Wednesday, July 31, 2002

Book which you must read.

I've just finished Last and First Men by Olaf Stapleton. You have to read this-- it's a complete headfuck, a revelation. This guy was a visionary. I can't belive he was writing in the 30's.

The book is incredible. It's an attempt to conceptualise the whole future of humanity, civilizations rising and falling, disintegrating and coalescing... it's incredible. There's a terrific sense of a mind trying to reconcile the very worst of human nature with the very best-- and from time to time, actually succeeding.
Why I Hate You, Pt. 10,090

Because you are a vast, I dunno, spongey explody thing of potential and yet you spent your life sitting around wondering if you might possibly be excused from the blatantly ludicrous template within which you have chosen to slot yourselves. Are you? Aren't you? I don't know! Who cares! Let's all have a bun.
2:32 am and haven't found a job.

However, Shashinka has painted her nails, and they look pretty cool. She mentions the Middle East: how ludicrous these girly things are in the face of the world.

I heard an account once; the liberation of a concentration camp. Inamongst the scanty food, the bandages, somebody had given a box of lipsticks. How futile, you say. How silly, how vain. But there were women who rouged their lips and then died still clutching the greasepaint, like a child holding a favorite toy close against the nightmares.

Elsewhere, in space/time: The Egyptians had a fine understanding of wet chemistry, which had its roots largely in the making of eyeshadow and sundry cosmetics. Only recently did we understand the secrets of their blue paint. Small statuettes have been found, ostensibly electroplated, purportedly Ancient Egyptian in origin. A battery is not a hard thing to devise-- nor to forget.

It's the little things in life.

Tuesday, July 30, 2002

Sliiiiight work warning here:Top 10 Cutest Kittens from B3ta

(You did read the work warning before you clicked the link, didn't you? Oh. Oh, well.)
Tom Coates explains to the Grauniad why their weblog compo is "a bloody stupid idea."

Whilst I'm inclined to agree, I still want the money.
Virus warning: Blank emails containing worms!

Regular punters will recall my concern a few days back that following the huge if brief rise in my hit rate, I might have more than the usual amont of tosh in my inbox. Well, turns out I was right. Apart from an increase in spam I've noticed a worrying number of blank but very large emails. I opened the first couple (duh) because I didn't know what they were. (DUHHHRRRRR!)

Now, until fairly recently, you could avoid virusifying your 'puter by not opening suspicious attachments. However these emails can deliver a worm onto your virtual doorstep just by being opened. They're not that hard to spot: large emails (100 k+) with garbled, nonsensical, or unknown senders, which prove to be blank.

Once again: These are LARGE, apparently BLANK emails, from unknown or garbled senders, with NO attachments. They are NOT safe, they contain WORMS. Be very, VERY vigilant, especially if you use some superweak piece of pantsware like Outlook Express to read your email.


Us paranoiacs now have our own version of warchalking-- Let's PSYCHALK!

Although... he mentions the aluminium foil deflector beanie! Oh, no. Major disinfo. Actually, the AFDB works like a faraday cage, focusing your thoughts out round the edges and making it easier for the aliens to read your mind. Argggh! Nowhere is safe!!!
Sick of @!$* personality tests? Want to give your online buddies a little aversion thereapy? The Atomic Temple Online can help you out, with this handy dandy fake quiz. Looks like a personality test, but dumps the unsuspecting testee face-first into a page-full of mullet-pr0n!

(Work warning. Duh.)
"Boeing, the world’s largest aircraft manufacturer, has admitted it is working on experimental anti-gravity projects."

(Via the null device)

Monday, July 29, 2002

Seems like I never have enough time to do all the things I want to do. So I'm going to make some more.

('Course, if Fotemacus would answer my calls I wouldn't have this problem.)
Style v Content, Round 192

The problem with me is that most of my writing, if I'm honest, isn't really about anything. It's all disjointed scenes, vigniettes, powerful in themselves but ultimately sterile. I need stories, real stories; and for that I need focus.

