Friday, December 08, 2000

Well, not to disagree with the blogger site today, but I am still cynical as to what nefarious use all the information published in web logs will ultimately be put. I mean, if I publicly ponder purchasing photoshop 6 on my blog, what's to say that I won't be bombarded by advertisements from competitors?

But seriously, folks. I like this way of journaling. In this age of massive information exchange, the only way to hide is in plain sight. As Tom Clancy is so fond of saying in his phonebook-sized "books," the CIA's main problem is not acquiring information but collating it. Thus it follows that the thicker your file the less likely it is that you can be successfully identified. Right? Right?

The two things wrong with conspiracy theories is that

  • they assume that everyone is organized
  • they assume that there is a plan in the first place.

I mean, what more could the corporate oligarchy want than the mass-enslavement of most of the world's population, total control of its wishes, dreams and avenues of expression and the subsequent dearth of any leader of consequence?

Oh, I do go on.

Thursday, December 07, 2000

All new (this means you ) should know that this service is not usually quite so slow, but recent press (New Yorker and now Wired) has added users at a phenomenal pace. That sort of this was great for Napster where it was the more the merrier, but here in journal land it's just making us at risk for becoming a demographic. Maybe some asshole from Proctor & Gamble is looking at these blogs right now trying to see if there are any discernable product references. Coming soon to your mailbox are cereal and soap samples, inanae questions at dinnertime from phone solicitors, yadda yadda yadda..
Jesus, do I sound like a bitter old man today or what? I need a nap.
The more blogger gets promoted the slower it gets. I've been fucking around with Net since 1994 and it's the same old story: nobody knows and it's cool, more people know and it's less cool and slow and then... bang, it sucks.

Wednesday, December 06, 2000

Another sunny day. This endless stream of sunny, crisp fall days is weird to me. This is Oregon and by rights should be cloudy, rainy and so forth. I was in the library and thumbed through a Whitley Strieber book set in the future. Those future books are always funny, the ones where a character is looking back to "the horrible November of 2021, when it all started." It was drek, brother. For some reason I had Whitley Strieber confused with New Yorker jazz critic Whitney Baillett. Silly me.
I'm jumped up on java now and am needing to rebuild a particularly troublesome animation which grows and grows in size. I'm not thrilled, but what can you do?
I've got half a poem written. Maybe I'll get the rest of it up before too long. I'm getting rusty. Or maybe it's happiness... depression and lonliness spurred me to do most of my poems before now. I haven't really been moved to write since those ailments have been cured, and yet the need remains. Perhaps it is true what is said about bad feelings and creativity going hand in hand? Certainly the idea of tormented genius is so accepted as to be an old saw. Blah blah blah, whatever.

And now I'll check some other weblogs before I get to work.

Tuesday, December 05, 2000

This party was a dud. No disrespect to Jen and all, but a crowd of aging hipsters is not my idea of a good time. First off, there was one bar serving beer, Cutty Sark scotch and Skyy Vodka. Yum yum. Second, there was but one bartender. Third, although the retrocade is cool, many of the best machines were broken. Some games, like Paperboy, were never good and never popular; others (asteroids, pac man and frogger) were everywhere so we all got goood and sick of them. O wherefore art thou, Tail Gunner? Woe to thee, Tempest? Battlezone, I hardly knew ye. The hipsters were too cool for school and thus were surly and uncommunicative. I remember fondly the parties I used to throw. They were fun. Lots of work to clean up, though.

So now I sit with a dirty little hangover, as yet unpaid for an entire month of work with rent due and the xmas wolf's hot breath about my ankles. My life has certainly been worse, but you wouldn't know it from my attitude.

Alcohol is by and large a big, fat drag. Not much fun while on it and certainly none at all afterward. I'll make exception for fine red wine and the occasional martini. Other than that it's like paint thinner.

Monday, December 04, 2000

anyone who has illusions of a permanent personality trait need only spend a few moments with someone who has taken a good shot to the head. hell, just get drunk, for that matter. this complex web of who we are and how we see the world is, as John D MacDonald so aptly put it, three pounds or so of grey jello encased in a skull and topped with a rubbery scalp. in iowa we visited haley's former next door neighbor who, fifteen years ago, was riding his bike home when he was felled by a speeeding car. he now is bedbound and so severely brain-damaged that he cannot even sit up. his family are very devout catholics, and every wall of their house is covered with "expect a miracle" placards. next to the young man's bed (not so young a man now, but also a child) is a thick book of crossword puzzles. unless ye come unto me a little child ye shall not pass into the kingdom of heaven. man. he apparently was both brilliant and charming. now he sits and roars and smiles his idiot's smile.
And on that note, i'm off to get drunk at the barfly party. I've been writing for the mag for over a year now and this is the second event that i've actually attended. i'll post some pics tomorrow, assuming i can see.
This morning I sort of slumbered for a while, trapped in that dreamy half-sleep in which minutes can become hours. This was a very unproductive weekend and I am glad it is over.
I saw "Alice Doesn't Live Here Any More" last night. It was shot in my old hometown of Tucson, AZ. I was ten when they shot it. Brought back some memories, not all nice. I think it is good thing to leave your home town and never move back. Visiting is okay, I suppose, but day-to-day has too much past for my taste.
I had been wondering: was there to exist a service which would erase all of your memories and set you adrift in the world without any past at all, would you avail yourself of it? At what point wopuld personal pain warrant such an act? The death of a child, the commitment of some unforgivable act? This I pondered as I took a shower last night.
A side note... my nails are fucking LONG. It is amazing how quickly they grow. Ever an annoyance back when I was a guitar player, it was one of my unspoken motivations for learning the drums. That and the fact that I could actually sit in with my friends.

Sunday, December 03, 2000

Sunday sunday. I am full of buckwheat pancakes. I am not hung over. I am about to start work.
And I feel the little nips of sadness at my heeels. It is not unusual with me, I suppose. Sharing custody of my daughter just seems to get harder and harder. Part-time parenting involves a lot of goodbyes, more than I care for.
Because this is a blog and not a sealed journal I am hesitant to reveal any of my innermost thoughts, but certain lessons derived from them may well be worth exploring. Many of these are old saws along the lines of "takes one to know one" or "it's always darkest before the dawn," but some are pretty profound in any case.
Here's one:
The idea most energetically defended is often the idea in which confidence is the weakest. That is a VERY awkward sentence, but the point is the old one of "methinks thou protestest too much." Or, the one who smelt it dealt it? Anyway, I've often offered my firecest arguments when I felt I was on shaky ground. Explosive reactions can be a sign of weakness.
blah blah blah