In case you haven't seen these It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia ads that spoof the Mac ones:
Guess which one is my favorite?
31 August 2007
Mal Mots
From Hugh MacLeod's Gaping VoidScott Adams did a post last week on Inventing Your Own Cuss Phrases. I was compelled to read the 800+ comments to see if my offerings would be unique. They were. Yay for me!
- Clusterwank is my own invention - have never heard it uttered by another.
- Raspberries! comes from my sister outlaw. Said with vehemence, it's fantastic.
- And from my youth, my Dad has long schooled me what to say to a cop should I be pulled over: Siss on you, pister! You ain't so muckin' fuch you can't back off in my jack yard!
Most of the comments were lame listings of favorite cuss phrases, not actual new stuff. Here are my Cliff's Notes for melodious maledictions.
In the non-potty mouth category:
- Kiss my muscle mass!
- Son of a bit shift!
- Well strap me vitals to a hedgehog
- You aren't half the man your mother was
- You have all the intelligence and charisma of a constipated monkey, and you run like one too.
- Dear Darling Fascist Bullyboy (Extra points, as this is from a letter Neil wrote on The Young Ones)
- Belgium (Extra special points, as it's from Douglas Adams' The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy)
In the almost potty-mouth category (you must be 13 to read these now, kidz):
- Craptastic!
- Oh for flying crappola!
- Bugger me backwards with a large root vegetable
- You couldn't get a clue if you doused yourself in clue musk and did the clue mating dance in a field of horny clues at the end of clue mating season.(Extra points for aligning with my penchant for things clued.)
And in the potty-mouth or you gotta be over 18 expletive bucket:
- F*ckety!
- A**tastic!
- French kiss my a**!
- Isn't that the icing on the sh*t cake?
- Well, I'll be dipped in dog sh*t and deep fat fried!
- Calling you a sh*t for brains insults turds everywhere.
- Well, spank me hard and call me precious! (uber fave!)
30 August 2007
Rock Me Youthful
Gig tonight was cool. Laid back, acoustic, 2 guitars, 3 voices. Rain scared the early birds away, but the dinner crowd at a BBQ joint is loyal. They show.
Each time we play a different song strikes me. Tonight it was Tracy Chapman's Gimme One Reason:
"I don't want no one to squeeze me, they might take away my life . . .
I just want someone to hold me, and rock me through the night.
This youthful heart can love you and give you what you need . . .
but I'm too old to go chasin' you around, wastin' my precious energy.
Gimme one reason to stay here, and I'll turn right back around . . .
I don't wanna leave you lonely, but you gotta make me change my mind."
Each time we play a different song strikes me. Tonight it was Tracy Chapman's Gimme One Reason:
"I don't want no one to squeeze me, they might take away my life . . .
I just want someone to hold me, and rock me through the night.
This youthful heart can love you and give you what you need . . .
but I'm too old to go chasin' you around, wastin' my precious energy.
Gimme one reason to stay here, and I'll turn right back around . . .
I don't wanna leave you lonely, but you gotta make me change my mind."
29 August 2007
Virgo Horrorscope
Darby Conley's Get FuzzyCoyote is the only Virgo peep I readily recollect, but something tells me there's more out there. Ollie ollie in from free!
Vocabulary
Am I a word stealer?
Apparently, it's socially questionable to adopt phrases from outside your native vernacular. By "native", I mean from whence you came, where you live now, or based on your subscriptions to race, religion, and sexual orientation.
But that so ain't me. I lurves me words from all places. I may dither mostly in English words, but I'm an equal opportunity offender, by trade. I usually mean that jokingly, but apparently offend I can.
I was taken aback last weekend when someone was taken aback at my use of "a'ight". The look on his face was clearly one of amused surprise with a hint of, um, dismay? that I'd be so bold as to use a word more commonly associated with his playbook than mine. Apparently, because he's black, and I'm white.
Really? I mean, aren't all the cool kidz saying a'ight? Heck, even the non-cool kidz are saying it. Said taken abacker queried where I got the term, and I mentioned my niece had been saying it for years. He asked who *she* got it from, and I said likely where she lived, or her boyfriend at the time. After a pregnant pause filled with "hmms", he said, "was her boyfriend black?". I affirmed.
Are folks so steeped in their own perspectives that collision of cultural phraseology is *actually* that shocking? Cuz in my neck, personally and professionally, cross-culture flavah-flave is the norm.
Go figger.
Apparently, it's socially questionable to adopt phrases from outside your native vernacular. By "native", I mean from whence you came, where you live now, or based on your subscriptions to race, religion, and sexual orientation.
But that so ain't me. I lurves me words from all places. I may dither mostly in English words, but I'm an equal opportunity offender, by trade. I usually mean that jokingly, but apparently offend I can.
I was taken aback last weekend when someone was taken aback at my use of "a'ight". The look on his face was clearly one of amused surprise with a hint of, um, dismay? that I'd be so bold as to use a word more commonly associated with his playbook than mine. Apparently, because he's black, and I'm white.
Really? I mean, aren't all the cool kidz saying a'ight? Heck, even the non-cool kidz are saying it. Said taken abacker queried where I got the term, and I mentioned my niece had been saying it for years. He asked who *she* got it from, and I said likely where she lived, or her boyfriend at the time. After a pregnant pause filled with "hmms", he said, "was her boyfriend black?". I affirmed.
