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.



Wednesday, July 24, 2002

OK, The Movable Type installation is not quite done, me and Matt pounded away at it, but still the error messages keep coming. But they keep changing which is a form of progress, I suppose. I also still can't get at the pickled eggs. Also, I had to use a computer at Kinko's and when I tried to use their Mac to get on the internet by clicking on Sherlock, the system crashed. I told the guy that Sherlock had crashed their Mac, he looked at me straightfaced and said "What's Sherlock?" Then, when I need to make a rubbing of my credit card and asked for a pencil, none of the staff had one, so they made me buy a pack of pencils. I was almost hired as a project manager by them when I was in Florida. Thank God I turned 'em down. On the plus side, Lisa came home with calzones and Yoo-Hoo. But all in all, it's been the usual, pratfalls and expeditures of misguided effort to maintain absolute stasis. Ahem.


Lisa was watching that American Idol peice of shit on TV last night. Some teenybopper dressed like an S&M Barbie sang a synthesized version of "You Really Got Me." Watching this for me was like a devout Catholic watching you burn the Pope in effigy. The world stopped making sense sometime around 1998 didn't it? Maybe those survivalists up in the hills waiting for the world to end have the right idea.

Tuesday, July 23, 2002

My food is mocking me.


I bought myself a big jar of pickled eggs and a bag of string cheese as a treat today. I got the jar home and neither me nor Lisa can get it open, we've tried banging the sides of the lid, holding it under running hot water-all the usual tricks and it ain't budging. After I finished weeping, I went and got the string cheese which is sealed in little individual cheese sarcophagi, with no perforation on which to tear it open. Thankfully, there's some TV dinners in the house so I'm not gonna starve, but this all begs the question-do they want me to eat this food or don't they?


Plus my mouth was all psyched for briny eggs and mozzarella. Now here I sit, with the gastronomic equivalent of blue balls.

I have a co-worker who is always regaling us with funny stories. However, 98% of the time it's a story from a movie he's seen or a stand-up routine he's heard, never anything that happened to him. This makes me feel sad for him somehow. It makes we wanna drag him out for a wild night or something. As Bob Dylan said "you should'nt let other people get your kicks for you."


In other news, I am now a domain owner(cockeyedabsurdist.com and nametagnation.com),I didn't link to 'em cos there's nothing there yet. I set up hosting this afternoon, so hopefully, soon I'll move over to that Movable Type thing that all the cool kids seem to like. Plus I'm tired of dealing with one free host, for this, one free host for that, etc. etc. I may be driving the more experienced among you nuts so be warned.
Ellen Feiss sits in the Spokescharacter's Saloon, nursing a double kamikaze. Steve from Dell walks by, the Gateway cow at his side.

"Shame about your ad, Dudette," Steve says, barely containing his glee. The cow merely nods sagely.

"Thanks," Ellen whispers and they walk away nudging eachother.

Bastards, she thinks, then looks at the Gateway cow's hindquarters, Mmmm, beef jerky....

Monday, July 22, 2002

Sometimes, living inside my head is like living in an apartment between a tapdancer and a drummer and above a bowling alley and beneath a schizophrenic accountant. Too much damn noise and I'm always worried that the cops are gonna bust in, blame me for everything and drag me away. Not to mention, I always drowning in intricate complicated but ultimately meaningless details, that are nonetheless important to somebody, just not me.


I'll probably be on blog lite for a coupla days. I've gotta start chipping away at my job search, without distractions.
Um, if any of the New York MeFite's are reading this. I've got a question: Is the August 6 MeFi get together still on, and if so, where's it gonna be? I've already arranged my work schedule, so I just need a location.

Sunday, July 21, 2002

Lisa just got back from the grocery store. I asked her to pick up some hot cocoa, and she gets both the Dutch Chocolate and the French Vanilla flavors. And now they sit in the same cabinet. I'm worried about war breaking out quite frankly. If she had only bought Swiss Miss everything would've remained neutral.



Meet Mr. Bologna, kids. He's the mascot of the Fischer Foods Corporation, makers of fine products like Pickled Rope Bologna. He's a cute little guy, but he looks lonely. He needs some pals. Miss Mustard, perhaps? Pete the Pre-Sliced Individually-Wrapped American Single, maybe? The Potato Chip Gang, even? One things for certain, he's locked in a life or death struggle with his arch-enemies, the EVIL EGGS!!!
I've been listening to some stuff by Puffy Ami Yumi. In their native Japan they're known simply as "Puffy" which for obvious reasons they had to change in this country. I had seen one of their CD's on the rack in New York and my curiosity was piqued enough to download some stuff. In Japan these girls are huge apparently, but they've yet to make a dent here. I'm not sure why, since their songs are rocking and infectious. According to their UBL bio, they've worked with some heavy hitters. I'd enjoy their tunes even more if I had the foggiest idea what they were about. But they are enjoyable, no doubt.



I also dl'ed some stuff from Plastic Bertrand, who specialized in satirical punk rock from France. "Telephone a Telephone" was pretty nifty, but "Ca Plan Pour Moi" sounds suspiciously like "Jet Boy, Jet Girl" by Captain Sensible & the Softies.



I seem to be on a bit of an international kick lately,and I'm not talking a bout the watered down compromise known as "world music." Some may decry the global presence of American music as a form of cultural imperialsism, and when its in the cynical hands of the global media corporations, they have a point. But quite simply I don't believe people give up their regional quirks and cultures so easily. While I may enjoy hearing traditional music in it's "pristine" form* , the Western influences are avilable to anyone with ears through the mass media, so what I find really interesting and entertaining is watching those influences collide and combine with local traditions, and how it all plays out in different surroundings both culturally and politically. I've mentioned groups like Czechoslovakia's Plastic People of the Universe here before. There's also the Afro-Funk of the late Fela and others, the Narcocorridos of Mexico and the Aboriginal rock of Australia's Yothu Yindi. I'm giving you the quick and dirty version here, it's a subject I'd like to research and write more about, but for now I'm just gonna enjoy the tunes.



*whether such a "pristine form" ever existed or could exist in a age of mass media is a debate for another time