A bored gen-Xer writes...

I know what I need. I need a regular column somewhere; once a week'd do it. Needn't even be a big flashy high-profile publication. Yeah, I know I have little experience and less journalistic education, but since most columnists are bobbins anyway I don't see that it makes much difference.

I have basic literacy skills, and I don't bang on endlessly about how mad/useless my pard'ner is in completely stereotypical terms which insult one gender and embarass the other. I do not whine about how difficult it is to live my hideously overpaid life, I don't spend half a page complaining bitterly because my 17-year-old Latvian nanny wants Sunday off. I have no children to endlessly brag/kvetch about. I actually watch a goddamn news broadcast now and again, and read news media besides the bloody Guardian Weekend fashion pages. I update this sucker at least once a week- which seems to be more than a lot of "star" columnists manage. To be sure, I whine about my probs, but at least I have weird problems with lasers and stuff.

Yeah. That would rock. Gimme a column, world. Are you listening? Hello? Moderately talented under-thirty here! I can use a spell-checker and I have a tatt! And a madonna! I'd look cute in a byline! I know how to use my bloody email! I have more than three braincells! GIVE ME A REGULAR COLUMN NOW!!!

"A portrait of the artist as a small pig!"

I am cross. Nay, I am more than cross- I am vexed.

I handed the poxy report in. Eventually. There was much running around and trying to track down bloody coversheets and finding that they'd run out and had to ge more printed, then finding that by the time the bloody coversheets had been printed the print-shop was closed and the bloody member of staff who was supposed to recieve this bloody report had gone home and general stacks of annoyance. I ended up handing it in to another member of staff, the guy who calls everyone "Chicken". So of course he opens the bloody thing before the glue is dry (so all the pages will probably fall out) and starts dissing my report.

"What's this? A portrait of the artist as a small pig? Oh, it's supposed to be your laser harp. What does it say here? Las-rup harv? Oh, you've used a funny font. God, you've put a thick load of bullshit in this report, Carnival."
"No... just a thin veneer of bullshit."
"Well, you want to adjust your veneer-cutter, Carnival, because this is a damn thick layer of bullshit!"

At least he didn't call me "Chicken."

You still here?

Why? Why, in God's name, why? Half of you find this page thru' a Google search for supermodel's bazooms and the other half seem to be after fetus in fetu pictures.

Yet you return, strange fetus-picture hunting people. Whyfor do you return? It is a horrible horrible mystery.

Ennui

I hate this. I have this goddamn piece of coursework to hand in today, and whilst I'm aware on some level that it sucks I can't persude myself to care. I am so tired of this, and now I've got next year to look forward to as well (groan). The situation is that I loused up a few bits and bobs on my 'leccy degree, and so I'm going back next year to pick up a few credits on the writey side. Which will suit me much better as there will be less sums.

I don't want to be doing this. I particularly don't want to be doing this at the advanced age of 28. You know what I want? I want a nice cup of tea and a sit down.

Tomorrow is crunch day. I will be handing in the final report for my project, and hopefully demonstrating that the wretched thing actually works. In a couple of weeks I have to give a talk on the project. Then it's over. I get my life back from the demons of electronics.

Well, sort of. 'Coz, I still have to find a summer job, right? And if nobody helps me out, I might end up back at the Little Green Monsters That Live In Your Pants factory. I won't want to, of course; helping to increase the number of Little Green Monsters That Live In Your Pants isn't something to boast about. But I have bills to pay, a leaky flat to support, that kind of thing. Of course, if someone wanted to put a spot of work my way, that'd be one less pair of hands at the Little Green Monsters That Live In Your Pants factory, wouldn't it? Everyone wins.

I might even stop hating you for a while.

The Government is STILL stalking me

Well, it has begun. Yesterday I bunged out a yarn to an online zine, and when I went to take a look today the whole site was gone. The whole thing. Even the ezboard attached to the site was affected- all their images were x-ed out.

I'm a jinx.

Summertime blues

It's nearly that time again. No sooner do I wade through the morass of work that stands between me and the end of term, than I will have to think about getting a summer job- hopefully one leading me into some part-time work next term, and preferably something involving freelance writing.

Yep, if any of the people who nagged me all last year about going into writing as a career were to contact me with help or advice, that would be cool.

If it's not too much trouble.

If they've got time.

I said, if it's not too much trouble, IF. THEY'VE. GOT. TIME.

What a revolting development this is.

The reason I have no microcontroller came to light yesterday. I'd been badgering the lab staff concerned by email, but the emails were going unread. Why? My squeeze's name appeared as the sender instead of mine. Apparently the lab staff don't bother to read anything unless the sender is called something like "Great Big Nigel", "Barry 'Pliers' Jackson," or "Guido Dannigerio's Large Gentlemen With Baseball Bats".

