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The Evils of Politicizing Literature

From an article in the Guardian, describing Mrs. Bush's decision to postpone a poetry symposium:

``While Mrs. Bush respects the right of all Americans to express their opinions, she, too, has opinions and believes it would be inappropriate to turn a literary event into a political forum.'' Noelia Rodriguez, spokeswoman for first lady Laura Bush, said Wednesday.

You know what else? We shouldn't turn our literature into a political forum, either. How dare these poets, trying to politicize literature. Literature's all about keeping away from what's actually going on in the world. It's all about making pretty little stories that don't have any bearing on the mean, ugly world of wars and politics. I applaud you, Mrs. Bush. As soon as ANY uppity poet tries to express an opinion on what only smart people like your husband know anything about, they should be asked to leave. Leave the strictly political things, like killing people with saturation bombings, to politicians. You poets keep talking about trees and flowers, or shut the hell up.


1.31.2003 - Later

Like, Uh, My God

I don't normally talk about how much some people are just, like, parodies of themselves, or, like, anything, but like this, I just, like, can't believe, like, you know?


1.31.2003 - Later

Honesty is the... is A Policy, Anyway

Not long ago I found a poem on some blogger's site. I commented that I thought it was cool. Today I discovered that I'd been duped. On one hand I'd like to pat this person on the back for adding an entry that credits the actual creator of said piece of work, The Weakerthans. (I haven't had a chance to do any listening there yet, so proceed at your own risk.) But on the other, far bigger and more important hand, she should have just let me continue under the impression that she'd written it. It's not like I have any idea who the hell she is. But she just had to break me down, right? She just couldn't let me keep things the way they were. Now I've got to go update my previous entry in some way so that I don't feel like the disturber of intellectual property ownership morals, so that I don't feel like a dick.

WHY CAN'T YOU JUST LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE? It's not like anyone READS this thing anyway, not like anyone's going to come here and say, "Oh, well shit, THAT's not some Blogger's poem, that's a lyric from a song by The Weakerthans. Who the hell does this guy think he is?"

I hate honesty. That's why we're IN cyberspuck in the first place, because we're all pathological liars, ripping off other peoples' stuff, deluding ourselves into thinking we've got audiences of thousands, getting excited about THREE WHOLE INCOMING LINKS from other bloggoblins. After all, we're all the same ones tearing down the RIAA mp3 by mp3, right? What the fuck do we care who said what? IT's all INFORMATION, man. It's all OUT THERE IN THE CYBERSPUM, and we can do whatever the hell we want with it.

Anyway, THANKS> Thanks a lot for wrecking my life. God.


(Now read what I wrote before, right below here. This one sucked. Damn people taking responsibility for themselves. Fish.)


I Told You So

Nobody ever fucking listens to me. I could stand in the street naked (and no one wants to see that), waving around a giant, flaming hot-dog, and STILL no one would listen to me.

In the Survey Results portion of Squub.com, in the section on Fourth Survey results, I have warned, and I blockquote:

NOTE: Clearly no one gives a shit that Canada looms large in our 21st Century landscape. I must warn you that you follow this course at your peril.

(yeah, I can quote that, bitch, it's MY VERY OWN! I OWN IT!)

The question, to which no one responded Canada, was: "After the US attacks Iraq, and spills some milk, who should it attack next?"

Now, thanks to the ever-vigilant Blackwood Channel, I've found more news on this. CAPTU is an organization with the EXPRESS PURPOSE* of rallying Canadians to TAKE OVER THE UNITED STASH OF A! You better hide your one-nation-under-god under SOMETHING. Sure, they CLAIM to be advocating a "Peaceful Takeover," but don't believe that for a second. What, you're STILL not going to believe me? I'm telling you, while Jee Dub is distracted with faek problems like IRAQ, and the "middle-east", the round-bacon guys, with their mounted redcoat policemen (REMEMBER THE REDCOATS??? don't feign to think it's just a coinkidink!) are going to be casually marching across our borders, waving their leaf, wearing their PJs, and making friendly with all the tree-hugging anti-war folk in the streets of our major cities. And they're just going to TAKE US OVER. "CAPTU" ain't the first letters of CAPTURE just by chance!

And you know who's supporting 'em? Rockefellers' RIGHT WING Rich Man's Mafia, aka The Conspiracy, that's who! You think Nancy Luft keeps losing her homepages by accident? Hardly. Rockefeller and his gang of thugs are PISSED THE FUCK OFF that she keeps popping up all over the Worst Wild Wreck, and they keep SHUTTING HER DOWN (after all, they OWN the infrastructure), but her people keep her words alive, in use-gnats and news-coups all over. Just GOOGLE HER ASS! (Or, hell, you probably don't want to take THAT too literally. I don't know much about her actual, physical ass.)

Those Canadians are in cahoots with the Russians and their sputniks. Nancy might not have ALL of the info, but she's been on to something all along.


You know what else? These Mint 'n' Creme Oreos are BEST. They just freakin' rule. You know what, though? The box says "serving size: 1 cookie." WHAT THE FUCK?

Have I been cussing too much?

You owe me November, December money. So, it's a too long.


*: Is this really the "express purpose"?? How the hell should I know? I didn't actually READ anything. I already know I'm right.

NEW NOTE!: Our always intrepish man-in-the-market, the mysterious-like MadHog, has forwarded us this AP story/photo. This woman is threading a snake up her nose and out her mouth. To celebrate the Year of the Goat. I DON'T UNDERSTAND. Why is she not threading a goat like that? It's not the year of the snake, you stupid idiot. You know what else? YOU LOOK LIKE FOOD.

That is, as they say, all.



nothing, a solid uncolored mass of it. so it's the part of the ocean where if you're an organism you're bioluminescent for something, you're all made of squishy stuff, you're not seeing light from the sun but, if you see at all, it's light from other organisms.

Can you grok what I'm talking about? You know it's all dark, you're under that much sunless water, you glark it from looking at all the bioluminescence.

Glork! What's that? That's foo, man. Grault. But quux, NOW you're onto something.

Many people invent such words; this one seems simply to have been lucky enough to have spread a little.

Quux? spread a little? What about squub? goddamnit, not just ANYONE says squub. Fucking distinctive, is what that is. Distinguished. Maybe I should've stopped at foo. That was the intention, you see. Foo Dog? What the hell's a foo dog?

FOO was often included on licence plates of cars and in nonsense sayings in the background of some frames such as "He who foos last foos best" or "Many smoke but foo men chew".

First, she came in.


1.29.2003 - Later

Yep, I Found It

I'm playing a little dirty on this one, but that's okay because I haven't really figured out what I'm doing yet. My second mp3 here for you to listen to. Compressed all to hell of course. There'll be a collection of these here after a few weeks, and probably a page to list 'em all. Hope you enjoy.



Sometime at the end of last year I published Letters to Squub, consisting of a bunch of those get-money-out-of-some-african-country messages I'd received. Looks like someone's done a more thorough job of compiling those messages. Courtesy of The Blackwood Channel.

Oh, and that dumbass Bush gave a whole hour long State of the Union speach and forgot to announce the State of the Union. Dipshit.


1.28.2003 - Later

Squub's Vote

My vote for this year's State of the Union goes to Illinois. I lived there once, and I don't hear much about it.

I'm sure that goddamned Bush is just going to give it to Texas, though.


1.28.2003 - Later

I'm pathetic. That previous entry sickens me. Let me sum up:

blah blah blah blah blah.

blah blah blah? blah blah blogs, blah blah. blah blah blah.

blah blah blah blah blah blah blah weblog blah blah. weblogs.com blah www.blo.gs blah blah. (blah blah)

blah blah blah blogs blah blah blah. blah blah blogs (blah blah blah) blah blogs blah blah. blah blah blah blah blogs blah blah.

blah blah. Blah.

This is exactly what I was talking about.



I've been surfing the internest some today and I've discovered something. *WARNING -SPOILERS* The internest has a lot of stuff on it that is distracting and ultimately eats up a lot of time! I don't want to burst anyone's baubles or anything, but there's just a lot of useless stuff that's funny and entertaining. I'm not pointing any fingers. All of my fingers are busy typing my witicisms. I'm just sayin'.

You know what else? There are a lot of blogs, and most of them aren't even interesting. Obviously your mileage may vary. This is a pretty subjective thing.

Sometimes, when I find that I've gone 5 seconds without having found some link to follow that sends me somewhere else interestingly wasteful of my (oh so valuable) time, I go to one of the weblog places and follow a random link. They have 'em at weblogs.com and www.blo.gs (and probably a hundred and two other places). When I do that, I almost NEVER find anything interesting.

There are tons of interesting places, don't get me wrong. It just seems like the vast majority of the blogs listed on the blog places don't hold my attention for long enough for me to even try to figure out what they're called. In fact the best way I've found of finding interesting blogs (and other websites in general) is to look at the links that are listed on some of the other blogs that I enjoy. The problem with that, though, is that I'm trying to build my own little list of blogs I like to visit. And if all the blogs I like to visit are already listed on one or other of the blogs I like to visit, then it's kinda stupid to list them here.

Whatever attitude I'm emanating here, ignore it. I'm supposed to be working. The internest just keeps distracting me. It's not my fault. Damn you.

Here's a nice piece of funniness regarding the RIAA, which is an association run by Satan's little brother, Steve. From The Brunching Shuttlecocks (which I found via the Yeti, of course.) TuneBlock.


1.27.2003 - Later


Squub's right on the top of this story. Our underground rat-maze network has attained definitive proof that the Defective Yeti's story regarding the "Axies" awards is a fabrication. There is no basis for truth to this story. What could the Yeti possibly have to gain by this blatant deception? It's pretty obvious to us -- he's in the mood for pasta.




Not really, not technically, but metaphilosophorically typing, it's what I'm building. Not a mountain, you see, but a stack with no top and a fountain at the bottom.

Sorry, it's just that it broke my intellgencer when I went to here and click to go there and clicked his link and came back here, and I thought the world had simply ceased to make a sensible gift for holidays, birthdays, or special confessions. I remember when I used to have acquaintances, but now they're all just decorations.

I hate that it's 27 and previous was 24, too. Someone thinks, or thought, I am/were someone else I am not, someone I am well acquainted with (that word, it's not that my thesaurus is outdated, it's that the pages all got ripped out in the skirmish.) I am not he, NSI. I am me, which is NOT he. It was a good guess for all the info. I gave you.

Yet I haven't responded. Semi-public discourse is the participle around which my cigarette dangles. I've tried to substitute the following letter: M.

Not this being pointless or anything, just playing with figures, an alien phototype, a misled alphabet never transcribed for digital postery. Postulate that the

This worm going around (wyrm?) is bugging me. THIS IS NOT INTENDED, WHAT I JUST PUND. That word (wyrd) requires no further juxtaposition, nor 'ne', does not require n e, further characterisation. More coming, just minute, hold pl


ease. ATS was then freeze-dried in benzine and we attained it as a yellowish-white crystalline material. Always the period follows the anchor. Whywhy? Here time sees further the corruption of the dividing wall between the two endeavors, one of which inevitably overpowers the other in fluctuating waves. Clasp tuned, watch the dangerous mp3s as they destroy the music industry, our audacity in grasping this bitchneck of a technology, we are ruining music for everyone; offensive; de-pend-ant.


1.24.2003 - Later

Why Ya Gotta Keep Bringin' Up Old Shit?

Real quick - this is pretty interesting, except fer I hate trying to read the green on black. Which is authentic I guess, because I never liked to read the green on black. Which is probably why I missed the whole textfiles thing. [Oh, I should mention that I found that via Paperclypse's Right Brain.]

And, hello Mister NSI, if you're there.


1.24.2003 - Later

The Evil Ace of Spades

I am burblingly laughing over Monsieur Cardhouse and his/its burblingly funny bunch of things on his page. I've had a link to there at squub for some long time; I was trying to remember why that was. I hadn't been reading the blog until recently. It began trickling back to me today, that it had one of the first collections of found things I'd ever found online. Maybe the first. Which I liked. Then I think something changed about the site and I don't know what and I stopped paying attention and all of my senses were found in the harbor, throwing up their innards.

So now here I was today reading about Speedpool2 which had me busted up laughing, then I went back to the collection of found playing cards and started looking through them. I figured I'd looked through them before, but realized while perusing that all of the cards still haven't been collected, so clearly I'd lost some information in the senses-in-the-harbor incident (referenced above (if I'm not making sense it's only.))

Anywhat, when I hit the part where there wasn't a card anymore I busted out laughing even more harder. I understand that sometime, possibly soon, there WILL be a card there, and the 404 screen therefore won't come up from that link. BUT I JUST DON'T CARE. I refuse to care, I am a troglodyte waiting to happen.

It got me wondering why I haven't remembered this card collection thing and sent them a card. I find things, and sometimes those things are cards. And I'm pretty sure I've found at least one card since 1999 when this thing was started. I probably still have some of them now, but it would be silly to send those because I've got no clue where I found them at this point.

