Not A Good Title
(25 Most Recent Posts)


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[ 5/30/07 : 09:05pm ]
In honor of being here almost three years:

"Now you don't look like
a computer programmer."
I still fucking tipped.

"Was that a squirrel?"
"That's a rat," she said and peed
in the street, downtown.

"D'you know who I am?
D'you know who I am, you fuck?"
Honestly, I don't.
[ 10/19/06 : 05:42am ]
A blank check drawn against our own freedom.

(No updates lately. My new girlfriend's name is Les Paul. Songs to come.)
[ 8/14/06 : 09:14pm ]
Settings on my stove:


  • Off

  • Burn Your Rice

  • Don't Quite Keep A Pot of Pasta Boiling

    [ 2/8/06 : 12:14am ]
    Russ Feingold is going to deliver a speech about the domestic wiretaps on the floor of the Senate sometime soon, but you can read it in its entirety over here. He makes a few statements that cut through the typical rhetoric on this issue and finally says what I've been dying to hear:

    The President issued a call to spread freedom throughout the world, and then he admitted that he has deprived Americans of one of their most basic freedoms under the Fourth Amendment -- to be free from unjustified government intrusion.


    I really can't believe we've gone six years and nobody in Congress has been really direct about calling our President on his empty use of the word "freedom." This word has been tossed around like it's a synonym for "American" while we throw (Arab) people in jail without trials, tap phones without warrants, read private email, corral protesters at political events, push for constitutional amendments to prevent people from democratically deciding who can be married, push for media censorship in the name of decency, and arbitrarily decide which tenets of American liberty to ignore and which to shit on.

    What does the word freedom even mean to the people who suggest we need to protect it by infringing on civil liberties? I think it's just a euphonic placeholder, so can we get these people another word -- one that doesn't make my brain bleed?

    Now's maybe a good time for you to join the American Civil Liberties Union if you care about this sort of thing. This is still our country, and those in power can only have the liberties we give them. Don't ever buy that "it's too late" bullshit from anyone. This system can be reformed.



    (Oh, and I know I hated John Ashcroft enough to put him on a t-shirt, but Alberto Motherfucking Gonzales is intent on sinking the office of Attorney General lower than it's ever been -- and this is an office once held by Edwin Meese, so that's pretty significant.)
    [ 12/4/05 : 09:41pm ]
    They say you'll go through an awkward in-between phase when you're growing your hair out, during which your hair will always just look kind of stupid, no matter what you do with it.

    This in-between phase, they fail to mention, represents the entire time between two short haircuts.
    [ 12/2/05 : 02:20am ]
    Okay, so you can probably tell my heart's done its share of bleeding. It's bled on my shoes, my belt and my food. It's bled into a lot of what I've said and how I've voted in the past, and it certainly colors the music I really love. So I'm really speaking out of love for you crazy kool-aid-swigging zombies.

    Stereotypical liberals make me as uneasy as does the horde of flag-waving conservatives. It's not that I'm against people being vocal about their politics. I mean, seriously -- it's me here... me. It's just that when I can hear 20% of your worldview and deduce with uncanny accuracy the other 80%, you've got a serious problem with forming your own opinions. Beyond that, everything else you have to say just becomes white noise.

    Well, maybe not white noise. Maybe that noise that the riot cops are starting to use for crowd control -- the noise that makes you nauseous and reluctant to do much beyond sitting on the floor staring into space while you wait for the sweet reprieve of silence. Anyway, here's a sampling of the list of things that drives me nuts about you... rather, us.

    Starbucks is not your enemy. I promise. Sure, it's an irresistible bug light for all of the pretentious fucks and consumer whores with line-of-sight attention spans and marketing-driven cravings who have a direct view of the front door, and these are quite likely empty, boring, terrible, happy people, but Starbucks didn't create them -- it's just feeding them coffee. The same fucking pretentious soy mocha latte they'd otherwise be buying at one of your fifty billion precious artsy almost-but-not-quite-exactly Starbucks clone coffee shops that are so dear to your heart. Starbucks isn't even driving them out of business -- it spawned them. It created the market in which they can exist and you can sit in them reading Fast Food Nation and feel so fucking morally superior with your drink that is named, priced, made and packaged exactly as it would have been at Starbucks.

