|log (2004/12/03 to 2004/12/09)|
Thursday, December 9, 2004
Let's kick off today's entry with some spam:
Subject: Or begin stopover at negotiable rye
So inspired, we will caper with context!
The phrase "cosmetic brain surgery" came up at lunch yesterday, and I looked it up in google. Most of the hits were mysteriously on the adult-content warning page of a particular porn site (under many different names), but a few were on topic: one cartoon, one comedy piece, and one innovative consumer product.
Another one of those weblog memes encourages us to reveal the first ten results from shuffling our entire digital music collection. (The only artists in that list that I think are also in mine are Radiohead and Suzanne Vega.)
Queen, "I Want to Break Free"
"Dil Deewana" is from "Favs of HSSH" (story); here are the lyrics (love the giant teddy bear). "Untouchable Face" would more accurately reflect the lyrics if it were titled "Fuck You" (hm, I wonder if I should remove it from the "clean" part of the master music playlist?).
So nothing there I'm horribly embarassed by. I'm not sure how representative it is of the Whole Thing (do I really have that much mainstream stuff?), but we must trust the random number generator.
Ed points out the very memorable Glucoboy®: First Medical Device to Interface with a Nintendo GAMEBOY. Now that's appropriate technology.
Many web surfers ("web surfers") continue to find this site by looking for instructions on viewing yahoo webcams without permission. While I don't really consider myself an expert on viewing yahoo webcams without permission, I can't help but be moved by the dedicated efforts of all these dedicated searchers, so I've done a little thinking on the subject, and I have some advice to offer on viewing yahoo webcams without permission.
If you want to view a yahoo webcam without permission, here's what you do. You get all ready to view the yahoo webcam like you normally would, and just before you start viewing the yahoo webcam, you carefully (this is the tricky part) don't ask anyone for permission. Wild, eh?
That is, if you want to view a yahoo webcam without permission, you should be careful to avoid things like: asking your Uncle Fred "hey, Uncle Fred, is it okay if I view this yahoo webcam?", or asking your sister "Sis, can I look at this yahoo webcam?", or asking your Mom "do I have your permission to access this webcam?".
See how simple it is? I imagine this trick can also be used to access yahoo webcams without permission, and to see yahoo webcams without permission, and even to secretly view yahoo webcams (as long as you don't tell anyone).
So there you are.
Fans of anime (or just general nuttiness) may enjoy the satire (and general nuttiness) in this encounter with Popeye. The little daughter thought it was hilarious. (Update: hm, is it gone already?)
More spam! (This is, once again, the entire thing, and I'm not clear why someone out there wanted me to see it)
Subject: I find came in wallpaper involved
A reader responds to yesterday's entry:
Hey! I want more of the story -- where's the rest of it? You can't just stir narrative lust in a reader and log off!
Whaddya mean "the rest of it"? That's the whole story. You think this is November or something? We do microfiction in this town, pardner!
But I do like "narrative lust", and of course we can always do multiple stories in the same universe, with the same general set of characters. So let's see...
So Ka Hi Se Ma Kta Ru walked slowly between the trees, so slowly that Alberta had to take each step consciously to match his pace. She wanted to watch him walking, to study the elegant alienness of his body, to work again at the puzzle of how such a thick heavy figure could move with what seemed to be slim grace.
The aliens do not value truth, they disdain it. For all honest humans, language is a tool for communicating the truth. This is not how the aliens use language. In their decadent state, language is a game or a toy, and they speak the truth only when it suits them. They have freely admitted this, and the fact is recorded in writing in numerous sources. But our governments and our deluded brothers and sisters ignore the plain fact, and continue to speak to the aliens as though they were equals, assuming that their statements can be relied upon. We know that they cannot.
The photo was small, in a simple silver frame. Holding it, Alberta studied the thick neck, the odd strong face, the alien eyes, trying to see what Ella saw there, what had drawn her friend to the La Ten Ta Hre compound, and ultimately to Companionship. Bulls, people called them, or Minotaurs. But the face in the picture was something else entirely.
Have you ever noticed, how "Wednesday" has two "d"s?
I have to tell this next story, even though it's somewhat self-aggrandizing, just so in the future I can come back here and read it again and think "oh, yeah, that's when that happened."
After lunch at the lab today everyone else decided that it was too cold to go for a walk, or they had a meeting, or whatever. So I went out by myself for a lap around the building. The temperature was just right for a T-shirt under a flannel shirt, and the sun was bright and the wind was high, and there were a couple of big flocks of little birds flowing around the trees and chirping. I slipped off my shoes (M found me these great lined clogs for the fall), and set out.
