Week 9 (24)
Ich
bin von Kopf bis Fuss auf Liebe eingestellt.
Thursday, 22:43
Yeah, yeah. I know. But wow. A distant, hands-off, meta-fictional kind of wow. And I think the Spouse would like her, too. Whoever she is. (Katherine Mieszkowski is one of the better things about Salon, I must say. —Chas. Taylor, on the other hand: not only did he cripple his otherwise fine piece on the Frontline porn report [yes, that again], but—get this—he hated Heathers. [It’s at the end of the review of an admittedly loathsome-sounding little movie, and you know, it’s just an opinion, to which everyone is entitled, and in the spirit of that I will go on record with the potentially damaging revelation that I did enjoy Hudson Hawk, but sheepishly so, and there were circumstances! Yes.] —But enough of this petty crap.)
Reefer
madness.
Thursday, 21:41
So I found this cool free web counter with impressive reports, and I’ve been having fun with scrying through how people end up hereabouts, and why. Someone (or some algorithm) at Google, for instance, has somehow decided my site is rather similar to Mr. Double’s, so I get a lot of “related:www.mrdouble.com” hits; this is not unexpected. (What is unexpected is TransTex’s place on the list; I think somehow that I’m responsible for.) (It’s the text editor I use. I credit [and link] them a number of times throughout the site; it’s the only connection I can think of . . . ) And I am amused and tickled and frankly cockle-warmed at the number of people hitting me on some variation of “john ashcroft maureen dowd calico cat.” —The sex-related searches are not unexpected, but sometimes entertainingly specific: “free movies of naked lesbos caught,” say (doing what, for God’s sake?), or “six men fucking” (not five; not seven, no) or the understandable if hopelessly broad “free porn.” “Cruel wife” (specific to www.asstr.org) was my very first Google hit (since it’s been counting; admittedly not that long). Then there’s the bewildering “eighties 80s jokes” (?). But this one takes the ever lovin’ cake (and there I am, at the top of the heap):
venus flytraps for sale CHEAP!
Technical
details.
Thursday, 17:46
So I told you a while back about Lisa’s Digital Medievalist blog (which most recently has some news about the construction of a cool new sun circle near my old stomping grounds; there’s a Butterhenge on a hill nearby, so it should feel right at home). What I somehow failed to catch was her other blog, which is all about, well, blogging. Sort of. Instructional Technology is a meticulously linked blog about using blogs and similar ideas and techniques (one balks for some strange reason at the perfectly valid nomenclature “technology”) to manage coursework and instruction in an academic environment (hence the title). —You know: using technology to facilitate the dissemination of information. It’s the nitty and the gritty, and it’s worth the price of admission for the brilliant comparison of blogs to commonplace books alone. (And I should probably mention in passing that I use Dean Allen’s phenomenal Apple Scripts to buff and polish my copy—the Preflight Cruncher (among other lifesavers) converts all those pesky em-dashes and quotation marks to Unicode for clean and easy viewing any and everywhere—and to do handy things like wrapping links quickly and with a minimum of fuss, but that the grunt work is done by good ol’ stupid-end-user WYSIWYG Dreamweaver. But CSS—man! CSS is gorgeous, clean, simple, neat. I get to wrapping my brain around that, and I can wean myself down to literally building webpages by hand in BBEdit like a grownup. —Which would doubtless make the Padre deliriously happy.)
At any rate: hie thee hence. Highly recommended.
Jobs;
clitorides; the difference between .007 and .008; namechecking Vollmann;
rebel angels; Pornotopia; the natures of heroes and grad students; always
close with a bang.
Wednesday, 18:29
Peripatetic musings at this point. Appropriate enough, since most of me seems apt to spin off in any of a hundred different directions at any given moment. Still looking for some sort of permanent employment, or at least something that will pay enough to be worthwhile for the nonce, which sucks; on the other hand, I’m not getting dunned for unemployment benefits because I panhandled on the web (or is it more spaynging?), and I’m not getting fired for stuff I’ve written in a personal blog.
