I'm Pink?

You are pink. You are in limbo. Not pure and manipulated like white, not impure and noble like red. You are unsure of your real identity, but whatever you chose it to be, you can be it. That is your power. You change everyone you touch, and everyone remembers you. In literature, pink represents the place between heaven and hell. You are the one we will never forget.

What inner color are you?

Vengance Gross-out

Because I blame any slight illness I may feel now on my mom, I have been telling her about the nose-pudding episode. She is thoroughly grossed-out, and this makes me happy. Almost as happy I was in the days when my brother and I would poke our steaks with our forks and make distressed mooing sounds. "Stop it! Stop it! That's horrible!" giggle giggle giggle and, as we grew older, smirk smirk smirk

Nooooooooo!

My mom is very, very sick. ("Cough-cough," she coughs as I type this. "Cough-cough.") It might be the flu, it might just be a heinous cold. (As opposed to a righteous cold. A cold! Excellent! Party on, Bill! Party on, Ted!)

I told her to keep her nasty plague-germs away from me. It's the beginning of the semester and I can't afford to be sick. I can't afford to be dog-sick, as she is, at all this semester. I. Must. Do. Well. That means A's, or at least B+'s.

But I have that hot, scratchy tickle in my throat which usually heralds a cold. Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. I'd beat her up with a aluminium baseball bat for potentially making me sick if I weren't mooching food, transportation, and housing off of her.

Holy Flying Butt-monkeys, Batman!

It's things like this which make me think that my country is pretty much fucked. And that makes me very sad indeed, as, when you scrape away at my thickening patina of cynicism, I'm an idealistic red-blooded American patriot.

Patrick Nielsen Hayden's response, apparently, is to wear unusual hats and allow monkeys to reside in and fly out of his butt, which makes me think he's turning into Halifax. Anything which helps you cope, I suppose.

BWA-HA-HA-HA-HA!!

or, Stupid Fucking Microsoft

The frantic message came from the corporation's information technology workers: "HELP NEEDED: If you have servers that are nonessential, please shut down."

The computer system was under attack by a rogue program called SQL Slammer, which affected servers running Microsoft software that had not been updated with a patch — issued months ago — to fix the vulnerability. [...]

But this wasn't happening at just any company. It was occurring at Microsoft itself.

Perhaps you kids might enjoy reading the rest of this NYT article as much as I do.

Yet Another Reason Why I'll Never Live In California

These people riot at the drop of a flippin' hat. How many times have sports teams in New York blown it at the last minute? Have blown a big game entirely? Did Yankees fans riot because of the gawd-awful performance of their team during the '02 postseason? No. Did Mets fans riot because of the gawd-awful performance of their team during the entire '02 season? No. Did Giants fans riot because of the bad call and bad play which kept their team from winning the Wild Card a few weeks back? No, they did not my friend. But the Raiders blow their chance at the Super Bowl, and Californians, yet again, find that to be a very good excuse to riot.

Lazy

I got up at around 9:30 in the morning today without the use of alarms, which is good. I cleaned up the kitchen a bit from last night, then did a bit of laundry, then collected my study materials. Loose-leaf notebook from class, check. Spiral-bound notebook for journal assignment, check. Only textbook assigned so far, check. I sat on the living room sofa, my feet tucked strategically around the somnolent Oscar (the black cat with the short fuse), and began to read, occasionally underlining stuff I thought I might need to remember in class in pencil (to be erased later). It was around 11:30. Mom still hadn't risen from her bed. (She's like that. Part vampire, maybe. She's difficult to get out of the house before four in the evening.)

Anyway, I'm reading, reading, make it maybe half-way through a chapter, and then I'm out. Sleep waves put off by the cat, maybe? Floof the super-fluffy cat was sleeping on one of the cat pillows about three feet away, which might have doubled the feline sleep wave dosage, in spite of the factor of distance. Which might have caused the sudden somnolence on my part.

However, I was out until 5:30. That's six hours of sleep after a full night's rest and getting up after office hours start. The hell? And I was still tired. Like, in need of chemical stimulant tired. I chose the legal caffeine and proceeded to... watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer for two hours. Then make and eat dinner. Then check out the blogs I check out on a regular basis.

It is now 10:05 at night, and I got nothing done all day, except sleep. It's not procrastination, it's laziness. I like sleeping far too much. I think I might be a cat in a human body. Only without the benefits of being a cat, like the ability to stretch beyond any recognizable shape and be so cute I can get tasty treats out of my persons for no reason or special occasion other than my feline cuteness.

Moby Continues Baby Pigeon Rant

A continuation on his earlier post, which was shown here.

yeah, sure, anyone can post a picture of some random baby bird and invent some ruse about it being a baby pigeon.
and yes, most people won't ever know that it's a ruse, and they will be comfortable in the belief that they've seen a baby pigeon.
but i know. there are not nor have there ever been any baby pigeons.
i embrace the truth. you embrace the ruse of the baby pigeon.
yoda and i are in the palace of truth (where there are no baby pigeons).
you and darth are in the palace of lies (where people fib and say that there are baby pigeons).
i know. and you can't say anything to convince me otherwise.
the truth shall be my shield.