Are folks so steeped in their own perspectives that collision of cultural phraseology is *actually* that shocking? Cuz in my neck, personally and professionally, cross-culture flavah-flave is the norm.
Go figger.
28 August 2007
Today's word: Ripe
The strawberries in my fridge.
The litter box.
My occasional potty mouth. Ok. My more than occasional potty mouth.
The leftover cucumber salad.
Other Cheek things that shall remain nameless.
All ripe.
27 August 2007
Hello, Goodbye: Target is Sexy, Baby
Today's What Is Sexy bit (W.I.S.B.s):
Target is sexy.
Anyone who knows me knows that I am a Target whore. Specifically, a Super Target whore. I'd say ho, but that's too soft. Even slut doesn't seem visceral enough. Target is one of my favoritist thangs.
If I had only one store to shop at, forever, it would be SuperTarget. I can clothe myself. I can accoutre my home. They sell cat litter. And the Archer Farms pu pus - ah. Don't get me started.
Target is running a series of ads using a VERY sexy chick covering The Beatles: here's one. Sophia Shorai - her cover is as yet unavailable in a single format. Shame. She's fabulous, and is an unsuck listen.
Target is sexy.
Anyone who knows me knows that I am a Target whore. Specifically, a Super Target whore. I'd say ho, but that's too soft. Even slut doesn't seem visceral enough. Target is one of my favoritist thangs.
If I had only one store to shop at, forever, it would be SuperTarget. I can clothe myself. I can accoutre my home. They sell cat litter. And the Archer Farms pu pus - ah. Don't get me started.
Target is running a series of ads using a VERY sexy chick covering The Beatles: here's one. Sophia Shorai - her cover is as yet unavailable in a single format. Shame. She's fabulous, and is an unsuck listen.
In a Box, Revisited
Cheek passim celebrated the "In a Box" offerings. Found this one over on Sounds of the Cinema, a Blog You Should Know About (B.Y.S.K.A.). The easily offended should not visit.
Strongbadness: Say Hi to Hygiene!, and Concerts
Watch the full video here.I've been remiss in keeping up with Strongbad. Good thing there's fark.com to keep me up to speed on the quickfast. Here's to you sucking just enough to stay interesting.
And for you metal heads: be careful that you don't get yerself gussied down and suckered into liking non-metal bands by attending Concerts! You might get perplexed and intriguéd.
Another good strip day
24 August 2007
Sparks and Flames
Summer’s sultry heat has me languishing. No mint julep sipping on front porches here (Sheena, where are your rosemary mojitos when I need ‘em?). I’m a coward to the heat, running for cover in the shade and the sweet serenity of air conditioning.
The worst summers were those I worked at Kennedy Space Center. Out the door each morning at 6:30 AM, gingerly stepping the twenty feet from the front door to the car in the useless attempt to avoid breaking a sweat.
Dwelling on the negative ain’t my style. So I’ve been pondering the goodness of summer. And what’s come to mind the most are two things: the 4th of July, and fireworks.
From Hugh MacLeod's Gaping Void
FloridaDad is a Yankee Doodle Dandee. Most summers find me in his company to acknowledge and raise a glass for the occasion. I think he’s just about forgiven me for getting a permit from the Cape Canaveral fire department to light the candles for his 50th. Good times. Made gooder with the tradition addition in recent years of singing patriotic songs with PJamaMama at Grandma Beach’s as the Ron Jon’s barge launched their sparkly offerings into the sky.
This summer’s sparks came from different sources. Canada Day – oops, sorry, Sheenada Weekend – was my first serving of fireworks, as shown in Sheena’s vid capture:
From what I could see, they trumped the Ron Jon’s offerings. But they paled in comparison to Kimplicated’s faves at Lenox Square in Atlanta. She’d long championed them, but this year was my virgin attendance, up front and in the ash-ridden fallout zone.
Spanks to Kimplicated for this snap.
Big. Bang. Boom. Sparkly goodness and chest reverb. They took my breath away. They do that. Fireworks surprise. You don’t know what’s coming, exactly. You hear the “whomph” of their release, perhaps a trailing light as they catch fire streaking up the sky when you first notice their path. They’re intense. They burn and shine, lighting up the dark where you could hardly see before. The blues are always my favorites.
My last offering was the aforementioned Gatineau competition spied from an Ottawa balcony. Distanced fiery jewels in the setting sun sky, with the launch release again heralding performance. Reminded me of dashing outside after the Shuttle’s sonic boom to watch the ascent’s remainder. Fireworks’ sparks and the Shuttle’s launch: both steal your breath for an amazing few minutes, and then they’re gone. Over. Only smoke ghosts hint of their scene-stealing performance moments before.
I enjoyed these sparks and their passionate colors, but they were too brief. You can’t have fireworks e'yday, after all. Unless you’re on vacation at Disney World. So while I enjoyed them, they have me missing the longer lasting sparkly colors found in a wood burning fire.
