Monty Python's Holy Grail performed by Lego men
They have The Matrix, too.
stolen from somewhere or other. but isn't everything? who does come up with their own links?
Sunday, September 30, 2001
Submit a word to psuedodictionary.com
make it as silly as you like.
my word: Ratava
(via adnan, who hostsDamn the Pacific and says yes I'm a Muslim, why not kill me now? "I rather they just come and get me and get it over with."
make it as silly as you like.
my word: Ratava
(via adnan, who hostsDamn the Pacific and says yes I'm a Muslim, why not kill me now? "I rather they just come and get me and get it over with."
For instance, there is Marc Andreesson 's modestly named What's New - the first blog? and nicely enough, it was of course about the Web and Mosaic.
hooray! have finally sat down to work on my essay and realised that it will be quite interesting really.
it will be all about blogs, my favourite obsession. there's not much academic stuff published on them yet, so I will be forced to use online sources.
:->
my actual "diaries/journals/autobiography" reading blog is at Internet Flaneur at the moment a lot of refers to books you probably haven't got at home to look at (a major failing of many non-networked resources) but I plan to start linking as I find the good stuff.
don't think I can find an authoratitive "first mention" for the word blog, though.
Rebecca Blood says it was someone in 1997, but these things can be so organic that the idea of an author is, well, dead.
(there appears to be a double post further down; it's not my fault, it's blogspot's. they are the same time, to the second.)
it will be all about blogs, my favourite obsession. there's not much academic stuff published on them yet, so I will be forced to use online sources.
:->
my actual "diaries/journals/autobiography" reading blog is at Internet Flaneur at the moment a lot of refers to books you probably haven't got at home to look at (a major failing of many non-networked resources) but I plan to start linking as I find the good stuff.
don't think I can find an authoratitive "first mention" for the word blog, though.
Rebecca Blood says it was someone in 1997, but these things can be so organic that the idea of an author is, well, dead.
(there appears to be a double post further down; it's not my fault, it's blogspot's. they are the same time, to the second.)
to hummingbirds, everything moves in slow motion; they are so speedy that we humans take days to walk by, in comparison.
when I am passed by fast cars as I slowly ride up the lovely gum-tree-lined hills of the Kew Boulevarde, I feel like some kind of reverse hummingbird - I am in a different world, and they are noisy, threatening intrusions, too fast, too fast.
when I am passed by fast cars as I slowly ride up the lovely gum-tree-lined hills of the Kew Boulevarde, I feel like some kind of reverse hummingbird - I am in a different world, and they are noisy, threatening intrusions, too fast, too fast.
NaNoWriMo is a forum exclusively committed to the timely production of crappy novels.
I really am tempted...50,000 bad words in a month. would unplug any writer's block I might be having. would be a fantastic piece of procrastination against doing anything useful with my life.
I really am tempted...50,000 bad words in a month. would unplug any writer's block I might be having. would be a fantastic piece of procrastination against doing anything useful with my life.
(link below from Daypop's Top 40
I dunno who daypop is or why he has a top 40. but I'll do anything to find new stuff to look at. won't you?
I dunno who daypop is or why he has a top 40. but I'll do anything to find new stuff to look at. won't you?
I spent a lot of my early teenage years with my nose buried in the yellow jacket of a Gollancz science fiction book. which is sort of why I enjoy being an IT journalist, mostly. but teleportation?
quantumly weird
quantumly weird
Saturday, September 29, 2001
have been meaning to get around to putting up some of my ramblings from class; the subject is "Diaries, Journals and Autobiography" with a focus on the effects of non-mainstream biographies on the cultural discourse, or something.
The night of the WTC bombing, when the terrorists were stepping onto their connecting flights about 7pm our time; the planes hit just before 11pm our time) I wrote this, still in the grip of the fantastic BBC doco on Afghanistan that was on the tv the night before. It's based on an exercise where you name three objects, start with an empty landscape, add a character, then combine all of them together, so it’s a bit jumpy
This is the land that is no man's land.
