Categories
Blog

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

Categories
Dream Journal

Disrupting Sponsored Classroom Propaganda (plus, a Girl’s Fence-Butt)

Three times during the night’s dreams I find myself in a situation where a young girl expresses her attraction to me: one Scottish, one Japanese, and one American. Though hypothetically sketchy, I don’t sense any impropriety. I’ve been acting like my usual self (perhaps in a slightly better mood) and me being a target of infatuation seems like harmless fun all round. It’s also odd and sort of a running joke that it keeps happening; not sure what else I should do but take it in good humor.

One girl, memorably, sees we’re alone then smushes her undie-clad butt against the diamonds of a chain-link fence. Looks a little like the pillowy pattern on a sewn duvet? Maybe an elaborate pie crust? Ridiculous.


As a candidate, President Biden famously enjoyed traveling on the campaign tour bus. Now, a new All-American Travel Bus is made based on that design. One even meets presidential limo standards set by the Secret Service.


I show up to one of my regular classrooms as usual, though I quickly discover it’s officially an “optional” day — I didn’t need to show up but now I’m already here. The unfortunate reason (though unacknowledged) is obvious: there’s an Xfinity company rep sitting in the middle of the classroom joylessly disgorging some scripted promotional presentation. The class is mostly locked into a semi-trance in the projector-lit darkness. This ill-conceived sponsored pitch on its own is boring, mildly offensive even, but as the dowdy sad-sack shill drones on I begin to detect creepy undertones of propaganda. Militaristic, imperialist narratives seemingly weave through the dullest possible fabric — hypnotic, odious, uncontested.

I completely disengage, deeming it more effective than causing a scene. Since there’s nothing more important in class today, I set about searching high and low for my missing spice jar. It feels like part of the problem is I can’t remember the name, almost like I could simply call for it. Tactically, I interrupt the creepy droning corporate lump to ask if anyone can closer recall the name. The drone, in reflexive boorish overconfidence, wrongly declares it as “Erizetti”, then pairs it with an incorrect and simultaneously insulting definition. Seizing my opportunity (and also just fed up) I attack them on everything I can think of, with as much conciseness and authority I can summon. When I’m done Ms. Xfinity ignores me again and plows ahead exactly the same, but I can tell her incantation isn’t really working anymore. She can only run out the clock.

While I’m distracted still searching for the jar, class gradually empties out. My fifth grade teacher (Mrs. Plescia) returns, emerging from a back room now that the sponsored nonsense is over. We have a friendly relationship and can joke about it a bit. Behind the projector screen, I find a curious set of nesting jars with parts that interlock on both top and bottom. Not the jar I’m looking for, certainly close enough to evoke it though.

There’s a ledge above the screen that I can examine, barely, if I scoot along the counter on tippy-toes of one foot. No jar here either, though for some reason there is a little toy alligator. I realize, standing extended as I am, that the blue snowflake-patterned boxers I wore this morning (it is in fact June) are longer than the shorts I’m wearing. They’ve likely been peeking out all day — when I greeted Mrs. Plescia, while I ranted to the corporate drone, perhaps even earlier. Exasperation. Resignation.

Looking back at Mrs. Plescia I’m tempted to ask, on account of how class went today, where I would’ve found out that today’s class was optional. I half know, half dread that she’d probably just say “the syllabus”.

Categories
Glot

How to Save the Content Industry

The secret, and it’s a big secret: stop acting like belligerent, entitled, megalomaniac dinosaurs, accept the reality and the benefits of file-sharing, and be a force for good in the culture.  I dunno. Seems reasonable.

ACTA is falling apart, says Zeropaid. Oink got off. The latest strategy of co-operating with ISPs seems doomed to failure just as much as every other stupid thing they’ve tried. Their overzealous plans to make content hosts –well, anyone screen for copyrighted content are, if not impossible, just going to push people toward other options. Sure, Freenet sucks but it’s a decent idea. TOR is a hell of a thing.  nd those are just the rough drafts available if things get worse for sharers.  If there were a better motivation for the masses to adopt ubiquitous encryption, I can’t think of one. And I know how much governments around the world would like that.