    Bongos are not an instrument of revolution. Shove them up your fucking ass. Look at the Ukraine. No bongos, just orange shit and tenacity. That's how you get taken seriously.

    While you're protesting, please stop lumping all of the extreme-left nonsense in together. Be pragmatic and fight one battle with one gathering. Yes, I want to free Mumia too, but I doubt the governor of Pennsylvania is hanging out at an anti-war rally, and even if he were, he'd be too busy being harassed by the PETA dipshits to notice you.

    Punk rock is not a political party. Puck rock is not a religion. Punk rock is not your fucking mommy. Rock out, let it challenge what you believe in, let it validate your rebellion, let it inspire you to be you, but for fuck's sake, please stop treating it like gospel or a manual on how to think.

    Anarchy is not a ... Okay, have fun with the anarchy. I like you kids and your black flags. Good luck with all of that.

    This one will blow your mind: Globalization presents maybe the most effective and unstoppable force for democratizing the world that has ever been seen. I guess you'd prefer the people of the world either continue living under dictators or have democracy beaten into them with force like the lucky citizens of Iraq have had the pleasure of enduring for the last two and a half years. Sure, pay attention to what you buy and where it's from, but don't let your laziness about looking at both sides of an issue drive you to protest something that could create a world where economies, speech and dissidents are set free, and the dictators of which are powerless to stop it.

    Next time: How my fellow libertarians never cease to piss me off, too.

    Looking forward: How I personally can't stop pissing myself off.
    [ 11/20/05 : 01:07am ]
    It was time for my once-per-decade check to see how sad IRC continues to be. Seems like nothing's changed since about 1995.

    Me:/join #somefuckingchannel
    --- You are now talking in #somefuckingchannel.
    --- A dozen or so people are here and they're all ops.
    Me:So what's up in here?
    Them #1: not much
    Them #1:room is comatized
    Them #1:carefull, its contagious, ohhh u already noticed
    Me:I forgot my surgical mask.
    Them #1:damn
    Them #1:solly bout that sir? ma'am?
    Me:Sir. That is, I'm knighted.
    Them #1:k, u must be proud
    Me:It's mostly ceremonial these days. No horse, no shining armor, and I don't have to move two steps forward and one to the side all the time.
    Them #1:so no hittin with swords on the shoulders? damn, those were tha days
    Them #1:Yeah, just a glowstick in my ass. You know... to be honest, it might not have been a knighting ceremony at all.
    Them #1:Be Right Back
    Them #2 slaps Them #1 around a bit with a large trout
    Them #2:shh
    Them #2:good boy
    Me:God bless IRC. It's good to know that this obsolete protocol has been maintained all these years so people can get some peace and quiet on the internet.
    Me:Quaint, quiet, tranquil link to the past untouched by modern technology. It's like a zen garden, really.
    Them #1 dashes across teh room and grabs Them #2's trout before he can do any damage with it. What did this poor defenseless trout do to you Them #2 ???
    Me:/quit
    --- Disconnected ().


    Okay. So I'll check back in around 2015 and see if they're still struggling to come up with any conversation aside from "r u a girl." I must say, however, that "sir? ma'am?" is probably the most eloquence I've ever seen squeezed out of an IRC client.
    [ 11/8/05 : 08:51pm ]
    Here's a letter I sent to each of the members of the Kansas State Board of Education about their decision to force Intelligent Design into their science curriculum:

    It is with despair and sympathetic embarrassment that I write you.

    The decision of your board to force creation mythology into science classrooms will stand in history alongside the Catholic Church's condemnation and persecution of the proponents of the heliocentric model of our solar system as an example of how foolish we can be when we let religious dogma stifle the pursuit of understanding. I struggle to accept that the works of Darwin are being treated in the 21st century as the works of Galileo were treated in the 17th, and that this is happening not in some far-off theocracy like Iran, but in what is ostensibly a free, secular, advanced nation. Have we in our modern times actually mandated that biology textbooks be written as Galileo was forced to write his Dialogue Concerning the Two Chief World Systems?

