The white is so teh ghey c. 2005.
One Disappointed Dawg
He was really looking forward to using his natural camouflage against the squirrels.
Sunday, Decemberish, Still in Maryland.
After I tired of the bad football and the Adam Sandler movies on TBS, I hopped in the pussy wagon and headed out to the local grocery. I didn’t need anything in particular, I just decided to strap on my birken-socks and roll out so I could perhaps meander around the MexoRican food section, and maybe do a little research on what is sure to be a large part of my future diet. Maybe this time, I thought, I’d figure out what the fuck horchata is made of, and if I really remember chasing some cheap tequila con los gusanos with it at some blurry point in the past–or if it was just some sort of mistransposed pot memory.
Standing there, feeling quite Lebowski in my pajama bottoms, amidst the Goya (ah ah Goy ah!) products and the pork-mango sodas from Ecuador and the Santa Maria devotional candles, I came to realize that the people around me, the people from Columbia, these ‘Columbia people’, were acting even more bizarre than usual. It dawned on me, of course, when I saw Douchebag A (complete with the bluetooth cellphone earpiece) staring into space while talking obnoxiously about some sort of scheme to prolong his pointless Columbia existence… He was carrying–and I shit you not Marylanders–A loaf of bread, a half gallon of milk, and a bundle of toilet paper. I felt like giving him an atomic wedgie right there in the hot sauce section.
Then it hit me; this might be one of the last batches of snow I see for quite a few years. Snow that’s somewhere close to sea level, and not in Colorado after a 22-hour road trip up some steep hills, that is.
I liked living in Cairo. Even though everything was always covered in dust, I got used to preponderance of sun and the idea of having but two seasons: hot summer and less hot summer. That said, I really have enjoyed the seasonality here in the mid-Atlantic, and I’m afraid that I might again be moving to a place where seasons are far less pronounced, a snow event triggers cries of the apocalypse, and I might feel compelled to wear flipflops in February.
Oh well, I’ll try and enjoy the snow while it’s here, if not the lizard-brained panic displayed by the populace in these parts.
And horchata sucks, don’t ever drink it.
Wherein I Act Curmudgeonly.
So, I might be getting old.
I can tell, because this past Friday, my folk’s neighbors left town, and didn’t take their maladjusted 21 year-old son with them.
I think there’s definitely something to be said about the age of 25 being a watershed; at 30, trying to comprehend the actions of anyone younger than 25 is difficult at best, especially when you have first-hand knowledge of how stupid and incomprehensible people can be in their early 20’s. All that aside, I tolerate them. For the most part.
Sue, the mother of the the aformentioned miscreant, is a really nice person. She never has a bad word to say about anything or anyone, and she has dealt with some pretty serious health issues in the last year. Keeping this in mind, one need but look at her interaction with her son to see that he really is the worst kind of arrogant, disrespectful, I-own-you Columbia kid. I’ve only been back here about three weeks or so, but by week one I knew this confrontation was coming. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s lippy, line-stepping little fucks who think the world owes them a Snickers™ bar. Strike One.
Sure, I partied hard when I was younger – really hard, in fact, so I was willing to put up with the loud bullshit on Friday and Saturday night. Last night around midnight however, one of the drunken twats that have been traipsing up and down the driveway for the last few days decided to tell my “stupid dog” to “shut up”.
Bad Idea.
Apparently, dear reader, he did not see me standing in the garage enjoying a Camel, as I am wont to do. I’m not sure exactly what I said, but I know it contained these phrases: your bullshit, elsewhere, ever fucking, my dog, axe-handle, and of course, your name on it. Asshole party guests. Strike Two.
On my days off (most of them anymore), I like to keep the dogs on fairly long ropes out in front of the house, as this is where exists the highest concentration of squirrel activity, and other objects that might pique the canine curiosity. The asshat in question–who apparently fancies himself Dale Earnhart Jr.–has thusfar ignored repeated entreaties from both myself and my parents to slow down as he’s coming down the shared part of the driveway.
So; let us move forward to today.