Though I do remember the origin of my collection of Aces of Spades. Those I found when I was on my confirmation retreat when I was something like 12 years old. Which was prior to the beginning of the cardhouse thing. In fact, this predates the WHOLE WIDE INTERNET. There was a pantry of some sort, and on a shelf in there was a stack of Aces of Spades. I'm pretty certain I still have them. (I still have pretty much everything. Ever. Except my personality and my electric razor. I have no idea where that went.) It was strange to me at the time, and I only remember things if they were strange to me at the time. As I get older and see more things, fewer and fewer of them contain that remarkable element of strangeness; hence I don't remember anything. I just have everything.

It was strange because I never ask questions, I never want to seem naive or just dumb, and I assumed there was something about Aces of Spades that would cause a priest or other holyguy to remove them from the decks of visiting pre-confirmation catholics. You know, they must be evil, or something.

Now that I'm older I realize how silly that is. The Jack of Diamonds is the only evil card in the deck. The priest/bishop/pope who'd collected this particular bunch of cards must've been bugfuckinglooney.

The only other thing I remember about that trip was that we sat in a little room and listened to Ann Murray singing about how we sure could use a little good news today. And my uncle was there because he's a deacon. And my roommate was a Guy who was later one of my brother's groomsmen. At the time I wasn't aware of that.

AND -- nothing weird happened there with my private parts and old men. Though I can't figure out what the hell I was doing in the pantry.



You're right, but I'm still here. Hardly relevant. Hardy revealent. Unrelent. Territorial speaker, what hast thou? Underwear, assemblage, vast references to long dead alphabets.

But it sizzles when you put it in the frying pan. But the pan is cold. Yet still it sizzles.

No, you're miss-hearing. The pan is cold, it cannot sizzle.

Watch for yourself - see, it sizzles!

I didn't watch, I need not watch, I already know the pan is cold, therefore it will not and does not sizzle.


1.23.2003 - Later

I'm messing with the format. I don't like it. I'm not getting it right and then posting it, though. I'm just going to leave it however it is, and keep messing with it until I stop. Which won't be after I like it, it'll just be when I stop.

Basically I added those links over there. Earlier today my connection was down for a few hours, and it damn near killed me. Fortunately I had the most recent copy of this page locally, so I went and added a bunch of internal-link thingies. It was a wonderful exercise. Then I went to the market. Then I came back and added more link thingies.

I don't know if I was going to say something worth saying or not. I'd like to think I actually had something in mind when I started this, but lost it. As opposed to thinking that I started this just to say I'm messing with the format. I should put it in a table.

This whole site looks like ass in Netscape.


1.23.2003 - Later

I just found an interesting piece by Jenn Manley Lee where she considers the oft-heard argument that �there has never been anything like this before.� It always irritates me when I hear people talking like this, about how things used to be better, about the decline of our morality being so obvious. This discussion fits in well with my recent discussion about video game violence.

And this era hardly has a monopoly in horrendous crimes and murder. Please. [...] I seriously doubt that there are proportionally any more murders now than at any time in history�we just have convienent websites deicated to serial murders and 24/7 news coverage coast-to-coast (and the gross fact that death sells).

It occured to me while reading this that death has always sold; it's nothing new. That's what the gladiator thing was all about, I imagine. Of course today in the United States of Fantastic we don't allow (many) people to actually VIEW our state-sponsored murders. Instead we hide those, at least from the immediacy of film and television cameras, while we broadcast fictionalized depictions of the same kind of violence.



There's no I in Denial if you take out the i.

I'm drinking decaffeinated tea. I'm at home, and it's cold as hell. The heater's trying really hard, but the windows are fantastically under-insullated. Did I mention that I'm trying to give up caffeine? There's no way it'll last. It wasn't a new years thing, though, so it doesn't HAVE to not last. Yeah, that.

I'm jealous of other bloggers. I'm NOT A GODDAMNED BLOGGER, I say. But for all of that this sure does seem like a blog.


And of course THAT'S the reason I'm jealous, because the Defective Yeti got nominated by the Bloggies for "Most Humorous Weblog." But, hey, wait, now that I fucking typed that I see that it says "Weblog," not blog. See now that's just a rip. Because they're Bloggies (I'd link 'em but I still haven't gone there myself, and I wouldn't want to send you willy-nilly into Willy's Nilly; not to mention I don't have the link, having not ever figured out what Bloggies are, since they're called "Bloggies," which precludes me, because) THIS ISN'T A GODDAMNED BLOG, It's a weblog. CAN'T YOU SEE? and this is why I've not been nominated for a Bloggie, because it's not a webloggie. It's got nothing to do with any of these things:

I'm jealous of Mister Blackwood, too, because he's always writing stuff that's interesting. I can't figure out why it's so interesting, but it is, invariably.

My tea is gone now. That's about as interesting as I get. So long, tea. You tasted so decaffeinated. And orangy. And kind of yucky, especially there at the end when you were the temperature of spit. Mmmmmm. Spit.


PS - I added a "link" link. I'll probably start doing that regularly. I might go back through all this and add them to old shit, too. It seems like there ought to be some easier way of doing these weblogs than all of this typing out html tags by hand. Someone should invent a piece of software where you can just type your text and hit a button that says "post" and it'll take care of all of the formatting for you. Man. I bet THAT would be popular.

PPS - See, this CAN'T be a blog, because blogs don't have PSs. Right?

PPPS - Now that I'm sure they don't lead you to Willy's Nilly, you're given my permission to go to the Weblog Awards page. And now that I've gone there I see that it actually says "Weblog Awards." THAT'S ME! I'M A WEBLOG!!!! SEE!!! I RULE, EVERYONE SUBMITIFY ME! Or, well, no, because that wouldn't be fair to all of the little people. Instead, you can vote for the Yeti guy. Just don't tell him I told you to do it, I wouldn't want to taint his win (which is inevitable with all of my readers pooling their resources together.) I'm magnanimous, and heroic. And my writing this here has nothing to do with my thinking about sending him a message saying, "I put some stuff about you in my weblog," so that he comes over here and sees just how magnanimous I'm apt to be. Wont. Apt. Pap.

PPPPS - That was kinda funny what I said about Willy's Nilly, though, wasn't it?

1.22.2003 - Later

I feel like shit. I tried working out. The treadmill that almost killed me in the carrying in of doesn't quite work for me, keeps stopping. The cyclical thing that I got from my brother a couple of years ago is still a piece of crap but sort of works, so I used that for a while. I actually used the treadmill first, and it kept stopping. Since it works for my wife, I don't feel like I should break it by continuing to burden its stupid rubber band.

I've been spending too much time in front of these machines. Carrying the treadmill nearly killed me. Perhaps I didn't clarify that the other times I mentioned it. Perhaps I won't still.

Automatic? Sort of almost sometimes I do things that way but lately I've split myself in half. The other half has since decided to crawl under a desk, maybe onto a root, into the perfect airspace, and at any rate hasn't said a damned thing, and I'm left trying to hold the short end of the fucking bourbon. Which, I might add, I had at some point recently, but can't remember exactitudes.

I feel like shit. After I finished the too-brief "workout" I could find nothing else to do but sit here. This is where I need to NOT be, as it's what's making me feel like shit. All these weird radiations, from a TV and a flatpanel and a lamp that my dad made in high school shop class, burning into some part of me. The desk squeaks with every keystroke.

The networks are fucking with me, my argue-with-the-pop-on-TeeVee mentality is forcing the issue. They're putting that fucking Idol show on opposite Ed and The West Wing. What will I tape, what will I watch? These are the questions that eat right through my gizzard. I could play a drinking game - every time that Simon with his black shirt that's not green tells someone they're the "worst singer in the world," drink a beer. Oooh, ah. You know, EVERYONE can't be the worst singer on the world.


Yes, ON the world. That'll make me all better, though. Watch some fucking couple of hours of TeeVee.

I could do some Taebo but then I'd just want to kick Billy Blanks in the face. Yeah, that's a link.


1.22.2003 - Later

I'm having a pain in my ass trying to figure out a problem with InstallShield here at the office. So I pulled my mind off of it for a minute and came across a pretty personal sounding poem. I generally expect to be thoroughly underwhelmed by poetry that bloggers spit out, but in this case I was pleasantly surprised.

"Memory will rust and erode into lists of all that you gave me:
a blanket, some matches, this pain in my chest,
the best parts of Lonely, duct-tape and soldered wires"

That's good stuff.

[It's later been pointed out to me that this was actually a piece of lyrics from The Weakerthans. Oh, well.]



Follow You, Follow Me

I've been silent, like a stone wheel on a hill. It's all because of the pull-tabs that litter my desk, a collection started for reasons I'll go in to sometime. It strikes me that maybe I've already gone into those reasons. This isn't the point.

There are the blogpeople who write about the search requests that have apparently led people to their pages. I'm jumping on that bandwagon now, too. Only because I was looking through the logs here and found two references to being hit by searches on "www.ivebeenabadgirl.com". I couldn't figure out why that would lead people here, and then I saw that in the entry where I talked about those damned pop-up windows I used that as the made-up pornsite name in my exceedingly witty rant.

There's also a search I'm really puzzling over. "Free pipple fighting samples." I assume that's from someone who can't spell, unless there are underground pipple fights that I wasn't heretofore aware of. I don't know what a pipple is, but apparently the word is contained in the Book of Cob.

Oh! Here's something. '"please get off the bus" sandwich' got Google.ca to point to me. I wonder what the hell that person was looking for. Those words were used on here somewhere, but it's a quote from Jethro Tull. Wond'ring Again.



How To Be the Cool Person for the Anti-Cool Set

(First, make up a stupid title for a blog entry like this one.)

Second, make up a list of 100 CDs to get rid of that contains a little something to irritate everyone. Well, it earned a link from me, so this guy can feel justified. (These guys? I dunno what this jaguaro thing is.)

Here's an idea: why don't you buy shit you ENJOY listening to in the first fucking place, and stop worrying about "striving to be hip and cutting edge."

That may have just sounded like a sort of mini-rant. Was it? WAS IT??? That's up to YOU to decide.

In otherness, I'm pretty sure I'm going to need to change this format enough to have some more functional things going on here. Usually when I say I'm going to do something that means I never do it. So stay tuned, hold yer breath. And all that.


1.16.2003 - Later

[facing the prospect of having done nothing but link to someone else's morebetterer site today, I've opted to chicken out and include here, for no one's reading edutainment, something I already previously wrote in an e-mail earlier in the day. I am political, defiant, exfoliated.]

Bush says we'll have to shoot Iraq in the knee cap, and let it suffer for a while while it thinks about how misbehaving in the presence of an adult is "just not the proper way for a burgeoning oil owning company... I mean country to be behave." He said also that if the shooting-of-the-kneecap thing didn't get the intended results, perhaps Iraq would like to go sit in a darkened room for a month or two without any food.

I'm so ashamed. But I'm leaving.



The defective yeti is my new favorite, cuz he wrote this.

[I sure fuckin' hope I write something later, cuz this is a really bad entry fer a day fer a guy who's so goddamned all furry and on fire about not wanting to label himself a blogger. Goddamn you blogs. goddamnyou. fod. gl. adl.]


1.15.2003 - Later

I just can't stop laughin' at Strong Bad and his e-mails.



I'm just minding my own bisNASS up in here when I am T-BONED BY JESUS. I got JEEZ-ITed and never even knew. Thanks to mister Blackwood at your friendly neighborhood Blackwood Channel for innocently leading me astray. Clearly Jesus doesn't mean to do this to Squub, he must've been coerced.

What my ears are currently receiving from the lunch room:
"Aw, bullshit, you did not..."
mumbles mumbles mumbles
"You're reading it like a biography or something... dyslexia and disfunctional and homosexual..."
mumbles mumbles mumbles
"You read the book?"
"Don't ask me about that subject."
"What's going on?"
"How about a Kathryn Graham Cracker?"
mumbles mumbles mumbles
"Why are you getting angry, Jesus, it's just a discussion. Why are you taking this personal? I think you've got a problem here."
"...reading this stuff it's nice to babble..."
"If people were complaining then they could recommend something else!!"
"It's for disfunctional, dislexic, perverted people." mumbles
"Is there any heterosexual guys in the world in a book club?"


1.14.2003 - Later

There's a blog entry, by Scot Hacker, that's really got me thinking today. [Initially I was going to play devil's advocate and respond to some of the comments by presenting a sort of fictional scenario where the idea that rape is wrong in all cases is questioned - I imagined a sort of post-apocolyptic tale where there are only a man and woman left, and humanity's only hope is that they procreate (a very original speculation, I realize), but the woman won't do it... then of course I considered that her reasons for not obliging might also preclude her from carrying a child to term anyway, so then I thought about it being the guy who wouldn't do it and the woman has to force him... anyway, enough of that. Instead, here's what I have to say.]

I�m a game player to some extent, certainly a fan of many forms of entertainment, including examples that involve violence. I have no idea if some of this stuff is significantly altering my world-view, numbing me to immoral behavior in such a way that I�m more likely to act accordingly than I would�ve been otherwise. I don�t feel like it is, but it�s hard to say.

