A cancer cell's blood supply. Ick.
A cancer cell's blood supply. Ick.
Request For Comments
Personal registration #Temp
It is hereby proposed that a new top level domain name,
1. To allow for all the peoples of Africa to have free access to their own choice of unused sub-domain constructed of alpha numeric characters. The TLD and all sub-domains shall be administrated and controlled by the United Nations. Sub-domains shall be given free of charge to any black persons wishing to host one. This is intended as a blanket reparations policy towards the exploited and ignored peoples of African descent.
2. To set a precedent hereby to allow for the creation of future racially divided top level domains, all of which will allow for one free registration per person, per ethnicity. Future TLD's (
Procedure for implementation:
To begin the collection of funds, and to raise awareness for the campaign to create the
When the domain is created, the United Nations shall have full control over administration and request fulfillment of requests for registration of
A free domain name is a free plot of land in cyber space. It's a bottom floor to check in on a growing superstructure. This world of the Internet will expand, and in it, all peoples should have equal footing, both by right and by law. If a fresh start with no preconceptions or prejudices can be given to those who have been abused in the past, then it should be offered.
For once reparations have been made, there can be no more bitching.
End of Line
Poundtemp is nutz on my neck!!#!@$!!!!%#@%@
Obviously, neither were meant to be. I heard from both today. Don't know why I figured it would happen, but I emailed Karen Cho at Apple at around 11 PM EST, and she got back to me immediately, telling me everyone at the store is gonna be promoted from within Apple.
So here I am, looking at a new year and absolutely 0 job prospects.
Why am I so fucking lazy? I should be writing every god dammed day. I should have finished the Harold Foundary book by now. Maybe I should go back to it and crank the fucker out.
Ah, who am I kidding. No one will publish it without me having a name. It's too bizarre. The sort of thing that, if it had any artistic merit, would only be appreciated long after I was dead.
Death, where fore art though? And why hasn't though comest for me yet. Twould make my writing all that much more popular.
The DMV at 4:00 is just like a toddler at 7PM: screaming, crying, whimpering. Melt down time.
The lady at the front desk has been here since 9 AM. Her black head is covered in bright golden braids dangling down around her head. She obviously doesn't care much about her job, but she's never outright rude: only disconnected, automated.
By the end of the day, everyone in the place is ready to burst. At window 12 a black man shouts at a black woman (demonstrating once and for all that there is no underlying conspiracy of solidarity).
"What? I gotta do what?! Those last two people were wrong? I been here since 9:30, and you're telling me that those two other clerks I talked to screwed it up? Ya'll need to learn your job!"
The clerk, a heavyset, big titted 20-something, pushes back from the desk in her rolling chair, her face contorted into an utter melange of hatred. "I don't have to help you anymore, sir."
She turns and walks away from the desk, leaving the man alone. His hair is extremely short, sectioned into square chunks where he's twisted it during bouts of nervousness.
At the front desk, golden braids shoves back from he desk too. "No she did'ent!"
A coworker has arrived, similarly pear-shaped and dark skinned. She holds back golden braids.
"She di'ent call me bitch!"
In front of her, on the other side of the desk, stands a small tribe of anger. At the head of it, saying the same thing Golden Braids is, stands the mother, short, stocky, straight hair to her shoulders, denim jacket, white shirt and black pants, the most respectable of the tribe. Her children, one wafer thin girl, no more than eight and a boy, thick and round at age 10. Beside her, the cohorts are closer to mom's age; at least 16 and 18. 16 is a hoochy, thin and not yet rounded by puberty, wearing denim and pink. 18 is a giantess, 6'2", wearing an M&M jacket, colored candy treats dancing and playing music.
The whole tribe sings back praise to their mother. "She don't gotta be rude! This hah joooooooooooob." echoing back from each mouth, big or small.
"I can't be up in my job bein' all rude! I can't be up in my jooooob bein'
all rude!" The boy beats his chest, rubbing each fist over elbow, smacking into chubby breast, dancing in front of the women of his tribe.
Necks sway, heads slink along their chosen paths. "Mmmmmmmmm!" The little girl echos her mother, jumping up and down in place saying "She don' gotta be a bitch! She don't gotta be no bitch!"