Sue (asshat’s mother) had asked me on Thursday last to feed her cats while the family was away. This actually left me quite confused, because as of this writing, asshat is still in town (I believe she was under the impression he was going somewhere else for the week, a job maybe). Being a typically amiable fellow, I decided I’d hang out in front of the house with my dogs until asshat showed up, so I could politely ask him when I was to take over the cat feeding duties; I don’t particularly like cats (at all), but I love animals, and I wouldn’t put it past this fuckbag to let them go hungry.
Of course, Mr. Hat comes tear-assing down the driveway in his father’s sportscar. Strike Three.
So, long story shortened, I won’t be feeding the cats this weekend. And Mr. Hat has now been informed – succinctly and without any possibility of future misunderstanding – that if he ever comes within ten feet of hitting my dog with his little cock-maneuver down the driveway, I’ll be going to jail for a felony, and he won't be feeling quite so speedy ever again.
Life on the Cul de Sac. I’m anxious to see how this works out.
Google Talk
I know I poke fun at the Macintosh cult – the pod people – those who would probably refinance their homes to buy the latest version of the G series… But of course, being human, I am a hypocrite. I’m just as much a sheep for Google’s new stuff.
Within the last year I’ve sucessfully conquered a crippling dependence on Yahoo Messenger, but as Google has now entered the IM/VOIP fray, I just can’t resist. Problem is, It seems I’m the only one who has signed up so far. So I’ve got this nifty looking lightweight IM tool open on my desktop. Great.
Someone, anyone out there who might have the client too – spam me ( jbestell is my email/login) so I can see this thing work.
Thanks.
GooD BuSiness
I recieved an interesting piece of spam today:
hey
i am one of biggest boss in egyptian mafia . i am hacker from egypt , i hacking banks and get information of people . i can make millions of dollar but need good client and asistant in USA & UK & Canda . we will make many money together by transfer money into his bank account and we will split money 50/50 but if you don’t accept this so forget about and delete this e-mail if u accept just send me ur info to contact u THaNKS
Now here’s the thing: I know that the “Egyptian mafia” is real. I’m pretty sure, in retrospect, that I went to high school with more than one mob kid. This is not as cool as it may sound, though… You see, I also happen to know that these guys are dumbasses par excellence. In fact, I remember vividly seeing two members of said ‘organization’ slap- fighting outside of a dance club in Cairo, spitting at each other and calling each other whores. The clear victor in the altercation eventually triumphed by giving up the civility of the open-handed joust for the deadly scimitar that was his huarache sandal. This of course forced his erstwhile foe to withdraw, and the crowd seemed stunned by such a shocking affront. Bottoms of feet are a big deal in the Arab world; go figure.
I also remember a story in the Gazette about three such mafiosi accidentally blowing themselves to bits while robbing a bank in Alexandria.
One could easily dismiss this spam as the work of some 13-year-old kid with an overactive imagination and a proclivity for criminal behavior, but then again–knowing what I know about the Kebab Kartel–it could very well be sincere. Should I go for it?
September 19th
Today is—as everybody should know—the date marked on the calendar for International Talk Like a Pirate Day.
It is your responsibility to create any small measure of menace you see fit. Suggestions? Raid the work fridge. Put parrot poop on your boss’s BMW. Plunder the stationery closet. (No ravaging of coworkers, that’s not cool.) I bet you’ve ideas of your own; run with it.
In the mean time, here’s a list of pirate phrases that will add color to your rampage.
Weigh anchor and take nae prizzners.
Update09/20/2005
My favorite shanty of all time, as performed by my favorite band of all time. ;)
Yonder Mountain String Band - The Mermaid (traditional) MP3 3:38
'Twas Friday morn when we set sail
And we were not farrrgh from the land
When arrgh Captain, he spied a mermaid so fair
With a comb and a glass in her hand.And the ocean waves do roll
And the stormy winds do blow
And we four sailors arggh skipping at the top
And the land lubbers lay down below, below, below
And the land lubbers lay down belowWell up spoke the Captain of arggh gallant ship
And a fine spoken man was He
He said "This fishy mermaid has warned me of our doom,
We shall sink to the bottom of the sea!"Then up spoke the cabin boy of our gallant ship
And a brave young lad was he
He said "I have a sweetheart at Salem by the sea,
and tonight she'll be weepin' for me."Well up spoke the Cook of our gallant ship
And a greasy old butcher was he
He said "I care more for my my pots and my pans
Than I do for the bottom of the sea!"Then three times 'round spun our gallant ship
And three times 'round spun she
Three times 'round spun our gallant ship
And she sank to the bottom of the sea!