Anyhow, the reason that I have no microcontroller is that the guy in charge of obtaining our componants DIDN'T BLOODY ORDER IT. He was so bloody cheerful about it, too: "Oh hi, Mordant, come in. Yes, I've been completely ignoring your emails because you're not that six-foot-tall nutter who threatens to beat people up. Now, let's see... oh, yeah, I've also failed to order the single most vital componant in your project, despite the fact that you sent me the entire catalogue entry for it back in March. Never mind, I'll order it now and it should reach you about a week after the deadline, thus horribly messing up your grades. That okay?"
And I can't kill him because my uni has this silly thing about homicide, even if the victim is a technician.

I hate him and you.

"If I only had a brain..."

Okay. My putative light-harp has hit a snag. I have my lasers and all the other bits, but I have no microcontroller. Without my microcontroller I cannot convert the beam data into MIDI data, and am reduced to using strightforward tone generators to demonstrate my work. Rabbits.

Rather than go to Maplin's and shell out a small fortune on sound generators from them, I'm cannibalising some cheap and noisy kids' toys from the 99p shop down the road. The effect will be somwhat less impressive than I had planned, but there's a certain keen satisfcation in gutting a squeezable key-ring-Pikachu. Now, if I'd thought of calling my project "The Laser-Driven Pokemon Autopsy Harp" in the first place, I'd probably have my own telly programme by now.

"Hey! Who are all you people?"

I have my lasers now. I cannot be stopped.

The new site-tracker I installed last week is yielding some fascinating data. I don't quite understand why someone would do a Google search for fetus in fetu pictures, but if you do, you get my blog- I'm something like tenth on the list. I reckon about half the people who read this thing don't mean to come here at all.

I'm a total deadhead when it comes to interpreting this kind of data, but the rest of them are apparently coming one of two sources (apart from the vast tract of UNKNOWNs, that is.) The weirdest thing is that a lot of the traffic seems to come from other people's blogs. Yes, for some reason people actually link to this thing from their own blogs, which is a bit like wearing a T-Shirt that says "I'm With Horrible!" or "Love me- love my oddly-dressed social retard!"

Not only that, but as far as I can make out there are people who actually have me bookmarked, and come back regularly. WHY? First off, I never say anything even that might even remotely concern the average reader. Second off, I update this thing on a pretty sporadic basis. Lastly, and most importantly, aside from a very very small group of people, I hate all of you. Yes! All of you! Like it says on the sidebar! I do not hate you for your amusement. I do not hate you in a cutesy, kid's telly way. I just hate you.

I hate your petty obsessions, your vacuousity, your deep self-loathing and the smugness that conceals it. I hate your veniality, your homogenity, the way you preach individuality and then ostracize anyone who doesn't listen to the 'right' music or wear the 'right' clothes, I hate the way you whine incessantly about being ostracized because you don't listen to the 'right' music or wear the 'right' clothes, I hate the pathetic bundle of trivia and compromise and prejudice and rationalization that makes up every one of YOU.

Why do you return again and again to wallow in my Hate Of You?

Deadline Day! Arrrrgh! Arrrrghhh! Arrrrrrrrghhhhhh!!!!

For most of my stuff, anyhow. I have a presentation for Monday and a test on Tuesday and my bloody laserharp to demonstrate on bloody Wednesday. Like I said- ARRRRGHHHHHH!!!!

God help me. I'm so dead.

Goth In Fancying Xander More Than Spike Shock


STOP PRESS! In a statement that sent shockwaves across the six people who were still talking to her after she admitted to not fancying David Borenaz four months ago, a dreary black-clad neurotic today confessed that she didn't fancy James Marsters either.

BLEACH

"Well, I like the clothes he wears on the show and everything but the bleach job is a mistake. He's quite nice as a brunette," remarked the ghastly self-obsessed Gen-Xer. "And if you ask me, he could do with more meat on his bones."

BOOZE

"I'm disgusted," said another sorry fishnet-clad loser. "I used to talk to Mordant if I met her in a club or something, but only because she was generally on her own and always had booze. And was too drunk to notice if you nicked it."

"Yeah," chimed in a similarly attired social reject. "She even said that Riley was more fun than Angel. I mean, shhuh, yeauhh, right?"

B+S 4 EVAH + B+A 4 EVAH

Meanwhile, the various B/S and B/A relationshippers have formed an uneasy alliance, marshalling their forces to deal with the freak. They have issued the fanfic equivalent of a fatwah; should Mordant submit any kind of fanfic, they will give her really horrible feedback and then email the URL to Karen from Ohio's kids, along with the offender's description and email addy.

"It's harsh, but it's the only way," the B/S+B/A vs MC allience said.