    Your board has brought shame to the United States, and especially to the state of Kansas, but the most egregious harm has been done to the students whose education you've compromised in the face of religious and political pressure. These students are the people to whom you are most responsible, and are ultimately those that you have most failed.

    To the members of your board who voted against the teaching of creationism (in all of its guises), I extend my most sincere sympathy for the stubborn ignorance you must have to deal with in doing your job.


    If you've got the time, maybe you should write one too.

    Update:

    Dr. Bill Wagnon writes back:

    thank you for your sympathy


    Heh. Awesome.
    [ 8/28/05 : 11:09pm ]
    Today was the last day of the 2005 Sunset Junction Street Fair, a perfect amalgam of outdoor music festival, traveling carnival and gay pride parade. It's the kind of place you can get bigass roasted corn on the cob, see a few bands, and ponder exactly where one would find men's leather shorts that small -- oh, at that booth right there.

    It's been happening almost weekly since I left Phoenix for Los Angeles. I get these glimpses of life in a real city, glimpses that shake me. I catch sight of myself in a reflection, and I don't see the mohawked, streetwise, punk-rock intellectual I imagine myself to be. I see a dopey suburban white guy who doesn't have any idea what to eat if he can't find a Taco Bell.

    Right about now, the Suicide Girls are probably finishing their set, and the New York Dolls will close the night. That's on the main stage at a family event: Girls undressing followed by men dressing like girls. Despite the fact that this will be happening only a few hundred feet from the carnival rides you'd have to be under 8 to fit on, there will be no letters of complaint. There will be no outrage. There probably won't be anyone but me -- just off the turnip truck from suburbia -- who even finds the juxtaposition of these two forms of entertainment the slightest bit odd.

    If there's one important thing about being a Pope, it's to rail against relativism. The first thought that occurred to me as I walked around with my daughter in the midst of this rampaging relativism was fuck those papal bastards and their roman numerals; This is the path to harmony and enlightenment. Despite the fact that every cop-baiting archetype was walking around in plain sight, the police -- the fucking LAPD -- harassed nobody. Not a, "hey whattaya got there?" or a "you can't stand here." Despite the fact that most of those archetypes had their sworn enemy archetypes walking around as well, I didn't hear any taunting or see any tough-guy posturing. Even the parents were invariably cool-but-attentive in dealing with their kids, who didn't throw any fits. Dogs and cats living together. Anarchy.

    My opinion of relativism waned a bit when Zoe and I got onto something called the Hustler. The carnies at this particular fair were the type often parodied on TV, except these were what I would describe as exaggerations of what I thought were over-the-top caricatures. Here's an exchange I overheard while Zoe rode a smaller kids' ride:
    She said "he's a guy with no teeth," and I said "well, what ride was he working?" She said it was Twister, so I said it must have been you.

    Anyway, the Hustler's posted height requirements were as such: 36" to ride with an adult, 48" to ride alone. There was nothing to stand next to, but he waved Zoe on. I figured he must have been doing this for so long he could eyeball it. I always like someone who knows his job well.

    The Hustler has 4 baskets. Two orbit around each other, while the pair orbits around the second pair. This particular carny, who I had decided was a seasoned vet after sizing Zoe up without so much as a pause, decided to put seven of us in one basket, and none on the rest of the ride. This is where relativism comes into play: If you can run the rides at one-quarter capacity, there clearly isn't a lot of demand. If there isn't a lot of demand, it's a bad time to be a stickler for the rules, operating guidelines, or even common sense, since all of this might scare away scarce business.

    As we were getting strapped in, a kid next to me couldn't get his belt to clasp. He switched seats and the next belt failed, too. The carny looked at him, shrugged and said "Hold on." The kid wasn't that cavalier, and switched seats again before finding one that worked. Everyone was buckled in, and the ride began.