Tie Dye Camp, Strawberry Festival - Camp Mather, CA May 25th, 2005
Does Anyone Actually Use Hotmail Anymore?
Oye, I’m verklempt. Talk amongst yourselves… I’ll give you a topic:
MSN Hotmail is niether hot nor mail. Discuss.
This afternoon, out of the clear blue nowhere, I thought about my now defunct Hotmail account. It worked fine, I suppose, though it served up loads of pointless ads, spam, and lost the occasional mail. It was tolerable – for the four years or so that I used it – before I unceremoniously abandoned it in favor of a lightweight, no bullshit Gmail account.
I am guessing that Microsoft really took a hit on that one; but even as I reactivated my “reserved” account, I was forced to wade through three full pages of pointless advertising. Do people still put up with that crap? I'm wondering aloud what the strategy is here, besides what seems to be a declaration of uncle to Google. Maybe they're just saying to themselves “Oh, screw free email, we'll just gouge the shit out of 'em with Vista.” ◊
Just Here for a Little Bumping
Yes, I know I have been rather quiet here of late, but this repose has been purely cosmetic. I was hoping to get something out for the CSS Reboot, but alas, I fought the temptation to rush an unstable and unweildy design into production, as it were.
I have also spent a lot of time on the wheatblog project (looky here!), and I also designed a new “master” site for its presence on sourceforge.net. Hopefully we can fool people into believing we are serious with this whole thing—but I doubt it.
And that's it, for me. . . But, might I suggest a few mental and/or visual libations for those patrons left wanting?
D'ya like Lego? D'ya like bizarre Scots? Like short films? Those meeting these criteria should certainly visit Oblong Pictures. The films are around 20 megs a pop, and some of them are even worth it.
Much is being made about the recent announcement about Adobe acquiring Macromedia–and a lot of folks have concerns. No worries–The Daring Fireball puts a fine point on the issue, for those of us not so quick on the uptake.
And of course, as a devotee of the pompatus of Firefox, I have to highly recommend a new extension for the web developers within earshot. Its called Aardvark and it is pretty damned cool—not only for its amazing functionality, but for the cleverness of the name; it provokes, for me, a childhood memory of meeting a real aardvark, and having it sniff my hand – a truly unique sensation – sort of a cross between a. . . well, I will leave it up to your imagination. Oh by the by: if you do decide to install Aardvark, you should probably bookmark the site, as the extension is shortcut driven.
Lastly — Do me a favor and don't get your hopes up for a lot of new content. I want it to be a surprise, and nothing sucks worse than a spoiler. ;-)
Until next we speak - Godspeed, fellow trav'lers! ◊
I need to be more active in causes I believe in.
This one, for instance. I figure if nothing else, sending her back to the joint will keep the so-called news media from jamming their heads up her ass and broadcasting from beginning to end her bullshit propaganda; Lord knows, the poor thing needs an extra billion dollars or so.
If I was a pessimist, I would probably think that episodes like this spell the beginning of the end of Western civilization. But no—I am an optimist. I'll just keep on hoping she fails.
Pessimist: "The glass is half empty."
Optimist: "No, it is half full."
Pessimist: "Half empty!"
Optimist: "Half full!"
Pessimist: "Look, we could go on arguing like this all day—can we at least agree the glass is not full yet?"