It lies between the hills and the river.
It is green and fertile - except where the shells and rockets have torn up brown scars of soil.
From the hill. the village would look (if there was anyone to see) pretty; idyllic; quaint.
Its pink roofs and hub of streets set around the well are made for and from time. It could be 2,000 years ago, 3,000 – except for the gross rusted tank blown open at the village gate
Satellites today can produce images down to a 70 cm resolution. Thi is what a satellite would see: 75 cm holes in the roof of the village mosque.
Two by one metre mounds of dirt beside the road leading down to where the bridge used to be.
But nothing moving.
Beside the river, an upturned boat shows its beam to the sky.
An oar protruding from the boat starts to move. A hand, small soft and brown, appears, clinging to the oar as if led by it.
Mohammed is four years old. His cark coiled hair was his mother’s pride; she would wash it daily and towel it dry with the hem of her burkha, secretly breathing in the scent of her only son.
He has his father’s eyes; black, without pupils, a little sharp at the corners. He’s not supposed to be down here at the boats; he can’t remember why he is here.
A streak of scabby dried blood is frozen mid-flow on his rounded left cheek; it’s not his blood.
Mohammed emerges, looks around for his sisters. He’s never been alone before. He knows he should be frightened, but he feels strong, clever, like a naughty four-year-old who’s got away with something.
He thinks he’ll surprise his mother. He’ll bring her water; it’s almost time to eat and she will be cooking in the courtyard, always needing water.
He’s lost his shoes, but the heat of the day is gone and the dust of the road is soft between his toes, rising in gentle puffs under his bare uncalloused soles.
The world is his.
Beside the road, there is a piece of long wire from the fence. The fence burned last week, to cook Mohammed’s dinner. He picks up the wire and pokes at things with it as he walks up the road toward the well and his home beyond.
There is no one at the well. This means Mohammed does not have to wait. But there is no water in the bucket either, and the rope is cut. Mohammed decides his mother will have to fetch her own water. He’s hungry now, and soon his father will be calling prayers.
Mohammed’s house has a courtyard before it, with the door to the house set well back into the wall. No one is in the courtyard and for the first time in Mohammed’s life his mother does not appear to his call.
He steps into the house and sees his mother lying on the floor. This so surprises him that he doesn’t even hear the boom as shelling starts again.
Mohammed steps forward to poke at his mother with his piece of wire, half fearfully, half cheekily; and the roof comes down.
The night of the WTC bombing, when the terrorists were stepping onto their connecting flights about 7pm our time; the planes hit just before 11pm our time) I wrote this, still in the grip of the fantastic BBC doco on Afghanistan that was on the tv the night before. It's based on an exercise where you name three objects, start with an empty landscape, add a character, then combine all of them together, so it’s a bit jumpy
This is the land that is no man's land.
It lies between the hills and the river.
It is green and fertile - except where the shells and rockets have torn up brown scars of soil.
From the hill. the village would look (if there was anyone to see) pretty; idyllic; quaint.
Its pink roofs and hub of streets set around the well are made for and from time. It could be 2,000 years ago, 3,000 – except for the gross rusted tank blown open at the village gate
Satellites today can produce images down to a 70 cm resolution. Thi is what a satellite would see: 75 cm holes in the roof of the village mosque.
Two by one metre mounds of dirt beside the road leading down to where the bridge used to be.
But nothing moving.
Beside the river, an upturned boat shows its beam to the sky.
An oar protruding from the boat starts to move. A hand, small soft and brown, appears, clinging to the oar as if led by it.
Mohammed is four years old. His cark coiled hair was his mother’s pride; she would wash it daily and towel it dry with the hem of her burkha, secretly breathing in the scent of her only son.
He has his father’s eyes; black, without pupils, a little sharp at the corners. He’s not supposed to be down here at the boats; he can’t remember why he is here.