The argument that Scot presents, that I wouldn�t want my children to play rape games, therefore I shouldn�t want them to play murder games, is a valid one. I don�t know that children SHOULD partake of the particularly overt examples of this stuff � from graphic first-person shooters to graphic television, movies, and books.

My problem, and where I�m trying to get to the bottom of my bias, is that the way Scot poses his question:

�If you think murder is worse and you let your kids play games that involve pretending to murder humans or humanoids by the hundreds, then surely you would have no objection to a video game where your character ran around raping women or girls, right?�
initially makes me think that I�m FAR more offended by the thought of children playing rape-games than by the thought of them playing murder-games.

Why? Perhaps it�s one of the things that has been pointed out in comments � in games where killing is the objective, usually the victims are clear enemies. Of course this isn�t always the case. Some games obviously allow the player to roll-play the side of a criminal whose victims are not all �bad guys.� Even so � as my thoughts creep further along, I see where I could present a murder-game that I�d object to children playing nearly as much as, if not as much as, a rape-game. Imagine a game where the objective is to kidnap and kill children. This would offend me.

There�s a question of degree here, to be sure. Games with animated victims, in any form, sit on an edge. The more unbalanced the portrayed strengths(?) of the player�s character vs. the victim, the more appalling the idea becomes. (This sounds like good fodder for a poll � rate various video game scenarios for the respondant�s level of repulsion; this could also extend to ranking repulsion based on SEEING something vs. INTERACTING (games vs. movies, then, further, movies/games vs. books.)) A game where the character was asked to kill puppies and kittens would be pretty damned abhorant. Perhaps morality is somehow related to this same spectrum. Certainly our society seems to back this up � criminals whose victims are children are deemed more evil, I think, than those whose victims are adult.

There are other questions here. Is this type of entertainment valuable in its power to let the participants expunge certain tendancies? Is it better in general to take aggression out, so it doesn�t fester, or to not act on aggressive feelings at all? I�ve seen arguments for each side. I think while I was growing up it was sort of conventional wisdom that swallowing your anger wasn�t a good thing. Maybe this idea came from a bunch of males who would rather excuse their own aggressiveness than deal with its causes, I don�t know.

Ultimately I can�t reach a conclusion. I can�t figure out why I enjoy the occasional violent entertainment. I can�t figure out why most of the games I�ve ever gotten really interested in have involved significant amounts of violence. I feel like whatever part of me enjoys this stuff has always been there. I was fairly well insulated from media expressions of violence when I was growing up � wasn�t allowed to watch R rated movies, didn�t have video games, there wasn�t that much (that I can remember) violence on the TV I watched. Still, I had toy guns, I played at shooting my friends. There�s always been some mock violent outlet for me � plastic army men, toy guns, Dungeons & Dragons, laser tag, paintball. This hasn�t ever been my only, or even primary, outlet for entertainment. But it�s been something I�ve enjoyed.

So can the enjoyment of all of that be squashed in people in some simple way, thus negating the market for this stuff? Or do the various forms of violent entertainment serve to keep our fantasies in fantasy-land? Why is there such a thing as fantasy at all?

.link. | mail me comments

1.14.2003 - Later

Apparently the new republican governor of Georgia is Sonny McJesusfish. This lady keeps cracking me up. Elsewhere, she mentions emails she's gotten about her journal. Apparently mine didn't rate, as I was talking about frogs falling from the sky instead of velveeta, or shaved+ass+pussy. Perhaps I should start a campaign to get her to recognize my existence, a la David Letterman and Oprah.

I am, and shall ever be, without point.



I recently bought myself some daily calender thingies, one from the Onion, one called Unexplained Phenomena. I bought the latter as a sort of guilty pleasure, and knowing that it would piss me off with its pseudo-science I bought the Onion one to keep me sane. And they're both on my desk in my office. Thus far it seems that the mess on my desk has prevented anyone from noticing that I have two calenders side by side here. Or maybe everyone just keeps quiet about my quirks.

So today there's something about "Seneca Guns", some thunder-like sounds on the North Carolina coast whose sources are unidentified. Some looking around has shown me that this is a more global phenomenon, and since it relates to sound, it interests me. Here's something about the ones in Carolina, and people around Cayuga lake in New York call 'em Lake Farts. FANT.

Most of the things reported in this calender are just irritating, as I'd expected. No sources are ever noted, the little blurbs sound like they could've been invented by someone trying to fill pages in the calender - and even if they weren't invented, they aren't substantial enough to be interesting. So the fact that I found info online under this "Seneca Guns" heading is good.

I was also trying to find something about PVC pipes being used as a sound barrier on the side of highways, to replace the expensive walls they erect now. I heard something on the radio this morning, but haven't found anything online. I like PVC. So I wanted to read about this. Damnit.

AND, the Earth is goofing around with an asteroid that shares our orbit. We get close, then it starts to run away. Then it gets close to us from behind, and slows down. When it's going slow and we're approaching, our gravity causes it to fall closer to the sun, so it speeds up. Then when it gets behind us, our gravity pulls it further from the sun again, and it slows down. I betcha all the aliens are hiding behind it.

An earthbound telescope found three previously undiscovered moons around Neptune. This link will probably die in a week. At any rate, that's kinda fancy. The aliens could be hiding up there, too. But the GOOD ones are all gonna be behind that asteroid. And under the dryer, with the missing socks.




I just typed "2005" as the year. It wasn't a typo, it was how my brain is reacting. I've written the date a few times (or typed) so far this year, and it comes out 2002, even when I'm being aware of the fact that it's january. Does what I just said make any scent? Have a stitch? And now I'm reverberating, and it's 2005 to me.

Where've I been? Any single readership I may have enamored in my spurt of abnormal lucidity at the end of last year (see, adjusting...) have surely wandered off into the more abundant landscape by now. I'm playing Grand Theft Auto 3. I'm behind, I understand, I'm far behind. I bought a Playstation about 2 or 3 years ago, along with GTA2, just because I liked the game when I played it at my brothers' place. And that was pretty much the only game I had for it for a long time, until they started getting dirt cheap and I'd get random things and play them for a little while.

I got a PS2 for christmas from my wife, with GTA3. I also got Vice City. I haven't started that one yet cuz I wanna beat the 3. Beat it. See. Goddamn this is boring. So boring.

I have to keep moving the PS2. I've crammed an old, small Teevee into this room here, right beside my head, on top of a bunch of other crap. She likes our nice Teevee, see, so I can't hog it. Have to move the machine out here a lot. Haven't gotten around to it today, so I have a second to squiggle here. The Exorcist III seems to be on the Teevee out there right now. I have tea.

My face is allergic. I don't know to what. My lower eyelids are puffed, my lips are swollen and hurting. It isn't terribly noticeable, really. Nothing grotesque. But I keep wanting to scratch my eyes out, scour my lips with some scrub-pads or something. It may be the Armor-All we used in her car the other day. This happened a few years ago and I thought it was a reaction to chapstick. It starts in the lips, like chapped lips. I'd put some stuff on it then, and the next day my face, mostly the lips and eyelids, were puffy and red and itchy. So I stopped using the stuff. IT went away after a while. But this year I used nothing.

Bored pail marker strikes matches alight in a field of smoking. Burnt along this morning, on a way to deliver, thinking... remembered a childhood basketball court surrounded by small sloping hills, so the court was down in a squarish bowl, there was a bushy tree there into which I'd climb, at ground level, to sort of hide. I was stalking a girl in my second or third grade class. She was with another boy. Her sister shouted out, "Mary, he's following you again!" I jumped into the tree. Espionage. How could this happen that early? I've always been this.

Mary Altenburn never paid any attention to me until the family was ready to move, back from Lena, Illinois, to Maryland, halfway through the third grade. Then she flirted. Third grade. I cried listening to my radio after I'd seen her for the last time.


12.22.2002 - Later

Ah, the sticky sweet squish of sucrets. Or not. Our friend Dave Blackwood, on the Blackwood Channel, linked right thru us to Found.com. It feels so good being a conduit.


12.22.2002 - Later

More on the West Memphis Three

At ink19.com there's a good review of The Devil's Knot, Mara Leveritt's book about the West Memphis Three. I previously mentioned having read this book. I found it fascinating, and terribly frustrating. While I'm not willing to go so far as to say I know these three men are innocent of the crimes they're in jail for (one of them on death row,) I am willing to say that it's scary as hell that the "evidence" presented during their trials was enough to get them convicted.

From what I can tell there's as good a chance that anyone else in West Memphis, Arkansas committed the three murders as the three who were convicted. They were suspected of committing the crimes based on the word of Jerry Driver, a county juvenile officer who'd had dealings with Damien Echols (now on death row) when Damien was a teen-ager (as he still was when convicted.) Driver felt that Damien's taste in music and books, and some of the things Damien had written, indicated that he would probably do something like this. Any account of this case I've seen so far illustrates what can only be describes as a railroading - one young man forced to give a questionable confession under even more questionable circumstances; a town being convinced by a bumbling police force that everything was okay, the killers had been arrested; and then all three being convicted based on pretty much just the above information - Damien was weird, three boys were horribly mutilated, and the police were confident it was these kids that did it.

As far as I know, in most cases where these sorts of convictions are overturned it's the result of some incontrovertible evidence coming along later - DNA or other solid evidence surfaces that can't be disregarded by even the most hard-headed of government or law officials. It's unbelievable that if no such evidence ever comes to light, these three may never be exhonerated.



I got my wife a cell phone (sell fone). Which I always hate. ALWAYs. But we wanted her to have fer emergent need. Like.

SO, I am reading about it. I hate sell fones. Did I mention? In the section about charging the battery it says the following:

If the battery is completely empty, it might take a few minutes before the battery bar appears on the screen. For best performance, charge your phone's battery for 24 hours before using your phone. The charging time depends on the charger and battery that you use. For example, the charging time for the BMC-2 battery with the ACP-8U charger is about 1 hour and 30 minutes.

Use the following guidelines to obtain the best performance from your battery:

  • With your phone turned off, charge your new battery for three hours before its first use. Use until battery is fully discharged. Repeat this procedure twice for a total of three charging cycles.

  • ..
    Charging time depends on the charger and the battery. For example, charging time for the BLB-3 battery with the ACP-7U charger is about 4 hours.


    I didn't think so.


    12.20.2002 - Later

    Earlier I mentioned Chia Hair as a solution to an overabundance of Carbon Monoxide. Apparently my idea retro-actively inspired a whole lot of people to have already worked on this (not as a solution to CO2, but just as a thing.)


    12.20.2002 - Later

    Why do I bother to make statements about anything anyway? Why do I argue that I dislike some trend, just because it's a trend? I'M TRYING TO MAINTAIN MY IDENTITY, OVER HERE, in a sea full of fluffy cotton. Ever see fluffy cotton in a sea full of it? It's a mess. Try maintaining your identity in THERE. I dare you.

    Paul deserves a link for this. So there it is. Cupcake Canasta is alive and blogging, except that it wasn't a blog. But the things I laughed about then are still showing their faces here, and they're so nifty. (Yes, I realize I've talked about this before. I have links to the blogspot on my links page. I'm going to cover up my past with a shopping basket. Not for any good reason.)

    I have no identity anymore. I am a faceless fone. But there IS a new width to this column of text.


    12.20.2002 - Later

    And now this. I couldn't have said it better myself. Probably because I wouldn't have thought about it myself. Because I've never encountered a ticking bomb. I do do a lot of standing around, though.

    AND, not only that, but, you know, the ticking bomb COULD explode and just shoot out some candy or something. THEN who's the fool, huh? That's what I thought.


    12.20.2002 - Later

    A solution to Carbon Dioxide Pollution (about which California has recently passed legislation) - Chia Hair. It's perfect. We can grow it ALL OVER. I hear there is a new group of Christian something or others, called Green Christians. They should be the first to use Chia Hair. Anyone who's willing to contribute a photograph of a chia hair person, I'd appreciate it.



    ...on the lost art of the random url

    They've taken all the fun out of randomly typing in URLs. BASTARDS! I never even really thought of this, but NOW MY WRATH IS VAST, and shaped a little like a turnip. This is a bit of a revisitation of an earlier something I wrote about pop-up ads. I don't see much about secret spy cameras anymore. I see a lot about some university online. But none of this is the point.

    The point, instead, is that a really great way to find obscure websites used to be just typing crap in the address bar. You'd either get some stupid thing owned by some business, a 404, or something like Honorable Artist of Russian Federation! Which is really what the point would be.

    Now they've tarnished it with their greed and their mongering. Now there are all these damned domain names owned by some portal/rip-off sites that put pop-ups everywhere, and then when you try to leave the freakin' portal page it'll say, "Do You Want To Make Piece-Of-Shit-Hosting Your Home Page?" And then you can click OK or Cancel. Piece of crap. HATE IT. Because obviously EVERYONE wants their homepage to be some useless piece of shit that pops up 27 pop-up ads everytime you go there. IT'S FREAKIN' IDEAL.