◊
Bumping Again: Testing The Comment Process
Sorry for alertin' y'all with the empty comments, I was testing a new feature with the system. ◊
I Am Certainly Destined to Not Invent a Time Machine
A Mildly Informed Treatise on Cosmology
By Joshua Estell
Lately I have been doing a lot of casual reading about the current state of the universe, as explained by the body scientific. This is a time of great ferment in the world of physics; in fact, many in the academic community are wont to call it “the golden age of cosmology”. Many amazing and yet completely unpredicted things are being uncovered. Of course, this community does not speak with one voice: you have your String Theorists, who base their particular view of the universe on a somewhat exotic and epistemological idealism; that is to say, an abiding belief in the infallibility of mathematics–and you have your Supersymmetry types, who believe that the only thing between humankind and a firm understanding of the universe as a whole is the current lack of a supercollider powerful enough to see matter as it existed at the beginning of the universe1. You may be pausing at this point to ask yourself what the hell I am talking about, or why I care. Well, I am not a particularly religious person, though I do believe in god, so chalk this up as me asking questions of my faith. All of this might seem like a layperson striking out for a bridge too far, but I have a fair grasp of the concepts that underpin General and Special Relativity, and at least a notion of what quantum physics means to me. I suppose I feel an allegiance to the geeks in labcoats looking for the face of god in a reality wholly created and cultivated by man, while at the same time having some pretty serious reservations about the lengths they choose to go.
I've spent a lot of time romanticizing the relationship between bleeding edge science and philosophy, mostly brought on by one particular book that I kept on my person for nearly a year of college. Okay, sure, I did this because I hoped it would get me laid, but funnily enough, I actually managed to read and understand some of the gnarlier bits on quantum mechanics (amazing, as this theoretical mishmash was explained by a hippy physicist tenured at the University of Vienna, who was working with English as a third language). Nowadays, however, the more I read about these new discoveries the more they seem like mere corrections, not unlike the ones you might find so unceremoniously buried on page D16 of a newspaper:
Corrections and Omissions
Last week we ran a story about State Senator John McFooenburg being held in custody after allegedly smearing himself with peanut butter and power-walking through Downtown while loudly proclaiming himself the aggrieved reincarnation of George Washington Carver. Apparently, we did not check our sources as thoroughly as we could have; the circumstances of the incident involved neither Senator McFooenburg, the aforementioned legume-based condiment, nor any sort of naked ambulatory disturbance of the peace. We apologize for any inconvenience this article might have caused.
Now–I am no authority, mind you, but there are plenty of analogs to this in modern physics, and as far as I am concerned, it is tantamount to good ol' fashioned silliness.
The LHC superconducting- supercollider is one fine example. A pretty single-minded track to take, no pun intended; perhaps these folks are all recovering adolescent pyromaniacs, as am I, but if you look at it from the point of view of a layperson, it seems like climbing down a sinkhole with no flashlight. From my studies I remember a central pillar of quantum mechanics is the inability of the observer to truly separate himself from what he is observing; particles are slippery little suckers, and one can only hope to garner one of two measurements (position or velocity) with any certainty. . . the rest is fancy mathematics based on chance, right? So explain to me again how creating a multibillion dollar sub-atomic demolition derby and feeding it enough juice to power every small appliance on the planet for 10 years is making progress?
They say that if they ever manage to generate particles that (theoretically) existed at 10-36 seconds after the beginning of time, they will have The Answers in hand. I hardly think 10-36 will be the end of it, and, as they crack the bubble chamber on that fateful day, I am almost certain they will not see some sort of sign reading “Hey! What took you skinbags so long?!”
No. . . ask as you might, no one can really explain what happened at the Big Bang–most textbooks like to sum it up by saying “See. . . right. . . umm. . . HERE is where the laws of physics break down”. What kind of shinola is that? It's rather like inventing a card game that explicitly states in the rules that the only way to begin the game is to break every rule that applies thereafter–someone is bullshitting someone here, right? I hope so, and if I learned anything from my big brothers, it was to never play the game “KnucklerapJack2” again; fool me 103 times, shame on me.
The String Theorists: Oh, boy, these cats are a riot; keeping a running total on dimensions that now extends up to 11 and in some cases 26. I get a good belly laugh going when I think about an adherent of the 11-dimensional school having an episode of effete intellectual superiority:
“26 dimensions? Are those guys f#$*ing crazy!?”