    I looked over at Zoe to see how she was doing, and noticed the kid next to her was a toddler. Borderline infant. Clearly nowhere near 36 inches. He had a seatbelt on, but was too small for it to really matter. If he's lucky, he might be able to hook his toes on the belt as he flies out. It won't stop him, but it might take some velocity off. As soon as the ride got up to speed, the kid slumped over sideways, expressionless. His mom held on to him, and tried -- well, I'm not sure if she was trying to get him to sit up, or to show signs of life. He lay there catatonic, his gaze straight ahead, unblinking, unwavering for the entire ride as everyone laughed, screamed, and tried to figure out exactly how the unbalanced nature of the ride running at these speeds was going to cause a catastrophic failure. That last one was me. I fucking swear I could feel it tipping.

    Zoe doesn't really think about the structural strength of a poorly maintained carnival ride and its poorly maintained operators, so she had a great time. After the ride came to a stop, the little kid was eventually revived, and seemed to have only suffered subtle, longterm brain damage, and nothing requiring immediate medical attention.
    [ 8/13/05 : 11:10pm ]
    For the last six months, the Hutta.com online ordering system has been shut down. Bank of America was killing me with fees and the cut of credit card sales they were taking. It was costing me money to sell shirts.

    In order to have the sales volume I need to drive the website's per-unit sales costs down, I'll need more designs. Before I can get more designs, I'll need to sell a grip of shirts in a hurry. I was wearing the Littering shirt around town a few weeks ago. The place I was getting my hair cut is smack-dab in the middle of hipsterville, so they sell clothes and various other whatever-hipsters-will-buy things. The guy behind the counter started asking me about the shirt, and whether this particular artist had done it. I gave him the whole story, and he insisted I should get the shirts in there so they could sell him. He was familiar with how they sold, and said I'd move a ton of them.

    I really have no interest in being a small business asshole. I want to be a loudmouth political shirt guy asshole. So I posted an ad to Craigslist today looking for a business partner. If you know (or are) anybody interested in helping me out with this, I'd love to hear from you.

    I'm really looking for someone who knows shop owners and distribution channels in the LA area or nationally, and I'm willing to make this very fair partnership. I'm not interested in getting rich, I just want to move some shirts so I can be famous.

    Oh how the sweet musk of fame begs me to bury my tongue in its crotch. Surely you can get it to spread for me.
    [ 8/11/05 : 10:11pm ]
    Some really spicy food hurts your mouth. It's immediate and it's specific. Then there's the other spicy, like good Thai food. I'm talking about the kind of spicy that doesn't immediately burn your mouth, but instead builds slowly and affects your whole body. The kind of spicy that makes you sweat and gives you the sniffles.

    It's misleading to say that the bathroom at work stinks. It doesn't have the kind of odor that immediately insults your nose -- it just smells strange. It would certainly be even more misleading to say it didn't stink; There's no doubting that someone's colon is to blame for this, but it's not so bad when you first walk in. The more you breathe the air, the more the stink begins to build, until it starts to affect you, and I mean really affect you. You get light-headed, you start to get confused. Things get blurry. Then all at once you realize that holy shit you can't finish, and maybe you should've asked for "medium-hot" instead.
    [ 8/2/05 : 09:48pm ]


    You probably know this about me already, but I don't believe in astrology or voodoo. Or in past lives, ghosts or Santa Claus. Or God.

    If you're the same way, you've probably noticed our worldview isn't very popular right now. Policy decisions are being made under the assumption that everyone believes in something, and those who don't are amoral and irrelevant. People are dying in wars over religion. So-called psychics are preying on the bereaved for profit. Every major newspaper runs a column wherein someone uses the alignment of stars to predict the future. Hardly a nuance of our lives can be found free of the scars of supernaturalism.

    The line between fact and wishful thinking is barely sharper than it was centuries ago. While the scientific method has provided us with immeasurable riches in information, humanity continues to pick and choose the bits we want to redeem for answers.

    There's a movement out there to fight this. I've mentioned it before, but I think a reminder every year or so is probably appropriate. Please, please check out the Brights if you have any interest in helping this situation.