    However... alas, poor fork. Oh holy crap a secret camera add just came up. And now there are pieces of software trying to install. This is pissing me off. I can't find anything but fork. Fuckers.



    My blind fingers just struggled for 12 seconds to hit the fucking '9' key. Just there I hit it on the first shot. Up in the date I hit 0 backspace 8 backspace 0 backspace 8 backspace 0 backspace 8 backspace 0 backspace 8 backspace 0 backspace 9. All these years and I still can't type a fucking number right.

    Do I have two heads? I might. This format has quite some drawbacks and quite some fallforwards when compared to those easy-to-post blog thangamabobs. I play around, with my two heads, and I ward off all evil that way.

    Two heads are steads of one.

    This is NOTHING. I'm writing between five different things RIGHT AS I WRITE. There's no point to any of it. Nothing's new, everything's old.



    Two years ago, December 14th (it's all still down there), I was talking about Bargled Bagginses, writing in spurts, christmas of 2000, and laundry. Ames is now a casualty (no more Baggins by the Bargle, or Bargles by the Baggins), and I'm doing laundry again, but this time it's not the comforter, which is still lumpy. I'm not color coding ANYTHING. If all two of you can't figure out that it's almost Christmas you'll just have to miss it. And it's NOT Christmas 2000, as much as I might want to relive that one. For whatever reason. I don't remember anything that's ever happened to me. Ever.

    I've spent a lot of time reading crap online today. I could breakdown again and do some links and shit, but I still have a... At any rate. AT ANY.

                                The lacerations
                                   are almost
                                        mumbles the well-bred bald welder

    Fuck it (fucking it) - Capital Punishment, the West Memphis Three (always), jury selection being rigged because anti-death-penalty jurors are dismissed. These things are on my mind. We (my wife and I) have been reading The Devil's Knot by... I don't even remember who. It's maddening, really. That's the best I can say in a cram-this-in-because-this-ain't-a-soapbox blurb. (This is no promise that I won't spew out some of that crap sometime in the future. Like how's it a "jury of your peers" when you're a minor on trial? Minors can't be on the jury, right? And isn't the death penalty an admission that murder's okay sometimes? (Then again, as solidly as I feel that argument, wouldn't that also mean that life in prison is an admission that keeping someone prisoner is okay sometimes?) And I'm SICK of the word "justice." YEAH! Fuckin' word. Bitch.)

    Then there's that thing about the suit against the record companies for price-fixing CDs. I mentioned this the other day and couldn't find the link. I didn't fill out the crap, I probably won't. Who needs free money. But that issue hovers around something constantly in my craw about record labels (the big ones, anyway) and the musicians on them not getting money from CD sales. No link there. Just me saying some shit I'm not going to go into because.

            the   lazy   stool
            inadvertently pressed upon
           the plastic toy 
              that it was sorry
                          to crack him
                into 27 pieces

    Dave Blackwood, who's blog I've got a link to where the links are SUPPOSED to be, is linking to Squub. Good deal.


    12.13.2002 - Later

    The sky is pink and I think I hear someone playing tennis on the courts behind the apartment building. It can't be - there's rain in the pink sky, and looking out I see the empty court, and the snow is pink too, as if it's reflecting the sky. It's a trick of the time, somehow the light coming through the haze and the light striking the old snow come out the same shade. Now that I've looked I've stopped hearing the sound of the tennis ball hitting the racket, though I'd heard it for more than a few minutes before looking.

    Without my glasses the wet surface of the tennis court is a constantly fracturing plate of dark, reflecting back splotches of white from the balcony lights on the other side. There's never anyone on these balconies. Sometimes I'll stand out there searching for anyone who might be looking back, and in three years I've never seen anyone. I think these people would never rent an apartment without one, but they don't use them for anything other than storage.

    I step out there under the rain, walk backwards again. Geese stand on a lake of ice, but this time I don't hear them. There's always one white goose (if it were a duck I'd understand) with all the browns. The rain hasn't stopped, but the snow's still there gradually weakening.



    Really today's just that kind of day, where the rain patters so that in the quiet in here I can hear it on the roof. It's not really quiet in here. But when I strain, and shut myself in a closet, I can hear it, on the roof.

    But still everyone's been frightened away by spying, phone espionage, and maybe a designer cologne being test marketed under the name "Phone Espionage," by Ralph Larphen. He's not related, though he IS a great marble salesman.

    I bought my counter tops from him. I'm convinced I paid a little too much, considering they weren't installed and instead just laid on top of the countertops I already had. It's the sort of suburban nightmare you keep thinking you won't wake up from, and then you never do. I let them come in while I was at work, the wife was at work - the whole apartment just laid out for these crooks. They came in, sat the faux-marble on top of the picture-of-marble countertops already extant, and left. I had paid by credit card, the money was deducted, there was nothing I could do.

    They mar less easily than the tops underneath them, though. So it wasn't a total loss; some good came out of it.

    Ralph's a fucking cock anyway, and I'd like to shove a can opener in his throat. "Phone Espionage" indeed. I imagine it's tap water, colored with a little cat piss. I used to call my guitar that.

    I sometimes wake up sweating in the night, imagine myself running into the kitchen, throwing open a window, and tossing the countertops out into the dark, steaming cold. The first one makes no sound as it buries itself in the mud outside, the rest crack apart as they land on top of one another. No lights come on in the neighboring apartments - no one gives a shit what's going on outside their windows here. As long as no one's window's smashed, everyone sticks with the half-sleeping, their well-rehearsed sleep faces staying put, pretending as hard as they can that nothing out there can affect them in here.



    I can't concentrate. At all. On this. Or anything.

    Been decorating. There are Christmas things on top of Christmas things. There's a faek tree. Faek. With lights which this year flash and follow and sparkle and are just plain fancy. There are more of those out on the balcony, running along the railing and up the side and across the top and back down the other side. There's a big-ass light-up fabric-kinda Santa out there, and a big-ass light-up fabric-kinda Frosty.

    I'm Clark Grizwald in an apartment. I couldn't find my hammer; my room here, where all of my things are -- my computers and my instruments and my broken radios and CDs and... and our spare bed and styrofoam and telephone and record players and bookshelves and 4-track and every piece of knick-knack for decorating the apartment that doesn't fit anywhere else -- gets even more crowded this time of year. So I couldn't find my hammer. So I'm Clark W. Grizwald in an apartment, except not quite so tall, and nowhere near as funny. I couldn't find my hammer so I used the leg of the end-table that I'd had to move in here yesterday (put it on top of some plastic crate/box thing that could contain anything), which had fallen off of said table while moving it. Out on the balcony I stood on a lawnchair and used a big-ass faek-wood table leg as a hammer and was nailing the bracket-thingies into the frame of the balcony and the damned table leg fell right out of my hand. I watched as it fell in slow motion three floors down to land in the wet snow right next to the patio of whoever lives down there. There's already a busted-up piece of 6' PVC pipe down there that rolled off earlier in the year. But then I wasn't watching. THIS I saw.

    I don't think Clark Grizwald laughs at himself this way, though... I almost couldn't breathe. I thought about how lucky I was that I didn't try to grab the thing as it fell. Where I was perched on the lawnchair the railing of the balcony comes up to just below my knees. I wouldn't have stood a chance at standing, would've tumbled after the thing, come to rest on the concrete down there at the bottom of the rainspout that the table leg fell alongside of. In slow motion. It might've felt like slow motion, still, but not once I hit the ground.

    I went and got the thing. There was more hammering to do.

    We're not done yet. There are icycle lights for the windows. I've hung some, but most of them don't have their suction-cup hook thingies with them anymore, so I'm not sure how I'm going to do it.

    So far, though, everything I've plugged in has come on. So maybe I'm not QUITE Clark Grizwald. And there's no Russ to have a good talk with.



    Do frogs really fall from the sky? And fish?

    I thought I'd have an easier time figuring this out. I don't know what kind of answer I'm looking for, exactly. My wife was watching Magnolia this evening, and when she asked me if that was something that really happened I gave one of my typically instructive answers - "Err, well, that's... that's one of those things."

    I tried to ellaborate and found that I really couldn't. I checked on snopes and couldn't find anything about it. I did a yahoo search (I have no idea why I did a yahoo search, I hate yahoo searches, I usually use Google, or, more recently, alltheweb) and I found a few references, like this thing at allaboutfrogs.org. But nothing seems to satisfy me.

    It looks like this is just not a well-documented sort of thing. I find myself believing that it must actually happen. It's an unusual thing for me, to believe something that isn't really explained somewhere. At least I think it's unusual.

    What's NOT so unusual is for me to run out of steam halfway through what I had intended to write, having not really intended to write anything, but having thought that it would've turned out very interesting. One of the things I came across while reading though was a webjournal sort of thing by some lady somewhere. She calls it Watching Paint Dry, and I found it because she had an entry that was linked from yahoo by the phrase "How are there frogs falling from the sky?" which is a great line in what MUST be the consumate movie about the subject, Magnolia. Which is where I came in. I've linked to her site on my links page.

    It's really been a trial for me, here, as I see this I thing gradually shifting towards the sort of content that's in the blogs I've been reading so much of recently. I've avoided putting links in here up until now, but in this case that just seems stupid. Having a couple of links doesn't kill me. The fact that I'm concerned about how blog-like this thing is, based on the fact that I hate the name "blog," contrasted with how obvious it would be to anyone reading that I've been obviously thinking about the whole subject a lot recently, is a good picture of the way I'm continuing to be neurotic. I'm so comfortable with that description.

    It snowed a lot last night, after my being pretty certain that after all the hype we'd get nothing but some wet roads. I worked from home, I drove my wife to work through a lot of slipping and sliding, and a lot of drivers who really have no idea how to handle this stuff. It was very nice, though. I still love the snow. I'm very lucky I have the job I do, I think, where I can sit here and look outside at it and love it that way, instead of being forced to hate it through virtue of having to actually deal with it.

    Earlier my computer hung while I was trying to investigate something else I'd found out about on some blog. Is there some law suit being filed by some 48 states against record companies, accusing them of price-fixing CDs and other media? There's some site where you can file a claim, and when the suit's settled you stand to get 20 bucks, if you purchased music between 1995 and 2000. The online claim form includes spaces for the last four digits of your social security number. I decided not to fill it out because of that. Not that that number's safe otherwise.

    Tortoise: "Where have my ramblings brought me now?"

    Hare: "Right here!"


    12.4.2002 - Later

    I'm doing this wrong. I'm doing it wrong. I worry about who will be reading this shit after I write it. I'm pretty sure I shouldn't do that. I'm pretty sure of that because it's counter to some of my goals here, which have never been verbalized and so only really exist as hazy motes in a ray of light coming through a window. I have no windows. (Some who read this, for instance, will know that I tend to re-use images. I suspect a lot of writers do this.) This worrying keeps me from writing, probably more often than is healthy. There are people I know scattered throughout my imagined audience.

    Sometimes I write while I'm at work. I'm obviously not working in these instances. Right now is a good example. I hear the echoes in my head saying "I just CAN'T focus on figuring out why this goddamned invoice object is not doing what it should in this case," and I want to write something down about something.

    On the other hand I'm constantly distracted when I write here. I'm constantly distracted by the other voice saying, "You should really work harder at focusing on what you're being paid to focus on."

    My fingers hover, nearly delete it all, don't want to save this drivel. It's all drivel, but this drivel gives things away to that imagined audience. With my door shut, I might not always be coding. I might be spewing this shit out, laced with profanities and guilt and indications that, as one friend (and possible reader?) succinctly put it, I am a very neurotic individual.

    Fucking Invoice Object. Goddamnit.

    . . .

    Score one for fighting my instincts. Obviously I wrote what I wrote up there, feeling guilty. Posted it, went back to the code I'd been beating my head against all day, solved the problem in a few minutes.

    Or was that following my insincts?



    I neglected to make an appearance yesterday. That would've been three years running writing something on the same date. My anniversary has shone like dandruff.

    It's morning. The news outlets here around the DC area are stumbling over themselves trying to out-exaggerate one other. It's cold and there's water on the east coast, so they think they should warn us of our need to hide under the blankets, with our milk, and our bread.

             flourescent seafood again for breakfast
                         the wooden frame vibrates
               it's possible that it will collapse
                                 under the weight of the leaves
          they've raked and bagged and thrown up there
            all to clean the grass
            that's cold and likes the frost
               but still won't confess



    Twelve hens on a fencepost,
    Five on the road.


    11.27.2002 - Later

    the search (more or less) ends...

    I'm going to have to send myself an e-mail. I've finally written a script that does what I want it to with the damned letters. I bet there's an easier way. I've had to use a courier font to do it, but it looks pretty good. Now squub.com has become pretty damned nondescript. It'll probably change again at some point when I figure out what would be better to do with things. I still don't have an image editor on this machine, so I'm using a lot of text. Obviously.

    Took me pretty much all day to do that. If you want to see the script, you might have to e-mail me. It does a lot of window.writes, on its own window, so the script goes bye-bye when the page loads.