Sure, it is pretty cool to stretch the boundaries of your imagination with that kind of thing, but as far as surplus dimensions and String Theorists go, I would have to assume that leaving them to their own devices is something akin to giving a spendthrift a license to print money.
I am reaching here, sure; after all, I am an unqualified commentator. I am positive that if I could be coached through the mathematics, I would probably drink the Kool-aid too, but there is something comfortable about being naïve in this regard. The questions seem far too large for man to ever really grasp–and do we really want to know? What stuff will that stuff leave unanswered? The day the scientific community announces success–that the Theory of Everything is complete, We might have to celebrate not only that tremendous accomplishment, but the beginning of another chapter in the search for our place in the Universe. Sure, We'll have in hand the blueprints for the building, but isn't in already built?
The other day I had an idea for a time machine. I was really worked up about it for about ten minutes, but then I realized it was doomed to fail. If I had succeeded, I reckoned, why did I not appear to myself at that very instant? Being big on labor-savings (read that as lazy), I am fairly certain I would be the type of guy to immediately come back from the future and give myself directions.
My bottom line is this: Everyone has their own cosmological constant–There's no sense in waiting for the Strings and the Higgs Bosons and the Quarks to explain themselves. I am reminded of the beginning lines of a book that is quite impossible to finish, but fun to keep around:
A well-known scientist (some say it was Bertrand Russell) once gave a public lecture on astronomy. He described how the earth orbits around the sun and how the sun, in turn, orbits around the centre of a vast collection of stars called our galaxy. At the end of the lecture, a little old lady at the back of the room got up and said: “What you have told us is rubbish. The world is really a flat plate supported on the back of a giant tortoise.” The scientist gave a superior smile before replying, “What is the tortoise standing on?” “You're very clever, young man, very clever,” said the old lady. “But it's turtles all the way down.”3 ?
- The current supercolliders are only powerful enough to “create” massive particles that resemble the ones hanging around at 10-12 seconds, or one trillionth of a second after the beginning of the universe–The LHC at CERN is really gonna bring home the bacon–creating particles that might have existed in the range of 10-18 seconds, or lesser–while running up Switzerland's power bill in the process.
- apocryphal. The game of choice for my brothers and me (I never had a choice, really) was knee football, a game that usually ended when I could no longer walk, or the threat of visible bruising (and subsequent parental intervention) was too great.
- A Brief History Of Time, Stephen Hawking. Bantam Books.
Scene From There's Something About Mary
Yes, I am a lazy bum thesedays, but I figured I would throw this up for posterity, as it truly is one of the funniest moments in movie history (subjectivity is keen), and I'd like to think it's at my fingertips if my life ever depended on it.
A scene from There's Something About Mary. Harlan Williams, a homicidal hitchiker, sits clutching a duffel bag in the passenger seat of our hero's (played by Ben Stiller) 1984 Toyota Tercel. The Hitchiker, obviously a tad bizarre in his bearing, strikes up a conversation about his latest idea for an exercise video.
Hitchhiker: You heard of this thing, the 8-Minute Abs?
Ted: Yeah, sure, 8-Minute Abs. Yeah, the excercise video.
Hitchhiker: Yeah, this is going to blow that right out of the water. Listen to this: 7… Minute… Abs.
Ted: Right. Yes. OK, alright. I see where you're going.
Hitchhiker: Think about it. You walk into a video store, you see 8-Minute Abs sittin' there, there's 7-Minute Abs right beside it. Which one are you gonna pick, man?
Ted: I would go for the 7.
Hitchhiker: Bingo, man, bingo. 7-Minute Abs. And we guarantee just as good a workout as the 8-minute folk.
Ted: You guarantee it? That's—how do you do that?
Hitchhiker: If you're not happy with the first 7 minutes, we're gonna send you the extra minute free. You see? That's it. That's our motto. That's where we're comin' from. That's from "A" to "B".
Ted: That's right. That's—that's good. That's good. Unless, of course, somebody comes up with 6-Minute Abs. Then you're in trouble, huh?
