Really Simple Syndication

While spelunking the depths of my geekdom, I found a new passage that takes me to a new low: RSS feeds.

I’d always thought they were something for the hardcore technophile or news junkie. Perhaps they are and I really am such an animal. I don’t think so… I’m still hanging on the last shreds of my faux-coolness. What I’m about to write will tear those shreds away.

Simply… ATOM, or RSS feeds bring the content you choose from anywhere on the internet to one, convenient place. You read online papers, e-zines, blocs, boards or whatever… All post to one place. If you ask me, it’s pretty darn cool. “How”? You ask. Who knows. Little internet fairies; one overworked web designer? I don’t care.

All you need is a reader. Something to travel around the net like a little postal carrier and pick up all your subscriptions. Because I have become a Googlian, I use Google’s reader. This way, when someone on my subscription list updates, it shows up on my Google personalized home page.

I’ll make this easy for you. Once you have a reader, either click on this icon: on the right of the address bar in your browser, or click on this link: at the bottom of my right sidebar. Then accept the feed. Simple.

Scars…

I was thinking of the emotional bumps and bruises that we all carry as adults. Someone who said something once, heartache or perhaps an indiscretion that haunts us. These are little dings on the luster of our psychic apparatus that no amount of polish and buffing can transpare.

Uninterrupted, these musings turned to physical scars. Physical scars are funny things. Well, mostly funny things. For some, they are painful reminders of serious trauma that happened without fault. Some are more ominous, and are the result of another’s malice. Most of my scars are the result the complete lack of forethought and consequences; either of my part of that of another.

Some of my scars were created just after exclamations such as: “Watch this”! or “Ohmygod”! Famous last words.

There’s the scar on my forehead above my right eyebrow. Though I don’t remember, the story has me about three years-old. I was jumping on the couch before dinner. Just as my Mom warned me… I DID lose my balance, and I DID crack my head open on the corner of the coffee table.

I have a BB sized dent in my left foot, just below my ankle. Steve Grau wanted to prove to me that his BB gun wasn’t powerful enough to break the skin. He was right… it wasn’t. But it sure as hell hurt.

I have a scar on my left arm that I tell everyone I got from an oven. That’s a lie. I don’t talk about that one.

The scar on my right palm is the result of a genius move to separate two cans of Chung-King chicken-something-or-other and the can of crunchy noodles with a big kitchen knife. Mrs. eSquared warned me, watched as I did it, then lovingly bandaged the wound.

Years earlier… right forefinger, first knuckle… I was prying the lid of a concentrated grapejuice can the knife got away from me. No, I didn’t learn

Left palm… whittling. Need I say more?

I have various blemishes that are the result of someone telling me, “Don’t pick at that”! or, “Leave it alone or it will make a mark”! I didn’t, and they did.

One of my best ones is in my right armpit. I was pretty young and playing on the woodpile. Yes, your read that right. Every year, many of our neighbors would contribute and purchase several cords of wood to split up. I mean split figuratively and literally. So… I was PLAYING on the woodpile. This was a good idea only because I was warned against it. If I were given carte blanche… I wouldn’t have been interested.

So I’m standing on top of this woodpile… and I am overcome by the impulse to dance to the song “Hey, hey, we’re the Monkeys.” To know me, is to know that I don’t have a coordinated bone in my body… especially at this age. To my awkward body, dancing meant each limb and appendage, including my neck and head, is to convulse independently of each other in twitching and gyrating motions. Reason and balance left me.

I fell on a branch that punctured my armpit. Oh… I was completely alone. We had a neighbor who was a nurse. She was kind enough to stitch me up and come over every evening for a week to change the dressings. She was nice. I hope I thanked her. From then to now… I’ve never liked that word in that context. Dressing.

Then there is the gunshot scar on my ass. I probably shouldn’t post this one on the Internet send me an email and I’ll send you the gory details. Well… not that gory… but sure as hell stupid.