A streak of scabby dried blood is frozen mid-flow on his rounded left cheek; it’s not his blood.
Mohammed emerges, looks around for his sisters. He’s never been alone before. He knows he should be frightened, but he feels strong, clever, like a naughty four-year-old who’s got away with something.
He thinks he’ll surprise his mother. He’ll bring her water; it’s almost time to eat and she will be cooking in the courtyard, always needing water.
He’s lost his shoes, but the heat of the day is gone and the dust of the road is soft between his toes, rising in gentle puffs under his bare uncalloused soles.
The world is his.
Beside the road, there is a piece of long wire from the fence. The fence burned last week, to cook Mohammed’s dinner. He picks up the wire and pokes at things with it as he walks up the road toward the well and his home beyond.
There is no one at the well. This means Mohammed does not have to wait. But there is no water in the bucket either, and the rope is cut. Mohammed decides his mother will have to fetch her own water. He’s hungry now, and soon his father will be calling prayers.
Mohammed’s house has a courtyard before it, with the door to the house set well back into the wall. No one is in the courtyard and for the first time in Mohammed’s life his mother does not appear to his call.
He steps into the house and sees his mother lying on the floor. This so surprises him that he doesn’t even hear the boom as shelling starts again.
Mohammed steps forward to poke at his mother with his piece of wire, half fearfully, half cheekily; and the roof comes down.
I know everyone else has already read it, but I'm slowly making my way through Naomi Klein's No Logo and am quite enjoying the dissection of corporate practice; like the bit about how, when Tommy Hilfiger realised that black kids were wearing their preppy gear as part of the "livin' large" philosophy, Hilfiger first upped the preppiness of their ads to appeal to the black kids, and second, started to market the black cool back to the white kids.
Klein claims that some companies don't crack down on logo ripoffs and theft in (poor black) areas for the reason that the rich white customers like to wear what the black kids/rappers etc make cool
what a twisted world we live in
Thursday, September 27, 2001
"There are Air Force jets flying over Manhattan and warships in New York harbor, but none of it is exciting or entertaining at all," said Wall Street broker Irwin Trotter, 47, among the lucky ones who walked away from the destruction. "If the world were going to suddenly turn into a movie without warning, I wish it would have been one of those boring, talky Merchant-Ivory ones instead. I hate those movies, but I sure wish we were living in one right now."
as usual, The Onion gets it right. most of it's not even too tasteless.
as usual, The Onion gets it right. most of it's not even too tasteless.
"In 1994, motor vehicle traffic crashes were the ninth leading cause of death in the United States, accounting for 41,507 deaths."
"Among accidental causes of death, motor vehicle crashes were ranked first."
"Among accidental causes of death, motor vehicle crashes were ranked first."
you know life is getting back to normal when you start feeling aggrieved and grumpy about relatively small things.
my current sook is that my boy doesn't think we can afford to go to Tasmania and do a fabulous walk early next year.
but I WANT TO!
and I wonder why we're doing a big xpensive renovation if it means we can't have lives.
my current sook is that my boy doesn't think we can afford to go to Tasmania and do a fabulous walk early next year.
but I WANT TO!
and I wonder why we're doing a big xpensive renovation if it means we can't have lives.
I've done it! some would say it was impossible, too hard, give up.
but I have persistence, courage, vision.
I have managed to find, and buy, YET ANOTHER piece of beautiful, requiring-hand-washing, impractical clothing that - wait for it - goes with nothing else at all in my wardrobe.
there was only one colour left, and it was chocolate brown. now I have a complete non-matching set.
unless ...
but I have persistence, courage, vision.
I have managed to find, and buy, YET ANOTHER piece of beautiful, requiring-hand-washing, impractical clothing that - wait for it - goes with nothing else at all in my wardrobe.
there was only one colour left, and it was chocolate brown. now I have a complete non-matching set.
unless ...
looks like the kids have got it really bad. why doesn't Richard Branson or someone give them a free flight to the US? it would only have to be one-way.
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