[Hitchhiker convulses]
Hitchhiker: No! No, no, not 6! I said 7. Nobody's comin' up with 6. Who works out in 6 minutes? You won't even get your heart goin', not even a mouse on a wheel.
Ted: That—good point.
Hitchhiker: 7's the key number here. Think about it. 7-Elevens. 7 doors. 7, man, that's the number. 7 chipmunks twirlin' on a branch, eatin' lots of sunflowers on my uncle's ranch… You know that… old children's tale from the sea… It's like— you're dreamin' about Gorgonzola cheese when it's clearly Brie time, baby!
[awkward pause]
Step into my office!
Ted: Why?
Hitchhiker: 'Cause you're fuckin' fired!
The Flu
I have it, and I have it bad. Sucks when you can piinpoint the person who gave it to you -- even worse when you don't particularly like the person. I am signing off for a few days to watch movies and feel sorry for myself.
This post is basically a bump to skip over all those lousy test comments I put in.
Bump. ◊
Well
I have been doing some serious construction on this site.
If you notice anything going haywire, I would be in your debt if you would leave a note.
Thanks! ◊
modified Crystals and Firey Foxes?
I love Firefox. I especially love the extensions -- and the themes, well, that's just sweet sweet cake. Problem was, though, some of the extensions did not behave well with certain themes - in particular the PlastikFox SVG Crystal set by Everando, which had long been the coolest theme ev4r in my book.
Well, as luck would have it, and after months of frustration at the inconsistency of theme on my Linux laptop, I stumbled upon this wonderful page -- It is a modified Crystal theme replete with a bunch of nifty icons for other extensions. It bears the mark of a true perfectionist, and I like the theme so much I have it on all of my machines -- both Linux and Windows. This page has a step-by-step tutorial on how to customize your Firefox with its internal CSS, as well as instructions on how and where to install the icons they provide. 'Tis good stuff; Enjoy.
http://www.tom-cat.com/mozilla/firefox.html
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Pardon our Progress
You know how it is.
You start a project only to realize that it is more like 100 small projects, right? Okay then. That is my story, and I am sticking to it. I figured I would go ahead and push out the new design -- perhaps it will force me to come to grips with the 200 plus small .gifs I have to crank out to properly unify the theme. And as for the linux tutorial, well, I have about 4 chapters written, but they are really more like 100(m)(100(t)) where m = monkeys and t = typewriters at this point. For you blessed few people who actually read and post messages (you know who you are and I hope you know I appreciate it), I sincerely apologize for the disaster that is the comment form - it is perhaps the worst of all. I will get to it, I swear.
The Management◊
Woohoo, Santer Came!
Merry Christmas, Everybody.
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I love Henny Youngman
jingle_balls: entertain me!
fka_hillburt: Hey Jingle - I was walking down the street the other day
fka_hillburt: a hooker came up to me and said "For 20 dollars I'll do anything."
fka_hillburt: I said "Anything?"
fka_hillburt: She said "Anything."
fka_hillburt: I said "Paint my house."
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Gone Away: Looking for America
I suppose I like this writer not only because he is a gifted man, but also because he speaks with a viewpoint untarnished by cynicism. I could spout every cliche about the peril of taking things for granted, but I will simply recommend that you read and enjoy this, as I have, and continue to do.
Personally, after the events of early November, 2004, I need a little encouragement that the world is not going to end, and that the promise of America still exists in the places that really matter. This might just be the tonic I was looking for.
Yonder Mountain GRASS! WoooooT!
Gotta love hippies, they are into giving great music away for free.
So few firewalls.
This is going too far, sure.
But it is still addictive to a dork like me.
Damn Dog
No sense trying to reboot this device.
My dog wanted it dead, and my dog always seems to get what he wants.
I think it is my fault, really. My dog loves me, you see—and he always hears me bitching about how shitty my cellular service is—I guess he just took matters into his own err, paws.
php class: lastRSS
Found this nifty RSS class written by a czech fellow. Understand, I have hacked it to bits, as per the GPL , but I figured attribution in the form of a hard link on my index page was in order.
Check it out, it is a nifty way to add feeds without all the overhead of java applets or some sort of javascript voodoo.
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