I yearn for the cooler weather. For PJamaMama and her squire to once again play WoodFairies and set me up with oak and hickory. To enjoy the strangely satisfying sound of shoveling ash to make way for the next long, slow burn. To carefully layer fire’s trappings: newspaper, kindling, and wood (and ok, some of the “cheater” fire starter dupers). To tend the nascent flames as they inexorably build, their snap-crackle-hiss-pop cadence a soothing, perfect fall evening’s soundtrack. At the apex of intensity, the blue flame is my favorite. Continued tending as the flames take their time to wane, re-sparking as logs shift through the grate into hot red embers, slowly gasping into ash soon again satisfyingly shoveled.
So perhaps I’m not a coward to the heat after all. Mayhap I’m just particular about its form. Fires are more of an investment in time. Summer's fireworks have their place, but I’d rather lose myself in the heat of sultry, slow-made fire sparks in cooler seasons. It’s not a bad thing, being particular. After all, I *am* the Concubine of the Mountain Ash.
Coldplay's Sparks
The worst summers were those I worked at Kennedy Space Center. Out the door each morning at 6:30 AM, gingerly stepping the twenty feet from the front door to the car in the useless attempt to avoid breaking a sweat.
Dwelling on the negative ain’t my style. So I’ve been pondering the goodness of summer. And what’s come to mind the most are two things: the 4th of July, and fireworks.
From Hugh MacLeod's Gaping VoidFloridaDad is a Yankee Doodle Dandee. Most summers find me in his company to acknowledge and raise a glass for the occasion. I think he’s just about forgiven me for getting a permit from the Cape Canaveral fire department to light the candles for his 50th. Good times. Made gooder with the tradition addition in recent years of singing patriotic songs with PJamaMama at Grandma Beach’s as the Ron Jon’s barge launched their sparkly offerings into the sky.
This summer’s sparks came from different sources. Canada Day – oops, sorry, Sheenada Weekend – was my first serving of fireworks, as shown in Sheena’s vid capture:
From what I could see, they trumped the Ron Jon’s offerings. But they paled in comparison to Kimplicated’s faves at Lenox Square in Atlanta. She’d long championed them, but this year was my virgin attendance, up front and in the ash-ridden fallout zone.
Spanks to Kimplicated for this snap.Big. Bang. Boom. Sparkly goodness and chest reverb. They took my breath away. They do that. Fireworks surprise. You don’t know what’s coming, exactly. You hear the “whomph” of their release, perhaps a trailing light as they catch fire streaking up the sky when you first notice their path. They’re intense. They burn and shine, lighting up the dark where you could hardly see before. The blues are always my favorites.
My last offering was the aforementioned Gatineau competition spied from an Ottawa balcony. Distanced fiery jewels in the setting sun sky, with the launch release again heralding performance. Reminded me of dashing outside after the Shuttle’s sonic boom to watch the ascent’s remainder. Fireworks’ sparks and the Shuttle’s launch: both steal your breath for an amazing few minutes, and then they’re gone. Over. Only smoke ghosts hint of their scene-stealing performance moments before.
I enjoyed these sparks and their passionate colors, but they were too brief. You can’t have fireworks e'yday, after all. Unless you’re on vacation at Disney World. So while I enjoyed them, they have me missing the longer lasting sparkly colors found in a wood burning fire.
I yearn for the cooler weather. For PJamaMama and her squire to once again play WoodFairies and set me up with oak and hickory. To enjoy the strangely satisfying sound of shoveling ash to make way for the next long, slow burn. To carefully layer fire’s trappings: newspaper, kindling, and wood (and ok, some of the “cheater” fire starter dupers). To tend the nascent flames as they inexorably build, their snap-crackle-hiss-pop cadence a soothing, perfect fall evening’s soundtrack. At the apex of intensity, the blue flame is my favorite. Continued tending as the flames take their time to wane, re-sparking as logs shift through the grate into hot red embers, slowly gasping into ash soon again satisfyingly shoveled.
So perhaps I’m not a coward to the heat after all. Mayhap I’m just particular about its form. Fires are more of an investment in time. Summer's fireworks have their place, but I’d rather lose myself in the heat of sultry, slow-made fire sparks in cooler seasons. It’s not a bad thing, being particular. After all, I *am* the Concubine of the Mountain Ash.Coldplay's Sparks
Don't Stop Now
Kimplicated and I were spoda head to Athens this eve to catch The Old Ceremony, but fate found otherwise. Instead I'll look forward to our next concert consort experience: Crowded House.
Business Time
Hapless, my new Canuckian peep, shared this today, joining the Videos You Should Know About (V.Y.S.K.A.). Precious!
Do your part!
Stopped by Whole Foods last night to re-stock my sparkling water stash. Spied their calendar on the way out of the sto' and learned that today is National Waffle Day.Be sure to do your part in supporting this signifcant day! I'll be having bacon with a side of waffles, myself.
22 August 2007
Serendipity: Walk This Way
Great piece by Hollis Gillespie this week in the 'loaf. Flies in the face o' stuff I dig by Scott Adams, but still. A great story.
" . . . I just think some tracks are simply meant to cross; they are set in place by some cosmic train conductor, who is telling us there is no that way. There is only this one, and you are goddamn welcome."
" . . . I just think some tracks are simply meant to cross; they are set in place by some cosmic train conductor, who is telling us there is no that way. There is only this one, and you are goddamn welcome."
Summertime
Spoda get to effing 101 degrees F today in Hotlanta. I might not be so hot and bothered if I hadn't had a blissful break from the hated heat during my recent Canadian sojourn.
