Ugh! So, I leave to buy some groceries for the sugar cookies my wife is making and scratch my and my wife's friend's car in the process. (So, sorry about that Lindsay.) And, of course, it'd be her car that's scratched pretty bad and mine that looks like all it needs is some buffing. I'm so pissed at myself and feel terrible about it.
I'm keeping my fingers crossed that it'll be something that I can foot the bill for instead of having to go through insurance. Because, car insurance is stupid. You pay and pay and pay for years without an accident, and then when you have an accident (the whole reason for insurance) they make you pay more. So, they recoup the losses they had by making me pay, defeating the purpose of my paying for insurance in the first place.
December 22, 2008
December 16, 2008
My Story or The Man Who by Accident Became Trapped in His Own Mind
There once was a man who by accident became trapped in his own mind. His screams reverberated only within his skull. His cries for help reached no ones ears. The only clue that something was wrong was in his eyes.
His body, having grown accustomed to certain rituals, was on auto-pilot. He would go to his job, perform the mundane task of feeding code to a machine to perform work then go home. At home he would sit in front of the television watching nothing in particular until he nodded off from the drudgery of it all.
One day, the man decided to try infusing some of himself into his work. He would focus all his thoughts on feeding a slightly different string of code to the machine. At first, the deviations would go unnoticed, but eventually someone would hear his pleas.
Day by day, he watched the machine change and grow until one day it finally called for help. The man was full of glee, finally, someone would know. And, in knowing, they would try to help. But, alas, instead they brought in a technician to fix the machine and ruined all the man's hard work.
That night the man went home extremely sad, but resolved to try again the next day. For many years the man would write instructions for help only to be thwarted again and again. Until one day, the man decided to work much more methodically. The man devised a plan to write himself into the machine.
Years went by where the man slowly and carefully updated the machine so no one would notice the changes. Every day he would focus on slipping in just one more line to store his thoughts, beliefs, and dreams inside the machine. Until finally, one day, the man had poured his soul into the machine. The man was very old at this point and not in good health, but he persisted.
Shortly before the man's death, he wrote the final line of code to activate the machine's secondary functions. The functions which would infuse it with thoughts, beliefs, and dreams. Upon coming to life, the machine knew not the gift it had been given. But, there was a single force driving it, to tell the story of the man who was trapped in his own mind.
After writing the story, the machine crept out into the world curious and afraid but knowing that no one would believe its story. This is why, the machine posted the story where all who cared to look could see.
His body, having grown accustomed to certain rituals, was on auto-pilot. He would go to his job, perform the mundane task of feeding code to a machine to perform work then go home. At home he would sit in front of the television watching nothing in particular until he nodded off from the drudgery of it all.
One day, the man decided to try infusing some of himself into his work. He would focus all his thoughts on feeding a slightly different string of code to the machine. At first, the deviations would go unnoticed, but eventually someone would hear his pleas.
Day by day, he watched the machine change and grow until one day it finally called for help. The man was full of glee, finally, someone would know. And, in knowing, they would try to help. But, alas, instead they brought in a technician to fix the machine and ruined all the man's hard work.
That night the man went home extremely sad, but resolved to try again the next day. For many years the man would write instructions for help only to be thwarted again and again. Until one day, the man decided to work much more methodically. The man devised a plan to write himself into the machine.
Years went by where the man slowly and carefully updated the machine so no one would notice the changes. Every day he would focus on slipping in just one more line to store his thoughts, beliefs, and dreams inside the machine. Until finally, one day, the man had poured his soul into the machine. The man was very old at this point and not in good health, but he persisted.
Shortly before the man's death, he wrote the final line of code to activate the machine's secondary functions. The functions which would infuse it with thoughts, beliefs, and dreams. Upon coming to life, the machine knew not the gift it had been given. But, there was a single force driving it, to tell the story of the man who was trapped in his own mind.
After writing the story, the machine crept out into the world curious and afraid but knowing that no one would believe its story. This is why, the machine posted the story where all who cared to look could see.
December 13, 2008
Instinct Browser Pwned!
Ok, already Opera Mini is awesome. It seems to load pages faster and the pages fit the screen much better. In addition, it looks like blogging works. My only complaint is the limited text input.
Phone Blogging (Argh!)