The big girl now turns and holds back the mother. Her black M&M jacket proclaims the virtues (sponsors) of the M&M NASCAR. Round and bright candies stand frozen in the act of talking to no one over headphone microphones.
The mother turn to leave now, grabbing the arm of the boy and followed by the little girl. Hoochie and big girl stay behind. Mom exits through the front door, which is surrounded by upset and terribly bored people. Kids bounce around her, giddy with the thought of piling it on golden braids.
Big girl and hoochie stand by the front desk and wag their tongues. "She don' gotta be no bitch..."
"Mmmmmmmmmmm!" big girl echos back, he mouth closed, sounds emanating from her throat in a muffled rise towards the tumult of agreement.
Mom returns now, pushes her way through the crowd, looking some folks up and down with disapproval for having gotten in her way. Children remain outside, standing next to an obscenely overflowing garbage can and a cluster of black men sweet talking into their cell phones.
"I ain't goin nowhere. She can appologize to me. She ain't gotta be no bitch."
Golden braids hears this, tries to push aside the coworker that's trying to calm her down. She claws at the shoulder of the woman, who is just as thick and ample as her. "No she didn'! I don' gotta take this shit! Callin' me a bitch? Uh-uh!"
Index finger extended upwards, hand at arms length towards the mother, wagging it back and forth now. Head swaying behind the finger; her neck is a jelly, barely holding the whole thing together, swaying in the breeze of anger.
Outside the kids dance, heads forward, backs flat, swaying along in their own way. Taco Bell wrappers and bags droop from the garbage can, topped with half-eaten burrito stumps and a bit of rotten tomato. Inside, mother's gaze does not leave the counter, does not excuse golden braids.
"Spare some change so a fella can eat?" Raggedy smile comes from the mouth of the white haired and relatively clean black homeless man. Or is he? Homeless or not he is quite persistent. Everyone gets asked. Women get touched on the arm or shoulder.
"Dime? Quarter? Spare a dime so a brotha can eat?"
He won't leave without a no. Even then, he sometimes won't leave. Ignoring him only makes him touchy feely. Everyone is visibly uncomfortable, but the ineffectual security guard is nowhere to be seen.
This is, of course, the only real reason that there's a guard here.
At the counter, a white man, broken and worn from years of partying and inconsiderate body abuse leans on the grey surface, tired and bored. His girlfriend, is an equally worn white lady, thin, in a wheel chair and missing her left leg up to the knee. They're here to complete some sort of business for her, but all she's done so far is repeatedly ask the clerks where the bathroom is.
Each time she is answered, she finds the facilities and immediately returns to ask where they are again.
The DMV brings out the worst in humanity.
These United States have an irrational fear of dying. Americans don't want anything to end, neither tidily nor suddenly. The going consensus is to let shit just go on as long as it can.
This is why euthanasia is such a hot button issue. Even if someone's life is utterly hellish, we can't let them die! That would be a sin against humanity to let that terminal cancer patient take his or her own life, god dammit!
This is also evidenced by the Police Academy movies.
Look at Japanese anime. Sure, some of it drags on and never ends, like Pokemon and Dragon Ball Z, but there's a lot more mini series' that end gracefully and rocked ass. Photon. Trigun. Evangeleon.
You would never see these sorts of miniseries in the US. Production companies would squeeze them until they could no longer reap a profit from them.
A general malaise has descended over my life of late. I'm really not sure why it has descended, but I know when it began.
I have a sort of a commonality of interaction when it comes to meeting people that I admire or that I would like to emulate.
Case in point, I met Eric Idle on Wednesday night. I made an ass of myself by asking him for an interview, which he resoundingly turned down. I feel as though I had a chance to meet someone I really ernestly admired and I turned it into a scene in which that person came away thinking that I was some loser with an agenda rather than, quite possibly, the biggest fan of him and his ilk in the place.
I love Monty Python. Love it to absolute death. Know all the cheeses in the CheeseShop. I know the Philosopher's song by heart, can almost recite the entire name of Johan Gambblepuddydevonauschvitzapplebangerdingledangledongle...
Ok, I have a long way to go to really memorize that one.
But I didn't convey this person to Eric Idle. I came off as a greedy journalist who only waited in line so that he could try to further his career.