So I'm trying to find things to be happy about when it comes to these dog days of summer. So far, this song is my only idea. What are yours?
The Sundays, Summertime
Bonus for whitenoise, from the Unsuck Covers CD:
The Sundays covering the Rolling Stones' Wild Horses.
If it sounds familiar and you don't know why, it was used in a Budweiser commercial a few years back.
So I'm trying to find things to be happy about when it comes to these dog days of summer. So far, this song is my only idea. What are yours?
The Sundays, Summertime
Bonus for whitenoise, from the Unsuck Covers CD:
The Sundays covering the Rolling Stones' Wild Horses.
If it sounds familiar and you don't know why, it was used in a Budweiser commercial a few years back.
Happy Returns
In case you live in a hole - the space shuttle Endeavor returned yesterday, albeit early in case Hurricane Dean threated mission control in Houston. Such news cannot help but bring R.L. to mind.
And then today's Pearls Before Swine runs. Coincidence?
And then today's Pearls Before Swine runs. Coincidence?
20 August 2007
Any suggestions?
From Randall Munroe's xkcd.comI do more than read online comics. Honest. But I've stopped buying greeting cards for most occasions, and make them instead from my favorite comics and quotations.
19 August 2007
Ottawa Fireworks
Had my first Canadian rail experience last week in making my mosey from Toronto to Ottawa. Bidness delayed my intended departure, so I copped a free wired internet phone booth squat in Royal York hotel's business centre at Sheena's suggestion. Later upgraded my journey's accommodations, and didn't regret it. Nice ride. Nice meal.
Arrived in Ottawa and needed a place to lurk whilst waiting for my host's availability. Sheena to the rescue again, recommending the bar at the Westin. Last visit during Canada Day found me surrounded in the glow of many fireworks. Strange that my return should be heralded by them again. In the form of newly installed lobby light fixtures that look like fireworks. Spied 'em as I sipped what purported to be a mai tai, but failed.
Became a Repeat Offender at The Laff on the requisite Saturday afternoon to catch the Lucky Ron show. He didn't disappoint - and is an unsuck listen.
Fireworks as an Ottawa theme continued Saturday night spying Spain's efforts in the Casino du Lac-Leamy's Sound of Light competition from Gatineau / Hull. My last night in Ottawa found the sky with its own natural fireworks.
The Sheenada Day host was my chariot to the airport and return to things domestic, but not before a lovely repast at Mexicali Rosa's at Dow's Lake. Lovely sunshine and water, but the windy ass-day got interesting when an "I Am Canadian" umbrella took off flying across the patio, narrowly missing impaling fellow diners.
Stayed too long away. While the respite from Atlanta's heat was much enjoyed, it's good to be home. Now if I can just get these Canadians from haunting me everywhere I turn, I'd be set.
Tegan and Sara, Back In Your Head.
Arrived in Ottawa and needed a place to lurk whilst waiting for my host's availability. Sheena to the rescue again, recommending the bar at the Westin. Last visit during Canada Day found me surrounded in the glow of many fireworks. Strange that my return should be heralded by them again. In the form of newly installed lobby light fixtures that look like fireworks. Spied 'em as I sipped what purported to be a mai tai, but failed.
Became a Repeat Offender at The Laff on the requisite Saturday afternoon to catch the Lucky Ron show. He didn't disappoint - and is an unsuck listen.
Fireworks as an Ottawa theme continued Saturday night spying Spain's efforts in the Casino du Lac-Leamy's Sound of Light competition from Gatineau / Hull. My last night in Ottawa found the sky with its own natural fireworks.
The Sheenada Day host was my chariot to the airport and return to things domestic, but not before a lovely repast at Mexicali Rosa's at Dow's Lake. Lovely sunshine and water, but the windy ass-day got interesting when an "I Am Canadian" umbrella took off flying across the patio, narrowly missing impaling fellow diners.
Stayed too long away. While the respite from Atlanta's heat was much enjoyed, it's good to be home. Now if I can just get these Canadians from haunting me everywhere I turn, I'd be set.Tegan and Sara, Back In Your Head.
Great Comics Day Yesterday
Rare that so many crack me on the same day.
From Married to the Sea
From Darby Conley's Get Fuzzy
From Stephan Pastis' Pearls Before Swine
From Toothpaste for Dinner
From Tony Carrillo's F Minus
From Married to the Sea
From Darby Conley's Get Fuzzy
From Stephan Pastis' Pearls Before Swine
From Toothpaste for Dinner
From Tony Carrillo's F Minus
17 August 2007
I'm with Randall - Xenocide is not the best.
From Randall Munroe's xkcd.com.Just noticed on his About page that The Pleiades are his favorite astronomical entity. Mine too. Did you know that the Japanese name for that constellation is Suburu?
16 August 2007
Freaky Happenings - Today's Dilbert Blog
Yesterday I referenced sending Scott Adams a link to an article. He blogged about that today, posted below as he archives regularly - link to post here.
Freaky Happenings, from Scott Adams' The Dilbert Blog
I’ve said before in this blog that it feels to me as if all of my ideas already exist, and I’m nothing but some sort of antennae. Every time I have an idea, no matter how strange, that idea inevitably finds its way to my door from some other source. It’s freaky.