    I'll be leaving tonight after 10pm. Won't be updating from where I'm headed. Though already my streak of consecutive updates is better than it's ever been, so I'm due for some big six months of downtime anyway. Maybe not.

    The clapping is just a melted ornament. Relax, have some hot pie.


    11.27.2002 - Later

    News (not good, but news) from the Cupcake Canasta front - Paul's having all sortsa troubles with this internet contraption. Apparently the cupcake.com domain is the victim of some crackdown on domains named after pastries. Or verisign are a bunch of fuckwads. Read his November 27th update at his blog.

    So I'll break my informal "no links in the SquubLog section" rule for Cupcake Canasta. I feel a possibly inexplicable sort of brotherhood with that place.

    I've been sucking on a straw submerged in a Roy Rogers cup which used to have a Diet Coke in it but now has ice in it for 20 minutes. My ass is stuck to the chair. Halp.

    the search continues...

    I'm still trying to find, or write (ingeniously through a process of sitting here not writing it), a javascript that will evenly space the letters in a column. Basically something to justify a column of words completely, so that even two letters in a column will be justified. It's a text effect you see regularly enough in graphically designed thingamajigs, I figure there's gotta be a script to do it. I've managed to make scripts that do something related to this, but they don't actually get to the end of what they're supposed to do. Generally I can evenly space letters across a line of text, but that's not quite what I want cuz the first and last characters have to be at the very front, and very end, of the line. That requires some additional mathematical goofing which I've thus far been too lazy to solve.

    To make this search seem interesting, I'm offering to give the first person who hooks me up with such a script a free e-mail from myself. I know they'll come flooding in now.

    In related news, I've justified all the text in this I section (which I refer to now sometimes as SquubLog because it's just still, after all this time, difficult for things to seem like they make sense when I call it an I section. Argh, I'm trying to make sense, I hate when I do that.)



    There's no snow outside. I suspected as much, and it's probably for the best, as we're driving late tonight to spend Thanksgiving in the old home town. That's the dumbest thing I've ever said.

    Excuses will only get you out the door. From there you'll have to find a map. Or a slow-pitch softball game with some bleacher space.

    I bruised the bottom of my foot. That's a really dumb thing to have going on. A bruise on the bottom of my foot. It happened as I was drying off after my shower. Where I had been thinking about the weather, how it wasn't snowing, and how it still feels like a winter day. I'm squirreled away in my trash room, as usual (when I'm not at the office - today I'm working from home. Obviously.) With the blue velour blanket tacked over the glass doors, my little, dim, yellow lamp and the screens of my two computers as the only other light sources, it should always feel like winter. It's blue and yellow in here.

    I got the lamp from my dad, he made it in shop class. I never had a shop class. I've replaced the part where the bulb screws in. That would be the business-end of the lamp. The bottom's now broken in half, though, and I've not taken then time to glue it back together.

    This is a trend in some direction. I'm not watching, I've no perspective. I started to build a lamp this summer out of popsicle sticks. I got as far as the structure, all glued together, and stopped. Quit.

    Unknown Caller keeps fucking calling here. I hate that fucking guy.


    11.26.2002 - Later

    The yellow lights
         in the dark.
    but the       cellophane      has not spent a dime

    Usually this would all be left unclear. In the dark here so no one thinks i'm in my office, with the door closed. Everyone knows I'm in my office, either way, the dark makes the yellow light hide less easily. Flourescent.

    I could go through here with a sharpened razor blade and snip out the pieces that mean anything and there'd be a trail of words on the floor from the door out to the car. They could follow me out there by the trail of words. I will be followed to my grave by the trail of words I leave behind and never once will there be a salient thought in the bunch. They fall out that way, so that when the razor blades come to clean up they leave nothing behind.

    Razor blades don't conveniently edit words that have never hit paper. You will see this dilemma elsewhere. For instance, in the editing of analog tape razor blades are convenient. Music recorded digitally onto a hard drive is not amenable to razor blade correction. Using a razor blade on the platters of a hard drive might cause utterly uninteresting results, until a hardy system for reading damaged hard drives is attained at which point you'd have a lot of meaningless data. Which is what this is. Which is where I came from. Slice the platters of the hard drives with a razor and you're left with the same result as when you slice the pointless bits away from a printed document of my words.

    Not meant to be self-pity or self-flagellation or mutilation or depressing, I'm-no-good talk. Just that the meaning is the same to me, if the words are scattered in a trail behind me to my grave or left to cower under the yellow light in the dark office. Flourescent.



    I didn't die. The death tea didn't kill me. I don't think it really made me any more tired than I already probably was. As usual, I'm IMMUNE TO ALL UNDOCUMENTED/UNPROVEN EFFECTS OF CHEMICAL SUBSTANCES. The preceding thought is in all caps just to prove to myself that the caps work.


    11.24.2002 - ... (this is ridiculous)

    I'm drinking death tea. Except it's very good. I'm afraid, but it's good.

    I wish I could store this energy for updating this section and extend its use over time. It seems like a more level approach, to write short updates about myself and the things I've tripped over every day, instead of writing big chunks of garbage all at once.

    But this formulation is also more me-like.

    Do not drive or operate heavy machinery after consuming this product. So it says, right on the box from which I pulled my tea. Celestial Seasonings Sleepytime Extra. I hadn't intended this. I bought this box today because I'm tired of having only hyper-caffeinated teas in my cupboard. Often when I want tea it's in the evening, and that sort of caffeine in the evening for me does nothing good. Unless laying awake in bed for hours is somehow good. I never thought it was good when I was kid and that's all I did every night, and since I've spontaneously become a easily-falls-asleep-at-night person I've continued to think the old option wasn't good, so I'm going to continue under the assumption that it's not good.

    But why can't I just get a tea that has no caffeine but also has no precautions about taking while I'm pregnant on the side of the box? I'll admit I was sold on the box itself - there's a cozy picture of a happy looking bear sitting in a comfy chair in a living room next to a fireplace right there on the box. His eyes are closed, he's got his night-cap on. There's an old fashioned radio on a table next to him.

    I was sold on THIS? Well, yes. There's something appealing to me about the idea of sitting in a chair with a cup of hot, non-caffeinated tea and relaxing. But perhaps the fact that the bear is upright in a chair yet clearly asleep should have been fair warning to me. If not the weird, dungeon-type device hanging on the wall beside the fireplace.

    I wanted the "Caffeine Free," but I didn't want the "Valerian makes it EXTRA!" I don't know what valerian is, but there's additional text on another side of the box that... actually doesn't help anything. "This powerfully effective Wellness Tea contains a potent herb not found in Sleepytime - valerian - that promotes extra fast, restful, natural sleep.*" And of course the * note merely indicates that those statements "have not been evaluated by the Food and Drug Administration." Well yippee. As long as I don't die.

    The teabags aren't right, though. There's no little string. There's no pouch. There's just the tea bag, and you're just supposed to drop it in there. And I don't know how the hell you're supposed to get it out. Maybe you're supposed to be unconscious before you consider that part.

    Tastes pretty good, though.


    11.24.2002 - later still

    I'm gonna abuse the hell outta this "later" crap. Two things:

  • 1 - hope you like the new crap that's here. I've taken to stealing free javascripts. I used to have some pipe-dream that I'd do them myself if I used them, but after many abortive attempts at creating a script that evenly spaces the lettering in my menubar in the left frame, I've decided for now to use a ripped-off message displayer thingamabob on the front page.
  • 2 - In my I from 8.19.2002, I wrote about a CD I'd become enamored with. Sometime near the end of October, that CD, along with 22 others or so, was stolen from my wife's car. It was one of the first I replaced, mostly on prompting from her. So there's two of us saying Days of the New's third album is pretty damned good. Though that wasn't exactly what I was saying there in August. Not that I was saying otherwise. This is going nowhere.
  • .link.

    11.24.2002 - later

    This is hardly even later really. Just a minute. Or two. I had to fix something and I thought about how I still want to write. That never fits in my scheme when I do this, so I don't write. I think about how there are these big chunks of space where I write nothing, then I get to writing; I write something and then later in the same day want to write more; then I can't stick it at the bottom of what I already wrote because I've inevitably been very clever in how I finished the thing; then I don't write again and instead figure I'll write more tomorrow. But I don't. So now I have this new scheme - I'll start again above the previous entry, and put this magical "later" keyword there. Everything will be clear. Maybe I'll write some clauses separated by semi-colons to be extra-readable. Readability is KEY to this sort of thing. This is my lesson to all up-and-coming bloggers.

    I never really liked that damned term anyway. Blog. "Blogger" is especially annoying. It works descriptively. So long as a person doesn't use that as his or her primary term for self-definition. "Me? Oh, I'm a blogger. And what do you do?"

    My wife and I just went for a walk around the lake. It's a beautiful day, a sixty degree (?) fall day. We were kicking pine-cones around, down the sidewalk. Lots of pine cones. Which are, some people might remember, porcupine babies. But in this context maybe it's best that they stay pinecones. I don't feel particularly comfortable talking about kicking porcupine babies along the sidewalk.

    We walked the wrong way around the lake-thing (I'm too lazy and unconcerned to investigate the real answer to my current quandary - just what constitutes a "lake," and whether this thing is, instead, a "lake-thing," being much smaller, and I think it's gotta be man-made, than, for instance, your average great lake) in the wrong direction. Not backwards, but in a direction opposed to the one in which most people, including, usually, us, walk. I use WAY too many commas.

    Everything is different when we do this. Walk around the other way. It's a cliche, I know, to attribute some kind of cosmic significance to this observation. So I won't. But this was my observation nonetheless, just as it has been in the past when we've walked around the wrong way. Things just look different. With my poor sense of direction things are remarkably switched around so that I have short periods of time where I'm not even sure where we are in the geography of the place.

    To prevent confusion - this is a lake thing with about a mile (though I could be off by a good bit in this estimate) of walk-way around it. Some of that walkway winds through some typical suburban woodsy quaint wooden-bridges-over-streams sort of area. (I've just now almost lost all of what I've just written by virtue of my having been using the previously-mentioned web-interface thing to compose this in. Eek. now I'm in notepad. Call me 21st Century... uhm... Digital... schizoid man. Or don't. Doesn't make much difference to me. Either way, I still don't have spell check.) So I get lost in only the most philosophical of ways when I do this walking. Nothing to do but follow the walkway, so in only a few steps I've invariably settled on just where I am in the landscape.

    There is a certain area in particular that looks nothing at all, at first glance while walking the wrong way, like it does when seen from the usual angle. There are picnic tables there - it's the only part of this layout where there is a sizeable chunk of land between the walk-way and the water - sitting amidst some nicely (planned) spaced trees. Today especially, with lots of fall leaves on the ground (covering the dog-crap) this looked really nice. From the other direction I rarely even notice the place, as it occurs just as we've come out of a thicker area of woods, and it's on our left there, instead of being right in front of us. Coming from the wrong direction there's a whole approach going on, a time to see it, right in front, and take notice.

    And with that, since I've claimed I wasn't making any sort of analogy here, I'll stop writing. There's something Tolkien said about hating allegories, while pointing out the importance of applicability. Yeah. I'm a fucking literary genius. Apply the above as you see fit.



    My left eyebrow is pulsing. Down into my eyelid a little, towards the bridge of nose. [note: "bridge of nose." There should originally have been a "the" in there, but I've seen this and left it as is. Bridge of Nose. Because.] This was happening some yesterday, and on and off today. I've been having too much caffeine for a few weeks now, I bet these things are related. It makes me want to push the palm of my hand into my eye socket, or onto the pulsing. That doesn't seem to stop it, except for the time while I'm still pushing.

    It pains me to say that probably everyone, not that anyone reads, but me knew this already - this is a blog. There's nothing other about a blog that this is not. I did not make the damned connection until today - maybe it was yesterday (at any rate my eyebrow was pulsing) - that "blog" is short for "web log." Why you'd want to shorten "web log" to "blog" I'm not sure. Why I didn't catch onto that the first time I saw a blog - well that's probably because I don't catch onto anything unless I'm looking. Or later. Whichever comes first. I've only started seeing this word blog in the past year, I think. Whenever I posted a link to Cupcake Canasta's blog-spot. I claim ignorance. I plead the fifth. I run burning liquid all along my forehead.

    So now that I realize this is a blog, see - well, maybe I should include a back story? I doubt it. I read those things, sometimes, but only for the most voyeuristic of reasons. I like to see what mundanity people can get up to, and focus on. It's not a way to scoff or put myself above anyone, as in, "hah, look at how you worry over such pointless things." It's more of a way, for me, to see just how absurd everything is. How absurd my problems are. We all seem to have mundane, absurd little problems and concerns. And I HATE trying to comment on that - I feel naked and idiotic, in a way, saying these things. As if someone will say, "No shit - I could've told you that."

    It's not like people actually SAY that; at least not very often. But I have an inate fear of admitting what I don't know.