But the bigger problem-- the great, oozing Alien Queen of a problem, the problem that endlessly squits out new problems which will in turn hatch to choke up my life-- is that I can't finish anything.
I hate it when this happens.

None of my bits are getting on with my other bits. The empiricist in me is Not Talking to the magickian, the magickian is having a bit of a sulk, the Drunk Poet is making the Mad Poet cry, the Eternal Adolecent doesn't have a thing to we-e-e-a-r, the Wise Old One is having a senior moment and nobody's getting any work done.

Sunday, July 28, 2002

Dancing pillow.
Obese man sues Maccy D's

Get this: an obesity sufferer is sueing McDonald's, Wendy's, Burger King and Kentucky Fried Chicken for making him fat.

Okay, the case is self evidently a load of codswallop and the plaintiff is a prat for not actually thinking about what he was putting into his body, and I'm sick to death of the way people want to replace commonsense with instructions, thus absolving themselves of the need to use their brains. (We can take my intolerance for stupidity as read by now, yes?) But I'm also sick of the way big food companies pollute our lives and lie about what their food does to our bodies. They suppress evidence, they buy off "experts" to spout drivel and they use cynical marketing to hook kids on junk food. I hope the guy wins the case.

Then I'm going to sue him becase his stupidity has raised my blood-pressure.
My manifesto.

1) I will stop worrying about what people think of me. I rub people up the wrong way. Boo fucking hoo. If I'm out of line I'll apologise, but I'm not going to crawl.

2) I will stop getting distracted by stuff that doesn't matter.

3) I will stop getting all worked up over random wankers. That git shouting at me from a white van is not my Evil Nemesis, he's a git in a white van.

4) I will stop being such a conflictophobe. I will accept that my convictions are not widely held and will get me in trouble one of these days. Tough.

5) I will punt out stories, articles, treatments and any other goddam thing I can think of until I am the calm eye at the centre of a hurricane of rejection letters.

6) I will accept that I am trying to break into writing at a time where magazines and comics are folding left, right and centre. I will respond by being even more bloodyminded and stubborn than usual.

7) I will accept that people like me attract flak. I will deal with said flak without curling up into a little ball and sobbing. I will soak it up and keep going.

8) I will experiment with various mediums in a systematic way, until I find something I can master.

9) I will recognise that I am not the apex of creation. I can always do better than I'm doing now. I will always be aiming for that better.

10) I will do whatever it takes to get where I need to be.

11) I will never quit.

Paranormal beliefs linked to brain chemistry

Interesting article from the NS. Apperently higher levels of dopamine aid pattern-regcognition but also make people more likely to percieve patterns when there were none.

Saturday, July 27, 2002

More info.

Since putting up That blog entry, I've had a few people ask me what they should do if they see somebody having a fit. Here's the basics:

While a grand mal is scary to watch, it's not always an emergency. Look and see if they have a medic-alert bracelet with details of the problem.

Lower the person carefully onto the ground.

If possible, turn their head to one side so that they don't choke on their saliva or tongue. It is not possible to "swallow" your tongue, but it can fall back and block the airway.

Stay with them, and make sure they can't knock into anything. Place something soft under the person's head.

Don't put anything in the person's mouth-- it could break their teeth or choke them.

Don't restrain them. This could cause the person to break or dislocate a bone.

Reassure them. An epileptic may feel very disoriented and anxious on coming to; tell them they've had a fit, tell them where they are and who you are.

Stay with them until they are fully aware of their surroundings.

If the fit lasts longer than 5 or 10 minutes, or if it's the person's first fit, or they've had more than one fit, then summon emergency medical assistance.

So now you know, eh?

A clarification.

Okay, that was not the full on seizure, right? That was the bit before the seizure, known as the aura. The actual seizure, in my case, involves falling on the floor, frothing at the mouth, and usually ends up with me losing a fight with a neighbouring item of furniture. This is not conducive to fast or accurate typing. Some people's epileptic fits are a lot like the description; YMMV.

