anon is fucking pissed at Git immutability

> be me
> coding masterpiece
> decide to use Git for version control
> “Git is cool,” they said
> make tiiiiny typo in the latest commit
> gotta fix
> Git: “Lol, haha… wut?”
> try to force-push like a madman
> files disappear into the void
> “Where the hell are my files, Git?”
> Git drawing trees, drooling
> anon.exe has encountered a critical error
> cursing intensifies
> realizes Git’s power comes at a cost
> mourns the loss of files and sanity
> swears off Git immutability forever


Cave Dada

Spot the difference:

❌ “cave dada” 💩💔👎🤬

#basic #bourgeois #kidstuff #oldskool #dumbasrocks

✅ CAVE DADA 🔥🤙🥂🎊😍

#art #aesthetic #ftfy #stylegoals #newneolithic #wipeyourhands

#69 Post

Hey. Nice.

Just to explain the joke (which everyone loves) this is the obligatory mention whenever the number 69 appears for some reason. It’s not at all apparent, but in the backend (heh) of my website… this post is is ID #69. So… hence the post.

Glad we got that sorted out.


Trippy Cool Bullshit I Found № 665204

Classic psychedelic cartoon “Fantastic Planet” set to a trippy sample-heavy song by Gaslamp Killer, “Shattering Inner Journeys”, found via WhoSampled entry for Psyché Rock, R.I.P. Pierre Henry (1927 – 2017)


Real-time Reaction-Diffusion Music Visuals

While looking for info on on something much different, I found this rad music visualization by motion graphics artist Nobutaka Kitahara on Vimeo. (Nobutaka, if you’re out there, have no idea if you typically call yourself a “motion graphics artist”, but you certainly are.)

I’ve no idea how much work went into this but I’m fascinated with the concept and beauty of reaction diffusion. Take simple recursion, feedback loops, and you get profoundly complex naturalistic patterns… totally fascinating. This was made using software called TouchDesigner which is often used for immersive art installations, live projection mapping, and seems quite remarkable.

Music: artist: Sk’p – song: “Astravel”

The original video appears to have since been deleted, but can still be found some places, such as this Facebook post.


33 years, 7 months

I wonked around writing my own code for this-here site I call — something to display my exact age relative to the date of my birth in years, months, and days. Logicking though the process can be quite satisfactory, but so can just having the answer you want easily presented. So here’s what I came up with:

$birthdatetime = array(1983,12,13,19,30);
$year_diff = get_the_date("Y") - $birthdatetime[0];
$month_diff = get_the_date("n") - $birthdatetime[1];
$day_diff  = get_the_date("d") - $birthdatetime[2];
if( $day_diff < 0 ){
        $month_diff--; $day_diff += date("t", (get_the_date('u') - (get_the_date("n") * 86401)));
    } // CALC FROM month b4
    if( $month_diff < 0 ){
        $year_diff--; $month_diff += 12;
    $age_then =
        $year_diff .' years' .
        ($month_diff == 0 ? '' : ', '. $month_diff .' months') .
        ($day_diff == 0 ? '' : ', '. $day_diff .' days');
    echo '' . $age_then . '';

Attending to that Collection of Old Writing

Is it a good idea to post a bunch of rambling old freewritings that I wrote last year? Or even further back?

Why do I keep remembering “l’enfer, c’est les autres” (Sartre: Hell is other people)?

Lately, had thoughts about the respect for attention — what it means to intentionally call attention to something negative, perhaps something painful but unchangeable, some old scar or another. Lord, how I find my experience of Facebook to be increasingly terrible and confusing. Why do I keep coming back, then? It fills small gaps of time where I’d not otherwise be doing something productive with my life — caring about the lives of others and keeping up with them is the selling point, sure. But lordy, how little I can help, the problems I see there, the focus and training I’ve had to resolve those conflicted feelings, yet I know they come back. Longing for greater affection, but necessity of only stepping in where it seems wise. Perhaps my social network is too wide for my life now. Perhaps being physically separated for too long unmoors me from what I liked about them in the first place. Maybe they changed, or were never like that to begin with. Maybe Facebook weirds human relationships.