Why do I beat myself up over this so much? I mean, it's not even something that really is sticking in his mind. I'm sure he's forgotten all about it already.
And yet, he probably remembers V, Chris, and Jen.
Well, since that evening, I have been in the absolute depths of depression. It's also confounded by the fact that I won't be hearing from anyone at Apple or Futurenetwork USA until after the New Years. So until then, I am devoid of employment.
I also did my taxes for 2002 and 2001 this week. Broke even between the refund and what I owed.
This has made me very nervous about how 2003 will look. I did a lot of freelance work this year, and none of it had any withholding. I am gonna owe a shitload of money on it when it comes time to pay this year.
That is Teh Suck.
As I write this, a young man is seated next to me at the ACCRC. He's possibly one of the most well behaved kids we;'ve ever had in here for a placement. Typically, the kids run around like freaking maniacs and the parents demand speakers, printers and scanners.
He recognized Sonic the Hedgehog 3 music coming off of GamingFM.
Well then. Things are rolling right along now. While at the beginning of the day yesterday I was quite depressed at the relative lack of movement, response, and motivation of those I was calling and relying on, as the day progressed, some of them came out of their seeming torpor and actually advanced my ego a bit.
At first, I was calling Karen Cho at Apple on Friday. She called back on Saturday, and I called her on Monday. Finally, she got through to me on Monday afternoon and said "Burlingame." I said, eh, no thanks. I have other offers. And it's fucking true. I don't have to take that kind of bullshit just to work at Apple.
So then she says that the guy who interviewed me, who's name I have forgotten, liked me, wanted to hire me, but was worried that I would email Steve Jobs with any problems I was having. What?! Huh?
OK, story time. 1999, MacWorld NY. Stevie Boy is up on stage talking about Mac.com
So Steve Jobs is talking about Mac.com and how great it is, and how the new G3 Blue and White comes with all sorts of neat stuff, but the modem is optional. Then he mentions that he has email@example.com as his email address. So, after the whole thing is over I run up to the base of the stage to try and meet him, but he's all swamped by people. I do, however, get right up behind him. I stumble, then I accidently step on the back of his foot, the same sort of way you'd step on a friend's heel to remove his shoe while walking.
Anyway, I left and enjoyed the rest of the show then. Won fabulous prizes, ate good food, sat through endless product demos. MacHome was a cool place to work, but it was boring as hell sometimes.
So I go home to MD for a brief break. While there, I email Stevie boy and say "Don't get rid of modems, we still need them. I stepped on your foot at the Keynote. Sorry."
Well, I was just sort of grasping at straws there. But anyway, the next day, I get an email back from him that says simply "It didn't hurt."
I just about lost my shit. Very funny, I thought.
Anyway, I told this story to the guy who interviewed me, as well as mentioning that I emailed Steve about an iMovie problem and a Textedit problem I had. What do ya want from me? I'm a powerless dork these days, no media outlet in the MacWorld, no luck with the Apple inroads! So when I lost a 10 minute film I was making because iMovie crashed and burned, I emailed Steve! Hey, a week after I emailed him about it, a patch was released!
I'm not claiming I made them fix iMovie, but it's fun to pretend.
Anyway, this guy I interviewed with was terrified of this story. he doesn't want me to work with him because he's afraid I would be emailing Steve about things that bother me at work. Right, like I would do that. I'm not an asshole nor am I an idiot.
At least, I hope I'm not.
Anyway, I explained this to Karen and she said that there would be a possible job at the Apple store, so she'd go and find out then get back to me.
I think it will come through. There are three people involved in this process, Karen Cho, Aimee Hamilton (Director of HR), and this store manager dude. Karen loves me, Aimee got a reference about me from her favorite bartender and so she loves me too. This dude is the only thing standing in the way.
I don't want to make it sound like I won't get along with him or like I will be some sort of hotshot and ignore him or disrespect him, but this is a tad silly. He's covering his ass before the store even opens.
Naturally, if they hire me, they won't even know what hit them. I'll make that fucking store into a mecca of geek advice the likes of which has never been seen before.
But then again, if they tell me to fuck off, so what. I'll go edit Mobile PC mag. That;'d be just as much fun and would give me a chance to play with lots of cool, free hardware.