There are scars that should be, but aren’t. Every year, around the Fourth of July I am shocked and amazed that I still have all of my fingers and toes. My friend Chris and I would do things daily that I see people locked up for on the news today.

I’m sure I’ve inflicted many scars both physical and emotional. To Chris… I am sorry for shooting you in the pinky finger with a BB gun. It must’ve hurt like hell. I’m not sorry for laughing myself sick. I’ll never forgive you for telling me to go get your fingers after that firecracker had a short fuse. That really freaked me out. Yes you were kidding… I don’t blame you for laughing yourself sick.

Plato: "Let no one Ignorant of Geometry Enter"

Ok… went to the store, put the groceries away, and decided it was time I tackled the GRE quantitative assessment. So I’m working along, feeling pretty good about my self. I’m slow, but it’s all coming back. Then… I come to a geometry question. I just sat and blinked at it.

Now I’m disheartened. Needless to say, I’ve put the book away and I’m listening to Van Morrison, and I’m spilling my woes here.

Is it possible to be a college graduate and be decimated by high school geometry? Plato was an asshole… on many levels.

The culture and nature of blogging

I’m relatively new to the world of blogging. I even had to look the word up: web-log. I am captivated and intrigued by the whole idea of blogging. The philosophy, the community and the absence of borders, are all dissertation-worthy topics.
Specifically, I am drawn in by two things:

First, the blogging culture is postmodern, even post-human. The only parts of our bodies that are needed are our mind, and our fingers. Everything else is hyper-real, nebulous and without structure as we are used to it. The pre-condition of the internet collapses time and distance. The blogging culture is real-time.

The second thing is the nature of blogging or journaling. We have a soap-box in our little corner of the world-wide-web. We post our silly thoughts, fears, things that piss us off… we send them out into the great beyond. (As a side note, I’m also intrigued by subconscious self-editing, dramatic embellishment and even self-censorship as a part of blog authorship.) Later, we hear a voice in the distance… “I know what you mean.” The spark of a common thread, and a relationship begins. This relationship knows only the psychic boundaries of each individual. There is no distance; no time changes; even no physical body anchored in the real-world. Just thoughts, passed through fingers, then digitized by a keyboard, and sent through wires as electronic impulses.

We nurture these relationships. We get to know each other, and foster connections. We miss our usual reads when they don’t post. If I haven’t posted, I begin with an apology—a reason or excuse, and then we catch up.

It seems human wisdom and compassion has not evolv…

It seems human wisdom and compassion has not evolved as rapidly as the intelligence associated with technology and weaponry.

For this reason, perhaps “human stupidity” actually has survival value for our species. If the mean absolute I.Q. were 150 rather than 100, and if there were no correspondingly increased levels of wisdom and compassion, then perhaps we would have eradicated our species from the planet.

Is stupidity, itself, the long awaited but unrecognized Messiah?

Dusting the Virtual Shelves of the Internet

Today, my little slice of cyberspace will provide a much needed amplifier for something that has been bugging me for quite some time. In the good’ol days… websites were authored by companies and supergeeks. Once you bought a domain name, and found a place to host it somewhere, then you had to code your own HTML. Now, blogs, templates, myspace, and WYSIWYGs make the net accessible to any clown with fingers.

[A tangent] Often, the lovely and talented Mrs. eSquared and I discuss the age where one is compelled to accumulate junk, and display it in the home like trophies. At what age does one see a lil’ darlin salt & pepper set at the goodwill and gasp with excitement? Then do we move from haughty contempt to “won’t this look great next to the ‘gone fishin’ nick-knack on the fireplace mantle”? Both of us have sworn a murder-suicide pact when we get this old.

Back to my point… personal web pages have become virtual display-cases for the useless shit of the internet. Because of the anonymity of the internet, I’m not sure if age is a causal, or spurious variable in this equation. Nonetheless, if you’re wondering, here are some examples of the garbage can fodder that litter the dusty shelves of the internet.