Here is a site explaining seizures, and this site has some good general info on epilepsy.
If you liked the online aura thang, then you'll just love...

Barbelith Underground > Creation > Electronics project: mind control.

We still need a kilo of iron filings and some sort of ring-shaped container.

...and I guess I ought to have some sort of mission-plan thingy, or I'll end up all over place. Silly wee scamp that I am.

Mission Plan Thingy.

I will get a job writing about stuff. Maybe in comics.

I've toyed with the idea in of writing a comic in the past, but always dismissed it. I wasn't raised in a very comic-y environment, except for Asterix and Tin-Tin, and I always thought that you sort of had to be raised on the things. Comics only really hoved into my ken in my middle teens, with Deadline magazine; I didn't even read Watchmen till ten years after came out.

But now it I'm beginning to rethink the whole oh-I-could-never-write-a-comic thing. I've got a very strong visual imagination, which might lend itself to the medium. And I have some pretty good ideas. I'm going to have a look at what comics writers have to say about the process, and reassess some of my own yarns in relation to what's out there.

The Trouser-Press of Justice

(Netted in a dawn raid on B3ta)

Friday, July 26, 2002

Tired of overcomplicated personality tests?

Sick of ploughing through 57 different variables only to be told you're something a bit naff, like a brown leatherette sofa or the green opal fruit or Carol Smillie?

Then try the What Sex Are You? Test!

Bizarre Breasts

"I have utilized my meager knowledge of anatomy and admittedly unpolished art skills to bring the world a brief tutorial on one of the comic artists' greatest challenges: the breast."

I'm not alone: L.K. Malnassy has also noticed that many comic artists can't draw t1ts.
Oh, yeah.

I forgot: AND I'm getting too old to try and get into another line of work.

Rabbits to it. There's not much point me trying to get a job writing stuff until I've got some stuff out there. Not much hope of getting paid for it at the mo., but plenty of worthy 'zines rely on voluntary contributions. Get out there. Get name in magazine. Then can go "look, Mr. Editor! Writey thing what I have wrote!" Then will get job, and hopefully money will follow. Or more money than I make in temp hell, anyhow.

Right: my job finished today AND I don't have another one lined up AND I don't know when I'll be able to find another job AND I'll probably have to start scrounging off my boyfriend again AND I don't want to AND when I do find a job it'll be caretaking or cleaning or packing since that's all I ever bloody get AND I'm looking for work in an industry I know nothing about AND where I have no experience AND my head hurts.

I'm going to go and kick things now.


How activists comprehensively f*cked up a Gap recruitment fair by setting up an information point outside and telling everyone how the company makes its money by exploiting sweatshop labour.

What bothers me is that this news still came as a surprise to a lot of people. Since the world is evidently still full of individuals who think clothes float onto Gap's shelves by magic, here's another link:

Pay more attention, bad people! Pay attention to horribleness or I'll come round and paint your cat!
"The spirit catches you, and you fall down." Not a bad description, really.
Imagine waking up one morning to find that someone had covered your lawn with tacky pink plastic waterfowl. Oh, no! It's a Flamingo Nightmare!

(Whisked away from kookymojo in a little pink handbag.)

Thursday, July 25, 2002

Stand-up-and-punch-the-air article on Sexism in Magick.
Cracking stuff.

Well, the news is out anyway... I suppose I might as well say it: it looks like The Barbelith Underground is to close. I was hoping against hope that Tom Coates, who runs the board, might change his mind. There's been no word, though, so I must assume the worst.

As Rage says, I'm just not digging this.
Bottled water is drug paraphernalia.

And so are glowsticks. And chillout rooms. Look, it's not made up-- it's this bill the US Congress is looking at. Look, it's real: Ravers Against the Machine (

(Appropriated from the bulging pockets of Megarad Technologies - Ultimate in Underground Technology News)

Wednesday, July 24, 2002

Random Paranoia

The huge leap in traffic over the past couple of days has filled me with mixed emotions. There's a tiny little part of me that is whispering: "Look at all those hits! The editor of Neurotic Gen-Xer Weekly must be in there somewhere. I bet he's reading your weblog right now, yelling to his PA: "We've found our new star columnist! Send round the limo with some posh booze and a big pizza and some Hello Kitty stationary-- whatever it takes! We've got to get her on board!"