Let the bidding war begin!
[2:19:20] NOQUIT TOKEN WATCH=128 SAFELIST are available on this server
[2:19:21] You have joined the channel
[2:20:31] mackstann: yooooooooooooo
[2:24:27] vonguard: you know
[2:24:48] vonguard: 10 years ago if i had typed "Who played Scotty" into a search engine, all my responses would be about star trek
[2:24:53] vonguard: today, they're about soap operas
[2:25:01] vonguard: truly the housewife has arrived upon this internet
[2:25:45] mackstann: come out with your pants down
[2:29:12] mackstann: snow still on the ground
[2:29:22] vonguard: seriously?
[2:29:23] vonguard: snow?
[2:29:23] mackstann: seems to be melted on the cement though
[2:29:24] vonguard: already?
[2:29:26] mackstann: yep
[2:29:26] vonguard: MY GOD MAN
[2:29:30] mackstann: i know
[2:29:37] mackstann: started last night
[2:29:48] vonguard: awwwwwwww
[2:29:51] vonguard: i miss snow
[2:29:55] mackstann: 06:53:06 @ mackstann | W T F
[2:29:56] mackstann: 06:53:06 @ mackstann | W T F
[2:29:56] mackstann: 06:53:07 @ mackstann | W T F
[2:29:56] mackstann: 06:53:07 @ mackstann | W T F
[2:29:56] mackstann: 06:53:10 @ mackstann | it's snowing
[2:29:58] mackstann: 06:53:12 @ mackstann | good god
[2:31:41] vonguard: what do you call those little cards in yer phone?
[2:31:45] vonguard: the smart card things?
[2:32:21] mackstann: sim card?
[2:32:30] mackstann: i could turn mine on and check
[2:32:49] vonguard: naw
[2:32:53] mackstann: yeah, sim card
[2:33:02] mackstann: I DONE CHECKED ANYWAYS
[2:33:02] vonguard: i got a cell phone i have to review
[2:33:07] vonguard: this rocks, i can call everyone
[2:33:09] vonguard: gimme yer number
[2:33:13] mackstann: l33t
[2:33:17] mackstann: my phone is turned off
[2:33:21] vonguard: fucker
[2:33:28] vonguard: ok, i wall go call japan
[2:33:31] mackstann: bahah
[2:33:38] mackstann: you thought you knew antisocial
[2:33:42] mackstann: YOU KNOW NOTHING
[2:33:54] mackstann: i am the king of it
[2:33:59] vonguard: that's why yer ssuch a fucking bastard
[2:34:26] mackstann: no, that's because i was molested when i was a child
[2:34:33] vonguard: oh
[2:34:40] mackstann: wait
[2:34:40] vonguard: huh, my last sysadmin was molested as a child
[2:34:46] mackstann: i wasn't molested
[2:34:48] mackstann: ?
[2:34:50] mackstann: yes
[2:34:51] mackstann: no
[2:35:04] mackstann: ok
[2:35:09] mackstann: ----- clean slate -----
[2:35:16] mackstann: i was not molested as a child.
[2:36:30] mackstann: hey vonguard, you ever play the rusty trombone?
[2:38:24] vonguard: nope
[2:38:27] vonguard: i played the skin flute
[2:38:46] vonguard: oh, i molseted my last sys admin
[2:38:48] vonguard: that's why
[2:39:22] vonguard: so the job interview went well
[2:39:29] vonguard: and i thnk i am going to have to kick apple to the curb
[2:44:04] mackstann: 01:12:17 @ singularity | its when someone gives you a rimjob while jerking you off.
[2:44:07] mackstann: 01:12:22 @ singularity | think about the arm motion!
[2:44:26] mackstann: singularity taught me some stuff last night
[2:44:30] mackstann: and now i'm just running with it
[2:45:45] vonguard: really now?
[2:45:49] vonguard: never heard of one of those before
[2:46:08] vonguard: have heard of the curious frog where you grip your pole between your feet and pull down.
Dr. Phil is the reason or economy is picking up.
Let's break it down a bit. Today, everyone thinks they are worthless. why? Because television, movies, magazines, every form of media they see tells them this. The internet doesn't directly tell them this, but it does fuel the "Real Life" form of humor in which people are laughed at ironically. American Movie. The Star Wars Kid. The I Kiss You guy. Punk'd.