    It's not a club. It's not a group with membership. It's simply a loose collection of individuals who have chosen to label themselves "Brights" as part of their larger effort to help the way we're perceived in the world.

    I think the word "renaissance" is beautiful. What about you?
    [ 7/11/05 : 12:44am ]
    She looked just like Keri. I walked into the club and recognized the drummer. Since I only know a few people in Los Angeles, I thought I must have been imagining it, but her face kept catching my eye. I stared. I tried to place her.

    Then it hit me all at once. Images of her life came streaming at me... well, the miniscule part of it that happened around me. All those agonizing feelings of helplessness came back, all of the regret about not taking the time to know her better while she was alive, all of the bleeding empathy for her kids and for the friends that did know her better.

    It was haunting, in the most literal sense. After her set, she was mingling with the crowd, and always managed to be close to me, no matter where I was. Somehow it got stuck in my head that walking up, telling this complete stranger what was on my mind, and giving her a hug would alleviate some of my angst about Keri.

    It's totally crazy, but I couldn't shake the feeling that it was exactly what I needed to do. I knew it would be therapeutic. I started to get crazy thinking about this, and every time our eyes met, I could just imagine she knew what was on my mind, and was inviting it.

    I got so wrapped up in this that I started to actually feel guilty all over again, like I was once again missing an opportunity to somehow connect with, console or somehow support Keri. I hid from her glances. I avoided eye contact. I kept my head lowered in shame.

    I was sitting in chair in the corner of the room adjacent to the room with the stage, trying to be alone with my thoughts to work out what was going on in my head, and to focus on what I was experiencing. Her band walked in and sat on a couch near me. Then she walked in with a photographer, and she introduced him to two people named Matt and Dani. Keri's husband and best friend were named Matt and Dani.

    I had to leave.
    [ 5/30/05 : 02:36am ]
    There's a little boy who lives in a big city. He's pretending to be an adult. He has bills and a phone. He buys food and goes to a job he pretends he can do.

    Teams of people are assigned to supporting his game of make-believe. He has a boss, bank tellers, insurance agents, and billing reps at the power company. It's really an elaborate production.

    The little boy misses his dad. He gets tired of the game, but nobody is willing to let him stop playing. He tried pretending himself a day off, but not hard enough; someone else pretended him an important deadline.

    He met a girl who agreed to pretend she liked him. They acted out a couple of dates, and now she's pretending to be okay with how much time he spends playing the boring parts of his adult game. He pretends he'll make it up to her.

    He's getting good at the game these days. He's found some parts of it he really likes, and he stopped worrying about growing. He stopped growing. He stopped learning. He stopped growing.

    He doesn't really care about the real world and its real people like he used to. He plays the game too much. He's good at pretending to be an adult. He's given up trying to become one.
    [ 5/11/05 : 10:17pm ]
    Two deaths have impacted me today.

    The second, a murder outside of my apartment, only complicated my afternoon.

    The first, the death of a friend, has permanently changed me. I've always felt much closer to her than I really was, because of a particular shared experience: She was my only friend with kids. Sharing something like that at our age transcends a typical friendship, and possibly even obviates one. I'm not sure if she felt the same way, but I felt like I understood a lot about her implicitly, especially those things that were most important to us.

    Every second I let my mind idle, I see her little girl, and imagine her plaintive eyes. I've seen those eyes on my little girl from time to time, but I can only imagine the depths of the soul to which they can penetrate with her little girl's new perpetual longing behind them.

    I'm different now -- I'll always have that image floating on the surface of my consciousness, wretchedly tragic and beautifully moving.
    [ 4/20/05 : 09:50pm ]
    I just wrote an entry over on my big-kid blog. I know, lots of things have been written about the pope, and you're sick of it, but if Jesus can be resurrected, then maybe I can beat some life back into this horse and give a new perspective on the whole thing.

    Anyway, I'm stuck in a hotel in Santa Clara. I'm out here for a conference. I'm essentially bored out of my mind, so I started thinking about a pen name. Some of the stuff I write is political and serious, but for the funny stuff I try to write, I think what I'm missing is a name that convinces people it's okay to laugh at what they're reading.

