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November 2003
November 17, 2003
I've long had misgivings about spouting content that includes phrases like Blues Clues, and fuckshit - often in the same sentence. I'm simple-minded enough that the sheer proximity of such incongruous language makes me chortle. However, thinking about a lil kid looking for Blue online and stumbling upon this virtual bag o' shit makes me blanch.
So, I've added some content rating meta tags to the site, and registered with CYBERsitter. In theory (and, likely, only in theory) this will keep the youngins out. I tried out the sparkly new tags, and indeed, when I set my browser's content level to "no trashy sites about Blue and fuckshit," I was given an appropriate "no way, Hoss" message when I tried to visit my little hovel online here. As I mentioned, this probably won't keep nobody from doing nuthin', but I need all the help getting a good night's sleep that I can get.
If your site is disgusting like mine, maybe you'll want to add these tags, too.
Learn more:
November 14, 2003
Today I was pegged in a parking lot by half a donut.
It was the sort of David Lynch moment that stops you in your tracks. Or, at least, that was my reaction. Chalk it up to the hit taking place pre-three cups of coffee, but I must have stood looking at that half-donut for a good 10, 12 seconds (which is a long time to stare at baked goods) (unless your face is pressed up against the glass of a display case at your finer bakery). It looked like an old fashioned. I decided against a taste test to verify my hunch.
I took a gander 'round the lot, curious as to what a donut chucker looked like, but I was alone in a sea of late model genericars. Then I spied the shadow. Not so alone after all. Glancing up, I counted three or four white-winged carrion carriers. One squawked defiantly.
Mystery solved. I wasn't pegged. I was bombed.
November 8, 2003
There's been a lot of talk about iTunes. Maybe... maybe too much talk.
Frankly, fuck iTunes right in its Macass. I don't like "digital jukeboxes." I don't like "playlists." (for much of the same reasons I haven't put together a mixed tape since the late 80's. A.) Who has the fucking time to string together songs imparted with a greater depth of meaning or intent than, "Hey, all these songs begin with the word, 'The.'" and 2.) I've devised other, more efficient ways to show chicks how sensitive my soul is. Most involve crisp 20's.)
I like albums, and I like ad hoc, on-the-fly, haphazard selection of compositions.
Enter Rhapsody. This is a product that I am deeply, deeply in love with. With a passion that just might burn me. With its hotness.
And heat.
To wit: Rhapsody doesn't force you to buy songs at n cents a pop. For a flat fee of $9.95 per month, you can listen to as many streamed full-length, high-quality tunes as you like, you can even download copies locally to your machine for off-line enjoyment (although, in a proprietary, (in theory) non-burnable form) - the only glass ceiling being your hard disk space and connection speed - and if you really truly just have to burn the ditties to disc (but really, isn't it time to let go of physical media? For the love of Jesus Popsicle Christ, break the chains, folks. Ditch the bondage, people. (Note to self: see if ditchthebondage.com is taken...)) they're $.79 a track. Which, I think, is cheaper than iTunes.
And because I love you (I would lick your face right now, right through this CRT, if I could. If you want, e-mail me an exact time (in EST) when you'll have your cheek pressed against your flat panel, and we'll give it a whirl.) with an abandon that approaches the desire and ardor I harbor for Rhapsody, I'm going to give you a 30 day free trial.
What'd you get me?
Just go here, start the 7 day free trial process, and enter "NETGEAR-RHAPSODY" in the Coupon Code text box. Blammo. Free fun. You'll have to enter CC info, but just be sure to cancel within the 30 and no nasty chargie. Of course, I don't know why you'd actually cancel the service, since I want to marry it.
In the spirit of full disclosure, I should note that I do not work for Rhapsody/Listen.com/Real Networks and I do not receive any form of compensation for pimping their product mercilessly to anyone I can corner (virtually, or otherwise) and talk at.
Now go. Download and be merry.
November 6, 2003
Tonight the Boston Symphony Orchestra plays Tchaikovsky at Symphony Hall. I've got 30 bucks on Tchaikovsky. Be here all week. Thanks.
November 5, 2003
The final Matrix flick comes out today. I still have a bad taste in my mouth from The Matrix Reloaded. I imagine it's similar to the taste Keanu had in his mouth when principal photography on My Own Private Idaho wrapped.
I'm tempted. I mean, I'm always tempted by the promise of kung fu and Carrie Anne Moss in black pleather. But, goldammit, I've gotta stick to my guns. I've gotta vote with my dollars. I've gotta stick it to the Wachowski brothers in the only way they'll understand. And really feel. (and I've gotta avoid seeing Laurence Fishburne all blimped out again. Not to put too fine a point on it, but Jesus Christ in a monkey barrel, you're pulling down a quintillion fucking dollars per movie. Buy an immigrant and have 'im put his hands over your mouth every time you try to tuck a half dozen crullers in there. Shut your fucking maw and work those pudgey hamlegs past the the Old Country Buffet, Fatty McFatthole.) You can bet when they run the first weekend totals for this steamer, those movie drones will be all, "Does not compute. We fell short of our projections by ten dollars." And then some fucktroll will lose his job. Cheerio.
Nah. Fuck it. I'll just watch The Matrix again and pretend the other two were just contructs of The Architect.1
1 That may be the gayest thing I've ever written. Not gay, as in, homosexual, of course. Gay, as in, you.
November 4, 2003
Blue's Clues is a great tv show. It's not good. It is great. I know. I've seen maybe 400 hours of Blue's Clues in the last 72. Finding something for the little girl to watch on the telly that doesn't involve hyper-kinetic edits and jump cuts scientifically engineered to induce epileptic fits ain't easy. Is it any wonder we're raising a nation of ADD-afflicted fattards when "children's television" is impossible to discern from a Mountain Dew commercial?
But I digress.
The very reason I bring up Blue's Clues is because the old host, Steve, (as opposed to the new guy, Joe) has always reminded me of Wayne. I could never put my finger on exactly why. I mean, comparing the guy talking to the blue-screen dog with Stumpy, you likely wouldn't vote them candidates for the Separated at Birth Club. But there is something in the way Steve made these little offhanded remarks, quietly, almost to himself, punctuated with a self-deprecating "heh"... well, it just makes me think of Wayne, it does.
So, anyway.
I read that Steve left the show to pursue music. Bold. And despite the fact that actors who turn musician suck as a rule (even though they'll protest they were musicians first, and only did the acting thing to pass the time until they could rock), I did a little digging and discovered that Steve Burns made good. Really good, I think. So good that I'm considering a purchase of a physical copy of his album. This flies in the face of my newly minted "no friggin' media" policy of minimizing clutter, flotsam and jetsam in my life. Music doesn't want to be free, as many file-sharing fiends will proclaim. No, music just wants to be free of physical media. I suggest you go here http://www.steveswebpage.com/songsmites.php and click the "we will gladly oblige you" link and listen to "mighty little man" and just go ahead and try not to think that it's the best power pop song you've heard in... I dare you.
That's strong work.
It was on one of my visits to Steve Burns' quaint little circa '96 web site (I mean, come on, was "steveshomepage.com" taken?) that I discovered it. Proof. Evidence. Prima facie, baby. I'm not crazy. Maybe they were separated at birth.
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