All of these pieces of media art are focused on reminding the viewer that unless you are watching these proceedings, you are being made fun of.
Television gives people false love. I may not have any friends, but The Friends love me, right? Dr. Phil is a caring friend that wants to help you, show you why you are a fucked up piece of shit so you can fix that!
OK, like it or not, stay at home moms are still very common. There's a ton of them around the US, and they all love Oprah. Oprah tells these women to buy a book, and that book becomes a National Best Seller. Women love to read.
Oprah loves Dr. Phil. Dr. Phil does a ton of guest shots on Oprah. His Texas charm wins him a following. He gets his own show based on telling people that he is a good person, a caring person with a southern way of living and a keen insight into the inner workings of his guest's minds.
The housewives of America are now watching Dr. Phil. So what does Dr. Phil do? He writes a book that says all of his fans are big worthless fat asses.
Suicide? No, brilliant. What's the one thing every American woman thinks about herself? She's too fat. Now, not only do these housewives think they're fat, NOW they're closest friend and confidant tells them that they are fat.
So now, every housewife and aspiring stay at home mom has to rush out and buy Dr. Phil's book, because not only does it tell them they are a big fat ass, but it also tells them how not to be a big fat ass.
BAM! It's a best seller. BAM! Weight Watcher's enrollments are up. BAM! Low fat shit sells out at the supermarket. POW! Diet stuff is selling through the roof.
All diet food costs more than regular food, even though, technically, it has less in it.
Work out equipment starts selling. Running shoes, Stairmasters. Hand weights. Wal-Mart is rolling in it because, not only do they sell all this diet shit, they also sell Dr. Phil's book, which is now in it's 7th printing and in paperback so that the nice ladies can take the book to the beach, where they will cover their seemingly hideous bodies in a blanket, plop themselves under an umbrella and tell themselves how absolutely horrible, ugly, and fat they are while reading page after page of Dr. Phil telling them this very fact.
Dr. Phil does this in a very subtle way. He first tells people they are fine, dandy, good people, deserving of love (mostly TV love). Then he tells them that they have the ability to change anything they want to about themselves, something these readers should already have learned because it is a powerful truth.
But now Dr. Phil turns it all around and focuses his book specifically on losing weight. It's a sure fire winner! I don't think I have ever met a woman that thought she was the perfect weight, that didn't consider herself at least a few pounds over sultry size. Dr. Phil probably hasn't either.
The only possible way Dr. Phil could make more money off of the women of America is if he sold anatomically correct Mel Gibson love dolls, because aside from weight loss, Mel Gibson is the only other thing 100% of the women in America have in common.
Dr. Phil doesn't care about you. Dr. Phil thinks you're a big fat ass. If Dr. Phil's diet shit is so god dammed effective, then why is Dr. Phil so fat. Look at the man. He's an easy 200, and I somehow doubt that Dr. Phil is a secret dynamo of masculine physique. If he were, housewives around the country would be closing their eyes at night and pretending to be fucking Dr. Phil instead of their flaccid husbands.
Remember, this is an America only thing. About 70% of the remaining females left on this planet don't consider themselves too fat; they consider themselves ravenously hungry because they can only afford one spoonful of rice per day.
Perhaps all these bacon cheese burger fearing women, the better half of which is likely not really at all fat, go to Indonesia or rural India for a few weeks, then try to turn down that second helping of salad?
I suppose this is the worst possibly place to address the females of America, seeing as how women don't geek half as much as men. But here goes:
Dr. Phil thinks you're a fat ass. You are not, in fact, a fat ass. Thinking you are a fat ass is good for business. Stop thinking you are a fat ass and corporations will be badly damaged.
December 3, 2003
Things have gotten better, in one day. With one passing 24 hours, everything got better. I got the cover story. I got the interviews. I got the interview (different type.)
So I feel very good. it's been like a membrane shattering open, or perhaps simply being pushed through and the other side finally coming in one quick snap.
I dunno. maybe I live a charmed life. I know my dad prays for me a lot. I'd like to discount that, but i pretty much can't. Thoughts concentrated upon for a good long time can perhaps cause fluctuations in the reality matrix of the universe.