The first time I saw this phenomenon was in 1990 when I had been cartooning for about a year. One day, I sat down at about 4:30 AM and wrote a comic about opera singer Placido Domingo. My gag involved the fact that there was a fake version of him called, naturally, Placebo Domingo.
I was quite proud of my pun. Later THAT SAME DAY, I opened up the San Francisco Chronicle and started reading the comics. A syndicated comic called Farley had a joke about an opera singer named Placebo Domingo.
I just checked, and there are 460,000 hits on Google for that pun. I guess it is somewhat obvious. Still, what are the odds of drawing it in a newspaper comic in the morning and reading it in a newspaper comic within hours?
Skeptics will point out, rightly, that it would be more amazing if coincidences didn’t happen. You don’t notice all the things that could have been coincidences but weren’t, so when they happen they seem special in our minds.
I mention the Placebo Domingo story because a similar freaky thing happened the other day. But this one takes it too a new level. Let me see if I can give you chills. I promise I’m not making this up.
On August 14th, a fascinating article ran in the NY Times. A number of people recognized it as the sort of thing I would like, and forwarded it to me. The gist of the article is that an Oxford philosopher has a serious hypothesis that our lives are nothing but a computer program developed by someone else. Perhaps humans of the past created us as a hobby. The idea is that we have no physical bodies, we only think we do. This notion is standard science fiction stuff, but now it has risen to philosophic consideration.
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/08/14/science/14tier.html?ex=1344830400&en=2300cf446929c707&ei=5124&partner=permalink
That article was published on August 14th. One day earlier, I had an idea for a movie plot that felt as if it came out of nowhere. I quickly typed it out in the Word document that happened to be open – the same one I am using now for my blog posts. I’m going to paste my notes below, without editing, so you see it exactly as I wrote it.
--- begin ---
Movie plot.
It's about people trying to download themselves to computers when humanity is at an end.
They discover they are already the downloads, in a loop of history
You can tell it's a program because of reused code in the form of memes.
Deja vu is memory leak
Clues you are in a program
No free will
You keep forgetting where you put things. Everyone does.
The program is crashing.
Some humans are like self correcting code. They spring to action trying to fix the program. They try to debug humanity.
Whole movie is program code analogy
--- end ---
Now you might say, rightly, this is a little bit like the Matrix, and a little bit like The Sixth Sense, and a little bit like my own book, God’s Debris, and a little bit like lots of other things. That’s all true.
The freaky part (chill alert) is that the main idea in my movie plot is that the characters discover their true nature as program code by noticing coincidences in their lives. For example, they see people who look exactly like other people they know, but aren’t.
The reason for all the coincidences in their so-called lives is that the program in which they live was written hastily. It reuses a lot of code. There are only a few hundred types of people, with minor variations. It was easier for the programmers to prevent duplicate people from ever becoming friends than to create 6 billion unique avatars.
So as I’m thinking about being nothing but code in a program, and thinking that the way you discover your true self is by realizing the coincidences in life are clues, a dozen people forward me an article about…being…code…in…a…program.
End
Hundreds of comments will likely ensue, but by favorite so far are:
"Hi, you don't know me but our interfaces were programmed to fit. If you take off your clothes, I can show you how my algorithm can blow your recursion loop." (posted by Manual)
and
...
Female chick;
procedure Intercourse() {
if (chick.isSatisfied().equals('no')) milkey.penisSize += 10;
if (chick.isInjured().equals('yes')) milkey.penisSize -= 1;
else milkey.penisSize +=1; }
(posted by milkey, which makes the "milkey" bit make sense. I'd have written it generically for the better joke.
Freaky Happenings, from Scott Adams' The Dilbert Blog
I’ve said before in this blog that it feels to me as if all of my ideas already exist, and I’m nothing but some sort of antennae. Every time I have an idea, no matter how strange, that idea inevitably finds its way to my door from some other source. It’s freaky.
The first time I saw this phenomenon was in 1990 when I had been cartooning for about a year. One day, I sat down at about 4:30 AM and wrote a comic about opera singer Placido Domingo. My gag involved the fact that there was a fake version of him called, naturally, Placebo Domingo.
I was quite proud of my pun. Later THAT SAME DAY, I opened up the San Francisco Chronicle and started reading the comics. A syndicated comic called Farley had a joke about an opera singer named Placebo Domingo.
I just checked, and there are 460,000 hits on Google for that pun. I guess it is somewhat obvious. Still, what are the odds of drawing it in a newspaper comic in the morning and reading it in a newspaper comic within hours?
Skeptics will point out, rightly, that it would be more amazing if coincidences didn’t happen. You don’t notice all the things that could have been coincidences but weren’t, so when they happen they seem special in our minds.
I mention the Placebo Domingo story because a similar freaky thing happened the other day. But this one takes it too a new level. Let me see if I can give you chills. I promise I’m not making this up.
On August 14th, a fascinating article ran in the NY Times. A number of people recognized it as the sort of thing I would like, and forwarded it to me. The gist of the article is that an Oxford philosopher has a serious hypothesis that our lives are nothing but a computer program developed by someone else. Perhaps humans of the past created us as a hobby. The idea is that we have no physical bodies, we only think we do. This notion is standard science fiction stuff, but now it has risen to philosophic consideration.