    I'm also noticing that doing this in a web-based html editor with no spell checker is really sort of frustrating. Just shows how edgy I am, and unconcerned. I'll brave these elements (it's mostly the double consonants that give me trouble, like up there where I put "inate" and I'm still not sure if maybe that should be "innate") just to birth these thoughts out into the nothing unimpeded by editing.

    Now I just feel so PART of everything, being an old hat at blogging without even knowing that's what I was doing. I deserve a cookie. Or half a candy bar. Which is what I have, out in the kitchen. I am looking forward.



    It's getting old, around here, and I just got back. I was away until Sunday night (2 days ago) on my honeymoon. Now I'm back here in Montgomery County, Maryland, scared to get gas in my car.

    There are white vans EVERYWHERE. But I already knew that. A few years ago I started asking people I knew what the hell was up with that - unmarked white vans with no windows are all over. There are irritating people all over the media talking about all kinds of shit; it's terrorists, it's a pissed off guy, it's two pissed off guys, it's kids who play video games (of course.) It's probably kids who listen to Marilyn Manson, now, too. Or maybe it's Marilyn Manson his or herself, trying to get some attention.

    I'm no better - I'm certainly not adding anything to the discourse here. Just decided to say something about it. Something about it.



    I have a piece of question that has grown in my head since I read an article about a piece of space junk, which might be a stage of a Saturn rocket, that's maybe going to hit the moon next year.

    I read this way back in 3 minutes ago, but it seems like just last week.

    So there's this array of crap (AOC) on the surface of the moon that was set up to detect collisions back when we used to be cool and do stuff like go to the moon. It's more called ALSAP or something like that, but Array of Crap will work just fine.

    So they turned off the AOC in some money saving decision back in some time. So I read that and said, "ih?" Because it's on the moon. And it would measure stuff about collisions with the moon. And they needed to save money. But it's on the moon.

    So now they're thinking that they might should turn it back on, in case this thing is going to hit the moon, so they can measure some crap.

    So here's some info from the article:

    Starting with the second landing expedition on the Moon, Apollo Lunar Surface Experiment Packages (ALSEPs) were deployed by astronauts. Spread out on the Moon�s surface, the equipment gathered important science information, from sensing the magnetic field at the lunar surface to probing subsurface materials.
    "If we find that it�s possible to turn the ALSEPs [Array of Crap] on in anticipation of a hit by an upper stage of a Saturn V, then I think there would be a tremendous scientific return," said Apollo 17 moonwalker, Harrison Schmitt. The former astronaut and professional geologist was the last man to step onto the Moon in December 1972.
    NASA should look into the possibility of turning the Apollo 12, 14, 15, and 16 ALSEP hardware back on, depending on how long they could be left on for a reasonable cost, Schmitt said. "The Apollo 17 seismometer probably wouldn�t be of any use," he said. "It had a mistake in its design and wasn�t really built for that kind of information anyway."

    Okay, so there it is again. How long could they be left on for reasonable cost? For reasonable. COST. Costs. COST? Cost.

    So I'm just continuing to sit here scratching my elbow and wondering, "What kind of cost is this talking about?" Are we going to pay a pizza delivery guy (pdg) minimum wage to go up there and hit the on switch? It doesn't make any sorts of sense to me that it would save money to turn something off that's on the moon. Is it being powered by Enron? Does someone get billed while it's on?

    The only possible sense I can come up with is that it costs money to monitor whatever signals are being sent, but if so then it doesn't make any sense to have ever turned them off, as opposed to just turning off whatever monitoring equipment there is. Or are these things artificially intelligent, and easily angered? Perhaps they'd shoot the earth with their neutron rays if they were ignored for a longish period of time.

    I am cornfused. Please to be straightening up my tie.

    complete article

    I'm afraid that this wreaks of cover-up. The piece of space junk is actually an alien Pod (not to be confused with Pod, which is perhaps alien in some sense of the word, but is decidedly of this world. I think.) So there's this alien pod that has been discovered, and THEY know it, and they know that amateur astronomers and inane web page maintainers are monitoring the situation, and so they've concocted this big piece of gibberish about a 20% chance of its hitting the moon, and we've got equipment there but we turned it off to save some money, so now we'll have to scrape up some cash to turn it back on and keep it on. Of course this HAS to be a made-up piece of crap about this crap on the moon. I mean who ever heard of this Harrison Schmitt guy, anyway? Obviously a made-up name.

    Forget about the terrorists. The fucking pod people are coming. And they're coming for our moon.



    I'm being grandfathered in, here. I've passed the neighborhood! I'm all aflutter.

    Why? [WHY - ed.]

    No good seeds. All bad. Wellnow. Utterly. I beat the deadline, though, already done started before they changed whatever. So grandfathered. You see.



    I have no time, now. Or, I do, but nothing wants to be put here. Just three days ago I wrote something with some points in it. They hurt my fingers but I got through it all. I come here today not because I have anything to say, but because I have something to say it with.

    I continue to percolate over the idea of changing this site around a lot. I've just added a piece of writing in the Yarns place, and just about nearly just didn't quite change around everything so that it looks different. But, you see, I didn't. I have no image software right now. I always seem to be in a state of not having that, tracking some down, using it for a month, then losing it again.

    At any rate, I've just eaten a sandwich, and had some orange juice in a glass, and so I feel less like writing at this time. What's the deal with people saying things, anyway? Don't you just prefer this safe, pointless clump of words that don't intrude in anyway into your psyche? Who wants to be forced to think about things?

    I heard a radio show yesterday about books. There was an English professor/author on there, and he said, (paraphrasing,) "There's nothing easier to do when writing than to be obscure." Indeed? I find even my obscure things are less easy to write than this.



    Every once in a while I'll encounter a piece of music that brings back some of the passion for listening to music that seems, in some way, to be shifting into something different as I grow older. I don't know what's happening, or to what extent. Certainly music has never stopped being a central part of my life. I've been a composer/recording-person for a while now, and vent most of my creativity that way. But somewhere amidst the shift to writing music, and the continuous pull of the world at large, my listening habits have changed drastically. Where I used to listen to nothing but tapes or CDs while driving my car, in fact looked forward to driving for the oppurtunity, more recently I've taken to listening to NPR or talk radio over my long commute to work. Where in high school and college I'd spend hours lying in bed listening intently to tapes and then CDs (my collection of which expanded rapidly during those years), now most of my CD listening occurs at work, where I listen to things that are easy to let play in the background at a low volume.

    Every once in a while, though, I'll find something that pushes me back to a different state of mind. There's no great mystery in this, maybe. There's no inherent comment on the musicians that do this; if I stop to think about what it is I'm getting so into, it's easy to find flaws. Easier still to hear what some of my fellow musicians might say about the material. But the point is that some music just doesn't drive me to think about it this way. I don't hear it so much through the ears of a musician; instead I hear it maybe as I would've heard it when I had a much more broad and surprised view of the world.

    The latest perpetrator of this welcome push into more innocent frames of mind is Days of the New. I was tempted not to give all of this gibberish a name, here. Just giving it a name intellectualizes this emotional state in a way I'm a little afraid of. This is a fragile state. But I've committed, so we'll just see what happens.

    I've been listening to these guys since they started, back in the 90s. The release of their acoustic grunge single coincided with the decline of grunge, in general, and some shifts in my own musical environment, in particular. I never got that much into that first CD, but I certainly found something there that harkened back (just a few years!) to a time when I'd first really gotten into metal music. The first band I sang for was playing live in the heyday of the Seattle/grunge scene, and there's always been something about that sound that can change my mood in a positive away. This is ironic in a way, as the music is mostly full of a sort of negative energy (I could go on and on here - suffice it to say that this energy is, to me, not really negative at all.)

    Days of the New have had two albums since then, pretty much, I think, ignored by John Q Public, and not given a lot of positive critical press. Their second album, though, has been at the top of my rotation since I bought it, two years ago, maybe. I mostly ignore the lyrics - they aren't sophisticated, are at times pretty juvenile. But on a good day maybe it's that very sense of musical sophistication (and the music IS sophisticated, to these ears) and teenish darkness that lets me slide so easily into another place.

    I grew up doing a lot of wandering around in the woods. Not a large swath of them, mind - just the couple of small forests around my parents' home. I'd listen to Jethro Tull (Crest of a Knave, Broadsword and the Beast, I think most often) on headphones while I wandered around and thought. It wasn't hiking, really. Like I said, I never really went anywhere. But the music in conjunction with the words, whatever their "real" meaning, carried me somewhere. And it's not that I had something to really run from. I had a comfortable, middle class childhood. I'm pretty sure, though, that the escape I get from listening to music, and from reading, is more about where I'm escaping to than something I'm escaping from.

    I picked up, after time after time picking up and putting back, Days of the New's third record today. This was just maybe five hours ago. I put it in my player, sat on the couch in my monkey room (EVERYTHING is in this little room right now, the ceiling having nearly collapsed on us last Thursday - maybe if you're lucky you can read about that later,) in the dim light, and couldn't really do anything but listen. Didn't want to muck around on the computer, didn't want to read, watch TV - just wanted to hear. I owe this Travis Meeks guy, by all accounts I've dug up your usual overbearing, controlling, big-ego'd musician-type (not that I've dug up enough to make any sort of meaningful statement, here, it's more just a general impression i've gotten,) a thank you. I can't really put my finger on what it is, but he's done it again, probably moreso still than on the other two (and this one's already a year old, now, at least.) He's helped me escape again, to wherever it is I go. I don't get to do this often enough anymore, but this record does it for me.

    And THAT is enough of THAT...

    Ah, what the hell... for old time's sake -

    I will not die born,
    I will not go down,
    'cuz this is not my home
    for any fears at all.
    Keep me runnin'
    Keep me running wild
    I am wild dog
    it gets me high it gets me around
    everybody's wall
    I don't feel no pain
    cause I am numb from the fall
    Yeah it's hard for me to make one little change
    I don't have to change at all
         -Travis Meeks, Days of the New, "Die Born"



    I wonder if I'm doing this right? The cake I took out of the kitchen here is not killing me. That has to be a good sign. I'll have to write down, in my book, that the cake today isn't killing me. Or maybe I won't write that down.

    There's this whole stack of nothing-having-been-added-here-in-months that I have to think about. In addition, under that there's a bigger stack of anything-that's-been-added-anytime-in-recent-memory-isn't-worth-much. So I've got to figure out a way to deal with that. Whole thing.

    All in due time. Do. Due. Do. Do due. The cake is pretty good. It's lemony. I took a very small slice, because I don't know who's it is. I'm pretty sure it's been there since Friday. It's Monday now. For anyone keeping records and cards and notepads.

    Paul from Cupcake Canasta recently contacted me to let me know that his place ain't dead yet. He's up and fluctuating in some other place while he tries to straighten out some things with the internet. Apparently this whole internet thing is a big mess. I'd like to get rid of it altogether, but I can't figure out a way to have a web site without it. Any suggestions would be more than welcome. Maybe on my front page I'll put a link.

    Have I said enough for my only update in months?

    Did anyone bring along the keys?



    Though I'm not sure of anything, the clock, the computer keeps twisting it until I update it, goddamn the time.

    It's a bit of a thing to have this page here and never do anything to it. Like the romans, with their candles, ya know? I'd burn down sassafrass if she'd let me.

    But here I am again, and again, and it's been a long time, as it always has, and I've nothing to say, as I always do, but something must be said. Must? What a silly word for me to use. Silly thing for me to say. Hope you're all enjoying yourselves... it's nice to be a plot of land in the Swiss hills, rotting like a tomato in the sun.

    So Cupcake Canasta is sort of not there where it should be. It's still where it used to be, before it got to the place where it should be, but the lead page there says it's there where it should be, still, which it isn't, but the lead page of what's there where it used to be hasn't been updated since they moved to where it should be. So my hammer comes down, and my neighbors grow paintings to enjoy. The flowers are nice this time of life. Ever seen a battle hymn of the something or other? Crap.

    Enjoy the elephants! They really are too rare. My eyes. Crap. Where I'm talking about is here, if you'd like to dig your way around and see what you can scratch up. Everyone loves a mystery! Mister E! What a name, what a face, to wear to your wedding, in disgrace. Buh.

    Hmmm. Hmmmm. Hmmm. We do what we can.



    Been a while, a while, while I didn't write here say anything

    I received today a minidisc recorder. I've been waiting for some longish time to get one. It was expensive. It is very small, and I haven't been able to use it yet because I am charging the battery. There were ways around having to charge the battery right off the bat, but I didn't utilize them. I chose the path which would provide me with the longest possible amount of time for sitting here staring at this little, tiny thing so that I could wonder if it was worth it.

    So I have yet to have anything to say about the recorder.

    I have many, many free e-mail accounts. I have accounts at yahoo.com, excite.com, email.com, myrealbox.com, iwon.com... and many others I've forgotten about. At some of those places I have multiple accounts. This is not my point.