No matter why it happened, shit did today. First, I got Mike to say yes on my newest feature for the east bay express. Magic Man will likely be the title. It's shaping up quite nicely, and I'm going to be very proud of it when it's finished, I am sure.
Going along with that, I got an interview set up tomorrow with Richard Garfield, and perhaps Gary Gygax. We'll see how that one shapes up. I do the interview tomorrow.
2004 is just around the corner. Does that mean that I will be back in the saddle of the magazine industry? Mobile PC emailed today. George Jones is EIC of Maximum PC. I applied off of Craigslist, and BANG George somehow psychicaly told Chris Null that I had applied, even though I haven't talked to George since I took him out to the cyber cafes in August. Still feeling weird about my hugging Wil O'Neal. The whole experience left me feeling slightly dirty.
I am so glad to be out of the ACCRC. I cannot believe that I don't live there anymore. it's so nice!
Oh, forth thing, Kate and Martin said that I can stay through January since I'll have the story done by then.
Overall, I feel very good. Things could be much better next year. I've already hit the bottom. I know that much (Unless I turn into a junky at random). 2002 was about as bad a year as anyone could have asked for. I barely made it out of that year with my sanity intact. Perhaps I didn't.
The entire hip world lives in fear of the same thing: endless conversation.
There are those among us that would be considered time sinks, if they were in a videogame. You know the type and the scenario: You're sitting at a bus stop alone when a desheveled stranger wanders up. Gropples towards you with mud on his knees, if you will.
The stranger tries to make eye contact with you, and you aciduously avoid it. You know that this fellow will immediately strike up a conversation with you if given half a chance, and so you bury your face in a newspaper, Guardian, pamphlet, bus schedule, whatever you have handy.
But if this is a really determined motherfucker, as is usually the case, reading won't help. The stranger will typically start talking to you anyway, blissfully unaware of the fact that you detest having random discussions with unknown people who arae completely devoid of the knowledge of social cues and how to recognize them.
You can never exit such a situation politely or gracefully, and I firmly believe it is the conscious avoiding of this very type of interaction that keeps all of humanity (Or at least, all Americans) from being more social and open.
I am that stranger, of course.
So we're still hiring people. Our only good worked put in her 2-weeks last Friday. Rather than hire a replacement, we are hiring random people and dividing up her job.
Oh, the people we interview. We hired this one dude who is complete loser while ignoring a relatively unskilled, but very personable and responsible guy who didn't lie.
It's not just the tech industry that has a problem with people presenting themselves as something they are not. That one guy you have who sits in his cube and pretends to code Java all day, but who's really playing on Friendster is not a unique anomaly to your world.
We get them too.
And they suck ass. I think I may be one of them.
Well, actually not. I do have the skills I say I have, never really lied on a resume that went anywhere. But I don't work very hard once in the organization. I am a limb ass motha fucka.
So we have these people who come in to interview and they are completely meek and weak, and quiet and timid. Jesse would eat them for lunch! No fucking way!
This new guy Jesse hired seems like a real dud. Not that it really matters much. He seems really happy to have a job. I wonder how long before he realizes just what level of hell he's entered into.
I give him till Friday, then on Monday, he'll figure out that he's in a pointless hell hole.
Fun Fun Fun, as always.
And so it goes. I anticiapte being fired in about three weeks. That means there will be one week of swing time when my co-hort, JoAnne, will no longer be here and I will be on my own. Yikes.
She put in her two weeks on Friday, evidently. I thought she had quit completely on Friday, but she's here today. Good thing too, because without her here, I don't know how we'd all get paid. She's the one that writes the checks and deals with Pay-Chex. Jesse just signs whatever she puts in front of him.
The weekend found me stoned again, as usual. There's not a whole lot I seem to be able to do to avoid the stuff out here. Everyone's got it, everyone's offering it. Oh well, I shall remain inert.
Inert and unmotivated! On my own slowly descending pile of barrels and junk, over the falls, doing nothing to stop myself or to move myself up over the edge and out towards the outside world. Maybe I'll get some writing done today. I owe a bunch of reviews....
I am 25 today. 1/4 of a century. Wow. That's, like, a lot, or some shit.
The earth is like a tiny grain of sand, only much, much heavier.