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/08/14/science/14tier.html?ex=1344830400&en=2300cf446929c707&ei=5124&partner=permalink
That article was published on August 14th. One day earlier, I had an idea for a movie plot that felt as if it came out of nowhere. I quickly typed it out in the Word document that happened to be open – the same one I am using now for my blog posts. I’m going to paste my notes below, without editing, so you see it exactly as I wrote it.
--- begin ---
Movie plot.
It's about people trying to download themselves to computers when humanity is at an end.
They discover they are already the downloads, in a loop of history
You can tell it's a program because of reused code in the form of memes.
Deja vu is memory leak
Clues you are in a program
No free will
You keep forgetting where you put things. Everyone does.
The program is crashing.
Some humans are like self correcting code. They spring to action trying to fix the program. They try to debug humanity.
Whole movie is program code analogy
--- end ---
Now you might say, rightly, this is a little bit like the Matrix, and a little bit like The Sixth Sense, and a little bit like my own book, God’s Debris, and a little bit like lots of other things. That’s all true.
The freaky part (chill alert) is that the main idea in my movie plot is that the characters discover their true nature as program code by noticing coincidences in their lives. For example, they see people who look exactly like other people they know, but aren’t.
The reason for all the coincidences in their so-called lives is that the program in which they live was written hastily. It reuses a lot of code. There are only a few hundred types of people, with minor variations. It was easier for the programmers to prevent duplicate people from ever becoming friends than to create 6 billion unique avatars.
So as I’m thinking about being nothing but code in a program, and thinking that the way you discover your true self is by realizing the coincidences in life are clues, a dozen people forward me an article about…being…code…in…a…program.
End
Hundreds of comments will likely ensue, but by favorite so far are:
"Hi, you don't know me but our interfaces were programmed to fit. If you take off your clothes, I can show you how my algorithm can blow your recursion loop." (posted by Manual)
and
...
Female chick;
procedure Intercourse() {
if (chick.isSatisfied().equals('no')) milkey.penisSize += 10;
if (chick.isInjured().equals('yes')) milkey.penisSize -= 1;
else milkey.penisSize +=1; }
(posted by milkey, which makes the "milkey" bit make sense. I'd have written it generically for the better joke.
Holy Sh*t! You MUST see this.
Vegetarians
From Darby Conley's Get Fuzzy, for Robina Robina Robina.
From Robert Balder's Partially Clips, for Pid.
Tony Carrillo's F Minus, for Coyote.
15 August 2007
You're Not Real (but Scott Adams is)
A peep forwarded me a fark.com noted piece from from the NY Times, "Our Lives, Controlled From Some Guy's Couch."
How timely. I finally finished God's Debris by Scott Adams this week. The NY Times piece echoed many of the suppositions made in Adams' work and his blog.
I forwarded a link to the article on to Scott via e-mail, and dang if he didn't reply back:
From: ScottAdams@aol.com
To: (me)
Subject: Re: NY Times Article - Validation of God's Debris?
Date: Aug 15, 2007 11:19 AM
Holy shit. This topic is literally on the top of my "to do" list to blog about, and I never saw the article until now.
Scott
Cool.
How timely. I finally finished God's Debris by Scott Adams this week. The NY Times piece echoed many of the suppositions made in Adams' work and his blog.
I forwarded a link to the article on to Scott via e-mail, and dang if he didn't reply back:
From: ScottAdams@aol.com
To: (me)
Subject: Re: NY Times Article - Validation of God's Debris?
Date: Aug 15, 2007 11:19 AM
Holy shit. This topic is literally on the top of my "to do" list to blog about, and I never saw the article until now.
Scott
Cool.
14 August 2007
Blogging vs. Web 2.0
Hugh MacLeod's latest post on Why We're All Blogging Less finds me agreeing and disagreeing. Are things really all that bad in the Blogipelago and the Mountains of Web 1.0? Are the Straits of Web 2.0 the only place to be? (What about the Gays of Web 2.0?)
I'm a blag young'un, granted. But since starting my blog last year, I've had to fend off disses from MySpacer blogless peeps. MySpace is grand for creative types and businesses - our band has a MySpace page, albeit young as well.
But the personal pages have always struck me as, um ... kinda lame? I mean, I get it. All the nifty apps 'n' stuff to let people know factoids about you. Peeps can comment. Ok. But rarely do I find anyone who uses the blog function. People seem to stick with the templated, "let us help you put yourself out there" widgets.
My druther is to put myself out there in the form of words. Some snaps are occasionally illustrative, but even the comics are word-based. It's the words, stoopid. It's the communication I groove on, not the advertisements. Cuz that's MySpace, right? Your own personal brand ad space?
I wanted to use a picture that I knew was lurking on a friend's MySpace page, but you can't view pics unless you're a MySpacer. Urgh. So I signed up. Dammit. And color my holier-than-MySpace-self vindicated when the following screen came up during account confirmation:
Aack! Pet peevishness!
Twitter's growing on me - for the blurbs on what you like, what you're doing, etc. I've particularly enjoyed Twittering during concerts. But a 140 character limit makes it tough to convey meaningful schtuff.
And I must concur with Hugh - FaceBook kicks MySpace's arse, for personal networking. Can't attest to the professional kickassedness over LinkedIn yet, but will give it time.
Personally, I'm hoping the blogs that I like and read regularly don't waste away into Twitter burps and social networking sites. What people think, what people feel, what people know, what people want ... these aren't well represented in Web 2.0. Yet?