The rest of me (which is marginally closer to reality) is picturing spam, death threats, spam, hatemail, more spam than you can shake a stick at, mailbombs, viruses, spam spam spam and spam... and of course dozens-- nay, hundreds!-- of potential employers shaking their heads in sorrow and mumuring: "Do you think this clown's got any idea how big a ninny she looks? Find out the real name of the person behind this freakshow, would you-- we wouldn't want to hire her by mistake. Actually, just have one of our Human Resources people pop round with a gun. It's the kindest thing to do."

Y'see, I'm suddenly and acutely aware that I haven't really aimed for a sense of top-class journalism here, going instead for flash animations and stuff about platypuses, interspersed with moaning about my job. I realize now that, just possibly, trying to get my readers involved in a sordid magickal ritual might not put me in the best light.

So, if the editor of Snide&Resentful Review (incorporating Let's Blame Everyone But Ourselves For Our Problems Digest) happens to be reading this: I can actually do proper writing, you know. Honest.

Gizza job.
First it was Spiderman who'd make you gay just by watching him. Now it appears that watching Sesame Street will make you gay.

"(Washington) A group of powerful conservative Republicans have condemned the introduction of an HIV Muppet on public television, and have issued a veiled threat to public television that it could face spending scrutiny if it goes ahead with the project.... The American Family Association. The AFA says the character is a means for 'homosexual activists to influence young viewers.'"

Oh, FFS. Look, the show is supposed to go out in South Africa, a nation where HIV is rampant beyond words. It's aimed at little kids who've been born infected with the virus, to help them and their peers learn about the condition. It might save lives, for crying out loud.

See, this is why I hate people so much.
Despair, Inc.:Office supplies that tell it like it really is.

(Snatched from the WEF.)


Man oh man. You know how many hits I was getting at the height of my Grauniad weblog fame? Eighty a day. You know how many I've got in the last three and a half hours? A hundred and ninety. Where are they all coming from? Why, from Oh, the cruel price of fame.

Jeeze Louise. The site went down altogether a couple of hours back. At this rate I'm going to have to flog my carbamazipine pills to students just to afford the bandwidth. Y'know, now would be a really good time for that weekly column to drop in my lap....
Actually, I meant to do that. It's the Amazing Button Which Doesn't Actually Do Very Much. There ya go. I hope you're all suitably impressed.

Testing, testing.

Tuesday, July 23, 2002

By popular demand...

Online Epilepsy : A new spectator sport? Being a transcript of the original "I'm going to have a fit" thread.

I have had approximately four times my usual hit rate today, all of it relating to the fit thing. I'm amazed yet strangely gratified by all the interest, though with hindsight my lack of a webcam to record myself the actual fit was a missed opportunity. Hey, that could be a real moneyspinner--

"! All grand mal, all the time! Watch'em wriggle, folks!"

Did I mention that I was hoping to score a regular column somewhere? I can't promise a fit every week but I could improvise. Contract something oozy. Arrange to suffer a freak cheesegrater accident. I'm flexible.

This would be why the traffic's gone up: Luke aka Rothkoid has linked to the thing I did about chucking an epo. Then it turned up here. Now it seems to be doing the rounds via email.

Umm.... great. Possibly.
Traffic's up again.

Hullo, new people. You know I've got a personal message board, right? Drop by! say hi! Give me all your money so the popups can die!

Sunday, July 21, 2002

You've got BRAIN!!!

I am pleased to inform you that you-- yes, YOU!-- are the owner of a brain. You do not have to sign anything, nor do you have to send me a registration fee. You do not have to wait for it to be delivered. It's already yours! In your head! Now!