Weather Update and Gross-out

It's snowing again. I suppose I should be bored or frustrated with the snow by now. I mean, we've had a hell of a lot of it. But I'm not. I still think it's very pretty, and smile when I see it, if it's not too close to when I woke up. We're supposed to get three inches today. There's still a couple of feet on the groud that never melted, as we've been sub-freezing for, like, 17 days straight or something. So, it's just more snow to make the old snow prettier, as old snow tends to get a little dirty. Except in the yard, where it stays pretty much pristine and lovely.

This is what winter in the north is supposed to be in my head. Lots of snow, very cold. Yup. That's about right. And that's what I've received my first winter here in Smalbany. Everyone's complaining but me.

However, this cold, damp weather has lead to my holding on to this cold for way too damned long. My nose is filled with a pudding-like substance. This should not be in my nose. It's wrong and disgusting and horrible and it's in my nose. Ick. I blow my nose and fill the Kleenex with vanilla pudding and that's... just... plain... wrong. But it's better than in my nose. Worst part, there's this Homer Simpson part of my brain that's going, "Mmm..., pudding....drool" which just makes it even more disgusting. But I do now have this craving for pudding. Like, butterscotch. Mmm..., butterscotch pudding.... Oh, ick.

Who Are You?

I started wondering last night: who the heck is reading this blog? I can't imagine too many people I know are reading this. When I wrote the "thank you" post to SheepBoy and Halifax, I thought, Oh, they're not going to read this, and sent them an e-mail.

I'm pretty sure there are two people I know reading this. Two. That's it. And I can't imagine someone I don't know reading this (I've a hard enough time imagining friends reading this). What a serious waste of time that would be. Though, as I just posted below, that's kinda the purpose of the internet now: to waste time.

I'm reading blogs of people I don't know now, as I find them amusing or interesting or insightful or whathaveyou. It has occurred to me, on occasion, that a complete stranger might have stumbled across this blog while surfing and is now reading it, but, honestly, why would they? I've no idea how to find out how many hits I have and where from and I'm not particularly interested in knowing, as I feel that's somewhat nosy ("Hello, Reader! I know how often you come here and where you come from and how much money you make and how many times you hit porn sites! Booga-booga-booga!").

So, really, if I'm not entirely sure the two readers I know read this on occasion are reading this post, and no strangers would read this, then why am I writing it? Self-indulgence. That's the only reason I can think of. Of which I can think. No, that doesn't scan right, either. Anyway, it seems I'm keeping this blog entirely for myself. Rather silly when I think about it, but that's not going to stop me.

Return of the Procrastinator

I've 100 pages to read for my Witchcraft & Historians class on Tuesday. Well, it's more like 91 now. But still. Note how I'm here, writing this blog, when I should be getting my reading done so I can participate in the class discussion (it's a "colloquium" open to juniors, seniors, and graduate students... I might be in a little over my head). And I've a 1,000-word paper to write. I've thought about the paper a lot, but I haven't written a damned word. Again, note how I'm writing a post in my blog, not my paper. Hm. I can't tell if this is laziness or procrastination, as I don't know if I'll actually get the work done in time. If the work isn't done in time, then it's laziness. If it is done at the very last minute, it's procrastination. Right? ... Right.

Toasty

When I stepped outside this morning to let the cat out and pick up the Times, the sun was shining and the air, though a little cool, was indeed warmer than it had been in a while.

"It's like spring out there," I told my mom around noon, when she dragged herself out of bed. "It's warm."

"Yeah," she grunted. "It's in the twenties."

I paused, then went to look at the thermometer just outside the kitchen window. It generally reads a few degrees warmer than the actual temperature outside.

It read 25 degrees Fahrenheit. Twenty-five. Seven degrees below the freezing point of water. And, in actuality, it was at least three degrees colder than that when I went to get the paper. This, now, is balmy. Yes, spring-like and balmy. I've spent so many days... weeks, really... in single-digit-degree weather with sub-zero nights, that I can't consider twenty-five all that cold anymore. I stood outside the used bookstore this afternoon, waiting in line to buy my textbooks, and I didn't need a hat or gloves. The kids around me shivered and whined, but I stood there, happily reading my book, in no big rush to get inside.

I can now boast to have acclimated myself to below-freezing temperatures and call anyone complaining about 30-degree weather a pussy. Yes, I'm a psychotic, thick-skinned, snow-bound Northerner with a capital "n". Bu-ha!

Automated

Having a bad day? Ego flat and listless? Try the Automatic Flatterer! You'll find that pep in your step after one, liberal dose of digital sweet-talkin'.

Available for friends, lovers, clients, colleagues, apologies, and thank yous! Share and enjoy.

(Brought to you by the good people and dogs at Netropolis Design.)