I'm a blag young'un, granted. But since starting my blog last year, I've had to fend off disses from MySpacer blogless peeps. MySpace is grand for creative types and businesses - our band has a MySpace page, albeit young as well.
But the personal pages have always struck me as, um ... kinda lame? I mean, I get it. All the nifty apps 'n' stuff to let people know factoids about you. Peeps can comment. Ok. But rarely do I find anyone who uses the blog function. People seem to stick with the templated, "let us help you put yourself out there" widgets.
My druther is to put myself out there in the form of words. Some snaps are occasionally illustrative, but even the comics are word-based. It's the words, stoopid. It's the communication I groove on, not the advertisements. Cuz that's MySpace, right? Your own personal brand ad space?
I wanted to use a picture that I knew was lurking on a friend's MySpace page, but you can't view pics unless you're a MySpacer. Urgh. So I signed up. Dammit. And color my holier-than-MySpace-self vindicated when the following screen came up during account confirmation:
Aack! Pet peevishness!
Twitter's growing on me - for the blurbs on what you like, what you're doing, etc. I've particularly enjoyed Twittering during concerts. But a 140 character limit makes it tough to convey meaningful schtuff.
And I must concur with Hugh - FaceBook kicks MySpace's arse, for personal networking. Can't attest to the professional kickassedness over LinkedIn yet, but will give it time.
Personally, I'm hoping the blogs that I like and read regularly don't waste away into Twitter burps and social networking sites. What people think, what people feel, what people know, what people want ... these aren't well represented in Web 2.0. Yet?
13 August 2007
A Sheena Sojourn
10 Things from My Visit with Sheena:
10. Sleeping quarters have more than a touch of her new home, but of Sheena's history, too. The quilt includes scraps of clothing from her family when Sheena was little. Who couldn't sleep comfyly ensconced in that kind of love and history?
9. Sheena has a fabulous snap of her courtyard, but I can personally attest that having a yumfest breafkast catered by the Jungle Queen herself on that same courtyard, basking in the warm summer sun is nothing less than luxurious.
8. Moseying to the many Mennonite-carriaged town of St. Jacobs yielded a bit o' Cheek's own history, in the form of Tavener's Fruit Drops. My maternal Grandma always had 'em in her parlor. Remember parlors? The town also led me to question - how is it that you can't get an ice cream float that's made with beer? Surely someone in this universe makes a Guinness float?
7. Excellent silver jewelry finds at Casa Latina. Sheena thought hard about the spiral necklace, but I'm glad it went home with me. Dunno what's up with me and basic shapes lately, but they're callin' my name.
6. Sheena's sunporch is the best room inside the house. I think I'd replace her chairs (albeit comfy) and table with a daybed and prop myself up to work, people watch, and snooze when time affords. No pic snapped, but watch Sheena's space - I'm sure she'll indulge us soon.
5. Libations - making and quaffing - are one of Sheena's specialties. Granted, she has many. But as her guests arrived she plied them with offerings of homemade sangria and her signature rosemary mojito. Yummilicious! As we segued from indoors to the Jungle Queen's Courtyard, she kept us wet with local juice: Flat Rock Cellars' 2004 Pinot Noir and their 2006 Riesling. (Bonus! Sheena's gams in the back as she tended the BBQ.)
4. Sheena's box is *so* fine. She tried to discount her box, saying it was old, used, and had none of the new fangled features of today's boxes. But her vintage box was just the trick, I tell you. For I didn't mind it missing the slender opening to receive last season's (century's?) input. What I grooved on was her box's ability to take digital stimulation and share it with our whole party. You know - RCA jacks so I could hook up my cable and play my iPod for party tunage? What were *you* thinking I meant?
3. Reading Sheena's blog about her cooking chops *so* pales to receiving her bounty in person. Yellow corn. Veggies seasoned with rosemary and olive oil. Chicken. Simple, and sumptuous. Summer never looked or tasted so good.
2. I'd have never thunk of grilling peaches, much less peaches kissed with rosemary and served with vanilla ice cream. But we know my food universe is small. Thank goodness I've a peep like Sheena to expand it, with rosemary was her unifying theme of the evening. Grilled fruit is so on my list o' thangs to repeat offend.
1. My stay was too brief. Sheena's gravity wraps you up in quilted, relaxed, tasty revelry. I hope I'm invited back soon.
10. Sleeping quarters have more than a touch of her new home, but of Sheena's history, too. The quilt includes scraps of clothing from her family when Sheena was little. Who couldn't sleep comfyly ensconced in that kind of love and history?
9. Sheena has a fabulous snap of her courtyard, but I can personally attest that having a yumfest breafkast catered by the Jungle Queen herself on that same courtyard, basking in the warm summer sun is nothing less than luxurious.
8. Moseying to the many Mennonite-carriaged town of St. Jacobs yielded a bit o' Cheek's own history, in the form of Tavener's Fruit Drops. My maternal Grandma always had 'em in her parlor. Remember parlors? The town also led me to question - how is it that you can't get an ice cream float that's made with beer? Surely someone in this universe makes a Guinness float?
7. Excellent silver jewelry finds at Casa Latina. Sheena thought hard about the spiral necklace, but I'm glad it went home with me. Dunno what's up with me and basic shapes lately, but they're callin' my name.
