Dreams, agonies, joyful reminiscence, reflections, delightful fantasies horrifying truths. All just words.
Migrated from a blog, or “glot”, if you will, that I wrote from 2004-2016.
BUNAC work visa, 2-night accomodations, orientation in Sydney, and Lonely Planet guidebook: $595
Inclusive 7-month traveler’s insurance: $379
Round trip airfare (including tax) to Australia: $1414.29
International Youth Travel Card to get huge airfare discount: $17.50
Total cost of getting there: $2405.79
Total money in the bank: $2396.46
…
Dammit. Can someone loan me nine dollars and thirty-three cents?
As of 7:38 am Pacific Daylight Savings time, WordGlot theme 0.9 has gone live. Whoo! One chromo-glot-gasm to rule them all.
Take a look around… doesn’t look like an 8th grader did it anymore, does it? Well, there’s still a few wrinkles. For instance the entire sidebar. But dammit, I wasted half a day just retrofitting the stupid thing and countless hours refining the design itself — now I’m gonna reap the reward of all this.
Reward… reward… hm.
I’m not sure what that is now. I seem to have forgotten the point. The point in doing all this. Of fixing up a blog that’s hardly read, that’s irregularly written. And while we’re on the subject, hey YOU: who are you thinking that this is good reading material? You have better things to do and you know it. I want you to stop reading this. Now.
I fell off a cliff. On my bicycle. It was dark out and I was following a path. I’d been riding with a childhood friend of mine and he’d gone away, though I hadn’t noticed. But I did notice the cliff — as soon as I rode off it. It took a second to calculate how high I was, calculate my chance of survival. Zero. My heart raced and I lamented the years I’d never have. Then, instead of sheer granite and the vast unforgiving sky, I was plummeting within something soft and looking at slatted wood.
And I found myself on my bedroom floor.
I present, for the first time ever, something of perhaps moderate interest to someone else: a vintage audio recording.
I got this record at a thrift store called City of Hope. It drew my attention for a few reasons… Firstly, t’was fershure self-released: heavy non-vinyl, one-sided, lacking cover art, copyright, and most exterior features (which you can see below). Secondly, the name itself is somewhat intriguing — “Yvan Merineau – Fan Dance”. And, this was key, it smelled old. Most people would neglect this. But as I’m sitting here now I can still smell old people’s garage, the back of a wooden cabinet, wilted paper and cardboard crumble(s), maybe even factory-sealed plastic. I bought it, for $1.50.
I have to thank Show and Tell Music and their remarkable and entertaining collection of discount-bin record covers, for first making me aware of these self-produced albums. No-frills cover art is below:
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All told there is only one track. It’s a layered synthesizer arrangement that seems intentionally off-rhythm at times, and other times just recorded badly (side note: 1020 N. Sycamore is still there, and is still a studio). But I didn’t buy the music for it’s sound quality; I bought it for it’s novel quality. Not to say I didn’t clean it up, though. I’m not a barbarian.
I’ve taken my share of music from the internet; it’s time to give back. And so I give to you, the people:
direct link: Yvan Merineau – Fan Dance.mp3
Podcast: Play in new window | Download
Does it bother you? Then start writing something about masculinity that’s actually positive. Now.
Men, we must shed the tyranny of pants. We must cast off these shackles and chains, these chains that keep our balls sticky and uncomfortable. Pants that fit wrong, pants with belts to hold us in, pants that cling to our undercarriage like a remora we must unpluck in the “privacy” of a stolen moment—these devices are meant to keep our masculinity in check and our sexuality properly “controlled.” They are an invention made specifically to entrap a man’s crotch. Ask yourself: don’t my man-parts have a right to something as fundamental as breathing? We must dispose of these reprehensible implements. Let it swing free, my brothers! Fig leaves be damned!