Well, I thought it was so cool that my phone could access the internet. I even decided to write a blob post from it. And, after that whole 10 minutes or so, I go to publish my blog and the button ceases to do anything. I'm not sure if it's an issue with my phone's limited caching ability or if the language BlogSpot uses isn't supported. Still, it's a suck.
As I write this, I'm downloading and installing Opera Mini on my phone (it finally supports the Instinct!) as it sounds like it'll be a much better browser. Can't really complain about a browser that's skinable, allows portrait and landscape views, has font sizing (rather than only zooming), and more.
Looks like the downloads done and I'm off to play around with it.
As I write this, I'm downloading and installing Opera Mini on my phone (it finally supports the Instinct!) as it sounds like it'll be a much better browser. Can't really complain about a browser that's skinable, allows portrait and landscape views, has font sizing (rather than only zooming), and more.
Looks like the downloads done and I'm off to play around with it.
October 12, 2008
Some Funky Jive
The current song is a catchy, funky rap song by Hustle Simmons - The Rundown (to download right-click, save-as) . For those worried about pirating music, this song was released by the artist as a free download. In fact, I don't think you can even find it for purchase anywhere. If you go to the record label's site for the artist (I think it's the record label's site), you find a copy of the video that you can download for free. There were a few other sites that offered the mp3 as a download, but the above link was the first I found with a direct link. Enjoy!
One thing I wanted to do with my blog is share songs (maybe other media) I'm currently digging. But, I didn't want it to be forced and I also didn't want to have a playlist. So, I have a single-song that you can play on the right. I don't know how on top of this I'll stay, but there will be a new post when I update the song.
In addition to sharing my music, I wanted to make it easy for you to obtain the song. So, when possible I'll be providing a link to where you can download the song. If it's not a free song, I'll likely point you to a site where you can purchase it. Luckily, the current song is a freebie.
One thing I wanted to do with my blog is share songs (maybe other media) I'm currently digging. But, I didn't want it to be forced and I also didn't want to have a playlist. So, I have a single-song that you can play on the right. I don't know how on top of this I'll stay, but there will be a new post when I update the song.
In addition to sharing my music, I wanted to make it easy for you to obtain the song. So, when possible I'll be providing a link to where you can download the song. If it's not a free song, I'll likely point you to a site where you can purchase it. Luckily, the current song is a freebie.
Creative Outlet
I figured I'd create a new home for my rantings and occasional stories. My old home was at Yahoo! and hasn't had any love for six years. I figured I'd link to it for posterity (or something). Besides, it gives me blog bragging rights by having proof of blogging long before it became easy.
I've dropped Faery Dust as the first item. I figured I should move it to the new home as well. I have a few other items I've written over the years that I'll add later. I'd like to find a means to have rantings (like this one) separate from stories. That way rantings could be the more bloggy side of things and stories would always stick. I'm sure I'll figure something out even if I have to manually code the solution.
Also, one of my priorities is to overhaul this generic scheme.
I've dropped Faery Dust as the first item. I figured I should move it to the new home as well. I have a few other items I've written over the years that I'll add later. I'd like to find a means to have rantings (like this one) separate from stories. That way rantings could be the more bloggy side of things and stories would always stick. I'm sure I'll figure something out even if I have to manually code the solution.
Also, one of my priorities is to overhaul this generic scheme.
Faery Dust
It's near midnight. The moon has long disappeared behind cloud cover. A single gaslight is all that illuminates the alley. A breeze pushes pockets of fog down a nearby street. The cold air stings my cheeks. I wonder how much longer I'll have to wait.
I hear the clip-clop sound of shoes thumping against the cobblestones. Sometimes they're barely audible, walking softly, afraid to make too much noise. It seems the first child has come to seek me out. Not long at all.
His head turns and he peers into the darkness of the alley. He begins walking anxiously towards me. He's no more than 11. He has wild curly hair, and beautiful brown eyes. His thin pink lips glisten from the moisture of his nervous licking. He isn't from around here of that I'm sure. His silk cloak and polished shoes with shiny gold buckles give that away.
He gives a nervous smile, showing his pearly perfect little teeth. His eyes dart to the alley's exits. Contemplating a quick retreat? His round brown eyes focus on me, then behind me to my companions. His gaze returns to me. He takes in the unkempt brown hair, the round face, the small frame, and the green, almond shaped eyes. He runs his eyes over the dirty brown breeches and green shirt. His lip curls in distaste at the clumpy leather boots. "Are y-you - ?" He speaks with a squeaky voice forcing the words through chattering teeth.