Even if these blind and ignorant dinosaurs-on-steroids-on-acid did somehow get the thousands (millions?) of ISPs in every country on Earth on board, every new and harsher step just seems to alienate more people and convince them of a deeper evilness. It seems that they have a dual problem: 1) how to overcome human nature, and the wholesome desire to spread beauty, truth and joy 2) resentment for the scorched-earth/hardball strategies used trying to do so. The answer, of course, is just give up because that’s a ridiculously awful problem. The business model was broken and they never accepted it. It’s impossible — I.M.P.O.S.S.I.B.L.E. — to control things like they used to.

Here’s an idea: play nice. Don’t use your established position to crush new competitors and stifle ideas. There’s room for everybody, especially if new people are making new room. How about you encourage people to buy things by being a force for good, by respecting the customer, by putting out quality content? Why go through such elaborate steps to market crap just because you can have more control? Your modus operandi as a for-profit company is to make money, not maintain control. Accept that personal politics in the future will have a good deal to do with one’s opinions on the corporations and production methods one is supporting — thus the expression, vote with your dollars. Example: green movement, Food Inc, cc authors like Doctorow. Can you imagine what immense goodwill there is for the first big content provider to say the following:

We will never sue our fans. We still want their money and for good reason — that’s what we do. Outside of our promotions, we won’t help share content for free because that’s the fan’s job. We know that it is, on the whole, good for society. We are morally, financially, and legally against anything that tries to buttress an outdated system at the cost of our own culture. We need that culture healthy so we can continue to survive. And this will make it better.”

Categories
Glot

Damn Kids

Damn kids.

You made me feel old. You made me feel old. Because I had to go outside my place of work and figure out what group of dummie-dum-dums was throwing tiny annoyinf firework poppers out the damn window, then march up to their room, 510, and confiscate their silly little fireworks, tell them this was their “last warning” and advise them that, yes, [poppers in Golden Gate Park = OK funny], [fireworks thrown from our hostel = OK you’re kicked to the kerb]. Anymore of that and they’re out. What’s worse is we don’t even know their names, don’t have their passport numbers because someone didn’t take them. They could be anybody’s dumb 18 year-old cousins. And guess what? Being an adult isn’t so bad. At least I’m not sitting around bored pestering strangers on a level not far above cow-tippin’ in one of the greatest cities this side of the Prime Meridian.

They come to check out tomorrow, ask for their ID.
They act smug or smirk too much, mention the cow-tipping
And if they make you feel like a lame grownup, just remember that you pay your own rent and live in an awesome town and hey, you can drink beer… legally!

♥Orin

Categories
Smartglot

Trousers of Oppression

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.

Categories
Glot Glot-glot

The Boringest

Somtimes a realization can spring upon you like a nightmare in the… in the night. And that realization for me is: I am boring.

Now this is not the kind of thing I like to admit openly. And in this day and age, where coolness is a personal commodity, this is not a paltry thing to admit. Especially for a 21 year-old. Especailly for me—I’m the coolest person I know. What does that say about the rest of you fuckers? Poor sad bastards. No wonder I’m so boring. I’m bored.

Has the world lost it’s luster? Or has the stunningly doldrum-hohum warm-piss wooden-shoehorn nature of this stucco’ed strip mall of a town finally begun to egg away at the colorful and wild-hearted edifice that is ME. Maybe this ham-it-up phone operator spchpiz-niz is getting to me—the need to speak clearly and in an elevated tone, having to to say things like “how may I direct your call?” and “I’m sorry, sir, I’ll have those bath towels delivered right away.” I need to do something soon, man, soon. I just used the word spchpiz-niz in a sentence and it made perfect sense.

I swear I have never listened to a rap song on purpose.

What brings on this tide of troubled thoughts to my toiling cerebrum? I’ll tell you: girls, goddamn… damn… girls. Being all, there, and all. They taunt me with their… making me think about them. That’s the best I can explain my feelings at the moment.