    Thankfully, the world has such a name: Dave. Dave Eggers, David Sedaris and Dave Berry all figured this out. You may not know this, but Mark Twain was born simply, "Big Dave." I've always thought I'd make a good Dave. Daves are generally more attractive than I am, and I think some good looks could really put me over the top -- you know, with the ladies. Daves don't have to worry about finding a jacket that doesn't look silly on them, or crazy tall-guy pants with immeasurably slim waistbands, because a typical Dave is exactly average in build. Dave doesn't need glasses, either. You see, Dave has superior genetics. One of those genes is humor writing, and the world recognizes that.

    The obvious pick for maximum Davitude, would of course be "Dave Davidson," but I think that's a little too obvious. My mother decided that my first name could be a misspelled throw-away if I had an important middle name, so that I could go by "K. Branson" when I became a lawyer, or some other professional whose profession demanded a lofty name. With this in mind, I have my eye on "Daniel Avid Peterson."

    Once again, a letter from the future:
    Attention Misters Simon and Schuster:

    I must thank you once again for this generous advance on my next book, Shit That Happened To Me, And The Dumb Shit I Said About It. This should allow me to feed my methamphetamine habit, and I look forward to finishing and submitting the manuscript for I Pushed Keys Methodically For Thirty-Six Hours Without Realizing That I Was Doing It, And Now You're Reading The Results, which is admittedly not as good as my previous works. Still, it contains a very balanced ratio of letters, which may be a good selling point.

    Once again, thank you for believing in my name, no matter what crazy bullshit spews from my fingers.

    Sincerely,
    D. Avid Peterson
    Yeah, I like that.
    [ 4/15/05 : 12:53am ]
    Two states, two sole proprietorships, weird deductions, and possibly the worst software I've ever used in my life have not added up to a good time.

    Do not, under any circumstances, ever give TaxCut the slightest bit of consideration. I know, it's sitting there on the shelf, twenty bucks cheaper than TurboTax, and really what's the difference? I mean, software is software right? And what, I'm going to use it once? How could it possibly be any worse?

    Okay. I'm going to make a suggestion for you, potential TaxCut buyer: Become one of those hardcore militia men that lives in the woods and refuses to pay income taxes. Again, I know what you're thinking, it's drastic. You don't want to give up your comfortable life in wherever-you-live, doing all of your whatever-you-do. And you certainly want to be able to sleep at night without that fear that the taxman is going to come eat your liver, or however they collect debts these days.

    I totally understand your concerns, but I assure you that after an hour or so of wrestling with this abomination, you'll want to throw your arms up and run to the woods. There's certainly no way you'll escape the experience not hating the income tax, and for the love of fuck, give me a goddamn gun!

    So just save yourself the thirty bucks or so and trust me.

    So after much effort, I got my federal and AZ returns figured out, and moved on to California.

    The California forms it makes say very explicitly that you can only claim childcare expenses in California, but it imported my Arizona daycare info from the federal return. I could blank out some of the lines, but it wouldn't let me get past the page because it thought it needed an address. The line for total spent wouldn't zero. I could make it any other number, but if I made it zero, it reverted to the value on the federal form. ( $value = $override || $federal ... anyone?)

    The same thing happened with the real estate tax I paid in AZ. So I had all these deductions I couldn't zero out, so I contacted customer service. The suggestion I got was, "don't worry about it -- print it, and fix it by hand. Uninstall the CA state software, and just file your federal return." I eventually gave up on the CA software being so totally broken that I figured I'd just file federal and AZ, then get an extension on CA and find a tax mommy to help me.


    I should mention the customer service, where maybe one positive thing can be said about this software. Maintaining consistency is very important in developing anything a user will interact with; it keeps users from being surprised and confused when using the application. The TaxCut team has decided to take the terribleness of the application and use that to tie in the support experience. A user isn't shocked when they go from the bad app to the bad service. Service so bad, I might add, that the chat windows have the "copy" feature explicitly disabled, so that you can't make a record of how terrible it was. "Please don't worry about that. You'll be able to discard that form when it prints." That's a special kind of bad.