The problem, too, is that I think posting old stuff with unclear expectations is a problem. This project is an ongoing one, and the point is it’ll never be “complete”. But it’s also worthwhile to think about you, dear reader — hi future Orin! As you’re probably aware, the writer always reads their words most. And I hope reading these brings you a certain delight, and commiseration, a recognition, although I’m honestly not sure why… except perhaps you remember/imagine being chilly, sitting on the Munchery parking lot stairs, wanting to organize your thoughts, to see them click together with the click of the keys, wondering if you successfully shoehorned enough evocative descriptions of your setting to ground in that “real world” we’re always hearing about.

Is it a good idea to post a rambling new freewriting that I wrote… just now?

(Sure! Fuck it, dude. The privacy setting that matters most is “hope you should know”.)


Your Drugs are Too Legal, Snowflake

Lynae: Oh no one of the Kratom capsules was incense kratom
Lynae: The last one I took
Lynae: I can feel it writhing inside
Lynae: Torturing me with its evil

Orin: You need to take them with like 8oz of water

Lynae: I am
Lynae: But this tea is so cooooooold brrrrrrr

Orin: That has nothing to do with it being infected with incense smell, and has everything to do with it being a extremely flavorful substance inside a very sticky capsule

Lynae: Hypothermia is setting in

Orin: That happens to me every time I don’t drink it with enough liquid

Lynae: No I smelled it my body is rejecting it
Lynae: It says DO NOT WANT

Orin: Can you just skip to acceptanceübler-Ross model of grief
Orin: Or you could just skip to stage five, barfing
Orin: jeezus this is why there’s no ayahuasca for you
Orin: the shaman is all “maybe just some nice homemade apple cider for this little muffin”
Orin: fucking liberal snowflakes, no tolerance for the kind of drugs taken by real men
Orin: in my day, drug tolerance was something we avoided with titration to get ourselves at the minimum viable feelgood vibes quotient, because drugs were expensive, and we wanted to save enough for later. we took the drugs home in a little doggie box. that’s what we called it too. and you know what? $0.06/capsule, no wonder you’re having trouble. you can’t appreciate how much the damn things costs to smuggle on a high-powered speedboat up someone’s ass (just to be extra safe), because your drugs are too legal.
Orin: fucking communist dirtbag poloshirt-wearing rubbing-broken-glass-on-you-genitals newswanker
Orin: you probably read on Facebook that it was bad for you and now you’re going to go vegan because hot dogs are made from discarded pig vaginas
Orin: well I got news for you, bra-burner, the pigs aren’t using them anymore and it’s not gonna bring them back if you stop wrapping those luscious lips around America’s juiciest footlongs
Orin: Amyway, duck Trunp


Dream of a Friend’s New Place

Aislinn is moving into a new place and asks me to help. It’s a former stripper or sex worker’s house and they played Magic cards. On the table are sealed little plastic tubs with the Magic creatures in them.

The room I’m in, probably the living room, is heavily sloped so that it’s only about 4 feet at the far side. I’m painting that wall purple. I open the front door for some reason and practically bump into a standoffish male neighbor. There’s confusion for me about whether I’m supposed to lie and say I’ll be living there, then later have to pretend we broke up or something. As I’m trying to congenially chat him up I attempt to grab the front doorknob only to find that there isn’t one on the inside. The neighbor became gruff, I looked and I’d simply missed grabbing the knob.

Walking around a swimming pool I watch as someone’s kid seems to be struggling. They’re on the bottom of the pool and their parent is right there, so I hesitate to rescue them. I preemptively take my shirt off anyways.

“So then we’re talking about a tribe of primitive vegans?” Just a glimpse of an earlier dream. That dream reminded me of one from another night a long while ago, walking around in a dessicated swamp in the outback, having been dropped off by a bush plane.


(via Matt Mullenweg)

Bedeviled, human,
your plight, in waking,
is to choose from the words
that even now sleep on your tongue,
and to know that tangled among them
and terribly new
is the sentence that could change your life.

from “The Meadow” by Marie Howe