Wednesday, July 06, 2005

this is an audio post - click to play
this is an audio post - click to play
this is an audio post - click to play

Sunday, July 28, 2002

I have just one final thing to say:

Who Da Man?!!"

Saturday, July 27, 2002

I was just walking through the parking lot when I saw a grape froot loops purple Dodge Neon parked outside the Olive Garden next door. As I got closer, I saw a "handicapped" sign dangling from the rear view. I dunno about you but I'm guessing, blind.
The good news is I got Moveable Type installed.

The bad news is that the generic "Melody" "Nelson" login dosent seem to be working.

I've posted in the support forum and some other guy seems to have the same problem so maybe it's nothing that I did. Or I'm probably missing something painfully obvious. We'll see. But I did manage to get the login screen to come up.

Friday, July 26, 2002

Buried deep in this 9622 thread is a conversation about that odd, neglected audio format, the flexi-disc, an even more detailed hitory of which can be found here. I, too, had a copy of the National Geographic "whalesongs" flexi as a kid. I still have a Flesh Eaters flexi that came with this novel and one I got from an old issue of the Beasties 'zine Grand Royal of Biz Markie singing "Bennie and the Jets". Good Stuff, Good Stuff. Nowadays, you'll occasionally see promo CD's attached to cereal boxes and the like but it ain't quite the same.

*single manly tear for departed simple pleasures*

In other news, I shall continue the Movable Type quest tonight. Mega Doses of caffeine are in order. Success or Bust, dammit!

Thursday, July 25, 2002

I had hoped that tonight's entry would be merely a link to the new blog in it's new Moveable Type home. I printed out the full manual at work this morning, I was chomping at the bit, man.

After work, I decided I shouldn't do this on an empty stomach, so I popped into a pub-grub joint to grab some eats. I sat at the bar munching my calamari and determinedly reading the installation manual, when, about halfway through, I felt a clammy sensation on my right thigh. I had been sitting by the beer taps, and some hose had been leaking lager onto my khaki dockers throughout the meal. By the time I figured out what was up, the upper half of my right pants leg was soaked making me look like an incontinent slob and smell like a bar rag at the end of Mardi Gras, which is of course a very pleasant way to spend your 45 minute commute home. Why did this happen?

My theory is this, ever since I quit drinkin', the beer of the world feels abandonded and this is it's way of getting back at me. But one thigs for sure, the fates are not with me this evening, so rather than attempt a huge project tonight I'm gonna go shower the stale Budweiser aroma off me, then come back and hang.

In happier news, it's MeFi/9622 Toastmaster General Miguel Cardoso's birthday today. There's a tribute thread going at the Monkey House, so pop over and pay your respects.
Here at work, "cold call" mania continues unabated. Now they've introduced "scripts" to the equation. We're method actors now apparently. If you're in sales and can't extemporaneously make up a pitch, ask for a transfer to Accounts Recievable, OK? Aaargh! But on the plus side I used the store laser printer to print out the entire Movable Type manual, this morning and I've used their hardware for all kindsa shit. You suck out my soul, I'm gonna take some of your bandwidth, got it?

On to other matters, people often speak of "guilty pleasures" in this world. When it comes to stuff like booze and cigarrettes, I see what they mean, but not when it comes to the arts especially music. However cheesy something may seem, it was probably felt sincerely by someone involved in it's creation at some point, so if it moves something within you embrace it guilt-free, you aren't hurting any one. I love some incredibly uncool stuff* ; Dolly Parton's "Coat of Many Colors" makes me weep openly as does "In My Room" by the Beach Boys. The Brooklyn Bridge's "The Worst That Could Happen" and the Bay City Rollers' "Saturday Night" make me boogie like a mad fool. And I say without embarrasment that this stuff is as artistically valid as some of my 'hipper' faves. i'll evn go one step further: it's a lot harder to come up with, say "Louie Louie" than it is to come up with say "Dark Star" by the Dead if you get my drift.

*and I don't mean in that "it's so bad it's good" way. I hate that shit.

Some Random Information:

I have hairy toe knuckles.

I am probably the last non-medicated person in America.

Even though I've quit smoking, I always check the apartment(like 5 times), to make sure there's not a cigarette burning in an ashtray.

I get mad at people for being brain-dead conformist sheep, then I learn that they've survived troubles far worse than mine and I feel enormously guilty.

I absolutely hate the sound of a ringing phone.

I am proud to say I've never been inside a dance club.

I can only sleep comfortably if I pull the blanket over my head and if my feet stick out over the edge of the bed.

I become incredibly suspicious when paid a compliment.

When people ask me what I do for a living, I feel awkward that I say, "I work at.." rather than, "I am.."

Easy things are often very hard for me, I couldn't tie my shoes until I was 7.

Due to having a December birthday, I joind kindergarten already in progress around January. Something important happened in that first semester and I'll never know what it was.

I was listening to "Heat of the Moment" earlier and realized that if I wanted to go back in time and fix all my mistakes 1982 would be a good starting point.

I have the distinct feeling that I've missed a lot of boat, cause I've been wandering around the dock in my bathrobe waithing for my coffee to cool off.

I am a freak magnet.