So I'm up in the back of the back parking lot, where the wind is strongest, and I have my glasses dangling on my chest by their cords (so I can't see very well), and I'm holding my shoes and walking barefoot with my eyes half-closed because the sun and the wind feel so good, and I'm thinking nothing much at all, or writing this story about the people who marry aliens, or just feeling delicious in general, and I walk by (or perhaps nearly crash into, since I wasn't really paying attention) this guy, and he says (in this nice European accent), "ah, that's the way to do it; tell me that you're carrying them because you want to, and not because they're wet."
And I say that they aren't wet, I just like walking barefoot, and he says "I can see the deep joy in your face; I'm envious". And that makes me feel good, and I say "it's easy; just take off your shoes and face into the wind", and he smiles and nods and goes off toward the back door, and I continue my circle around the building in the wind and the sun and the bird clouds.
And that was nice.
"Marriage between humans and aliens is as self-contradictory as marriage between two humans of the same sex. That the governments of Massachusetts and California recognize these quasi-marriages is just another sign of how confused we have become, and how we have allowed ourselves to be mislead. Make no mistake, the aliens have no concept of 'marriage'; their word for the relationship they have with the so-called Companions could just as well be translated as 'servant' or 'pet' rather than 'spouse'. It is nothing like true marriage, and if we forget that we endanger our humanity, and our very souls."
We came out of the service and stood quietly together on the sidewalk. The crowd flowed out of the doors and around us, also quiet and subdued, tears on more than one face. It had been a profound experience for me and, I thought, for him as well.
"So now you know that I am your enemy," I said to him. He just smiled more broadly.
Carrying on the grand tradition, we went up to Abel's and picked out and cut down a Solstice Tree. Looking through the records, I see that we've done that longer than I've been weblogging, which is fun.
1998 was the first year we did it, I think. The tree that year was big and amazing. We've outdone outselves this year, though; this tree touches the living room ceiling, which is noteworthy because it's a cathedral ceiling. The tree's probably (what?) fifteen feet tall, and the top third got decorated by me perched up on a ladder with people handing me ornaments from down below.
The tree we chose was the first big one we came to, standing right near to the farm-shed next to the place you park the cars before going out into the fields to look for trees; it was surrounded by tiny trees clearly not ready for picking yet. At least half the people coming to Abel's must pass it, and we're pretty sure that we remember it from last year ourselves. We stopped at it, we think, and considered it, but said "well, let's go look at some other trees, and come back here if this is still our favorite." We did the same thing this year, and this year we came back and got it.
It's a little snaggly and crooked and untrimmed, which is probably why it was passed up at first (and then more recently it was also maybe too tall for many livingrooms). But we like it.
No snow (a gorgeous cold sunny day), no need for a golf cart to come and help us get it to the buying barn because it started out so close, the usual hot chocolate and friendly people bundling the tree up (it barely fit into their tree-bundler) and tying it to the top of the car.
We had a very hard time getting the tree upright in the livingroom; good thing the kids are big enough to help now. (I've got sap in my beard; sticky!) I went out and bought some screw-eyes ("screw-eyes") and nice strong wire and guyed the trunk to the two nearest walls; so the only way it can fall is over into the corner. Which is nice, 'cause at least when we were first putting it up it seemed awful precarious.
So now (as demanded by tradition) I'm sitting here being tired and listening to Christmas music and watching the rest of the family decorate. Which is nice, for the obvious reasons.
I remarked the other year that the very first Google hit on "Abel's Trees" was our own Abel's Trees, and how odd that seemed. Well this year neither their old site (now quite popup-infested and with out-of-date prices) nor their new site show up near the top of the Google search, but the second hit is that very weblog page with the story.
Odd place, the web.
I finished and wrote up "The London Pigeon Wars". I also posted that review on Amazon, which I apparently hadn't done in a long time, because I had to declare my "real name". After I did that, the review (at least apparently) showed up immediately on the site. Back before Real Names I recall it took awhile; maybe this is a clever way for them to cut down on the amount of previewing they have to do. People using their real names don't tend to write scurrilous things?
Officials are particularly concerned about smugglers who meet liberals near the Canadian border, pack them into Volvo station wagons, drive them across the border and leave them to fend for themselves.
And a spammer writes:
Subject: All we want is to take your fancy damage
Which seems entirely correct.
Widely blogged consumption resistance: the amazing TV-B-Gone, and Christmas Resistance (both associated with Nina Paley). (Remember our own old experiment with non-consumption? That'd be fun to work on again someday.)
Way back in June we said "enter username:", and you said:
I wondered if the "rum sodomy" might be a reference to the infamous Jack Davis party here in SF, but apparently that was whisky
Much of which harks back to the absorbing subjects we were discussion back in June. I do like the subtle geeky connotation of "sexygrrl404". And the suggestion that I should try being a woman who insists on pockets. Maybe next time!