Pop-ups, pop-downs, pop-ins, pop-overs, pop-unders. Yes, I have a pop-up blocker, but there is the very odd instance where one sneaks through. I can appreciate that you might be using a free host (such as tripod or GeoCities). And from the free hosting site’s point of view, I can appreciate the need to bring in the revenue. Wait, you know what? No, I can’t. Pop-ups suck and there’s never any justification for them.

You resized my browser window. I hate that. I’ve got my browser set just where I like it and now you’re forcing me to resize it? Worse yet, you maximized my browser window so I can’t just click on the “Restore Down” boxes up top.

You make me have to scroll left and right. Just because I have my monitor’s resolution set to 1024 x 768 doesn’t mean I want my browser window maximized. In fact, I like to keep Firefox at about an 850 pixel width. Then I put Firefox so it’s flush with the right side of my screen. That way I can view my e-mail folders underneath on the left side of my screen. Your site should fit in my Firefox without a left-right scrollbar appearing at the bottom of my browser. Again, this goes with the above item. I hate having to resize my browser.

You have some God-awful color scheme, font colors, and/or fonts. Your whole page is red text on a neon green background. In script. Italicized. That means you’re either color blind or 13. Scratch that, a 13-year-old knows better.

Animated GIFs. You have more than one. Yes, your row of 863 waving and blinking smiley faces is very nice, as are the blinking purple stars on your page’s background. And your 17 virtual pets. And your And the thousands of dancing hamsters. And the rotating “Sign My Guestbook.” And the spinning envelope with “E-mail Me!” written on it. And the flashing “Under Construction!” sign…four of them. (Just so you know, EVERY PAGE ON THE INTERNET is “under construction,” since websites are updated all the time. Don’t worry, I know you’re working very hard on building your site. I promise not to forget.)

You have an incredibly elaborate Flash interface for your site. If I see a little “Loading” percentage bar in the middle of my screen, I click close.

Your webpage has music on it. If I’m sitting at my desk quietly, not listening to music or the TV, and suddenly this music comes blaring out of my speakers I’m going to have to clean the skidmarks off my ceiling. Now, there are two kinds of music in this particular violation. The first is MIDI, the internet’s elevator music. The second is MP3/WAV/Whatever…an actual streaming song. If you don’t know the difference between the two, it’s OK. All you need to know is that both types suck. Look, if you want me to listen to your cool music? ASK ME. If I want to, I’ll play it. Don’t force it on me. Besides, I’m already listening to music. And it’s better than yours.

You use the friggin’ BLINK attribute. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, you only used it once. That’s once too many. Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should.

ur hOLe pAgE iz wRiTTun LiK thS. LiKe OMG! dID u C teh O.c. lasT nItE? I sO hEArT tHat sHw! Like, oh my God, I hope you come down with a serious case of spontaneous human combustion.

Your site requires me to register and log in before I can view the contents. Screw that shit. I’ve got enough accounts and passwords to keep track of already, thank you very much. Yes, of course there are plenty of web sites where a log-in makes perfect sense – for example, Yahoo!, G-mail, and my bank.

The clouds parted; the sun came out, and I screamed

Thank god for backups. Let me say it again… THANK GOD FOR BACKUPS! Its Easter morning and with coffee in hand, I marvel at the clear, blue sky above me after the dramatic presentation of the elements yesterday. Julie is at church, and I have the morning to myself… just me and the kitty.

I make my way into the office (with somewhere between a saunter and a stagger) and continue my quest for software. I recently formatted my laptop, and needed to reinstall my software.

At this point, let me chase a metaphorical butterfly off the trail and into the field a bit. To know me, is to know my prowess for computers, and my penchant for gadgetry. I consider myself pretty net-savvy and exercise caution and discretion when called upon. I have redundant security from firewalls to real-time software protection. It’s not as secure as the Pentagon, (I hope) but then again, I’m not responsible for any National secrets… just my wife’s PhD program documents.