    So, I uninstall the CA software and restart TaxCut. Everything seems cool. AZ is the only state listed. I click to one step in the process, and it pops up the "Before you go on, check the internet for updates" message it's been doing every time I click to this step. I let it check, and it says, "Before you go on, you have to save your return." I tell it okay, which I'd done every other time it asked.

    Before you call me an idiot, you have to realize that I had to stop and restart this application for various updates, additions, etc. a zillion times. Each time, it automatically loaded my tax return when I started it. When I told it to save that last time, I assumed it was once again loaded, but thanks to a wonderfully opaque user interface, you generally have no idea what's going on in TaxCut. When I told it to save that last time, it wrote over my tax return -- my just-minutes-ago-completed, result-of-two-days'-effort tax return -- with a blank one. Well, to be fair, maybe uninstalling the CA software also uninstalled my return. Anything is possible. Well, anything frustrating and stupid.

    I say fuck it. I'm filing for extensions and finding someone to do my taxes. I'll eat the $29 I spent three times on the various versions of TaxCut I needed, and the $99 I spent on a printer just to print my tax return, and whatever this tax person charges me. I'll eat it all so I never, ever have to see that program again.

    As a software developer myself, I realize how tight deadlines, bad managers and other things outside of a contributor's control can drag an application down, but this thing is so insufferably and inexcusably bad that anyone who had anything to do with its development, from the head programmer to the guy who gassed up the trucks that shipped it, should really reconsider what they're doing with their lives. Maybe they ought to move to the mountains, too.
    [ 4/9/05 : 06:56pm ]

    Zoe wants a Corona, I guess.
    [ 4/6/05 : 08:17pm ]


    Unless I prop up one corner of my laptop, I get these crazy green and red dots and lines all over the screen. It's a titanium G4 PowerBook. Any idea if this is fixable?
    [ 4/6/05 : 08:51am ]
    [ 4/5/05 : 09:53pm ]
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    [ 4/4/05 : 01:00pm ]

    Got to see Dana again. Beached it up w/ Zoe.
    [ 4/2/05 : 12:43am ]
    For the past 25 years -- my entire life -- I've lived in a state that was sane enough to know that 2am shouldn't disappear for one day in the Spring, and happen twice on some day in the Fall, or however it is that Daylight Saving Time works. So for the very first time in my life, I'm resetting my clock, not because the power went out, not because I tripped over the cord and pulled it out of the wall, and not because I decided to move it across the room so I'd have to haul myself out of bed to make the horrible buzzing stop, instead of just slapping the snooze button over and over without really waking up, until finally -- at 3pm or so -- the calls from work start to come: The lectures, the threats of termination, the pleading, the calls to finally take charge of my life and have some goddamned responsibility. No, I'm resetting my clock because... well, you know what? I don't fucking care, and you've probably got some bullshit legend wedged in your mind to justify this nonsense. I'll participate in this arbitrary reassignment of time, but I must make it known that I will be doing it under protest.

    Well, I guess I've done it already. You see, the DST switch happens on the first Sunday in April. At some point, I guess I misheard and decided it was done on April First, so last night I diligently pushed the clock forward an hour. I was late going to bed, and fucking around with time itself cost me another hour of sleep. That hour hated me, and it made me pay. I woke up startled and confused, in complete circadian chaos.

    Now, my cellphone's time is set by God, or Sprint, or some other vengeful entity I dare not question -- an entity that always knows precisely what time it is where I'm standing, except when I happen to be standing in the subway, and it can't even remember what day it is. So, after my alarm went off and I spent a good half hour trying to negotiate with myself to get into the shower, I decided to reach over and ask the cellphone for a reprieve, which was mercifully granted.

    So there it is, my April Fool's Day prank on myself.
    [ 3/30/05 : 06:26pm ]
    Anyone who lives or works downtown knows where homeless people urinate. Today, I found out where they poop. I'm at once satisfied and unsettled.