6. Sheena's sunporch is the best room inside the house. I think I'd replace her chairs (albeit comfy) and table with a daybed and prop myself up to work, people watch, and snooze when time affords. No pic snapped, but watch Sheena's space - I'm sure she'll indulge us soon.
5. Libations - making and quaffing - are one of Sheena's specialties. Granted, she has many. But as her guests arrived she plied them with offerings of homemade sangria and her signature rosemary mojito. Yummilicious! As we segued from indoors to the Jungle Queen's Courtyard, she kept us wet with local juice: Flat Rock Cellars' 2004 Pinot Noir and their 2006 Riesling. (Bonus! Sheena's gams in the back as she tended the BBQ.)
4. Sheena's box is *so* fine. She tried to discount her box, saying it was old, used, and had none of the new fangled features of today's boxes. But her vintage box was just the trick, I tell you. For I didn't mind it missing the slender opening to receive last season's (century's?) input. What I grooved on was her box's ability to take digital stimulation and share it with our whole party. You know - RCA jacks so I could hook up my cable and play my iPod for party tunage? What were *you* thinking I meant?
3. Reading Sheena's blog about her cooking chops *so* pales to receiving her bounty in person. Yellow corn. Veggies seasoned with rosemary and olive oil. Chicken. Simple, and sumptuous. Summer never looked or tasted so good.
2. I'd have never thunk of grilling peaches, much less peaches kissed with rosemary and served with vanilla ice cream. But we know my food universe is small. Thank goodness I've a peep like Sheena to expand it, with rosemary was her unifying theme of the evening. Grilled fruit is so on my list o' thangs to repeat offend.
1. My stay was too brief. Sheena's gravity wraps you up in quilted, relaxed, tasty revelry. I hope I'm invited back soon.
How to Listen to Other People's Problems
Scott Adams has turned the world onto an up and coming cartoonist, Scott Meyer, and his brand of fun, Basic Instructions. What I *didn't* know is that Scott Meyer knows Pid so well. I mean, he must be following Pid around 'n' stuff, as he's brought Pid to cartoon life ('ceptin' how Pid ain't bald) in the following:
"How to Listen to Other People's Problems", from Scott Meyer's Basic Instructions
If Scott Meyer isn't careful, he might just lend himself into the jeanyus category. Time will tell. But this brings me to:
Today's What Is Sexy Bit (W.I.S.B.):
Bald heads are sexy.
I've been a fan of the finely shaped pate since my first ACC basketball crush days as an urchin in Virginia. Most such pates are darker in color - I cannot 'splain why the paler versions don't number as highly in the nicely wrought tally, but they don't. But sightings have occurred.
The first one I came to appreciate began its slow maturation to fineness when I knew him in college at JMU. That would be Robbie Schaefer's pate, of the oft mentioned and always heralded Eddie From Ohio. Mind you, now, as you judge for yerself in the snap below, that Robbie's sexyness doubletimes with the musician thang, but I do believe the pate speaks for its own sexy self:
My next appreciation for fine pale patedness came in the form of the Cary Curly Cheese, the Triple C. A former Tallahassee peep of some years, I never knew Triple C when he had hair; but his pictures from high school show the perfect middle part with feathered blondness winging back. Triple C has his own double dose, as Pjayamamama and I have long appreciated his unusual high and tightness. I missed the one chance I had to see that high and tightness when it streaked (struck?) willy-nilly-ly about a moonlit golf course, but those who witnessed it called it fine. Update: TripleC comes through with a snap!
At present it seems such pates are tipping the sexyness scales. Having tripped across one on Canada Day, they are the candy my eye seems to seek. Volunteering at the aquarium has yielded a few subjects.
Any of your own to mention?
"How to Listen to Other People's Problems", from Scott Meyer's Basic InstructionsIf Scott Meyer isn't careful, he might just lend himself into the jeanyus category. Time will tell. But this brings me to:
Today's What Is Sexy Bit (W.I.S.B.):
Bald heads are sexy.
I've been a fan of the finely shaped pate since my first ACC basketball crush days as an urchin in Virginia. Most such pates are darker in color - I cannot 'splain why the paler versions don't number as highly in the nicely wrought tally, but they don't. But sightings have occurred.
The first one I came to appreciate began its slow maturation to fineness when I knew him in college at JMU. That would be Robbie Schaefer's pate, of the oft mentioned and always heralded Eddie From Ohio. Mind you, now, as you judge for yerself in the snap below, that Robbie's sexyness doubletimes with the musician thang, but I do believe the pate speaks for its own sexy self:
My next appreciation for fine pale patedness came in the form of the Cary Curly Cheese, the Triple C. A former Tallahassee peep of some years, I never knew Triple C when he had hair; but his pictures from high school show the perfect middle part with feathered blondness winging back. Triple C has his own double dose, as Pjayamamama and I have long appreciated his unusual high and tightness. I missed the one chance I had to see that high and tightness when it streaked (struck?) willy-nilly-ly about a moonlit golf course, but those who witnessed it called it fine. Update: TripleC comes through with a snap!
At present it seems such pates are tipping the sexyness scales. Having tripped across one on Canada Day, they are the candy my eye seems to seek. Volunteering at the aquarium has yielded a few subjects.
Any of your own to mention?
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