Another bit of Cuyahoga dribbled out, and the seventh one is up for the February Silver Clit; vote to nominate it yourself, if you like. (Myself, I’m probably voting for “The Think System” or “Memories and Illusions.”) I’m mostly happy with the seventh one, even if it doesn’t have that much sex in it, and I’m still curiously conflicted about how I handle(d) male/male sex, but I’m probably overthinking it or something. Eight, though; eight. Eight’s weird. I still don’t entirely know what to make of it, or (claims of sudden structural epiphanies delivered in the shower aside) what to make of most of this, really. —I am (again) curiously conflicted, or, rather, torn; half between celebrating this excess in no other service than the name of excess (“With upraised needles, Bibles, dildoes and shot glasses, let us now throw our condoms in the fire, unbutton our trousers, and happily commit—” Yes, thanks, Bill, but you know, the fly’s still dead.) (Don’t mind that last bit; one of the multitude of crimes that I commit, my little dollop of excess, is to cheekily drop literary allusions designed to amuse no one but myself) (and this whole parenthetical aside is getting way out of hand and off-topic, and anyway, it’s only the “Funeral Sermon for a Fly,” the epigraph to The Royal Family, which I’ve only been raving about hither and yon for weeks or even months)— Where was I? Right. Celebrating the excess qua excess of the various Cuyahogans, this sophisticated satiation of essentially simple, primal hungers, or—well, condemning it; drumming up a snarkily ironic comeuppance, flicking down to some petty hell these angels whose very rebellion I’d been the one to foment. (Aheh.) —The Tainted Lime said in passing that the participants of my little cycle are “desperately in need of counseling,” and, while, on the one hand, yes, God yes, on the other—
Given that we are, after all, in Pornotopia—with all that that implies—I don’t know that, say, Vanessa isn’t rather a sane actor. Certainly, I’d want her in my corner, push comes to shove. Rather than otherwise. —But; but: she’s striving to maintain a status quo (Larry Marder’s reading of the cultural signification of the hero, or maybe it isn’t his per se, but he used it, and that’s where I remember coming across it, and those are the risks you take when your education is as spotty and checkered as mine), and anyone who strives to maintain the status quo is doomed to fail. (To my mind, at least. Keeping in mind my own peculiar view of history, and taking into account the certainty that Things Change. Your views may well differ.)
(Trapped! In a world she never made—)
—I am reminded of the story of a grad student, or maybe it was an undergrad, but I think it has to be a grad student, because long, dry, involved papers have to be delivered to professors on a regular basis for the story to work. Anyway. This grad student (as we’ve decided it must be) would place somewhere in the middle, or maybe two-thirds of the way through, one of these research papers an aside: an offer, there, between two paragraphs, to take the professor out to dinner. Student’s treat. All the professor had to do was mention this particular passage. (Two dollars off if you mention this ad!)
The grad student was never in his or her entire career as a grad student obliged to honor this deal.
In the spirit of that, then: go, find your birth Playmate. It’s on me.
Let’s see. Anything else? Oh—I’m apparently a G-spot dildo.
A
weather report.
Tuesday, 23:17
Following up: The Chilling Effects Clearinghouse has gone live, so hip hooray for that (and they’ve already helped Enron Owns The GOP.com kick the Texas Republican Party to the curb).
On the other hand—the world of information in general keeps getting chillier nonetheless hereabouts, day by ever lovin’ day.
I, too, grow exceptionally weary of the advertisements for this movie.
This one, on the other hand, sounds like it could be smashingly good. (Plus it’s got that guy from the Volkswagen commercial and Gilmore Girls.)
To: “D&SW” <hightopremove@excite.com>
Subject: re: Make an investment in your future!!!!!!!!!!!
Date: Sun, 24 Feb 2002 23:07:03 -0800
D&SW—can I call you D?—D, I gotta tell ya: my desire to open an email message is usually in inverse proportion to the number of exclamation points in the subject line.
How about that. You count the two weeks in December I was off doing other stuff and didn’t bother to put anything up (which I don’t, usually, but let’s count ’em for shits and giggles), well, then, I just finished my 26th week. Which is half of 52. Which is about six months. Which is two seasons. Or half a year.
Cool.
—In other calendrical news, because I got excited back at the end of January, the month of February’s going to end up having five weeks in the archive. (It’s my archive. Hand-built and everything. I can do it if I want to. So there.)
(And a note to self re: yesterday—don’t, whatever you do, try for cogent political analysis on too little sleep and no coffee. You’ll just spurt something unconsidered and fuck it up and feel sheepish, later.)
nicholas urfé
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