Ok… back on the trail… I wanted to download a download manager (yes, I see the irony here). In order to get the free program, – (clue #1 I missed) I needed to download a different program first (clue #2). Perhaps I was insufficiently caffeinated; not paying attention or just plain dumb… I don’t know, I clicked the button and the hard drive began to make a lot of activity noise. Not the soothing whirr that it normally whispers as it is fetching a file, or executing a command. This was more like a pepper grinder… with a motor. Then the pop-ups started.

The first one was NOT the gentle warning one might expect. Perhaps I watch too many Navy movies:

Ensign: Sounding excited: “Sonar to COM… come-in COM.”
Captain: Calm and controlled, “Go ahead Sonar.”
Ensign: “Uh, Skipper… we have an unidentified sonar ping at zero-two-niner, over.”
Captain: “Ok Ensign, keep an eye on it.”

– Minutes later –

Ensign: High-pitched, nearing panic “Sonar to COM… come-in COM.”
Captain: Calm and controlled, “Go ahead Sonar… take it easy son.”
Ensign: “Wehavetwotorpedoescomingin… ETAforty-fiveseconds”!
Captain: Calm and controlled, “Take evasive action.”

If this were my ship… this is what this communication might have sounded like

Ensign: High-pitched, completely panicked, “SonartoCO”!
Glub… glub… glub… glub

I was able to fire off a screenshot of the warning I got before I was eatin’ seaweed…

Blogging, Inspiration and Intentions

Recently, I was invited (more or less) to read someone’s blog that I respect. Respect for many reasons, the greatest of which (or right now) is her writing. I’ve always enjoyed her prose, but reading her blog gives me a greater appreciation for her sense of humor and her craft as a writer.

What this means to me, here and now, is the inspiration. When the sun is shining, there’s money in the bank, the cars are both working well, and I don’t have an assignment looming over me, I fancy myself a decent writer. However, I am not disciplined in the slightest. The primary reason I don’t write in this silly blog, is I have great difficulty figuring out what to write about. I have the same problem approaching a paper, or even an essay question. Once I get going, and find my stride, I’m pretty good.

Unfortunately, its taken me this long to figure this out. How can I endeavor to improve my writing, if I never, ever practice writing? So… my intention is to use this forum to write about serious shit, silly shit and, of course, just shit.

Popular Culture at 2am

No doubt – I have bored my reader away from my months of silence. So, I’m virtually assured I will be the only contributor and reader of my blog.

It’s 1:45 in the morning and I can’t sleep. I’m watching some really bad show on E about penitentiary romance, “Love Behind Bars.” I wonder if Foucault had this in mind when he wrote of the Carceral in, “Discipline & Punish: The Birth of the Prison.”

I am overwhelmed by the utter lack of substance we have as a culture. Yet at the same time, we have a most imperialistic culture. Like the BORG, from Star Trek the Next Generation, the American “popular” culture relentlessly overwhelms aspects other culture.

Commercials at 2 am consist of sixteen-year-old girls in bathing suits pretending that all they do is ‘hook-up’ on a phone chat club. I can’t decide which part of this little charade most mystifies me. The fact that there are phone hook-up places (that compete with the internet); they make enough money to pay the sixteen-year-old and the advertising time; or there are legions of pubescent boys dialing the phone. Who knows.

The single most nauseating feeling I have about the whole thing is the insufficient distance between shit like this and myself.

Clearly, the critical path of logic and decision the brought us, as a culture, to this abysmal position is long, crooked and sinuous. I believe in both chaos and tipping point theory. What if there were a way to locate the pivotal decisions that contributed to our cultural architecture.

I don’t believe in time-travel – at least as we’ve conceived it at this point. However, what if there were a way to change the trajectory of the production of culture. I’m not suggesting anything as drastic, or fictional as messing with the ‘time-space continuum.’ Given this concept, and the impossibility of time travel, what can I do to change the trajectory of popular culture today? What degree of change will have significance?

Liberation

Now what.