BALONEY

A guy claiming to be mates with Joss Whedon's cousin stated: "I can hook you up with Joss, no problem. He's a really good mate. Whenever I'm in the states we get together for a pint. He's always looking for new talent, and you might fit the bill, baby. No, it's true! I am mates with Joss, and I can get you a part on the show. Like, a top part, sugar."

BAPS

"That Sandra Glenda Michaels is getting saggy baps," he confided, before being hauled out of his seat by a large gentleman in an industrial-grade nametag.

BOOT

The large gentleman commented: "Oh, sure. And what was it last time? Oh yeah. You're Doctor Avalanche's half-brother, and you wrote all his songs. Oi! Who let this sh*tehawk in? He's barred!"


No-one even remotely connected with BtVS was availiable for comment.

Further evidence that the Government hates me!

Today I was going to add a link to a personality test. Not just any old personality test, but THE personality test- the What Pixies Song are you? test, as seen on plasticbag. (I was In Heaven, btw.) But the test has mysteriously disappeared. A simple web screw up? Too much traffic on the site? Or huge evil Government plot to destroy my morale? You decide.

The truth is out there.

I am being systematically persecuted by the Government!

The proof? They've banned my lasers. I need my lasers, and they are banned. Lower-power lasers are availiable but I have to wait for Maplin to get some in. Since the Government are probably sitting around reading this and laughing into their cocoa, I would like to say to them: Eat my shorts, Government people! I shall have my lasers anyway, and I shall buy a big huge book on making my own lasers so you can never take my lasers away again! I shall make many lasers. And a Tesla coil and a coin-shrinking device. And I shall laugh at your bafflement, Government.

I hate the Governmnet. And you.

No lasers!!!

The biggest stress in my life today is that I still don't have my lasers. But I do have Pokey.

We'll always have Pokey.

Scrumpdillyishus Land

It's official. I'm in love with The Branflakes. All Branflakes are now exempted from my simmering hatevibes until further notice. Go here to see why.

Christ, I can't belive it's nearly the end of term. I'm so sick and tired of Uni. I ought to be panicking, but I'm not. I have actually been working fo rthe last few days; I suppose that's why.

I still don't have my lasers tho'.

PatronisingMessageMachineGO!!!

Hokay. Any poor bastard unfortunate enuff to screw up their HTML on one of the message-boards where I have my grubby mits is getting this in their inbox:-



Hiya,

I noticed you were having some probs with your HTML code, and I thought this might help.


<b>Whatever you want in bold type</b>
Creates bold text
<i>Whatever you want in italics</i>
Creates italic text

<a href="http://www.whatever the URL of the website is">Whatever you're calling the link</a>
Makes a link

<img src="http://www.Whatever the URL of the image is">
Inserts an image in your post

NB: Some sites, especially free websites such as Geocities, don't allow you to do this. You may have to buy web space or use a free image hosting service.

If your image is large, then you can make it fit on the page by inserting width=500 into the code, like this:-

<img src="http://www.Whatever the URL of the image is" width=500>

Webmonkey is a useful resource. It has a searchable database and a cheat-sheet detailing commonly used HTML tags.


I am so revolting when I'm being all nicey-nicey. I should do it more often.

Yup!

I rule.

Just testing. Nothing to see here.

<a href="http://www.whatever"> Name of link </a>

We're under attack from little invisible spies the size of ants!

From this site:

The tiny invisible personnel (codename Bee) of surveillance station/system unlawfully control everyone's lives with illness/death inducing techniques (see details on Part IV-A1):
According to inside information frrom Taiwan former President Chiang Kai-Shek,, the United States had successfully developed invisibility technology (first tested in the Philadelphia Experiment) for use on human after WWII. After using invisibility technology, the personnel & equipment become tiny (as small ant), invisible and can levitate. Thus , by wearing a propulsion on back, every tiny invisible personnel can move as small flying ant. So, the tiny invisible personnel can gently fly onto a target's head to control his mind and bodily functions, or fly near a target's organ to induce illness/death .without most victims' knowledge (see details on Part II-A of my website).

Holy cow! And all this time I've been blaming the rising pollen count for my hayfever, when really it's evil miniaturized government agents flying up my nose!

Ahhh! Now they're forcing me to go to the fridge and get a beer! Oh, my God! I don't want a beer- I should be working- No! No, don't make me load up Sim City 3000 again! No, pleeease.....! Nooooooo.........

"Vote for the crook, not the Nazi...."

My sympathies to the French, who've just had to vote in an evil little criminal for prez.

Oh, you don't get it? Let me explain, in little words that have a chance of penetrating the superdense substance that occupies your skulls.

Imagine that you were standing in a polling-station, right? With a pencil in your hand, right? And there were basically two names you could stick your cross next to, right? Imagine that your choice was between President Margaret Thatcher or President Nick Griffin. I'm surprised the entire voting population of France didn't stick the pencils up their noses and commit urban-myth-style seppuku.