    Many years ago, while I was living in Frostburg, around the time I first started Insipid Irrelevance which was somewhere else at the time, I received some email from a place that was, I think, called iname.com, advertising "free email forwarding for life to the first 50 people who sign-up!" That "50" there is not exact, I don't remember what the number was. But I was intrigued, and since I was always checking e-mail at the time I figured if I signed up right away I'd be one of the first however many people to apply. So I applied, and I was told that I had gotten in under the cut-off, and so would get this service free, for life.

    Of course I didn't expect any internet company to stay in business for the length of my life, but I figured I'd use it while I could. I was also curious as I'd never before gotten anything promised to me "for life." I chose cobfreak@whoever.com as my address, and set it to forward to whatever account I was using at the time. I began telling people that was my e-mail address.

    Over the years since I've changed primary e-mail addresses a LOT, and always, at some point, I've gone to the site and changed my forwarding information to match. This worked great for a long time. At some point the company changed to mail.com, but I continued to have free use of the service.

    Recently, though, I changed primary mailboxes yet again, and signed into my account and tried to figure out how to change the forwarding information one more time. I couldn't find anything that let me do this. Instead I found some information about how to sign up for a forwarding account, at a monthly fee, and other information about how to read my e-mail from their site.

    And NOW, my minidisc recorder stops charging. It is charged. I must finish quickly.

    Today I visited one of my seldom-used-anymore e-mail accounts and found a message from mail.com, telling me that they had discontinued their free forwarding services and that my account would be de-activated unless I began paying them $8.95 a month. In response, I sent them a brief note in which I think I said that this was a "slap in the face." Why ever I chose those words I don't know. But this does seem silly. Nine dollars a month for e-mail forwarding. I haven't used the address much anymore, because I couldn't change it to forward to my regular account. But something about this really does irritate me. Of course I have nothing, or at least not that I know where to find, that would prove that they'd made this offer to me. But surely maintaining forwarding e-mail addresses doesn't cost anything like 9 dollars a month. I can't imagine that many people use their service for that. So this feels like being strong-armed. SURELY it's a plot that whoever started the company set up, years ago. "We'll make these people reliant on this address, and tell them that it'll be free. But THEN, after EVERYONE knows this address, we'll start charging them to continue using it."


    This is an interesting tale of internetishness, and I'm sorry I haven't done it more justice. Perhaps I will make it worth the read at a later date. Currently, however, I've got a gadget to play with.



    No intention had I of putting a put here.

    Put though I'm doing. BE CAUSE. There is a thing (way down there!) from this EXACT DATE last year. [How is it exact if it's last year? Is that different? What year is this?]

    Since I've not previously noticed myself putting something on the anniversary of another thing, I'm putting something here now to mark the anniversary of the nothing. The entry in question from last year is just about as interesting as this one. You can see just how much nothing's gotten any better around here. AROUND HERE. I don't know where here is. Surely I wrote that one, from last year, somewhere that was not HERE, exactly. Exactly. Exactly is a gibberish word, I shall put it back in the egg shell and push it into the chicken.

    That's much better.



    My permanent collection of stupid has moved to the building across the street from the old location. I am very happy with the new location, as it is twice as large as the previous location, and should offer visitors a much more enjoyable experience. The collection had clogged the old location to the point that part of it actually collapsed on some visitors. I am happy to report that most of the collapsed portion has been reconstructed and is housed safely in the new location, although the visitors themselves were, of course, killed instantly.

    The incident of the collapsing stupid forms the first new exhibit in my collection of stupid in the new location. It is located on the fourth floor, behind the door labelled, "collapsing stupid." Inside you will see a recreation of all of the original stupid (the original stupid is still, as indicated above, housed elsewhere in the collection,) the dead visitors, and some poorly labelled other things.

    Please, come to the new location and see my collection of stupid! It has enough stupid for everyone!



    I don't know. Should I revamp again? Sometimes I wonder if more pertinent things should be on the front-page. Entrance page. Whatever it is. All of these things are in frames which are probably unviewable by 75% of the people who don't come here anyway. Anyway. Anyway. I think I left an anyway to be said there, I'm not sure.

    "Pertinent," which probably isn't spelled that way, is a word that often is difficult to relate to squub.com, insipid irrelevance. The fact that I occasionally want to talk about something, though, should also be allowed. Anyone who knows me, who are maybe the only people who read this page, though they probably don't actually read this part, either, will understand a little bit that my inner-conflict about the pertinence of being pertinent occupies a largish portion of my storage space.

    Ignoring that, charging in...

    There are pop-up windows EVERYWHERE. This is an intrusion of unfortunate degree. This occasionally causes bad things to happen to my machines. I would like to stop this nonsense RIGHT NOW. Which is not the kind of nonsense we eschew here. Not. Nonsense. Sense. Ask Bapudi, they'll tell you.

    Used to be that those things would happen when you went to a pornsite. Bad things happening to arguably semi-deserving people. I'm not going to argue the merits of that statement right now - suffice it to say that no one did too much complaining because then they'd have to be admitting to looking at "those sites."

    Now this isn't the case. ANYONE WANT A GODDAMNED LITTLE, TINY CAMERA? We will advertise it for you with moving images: here's a nice house, under the protective gaze of our hidden security camera BOOM! here's a sexy woman, stretching and sunning herself BOOM! here's a nice house... This is something you'd EXPECT to see popping up (boing!) when you're checking out IveBeenABadGirl.com, but when you're reading your free webmail?

    Is this proven marketing? Is someone getting online to check their stock-quotes and saying, "Holy shit! I can double the speed of my connection by clicking this window! What the hell am I waiting for?" Are the people who pay for these advertisements getting a whole bunch of hits from unsuspecting retired women who just wanted to find a recipe for Red Velvet Cake? "What's this? I'm already a winner?"

    There are programs that are supposed to stop this. Being a coder myself I keep meaning to write something that'll simply stop the java-script from opening new windows, but I keep getting sucked into doing what I'm being paid to do, updating a website, or trying desparately to close the fifty-seven windows that just opened up when I went to get directions to a concert. I've installed a "popup stopper" of some sort and it doesn't work for shit. I'm told they're great - maybe my machine is ready for a boot to the head. But why should we have to install a thing to tell our browser "Don't do anything I didn't ask you to do?" I know, we've got automation coming out the ass, and a lot of it is very convenient and if we ALWAYS had to indicate EXACTLY what we want the computer to do, we'd end up ripping out our hair. (Though I've got at least one friend who would probably say to this, "A computer should NEVER do anything that isn't EXACTLY what we told it to do.")

    Is this a problem with all browsers? Are only non-anti-java-scripters falling victim to this? Cob only knows. I'm just spoutin' off. Fuckin' pop-up windows. If you ever see any here, though... then something's DEFINITELY gone amuck. Unless it's one that I've decided you should all see. Because of course I KNOW my audience, and I know what you'll want to read about. I mean you ALL want a miniature, secret camera, right?

    ...and now back to your regularly unscheduled catastrophe...

    The Mr. Stevens story is not here yet. It is here somewhere, but it's not linked yet. Why? WHY!? MY EYE! The heart is aching, the lender just took back his benevolent scarecrow. Have you ever heard of such a thing?

    I added something in Yarns. It's hardly useful. It's listed at the top of the page. My order is conducive to seizures. Jump right in!

    Why would I be doing this at work again? Why would I ever do anything the way I d? i? Smeshtang?
           acoutrements, mistakes, collapse
       random spaces - doesn't smell enough
           i wonder - what is the critical mass
      for the cobspeak?

    Plain, in brown paper, an old piece of twine makes a t, or an x. Cut it with a knife, check inside.

    That's just what I thought would be in here.


    Last entry was before the Tool show. That was quite a not experience. I shan't endeavor to blubber about that.

    Currently an old reel-to-reel of Amos and Andy is playing in my ear. Fresh Air Taxi. I have very little comment about that. I'm trying to build myself in here a bed of noise to fall into.

    The editing task from hell. I am not an editor. I am, mostly, not an anything. Trying to edit a free-writing piece (story? book? craphole?) that's been written in little chunks by two (and sometimes 3) people, only one of whom is me, is quite a thing. Especially when I stay away from it for months at a time.

    Someone may be interested to know, though, that I'm trying. So there should be a new piece of content, albeit unfinished, soon. I dunno yet where the hell it's going to be on here. Somewhere.

    "Mr. Stevens, the lights have gone out."


    Tonight there's a Tool show. Tool. I don't think I've ever written anything on here before about anything I'm doing that doesn't relate to this site. Maybe that was a decision I made, not to make this a diary thing. But frankly, diary things are more interesting than most of what I've written here. And self-flaggelation of that nature there is as boring as... as boring. As.

    So tonight there's a Tool show and I'll be there. There is Fantomas first, which I am actually a bit more excited about. That is Mike Patton. That is Noise. That is rule. I keep being on the verge of adding a music review section here. That might be something that would cause someone to come here and see the site, though. We wouldn't want that.

    Such a section, music reviews, would involve guest writers. I've already got a couple lined up. We'd review whatever we felt like reviewing. There would be no point, and it would therefore fit to some degree.


    So, who's in the jar?      Where's the best omnologist?
      If I flutter around
          up there,
           by the trees,
       will I seem less real to you?

      When the point comes home
            will we ride it with our straps?

    I think so.


    All things being unequal, this is the last thing I'm writing fer this entry. Except the date. Gotta fix the date. Thanks fer anyone who's reading. There's nothing here to see. Down below here, in my history, there may have been, at some point, something mildly interesting written. Have a day.

    The cracking pavement all around me looks like pimps.

    I see that I actually got a decent number of hits last month. Over 60% of them resulted in 404: file not found. So! I checked it out and it seems that that was a bunch of hacking attempts. So I say, Thanks, guys! That's just fantastic. I do owe a debt of something to my host, nomonthly.com, though. They must have okay security, because if any hackers got in here they sure didn't do anything severe. This is far too much talk of subjected matter.

    I am going to write this backwards. Not really backwards, because this is forwards. But this is the first paragraph I'm writing. I'm a moron.


    The old misanthropic bitch ain't where she used to be, ain't where she used to be, ain't where she used to be. Why am I talking about this? Certainly she doesn't need any further press. Though I haven't been able to find out yet where, if anywhere, she's moved or is moving her domain. Maybe she could use that sort of press. But I have many other reasons!

    I think maybe including "misanthropic bitch" on here will give me more hits. I bet people are looking for her now.

    I had a link to her site here, and now I'm going to have to take it off.

    I don't have anything in particular to say about her. I never have. I had a link. I read her stuff sometime. I just now went there to see if she'd made some sort of comment on what happened up there in New York. I think she's from there. I don't remember for sure. But I don't have anything in particular to say about anything in particular. As always, I am a muddle of unstraightenoutable thoughts about the state of affairs here and in the Middle East, and with the terrorists and the evil-doers and the politicians (who may or may not be evil-doers) and all of that. I can't find a flag anywhere to hang outside. I have a red, white, and blue friendship bracelet that I made. It's very fancy.

    I think maybe she dissappeared because she's a terrorist. In fact, she might be Mr. bin Laden. He/she has now gone back into hiding. Mission accomplished.

    My whole self is on fire.


    Just my little splatter here, in the face of the horrible things that have gone on. If anyone ever comes here it's certainly not for words of wisdom. And I don't have any. Just putting my voice out here. I'm here in America, being an American, being hurt and angry and sad.

    I'm sorry for everyone who's lost anyone.


    There is this whole site here, most often not a figment of anyone's imagination, and I don't know if anyone ever comes here, or if I should care. There are a few people, of course, who I know know, and who I know know I know know, but I've never done any sort of publicity thing. I wonder if I should? I wonder if I should make things a bit more obvious on here, maybe make some forum for posting crap? I WONDER IF I WONDER.

    Does the wound sparkle at you when you push on it?

    Don't bother me. Don't bother me. Out in the hedges, where the muddled water speaks,
         Out in the hedges
        there's a row of fish
          with crickets to watch
       Always meaning to overthrow
              Hold a coup!
       Take this to the fat one,
        don't stop,
      He'll know what to do
        He's the best cricket there is.


    THEY ARE PAINTING THE DOOR, while I'm behind it. Out the peephole they have their pointy, little tongues sticking from the corner of their mouths as they paint around it. Right around it, and knock on the knocker, but they don't want anything, just to paint, "We are paint door!" they tell me when I open to the knocking.


    Cobday, Cob Day? Still Life remembers, as do one or two others. Since nothing is updated here often enough, I've celebrated Cob Day by "working" from home and putting up a part of a translation of the Book of Cob. Click on that link over there on the left where it says, "Book of Cob!" Because I don't wanna put a link here. Or I could. Or I couldn't. Meat?

       Hedges in rows, past
            past, days left
    past?   days right

              Ever find that towel?
       lights lights lights
    Have a drink, or stand in the fire, I especially like
               Your day.

    And they say the family unit is a disembodied franchise.


    This day, all days, this days, but being to-day, not yester-day, and it's gone past months past updating past me. Right past, like a billowing patch of missing page. Missing page.


    The survey's been up for a while, and there are some results. I haven't compilated them into any sort of compilated format. So later there would be that if there weren't not that.


