Two new sexy features on the site:
- New search engine. This isn’t Google searching underscorebleach.net—this is an installation of Perlfect Search on the server that indexes the entire site weekly. It allows for tweaking and custom templates. Try it out!
- Site map. Dyanmically generated by another Perl script (Daniel Naber’s tree.pl), the sitemap lets you see a hierarchy of the entire website.
I decided today that Coldplay’s “The Scientist” is the theme song for my college experience. What a beautiful, sad song.
I was just guessing at numbers and figures
Pulling the puzzles apart
Questions of science, science and progress
Do not speak as loud as my heart
And tell me you love me, come back and haunt me
Oh and I rush to the start
Running in circles, chasing tails
Coming back as we are
Nobody said it was easy
Oh it’s such a shame for us to part
Nobody said it was easy
No one ever said it would be so hard
I’m going back to the start
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A decent day! Or something. These don’t seem to come around too often anymore. Still got that strange feeling that I’m cruising along on low fuel, though… just a guess, since I can’t see the gauge.
Riding the “L” every day, ya see some interesting people. Smelly homeless people? Sure. The most tragically hip Trent Reznor wannabe ever? Saw him yesterday. But maybe the most entertaining people I’ve seen were on the Purple line this morning: a man and a woman, both in their late thirties, who could definitely speak “jive.” You know jive? Sure you do—remember the scene from Airplane? Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, it’s not southern, it’s not urban, it’s not ghetto—it’s something unto itself, and they were speaking it. Crazy.
And just for the helluvit, why don’t you check out the Jive Dialectizer?
From today’s fortune cookie: “Being remembered has a high price.” That sounds ominous.
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So. Haven’t been writing much lately, but that’s on purpose. I’m following a simple principle: if you don’t have anything to write, don’t. Better for this site to be stagnant than filled with insipid descriptions of my daily activities.
You know Slashdot? It’s where the geeks get self-righteous. All the nerds I know practically fall all over themselves to wax poetic about how great it is. Well, guess what: it blows. You heard it here first: Slashdot is a big pile of shit. Here’s the entire site in a nutshell:
- Bash Microsoft.
- Stroke Apple, *BSD, and *nix.
- Complain about “rights.”
- Bash Microsoft.
I’m no Microsoft cheerleader, but the entire exercise is mind-bogglingly pathetic. What a bunch of AMAZING LOSERS. For elaboration, consult Willow John’s rant [also archived here]—and note the predictably idiotic responses. Basically, this take-off is pretty much how I view the real site: Slashdot: News that pretty much sucks llama anus.
The lesson here? You should quit Slashdot.org today!
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Home. To recharge. Don’t hate, appreciate.
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“Rufus is widely regarded as the meanest dog employed by the State Department since Bocephalus, a hard-on of a coon hound who was, by all accounts, crazier than possum fuck. Bocephalus made worldwide headlines in October 1979 when he attempted to tree the Ayatollah.”
“Rumsfeld Makes Jerk-Off Motions
As Powell Speaks At Cabinet Meeting” *
How am I not related to this man?
Damn, I should’ve added those lines to the HOSTS file earlier. Welp, problem solved! Ditto on .htaccess! (Shouts to mod_rewrite)
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Things are… not good. But this website is! Well, it’s getting better, at least. Not outwardly, of course (do I ever improve it visually?), but under the hood. It’s all about the standards, baby.
The fruits of geek labor… Here are screenshots of the jotsheet in different browsers:
I strive for new heights of irrelevancy each day.
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w00t! Bye bye Lakers! I was sure the Spurs were gonna choke in the 4th at Staples, but lo and behold, those kids couldn’t miss a shot. Shaq and Kobe were M.I.A., and the “world champs” (egh) got beat on their home floor in an elimination game by 28 points. Talk about gettin bent over.
A few days ago, I headed over to Old Orchard mall to get my mom a Mother’s Day gift. Not really knowing where to begin, I headed first to Crate and Barrel. Here I was exposed to that sad breed of male whom I had previously believed to be merely a creation of sitcom writers. Not so. He exists. His name: The ‘Whipped Husband.
(more…)
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