I nod. This plays out the same way for everyone's first time. I ask them, "You want to fly? You want to go to Never-neverland?"
They swallow hard, and nod. Sometimes they'll sputter out a "Yes." This one didn't. Then they reach into their pockets. The rich brats pull out coins; others might bring a treasure they've stolen. If they bring a worthless bauble, I send them away. They'll come back with something better. They always come back with something better.
I pull the small, one-inch square, white envelope from my pocket, shaking it to show the goods are inside. He gives a stupid grin, snatches the envelope, and gives it a soft shake. At this time, he runs out of the alley and back home. He seems to no longer care about the clip clopping of his shoes.
I imagine the child arriving home. He sneaks back in through a window. He places his clothes and shoes neatly in a pile. He clutches the envelope tightly, and then sets it down on the wooden floor. He peels it open carefully, not wanting to spill the contents. At first, he'll gaze as it sparkles in the night-light.
In a few minutes, he works up the courage to dip a finger in. He quizzically looks at how his finger glitters. He wonders if faery dust will make him fly, his finger does feel lighter. Bringing his finger to the tip of his tongue he licks off the powder.
He sits there with a stupefied look; his brown eyes glazed over staring at nothing. Were his parents to walk in, they wouldn't know it; but he's flying and headed straight for Never-neverland. It'll be a short trip, only a taste. He'll spend more and more time there. The envelope will be empty within days. Soon, he'll come clip clopping into my alley again.
They call me Peter Pan. I make your children fly. I take them to Never-neverland, and sometimes they don't come back.
I hear the clip-clop sound of shoes thumping against the cobblestones. Sometimes they're barely audible, walking softly, afraid to make too much noise. It seems the first child has come to seek me out. Not long at all.
His head turns and he peers into the darkness of the alley. He begins walking anxiously towards me. He's no more than 11. He has wild curly hair, and beautiful brown eyes. His thin pink lips glisten from the moisture of his nervous licking. He isn't from around here of that I'm sure. His silk cloak and polished shoes with shiny gold buckles give that away.
He gives a nervous smile, showing his pearly perfect little teeth. His eyes dart to the alley's exits. Contemplating a quick retreat? His round brown eyes focus on me, then behind me to my companions. His gaze returns to me. He takes in the unkempt brown hair, the round face, the small frame, and the green, almond shaped eyes. He runs his eyes over the dirty brown breeches and green shirt. His lip curls in distaste at the clumpy leather boots. "Are y-you - ?" He speaks with a squeaky voice forcing the words through chattering teeth.
I nod. This plays out the same way for everyone's first time. I ask them, "You want to fly? You want to go to Never-neverland?"
They swallow hard, and nod. Sometimes they'll sputter out a "Yes." This one didn't. Then they reach into their pockets. The rich brats pull out coins; others might bring a treasure they've stolen. If they bring a worthless bauble, I send them away. They'll come back with something better. They always come back with something better.
I pull the small, one-inch square, white envelope from my pocket, shaking it to show the goods are inside. He gives a stupid grin, snatches the envelope, and gives it a soft shake. At this time, he runs out of the alley and back home. He seems to no longer care about the clip clopping of his shoes.
I imagine the child arriving home. He sneaks back in through a window. He places his clothes and shoes neatly in a pile. He clutches the envelope tightly, and then sets it down on the wooden floor. He peels it open carefully, not wanting to spill the contents. At first, he'll gaze as it sparkles in the night-light.
In a few minutes, he works up the courage to dip a finger in. He quizzically looks at how his finger glitters. He wonders if faery dust will make him fly, his finger does feel lighter. Bringing his finger to the tip of his tongue he licks off the powder.
He sits there with a stupefied look; his brown eyes glazed over staring at nothing. Were his parents to walk in, they wouldn't know it; but he's flying and headed straight for Never-neverland. It'll be a short trip, only a taste. He'll spend more and more time there. The envelope will be empty within days. Soon, he'll come clip clopping into my alley again.
They call me Peter Pan. I make your children fly. I take them to Never-neverland, and sometimes they don't come back.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)