Oh, and before you start making clever remarks, remember who just took Burnley. Hint: Not the Lib-Dems.

My feelings towards you lot are a matter of public record.

No. I'm not kidding. I really do actually hate you.

Stuff my blog needs:

More better pix. (Bite me, Portland; I will find a non-falling-over webhost.)

More stuff about my non-online life. I was trying to keep this primarily about my cyberexistance, but I've realised that this is potentially a dull subject. And it makes me look like a big geek. Not that I care.

More updates. This is going to be the hardest thing to achieve; I am a busy geek, with many aspects of my geeky life to disract me. Also I suffer from a very unwebloggerlike disability in that I don't regard every minute and tedious detail of my day-to-day life as worthy of posterity. However, I remain inspired by my undying Hate of You.

There are many, many things I hate about you.

Nothing I do has any meaning. I am incapable of affecting the world except in in the smallest possible ways. My life is a futile cycle of work, consume and die.

I came to these conclusions (for the hundred millionth time), following the Mayday demonstrations last Wednesday. I wasn't in the main ruck, having attched myself to a sort of mini-demo that some freinds had organized. It involved walking around London with placards, some blank, some bearing a huge photograph of a fluffy Siamese kitten with an expression of culpable stupidity and crossed eyes. The kitten was to invest the affair with a sense of general fluffiness, and the blank placards were to hand out to passersby; we had big felt-tips to write whatever slogan the passerby wanted on the placard. Sort of a free-speech thing. Some of the slogans we ended up with included anything from "Bush is a corporate w***** (and so's Blair)", "How about a nice cup of tea?", "We all come from stars", and commentary on global capitalism couched in choice Portuguese obscenities. After a while the smog of dope fumes started to get to us and some of the placards were amended to include pirates, ninjas, and AYBABTU. (Yes, I know it's deader than crimplene but WTF else can you write on an A2 blow-up of a fluffy kitten?)

The demo went rather well. We stopped for tea and biscuits in Chinatown, then wandered round some more. It felt... good. People's responses were varied, but mostly on the positive side of bewildered, and the blank placards provided a neat answer to that age-old question: "what are you here for?"

"Hmm. Not sure. What would you like?"

We went and hung round Trafalgar Square until it looked like the police were coming to turf everyone out.

The high spot came when we got stuck in Frith street, trying to get to Soho square. A police cordon had blocked the way and these two drunken eejits were trying to start a ruck, with much shouting and pushing of riot-shields. The sparse crowd were getting a bit sullen and fed-up generally. I feared ruckage.

Suddenly a young man appeared at one of the windows opposite. He turned up his stereo full blast, and the strains of the Beatles' "All You Need Is Love" blared out across the street.

He got a standing ovation. (And you can all bog off and stop laughing. Now. It was cool. You had to be there, but it was muy cool.)

Yep, the actual demo was a groovy thing indeed. Good party atmos, good company, nice bikkies, and the Minor Deity of Frith Street with his magic stereo.

So what's with the grim, you might ask? (Assuming you'd been scripted by Joss Wheedon.)

Well, about the time we were leaving Frith Street, we met Mark. I had never met Mark before, and it's my sincere hope that I never meet Mark again. For Mark, my children, is the Anti-Frith-Street-Stereo-Bloke.

Mark is the Uber-F*ckbake.

The least offensive thing he said all night was his suggestion that Chinatown's staple diet is dog. From there is was all downhill, really. The yecchily heavy flirtation. The hand that I couldn't unglue from my thigh. The attempts to impress me with financial profligacy, an aquaintance with one of the bouncers from Stringfellows, and his having seen Jordan's tits. Quotes from Nostradamus. The fact that he didn't actually know what the word 'capitalism' meant, and seemed to blame the French for it. The assertion that he had a degree in psychology and it was a scientific fact that twelve-year-old girls who flirt with men "know what they're getting into". The fact that this no-brain-having piece of human detritus refused to let me have a conversation with anyone else, and wouldn't leave me alone all night.

(Mark. Mark the courier from Surrey: if you're reading this, you are everything that I despise. You're an ignorant little nonce and I hope you plough your scooter into a motorway support. If anyone out there knows Mark the Racist Nonce Courier, please- do the world a favour, and kill him. Tell him you can get high from sucking a scooter exhaust pipe. Anything. Just get rid of him.)

So that, coupled with my usual post demo comedown, is the reason for my huge and catastrophic ennui. Power and wealth is concentrated in the hands of the Marks of this world; all I have is a cardboard placard, a photo of a kitten, and my deep and abiding loathing of you lot.

I may be down, but rest assured: I will return. And I still hate you.