That's My Dad.
There. The One Who Looks Like Santa.

or, Filial "Pride"

I am posting the following in near-entirity. If that's a word. Which I suspect it's not, but I'm not going to check, even to see if it is a word but I misspelled it horribly, because I'd rather just type here. Anyway, below is an e-mail my father sent me and my siblings and their children, if any. Oh, and spouses, if any. This is why some of you received a stupid e-mail from me earlier today. But, here's my dad's e-mail. Now you'll know what I've had to live with a goodly portion of my life and this may perhaps explain certain unusual behavioral patterns on my part.

Hello

I would like to be reminded of your birthday each year because as I get older my memory is failing fast. Even though I was there for the birth of some of those receiving this, I could easily forget the date. I mean, there are days when I'm lucky to have socks on under my shoes. And when the snow's this high, that's really startling when you step out in the morning. Of course, it's not as bad as forgetting to ... sorry, what is it I'm trying to remember?

Oh, right. .... your birthday. So anyway, this virtual memory service is going to send a reminder to me that your birthday is coming up. Of course, I'll probably just see the reminder they will send to my computer and say something like, "Oh gosh, I've got to remember to send X a present or card or something!" Then I'll click the reminder closed and thirty minutes later wonder what it was I was supposed to remember. Typically, at that point, I will end up buying too much milk on the way home from work.

Assuming I can remember the way home.

And anyway, can you figure out how they make any money from doing this? I mean, why do they bother? They claim they don't sell our names or addresses to anyone and they don't send unsolicited emails. How can this work? I expect they haven't really thought it all through. When they realize there's no reason for anyone to give them money, they'll whack their foreheads with their palms, pull the plug on the computer and try to trade it for more pizza. By then, of course, millions of relationships will have come to depend on this service. Husbands will forget to get presents for their wive's birthdays. Siblings will forget to say, "Happy Birthday." Even grandparents will forget to send crumpled bills in weird cards to their grandchildren. The amity that cements our social structure will be
destroyed. Bile will surge to the tops of thousands of throats. Scowls will sour millions of mornings. Hatred and dissension will plague the planet!

Of course, on the positive side, we already know how to cope with those conditions.

Please click on the following link for me and enter your name and birthday, because, although it only takes a few seconds to do so, I'm too lazy.

http://www.BirthdayAlarm.com/dob/[snipped for privacy]

Thank you! And Happy Birthday! (You can clip and paste that last bit into an email on your birthday and send it to yourself, in case I forget)

Love, Bob/Dad/Grandpa

PS: Of course, I already know your birthday, so you don't really need to do this. I just wanted to have some fun ranting. Have a good weekend!

He wrote this while in the office. Now I understand why he doesn't get home until ten at night. Not because he's forgotten, but because every freakin' e-mail he sends out is like this.

And now you know where I get the verbosity. You know, as in the unending and innumerable posts on this blog. And the poor typing/occasional spelling errors. You poor bastards.

Attack Of The Washing Machine-sized Jellyfish!

Whee! Jellyfishies!

Giant jellyfish off Japanese coast are being all swarmy and killing off the fishies and shrimp and other tasty items of the sea in the area, but they're so nifty, we forgive them!


300-pound jellyfish! Cool!

Re-employment

Celebrate with me! My brother's re-employed! He'll be starting with the attorney general's office down there in Texas. Woo! Employment for sibling! Woo! More presents for me! Woo!

Moby's Fantasy World

Moby's been posting about the weather in NYC a lot of late. Below is a variation in his latest upon the usual "it's cold!!" post.

even the pigeons are cold.
except for the baby pigeons, cos as we all know there are no baby pigeons.
there is a pigeon parade today in nyc. mayor mike bloomberg will be walking up 5th avenue with an estimated entourage of 40 million pigeons.
and he will be accompanied by a meta-pigeon (sort of an ur-pigeon).
these ur-pigeons are the size of an oil tanker and they give birth to hundreds of thousands of live adult pigeons at a time. that's why there are no baby pigeons. these ur-pigeons are the avian equivalent of a queen bee.
you must believe me, for i speak nought but the truth.

did i tell you about the european eels that grow to be 30 miles long and swallow entire towns?
or the fossil at the museum of natural history that just had babies?

This is very typical Moby.

Thank Yous

Little update on the Science Fiction course I took last semester. SheepBoy and Halifax were of great help in my final project, sending me artwork at a moment's notice. Both must be praised with high praise, as their contributions to my final project helped me get a final grade of A-. (The minus is from my handing in an earlier assignment late. Whoops.) Thanks for helping me get a half-way decent GPA, guys.

Weather Update

Oh, yeah. And it's snowing. Again.

Hard.

Yup. More snow.

Again.

Y'know. With the snow. Falling. Hard. From the sky.

cough

Yup. Snow.

Monsters Of The Deep

(The above should be read with appropriate, portent-ish, Ian-McKellen-as-Galdalf-y voice.)

Look! Another article on the silly French people being attacked by a giant squid!

Whee! Giant squids! Giant squid attacking the French! Whee!

On that note, my mom says that if you're not going to use the -i plural of octopus, then the plural form should be "octopussies," not "octopuses."

Yes, this was my mom. Just now, in the car, when she picked me up from class. "Octopussies." Yup, that's what she said. My mom.