(or maybe this pair I’m wearing is just the wrong size)
You see that? See what I did? That’s funny there. It’s funny, cause men need to wear pants in order to work or go outside or really do anything; everyone knows that. And that’s fine. It’s called irony. We accept pants. Pants, even if inconvenient, are a necessary evil of walking upright. Most people agree we shouldn’t be greeting each other with our sexy bits. C’est la vie, fellow pantsmen. But now, out of curiosity, replace every instance of “balls, crotch, etc.” with “breasts,” every “pants” with “bra,” and “man” with “woman” …you get the picture. Suddenly it’s the legitimate grievance of a first-wave feminist. Wha-wha? Dudes, how did that happen!?
Life is full of minor discomfitures. Sticky balls, butt-plucking, wrong-way wood, zipperphobia, testy testes, chode erosion, and *ahem* decreased seminal potency are all included. To the same extent, so are bungee boobs/bound boobs, Robobras, butt floss, the pubic lint-trap, et al. My personal advice to any of the fairer-shake sex who wish to argue their lot in life: learn acceptance. Who wears the pants? We both do, yes, ok. And bras can definitely be uncomfortable, especially if you’re one of the three out of four who wears the wrong size. But I bet your ovaries never get crossed if you sit down wrong.
And that is why we get to pee standing up.
I recently added a few more taglines to supplement the all-purpose, totally true, “blogs Я dum. read GLΘT.”
These turned out a little pessimistic, I admit. Especially since I like blogging more and more lately. I just… I wish there was another word. “Blog” used to mean the mixture of different alcoholic drinks you stole by the capful from your parents liqour cabinet. No, really—I read that in a book.
The tragic irony of blogs is, if you have enough time to write about your life on a consistent basis, then it’s probably not interesting enough to merit reading.
Except for me.
Let me address, for a moment, a subject of male preoccupation: machines.
Damnable machines. The intricacies and interminglings of mechanical and electrical, the mystery and lure of esoteric knowledge, the elusive and seductive usefulness of them—such aspects evoke what the ancient ones would call the summoning of spirits. Caveman call to God with the same sticks and stones. A key turned, a button pressed, and a powerful and nigh-understood beast is yours to command. As spoken by Arthur C. Clarke: “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” Think about it. I haven’t.
Years ago American lore tells us that we men were fascinated with automobiles. We knew all the intricacies of engine parts, created mythologies (such as the ever-faulty Knuter valve), and “talked shop.” How quaint. Today these honored traditions are mostly just useless and annoying distractions. Example. Example. Example. Which of course makes them dishonored traditions. Because people have pooped on them.
Today, modern machines of manliness aren’t built from aluminum, but rather silicon wafers. By my scientific calculations the average american male knows a hefty 1.8 terabytes more in the category of “shit about computers,” as compared to the relatively clueless american female. Bear in mind this fake statistic takes no account of age and there are often pleasant exceptions. But by and large, I think you’ll agree, womenfolk have to deal with us cause it’s a man’s job to take care of the computers.
The ramifications: if you’re like me, there will be occasions when every-single-person-you-know will want you to fix their computer. Recently I had two computers break on me—the same day. The first, the PSU simply exploded… or, uh, imploded… I don’t know cause I wasn’t actually there… but am told the sparks were impressive either way. And the second? It’s PSU was momentarily temporarily disconnected. This (of course) caused catastrophic driver corruption. It’s now stricken with the condition I like to call “POS syndrome.” And, the day before, I’d picked up an old-timey laptop which needed to have everything reformatted, reinstalled, and re-gotten-working-again. Windows ME doesn’t seem to even exist on the internet.
And so, my essential caveman nature was faced with three highly sophisticated (highly busted) thinking machines. We’ve only evolved so much in 10,000 years, people. Let me assure you that only the best-placed utterings of damnation can sway a determined machine. General cursing helps, but not as much as besmirching the name of Engelbart. They hate that kind of besmirching.
How I eventually managed to fix all these problems isn’t actually important. Even though you probly’ve been lead to believe it is, by me. Although hint hint—my method did involve money and throwing. Needless to say the computer that’s mine is working again.