I am reminded of the cosmic precept (not quite a law), that is applicable in a situation such as mine. The more you need something, the more you feel you have to have it, the less likely you are to get it. Conversely, if you are terribly afraid of something and obsess about it happening it will happen. You’re going to lose your hair. The germs are going to get you.That airliner’s going down. And you know what—this isn’t just some cheeky-tongued blaaah-zay adage here. It deals with the primal force of manifestation, and a powerful force it is.

This is science (or philosophy—depending on how you view the very nature of consciousness). I’ll give you an example: you’ve heard of that cheesy R&B song, “I Beleive I Can Fly?” Well that song is full of crap, no one can fly unless they’re on a feakin’ plane. Now, that’s an example of negative manifestation: I believe it’s impossible ergo you can’t fly. And it’s true! See what I’m saying? This same principle keeps me from being suave with women: I know I could be reallly good. But I know I’m not. I think myself into doing the wrong things even though I know what the right things are, and this happens because… because…

Damn I’m bored. I need a hobby. Like web design. Or blogging. Wait—you know what, fuck that shit—I’m gonna go whittle a boat or something. I hate tha intarweb. I hate calling it ‘tha intarweb’. You heard me, Internet. I know you’re out there. Sending you’re little robots to check up on me alla time. Coming in 12:15, 12:30, 12:55, what do you think I am, a blog junkie? You’re lucky if you get one entry a week from me Internet. That’s cooler than Kottke can say, working his b.s. as a full-time gig. What a loser

Please, like me. If I blogged more would you like me? Would you grant me the graciousness of your pagerank, send me the beloved unique IP hits that pad my ego so? Tell me, in so many bits, that not only is my prose lively and un-boring but is worthy of actual readership? Well fine then. I’ll do that, and I’ll make it XHTML-compliant-valid-and-douched just like you told me to. But you gotta get me a girlfriend, Internet. You know the kind—smart, pretty, willing to engage in long bouts of smart-assness. And she better be from this country too you ass, stop sending me girls with surnames like Iripov or Kerpletzka. If you have to pay for it that’s cheating (I don’t know if you realize that, being a formless amalgam of machines and all). Also I’m cheap; tell her that just in case. Other than that she should know I don’t need her, but uh, you know it’d be nice. Just make it sound cooler than that when you say it. I don’t want to sound boring.

Deal?

Categories
Glot

Cham Bam Shazam

OK so I’m sitting in class and this emo kid Tyler is sitting in front of me and he’s totally hipper than me. Boy wears a black sweatshirt with a turned up collar and the stitches showing with an ass-tight pair of girl-jeans. Kinda pants you can tell what religion he is. His hair’s shoulder-length strait and black with platinum highlights. Has a pair of mahogany-colored thinline emo glasses.

The coolest thing I have on is an ironic t-shirt that says:
ironic t-shirt.”

This bothers me. Why? No hipster, no hipster I. Damn people. Damn people presenting themselves as more fashionable and current than me. At least I don’t come off as pretentious. Well no, I do. Damn. But I’m not a clothes whore though. I don’t think. An inept clothes tard maybe.

I’m gonna redo my MySpace. It’s gonna be all default-conscious, no color schemas for this shiny attractive metallic object.

In related news there do exist actual, non-figurative MySpace whores:

From “Candice” :

I’m here because one of my girlfriends said this site is a great way to meet people online. I’m 21, with brown hair and green eyes and I have a butterfly tattoo but I’m not telling where! I’m looking for people who have an open-mind, not shy and people who don’t mind what I do for a living. I’m online a couple hours a day between work hours so if you want to chat over my webcam, hit me up and mention you saw my profile.

Occupation: Online Stripper

MySpace + WebCams = possibility for new levels of sluttishness.

Need also to set up computer for music/design and not games. Nobody cool ever went: “oh wow you have a level 40 shaman with all 4 totems?!” They say “ oh wow you make your own music!? And it’s fricking awesome?! ” Yeah. No.

Ok I’m gonna go now coolness be damned.
Dinner. Jenna. Hungry.

Pace. It’s Italian for peace.