    I am honoring christmas, 2000. I don't think christmas, 2000, can actually be honored, exactly. There is shopping to do.

    There was discussion of a survey i could add here. One of the other guys with whom the discussion was discussed, though, also may have been or may have being now being been deciding to put said discussed survey on some type of area of his. Therefore I feel as if I shouldn't put it up here just now. Additionally, it's in a bit of a different direction.


    I am using tags that I shouldn't use but I can't see changing my damned css page by adding .christmas or .redtext or anysuch steuch thing. So I'm breaking it. I am a box of unruly phiddly cork wanting nothing more than a dripping sud. There's a comforter in the washer that hardly even fits but there are possibly persons coming to stay and they do not probably want unwashed blankets on their old spare bed. But the lumps have the right of way.

    If it were actually Christmas, instead of just getting there, this would make more sense.

    I don't expect to remember to write anything on Christmas. My spurt of frequent upheaval here is, possibly, defunct for another while. Or, possibly, it isn't. Things don't come in expected pieces. Things come in bargled bagginses.

    Ramify is a word. I didn't know that. Someone speked it around my presence, not knowing himself whether or not it actually meant what it should mean, but both of us agreed that it should certainly mean something as ramification certainly didn't sound like a rootless kinda word. Ramify is about fork. Ram. Ify. Better.

    Happy Day.

    I almost forgot this part down here...

    12.5.2000 later...

    I'm very confounded.  What the hell is the backwards?  What the hell is the for?

    At some point I'm going to have to break this.  Into.  Little.  Piece. s. 


    That's not even much fun.  Why can't there be an editor that's cool?  Probably there is.  I'm lazy and I have bad luck.  The 2 r not related.

    I just got a pleasant little flumpf.  http://inkpot.com/zines/  That place has "Insipid Irrelevance" (I!) listed at tcpbbs.com.  That was frickin' * ago.  So I went to send them a little note sayin', "hey, I'm over here!" and saw that their last update was in 1998.  John Labovitz stopped updating his e-zine list in 1999.  December, I think.  At least he's trying to do something, there, trying to give it away to someone who can maintain it right. 

    I still don't know if this is an e-zine.  In fact, I really don't want to call it that.  The usurpers!  They've taken that werd and smashed it to bits, put it back together with a pop-culture sheen and a commercial twist. 

    This little excursion has tempted me to add another sector here, some sort of graveyard of these zine things that have decayed to fragile shells, ready to be swept away by a current of shifting ISPs.  [Isn't this literary poseury brilliant?  Am I not the best guy?  THANKS>]  I'm sure all of that's already been done, and I could find it if I tried.  So I'll do it the way I do it, in spurts and sputters... the list that led me to that inkpot place, in fact, also led me to believe that John Labovitz's thing would still be alive.  So maybe THAT place is defunct. http://www.writerswrite.com/promotepub/  Who knows.  I could check.  I'm not.

    So I'm sittin' here with a busted CD player.  This thing's from... wow.  I'm thinking I got it in '92.  Sony, 10-disc (why is there 'disc' and 'disk'?  I could find out!  But...)  changer thing, with a noisy cartridge.  It's got some features.  Recently it's main feature has been its adding extra pauses in the middle of songs every 30 seconds or so.  But that's only once it's been playing for at least an hour.  It's newest thing is that it won't do anything.  It's says  - WELCOME! - in blue fancy letters, kinda like that.  I could find a matching font, but...  When I hit the eject button it changes to say  - SEE YOU! - , which is the fancy thing I was clever enough to tell it to say when I got it.  But it doesn't make any noise.

    This isn't actually a new feature.  It's done this before.  I just have to take the top off and pull the CD off of the player part, risking scratching the bejesus out of it, then return everything to the right state, then turn it all back on.  Right now there are 2 tape decks sitting on top of it.  One of them is obviously much older than it is... but for IT I only paid 25 bucks, and IT still works.  Mostly. 

    All of which is to say that I have no music to listen to, and that's a bummer.  Damned shame.  Bungling Trunk.  Forgone Pepper Skin.  Hate.

    In all of this meandering talk, I've managed to be too lucid.  Anyone who might find this now for the first time might think, "Oh, one of these.  Self-serving confessional bullshit.  Pompous ass.  Pretentious whatchamawhozit."  Well yes, yes it is.  No one reads this shit anyway. I now return you to your regularly scheduled old shit...


    I'm not doing this at work.

    Or maybe I am. Keep changing shit around. Expletive Inebriated. Reformatting this page. Or part of it, anyway.  Going back through all that HTML is a big pain in my ass.  Now there are nonsensical generations of formatting for editorial stuff that never says a damned thing.

    At least the never saying a damned thing is consistent.

    now i have a new trick fer adding comments in old places.  gooch.


    Wellsir, I'm werkin' on another Pod thing.  Probble won't have it up fer about *.  That's probble okay, though, since ain't nobody here but us funts.

    Changing a couple of other things, too. 


    Melt this on your receptacle, please.  There is a stink coming off of it.

    Very good. 

    Now, place this gently inside.

    Better, mmm?

    Slide down.  Up.  Down.  Up.  Stay there. 

    It should start now.


    Ther.  Lid.  Spacious lun.

                                             klip klip klip klip.


                               ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow ow

        thae ahl kum heer tu send letrs hoem

        hoeping contact wil get them whut thae need

        thae doent no whut thae need

        we doent hav whut thae need

                                              klip ow

    'waer els kan yu goe tu get this sort uf treetment?'  thae arr askt az thae luhk for a seet in thuh big wiet ruem.  thuh liet herts.

    'pleez, du not be uhfraed.'

                        klip klip klip


    thae doent reelee need this part eneemor, eneewae.  thuh persuhnalitee iz uh throebak tu ae ded aeg.  wee du not need it eneemor.  wee du not need it eneemor.  wee du not need it eneemor.

    wee du not need it eneemor.


    As the same day becomes itself, there are more things and less things and a self-evident statement: "This page has been revamped in some way that may seem, at first, to be significant, but which will prove, upon further perusal, to be instead merely cosmetic, with the exception of a few additional contraptions emplaced." 

    Then:  score one for the dead guy.  HE knew this was coming.

    It may be unfortunate that my face is up front, now.  There are astonishingly NO people who ever look at this page.  That might be a slight exaggeration, but not as much as any person reading this, unless they are not the 3 people who I suspect may ever read this, might think.


    There's a DSL at my house now.  I don't have time to do anything.

    One guy sent me a message saying he liked what's going on here.  I wonder what's wrong with him, and where he came from. 

    That guy has since told me that he added a link to here on his site.  But he didn't tell me what his site is.  THANKS>

    I keep using different editors to do these pages.  They all piss me off. 

    There's a pregnant chad in my lamp.  I think the dust on it is causing a stink, smoke rising up out of the little holes, leaving a mark on the white painted inside.  That paint in there has little spots where oxygen has gotten the better of it. 


    How long does it take to put 2 and 2 together?  Or, less figuratively, to put two and two together?  Or, two put to and too 2gether.  Or, does ^ really mean anything?

    Last week I spilled tomatoes all over a bridge.   A FUCKING BRIDGE.

    [Pardon.  We cannot have that here.  This kind of fabrication, coupled with UNCENSORED USE OF UNUSEFUL LANGUAGE, can give us a bad name.  YOU DO WANT A NICE NAME, DON'T YOU?]

    So there's this thing coming up where people go to a box and check a thing or pull a thing or do something.  Everyone hates me.

    Move along.  There's nothing to see here.


    Uh, Constance, hi, it's Eddie, at Chico's in Potomac, I tried you earlier and I guess your line was busy even though you're away for the day.  Uhm, I did find your slip last night but I just didn't get a chance to call, the pink one, and, uhm, I will let you, uhm, come in and do that, uhm, without your, uh, receipt.  Uhm.  So, uh, whenever you come in, uhm, it'll be here and, uh, hope to see you soon!


    If they [WHY DO YOU KEEP CHANGING MY FONTS, ASS?] {brackets continue to indicate my complete cooperation with your investigation}.

    There, that's better.

    If they catch me, I might get put out to pasture.  I've been seeing one (a pasture, I mean) in my dreams a lot recently.  I think they're saving it for me.

    "One slip, bucko," they tell me.
        Just one?  I've got a lot of shirts.

    They're trying to do something to me, and I have proof.  They've abducted me and fed me champagne and brownies, purportedly for a job well done.  Well done, my fork.

    "Just a little more."
        What about my elephant?
    "Not around here, bucko."
        The bubbles
                right out my head.
                                                    See them?

    I see a lot of things, here.

    Very tiny updates are bang.  Listen.

    The best way out of a cardboard box is through the way out.  But I don't spell relief any way.  Apologies all around.


    I am posting things.  Things.

    Continuously, I wonder, why the busy makes the stop.


    The Sputniks are apparently very dangerous.

    Kingo has rampaged a bit.  I've put something else of his up 'ere.


    I'm the most coolest person in the universe because I put dots instead of slashes between my dates.

    Some sort of mailing list has been created and the occupants informed of the fanciness that is squub.com.  Some formatting things have been updated throughout the site.  If you'd like to get on the mailing list, send me a message.

    I'm still working on revamping this thing.  I imagine I'll forever be working on revamping this thing.  I don't particularly like the frames.  I am pretty excited about the fact that every page is edited with a different editor, so that there's just about nothing in the way of consistency.  Consistency, I might add, is like butter.

    I'm harboring the fear that there are nanobots in the ceiling, here.  They're eating away at something, some sort of structural infection that the building people aren't telling us about... or possibly they're just not telling me about.  I couldn't be trusted to not interfere with the work of the nanobots.  Obviously something around here has to move somewhere else.  This is getting out of proportion to the thing that is the what.


    Very little has occurred. I'm still working on doing anything constructive with anything. I found a sticker, and had to turn it into a link. Digital cameras are pretty cool fer that. It came to me today that I probably change this thing 2 times for every one person who views it, so probably the site goes through appearances that no one but me ever sees. Great Cob, there's a particle in my abstraction.


    Some updates have been made. The Pod manual has another chapter. Finally. It took someone else's doing it fer me to put it up there. Then there's something else that came out of my pie when I was trying to eat this morning.

    Wowbobwow, this is a month after an update before. HOLY JUMPY LUG.

    Later, that same evening� THANKS> to your friendly neighborhood Biggles for inspiring my own self to introduce more information into the Pod manual. It's starting to get big enough, along with the rest of the site, that I've got a feeling that a complete overhaul is imminent. ImBOmenter!

    This place is now at www.squub.com.  I've only been half-assedly trying to get that to happen fer * now.  Since I'm hard at werk, though, this is maybe the only update fer today.  Historical, ain't it?  PLUNT PLUNT PLUNT PLUNT!

    I'm doing that stupid thing idiots like me who make useless web-sites do which is to put a new editorial crappy hole above the old editorial crappy hole.
    Which means if you haven't read the first one, everything's all out of order.  But it's all here, because IT'S VERY, VERY, IMPORTANT that you read all about nothing.

    A friend of mine who shall continue to remain nameless so that he doesn't get stoned or something has recently encouraged me to keep doing stuff here; he says he likes this place.  Since most of my other friends and relatives get enough of my geshanapling daily through all the mips I send while I'm not doing the work I'm probably getting paid to do, they never say anything about how they like this place.  They probably don't read this place.  This place is a big, fancy place.


    Old crap from before:  (mysteriously, in a different font than this.)

    Here's some stuff that's meant to explain some other stuff.

    Insipid Irrelevance was a very short-lived, yet well-intentioned webzine that I published in late 1996. This site is in a way the phoenix from that page's ashes. It's going to be an entirely different thing with the same name, for a number of reasons.

    I tried to publish II monthly. The first month I published a kind of preview issue, with a fraction of the content I intended to have in later issues. The second month I pretty much went all out, with fiction and poetry from myself, friends, and some people who happened to submit after seeing the initial offering. It was great, and I had a lot of fun, but it took all of the time I had when I wasn't working or sleeping. So in order for the next issue to come out on time, I had to start right into it when I got that first real issue up. Somewhere in there I lost it. I couldn't put in enough time to make it look the way I wanted it to. If I would've quit my job and tried to make money off of II (which would've required business sense, which I am very much without,) it might've turned into something I could be happy with. There was another literary webzine starting up at just about the same time, called Pif. I think they did it right, and stuck to it, and they're still out there somewhere.

    I have no idea if I just said anything interesting. This new incarnation is not going to be a webzine, really. It's not going to be changed every month. It doesn't have any sort of form, really. I'm just publishing things I write, and things written by people I know. Most of it is of The Great Cob, at least for right now. If anyone else sends me stuff, I might publish that, too.

    Send me some e-mail . If you remember the original II, and you're not one of my friends, let me know. That would be kind of cool. Already I'm recycling some content - the stuff from the old issues that I got positive responses to. Some of it seems to be lost. Hopefully soon there'll be original stuff that's new.

    May Cob put a toad in the sandbox, grievously.

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