Your free, all-expenses-paid brain comes equipped with the following features as standard:

* Critical faculties!

Critical faculties allow you to think things about stuff and work stuff out, without waiting to be told by someone or going along with your first kneejerk reaction. Gosh, they're super!

* Language!

Yes-- with brain, the super head-filler, you get Language absolutely free! Language has Words and helps you to express ideas and thoughts and stuff. No longer will you be reduced to calling everything "gay". No longer will you have to content yourself with dull, unimaginative death-threats or hackneyed sexual slurs! Why say "yr sight suks!!!!!" when you could say "Your website is the diseased leakage from an infected rectal fistula and you yourself are quite stunningly pathetic"? Langauge-- it's a bit good!

* Learning abilities!

Brain also comes equipped with a state-of-the-art upgrade facility, Learning™. Imagine-- free brain upgrades, whenever you want! NO waiting! NO big downloads! Just insert information via sensory apparatus and Learning™ will do the rest! AMAZING!

"But Mordant," I hear you cry, "I cannot use my Brain! I did not go to (insert academic institution) and I'm only a (insert random agglomeration of gender/orientation/occupation)! How can I use Brain?"

Mandy the Bearded One (in a box) says: Don't worry! I went to a top academic institution and that never stopped my rise to idiocy.

That's right. You may feel ill-equipped to process certain topics-- yet how many hours have you spent sitting around with your mates and discussing why (insert sports team here) should buy (insert player of said sport here)? Or why (insert soap character here) should break up with (insert another soap character here)? In minute detail! See? You already have the basic tools for discussing and understanding all kinds of things and stuff!

"But Mordant," I hear another cry go up, "I have a Ph. D. in being dead clever from Dead Clever University! Am I not already using Brain?"

Nuh-uh! You may have used Brain for certain specialized applications in the past-- but are you using it right now? Do you find yourself waving your Ph. D. in Dead Cleverness around as a debate crashes around your pathetically untenable position in flames? Then you need to use Brain! Or you'll end up looking like a total prat!

Mandy the Bearded One (in a box) says: Yes-- intelligence doesn't equal wisdom. Anyway, what does it matter when you can't sit down and you aren't allowed on the furniture? ooouch.

So start using super free Brain, TODAY!!!

Mandy the Bearded One (in a box) says: Can I say Chomskyian now? Please?

(No. *thunk.*)

New stuff from


(Wrenched from the slippery ginger clutches of the B3TA newsletter.)
I have been asked to take issue with Dan's comments on That Weblog compo:

"Mind you, I'm not sure what the fuss is about. Wil Wheaton's going to win. Wil Wheaton always wins.That's what Wil Wheaton is for.

Honestly, sometimes I have to explain everything."

According to Mandy the Bearded One, this is a blatant attempt to overtake the front runner from behind. It is, and I quote, "cheap, obvious and meretricious." Despite the fact that he only said that after I beat him up and made him say it, it remains an insightful comment on the competition. Dan beats Wil, I beat Dan, ergo the only possible candidate for the prize is moi.

Oh, and I think Mandy the Bearded One is trying to convey his independance and neutrality but since he's bound and gagged under my desk, all I can hear is "Mwararar!" Now, if I ever decide to let you out you can get your own weblog, can't you, darling?

Ever get one of those Nigerian scam emails? Ever wondered who's behind it? Ever spared a thought for the poor souls daft enough to get suckered in by said email? Well, wonder no more, for good old Wired has the answers.

(Tea-leaved from the aforementioned memetic life v3)

I love clicking on random blogs from Blogger's "recently updated" list. Most of them are utterly pants but every so often you find something like memetic life v3. Makes it all worthwhile.

This isn't the worst job I've ever had.

The worst job I've ever had (and there are many contenders; I might mention litter-picking after Party in the Park, I might mention being a files clerk for the National Lottery Charities' Board) was being a machine-minder in a hinge factory. It bit.

I had various duties but mainly I was assigned to operate one or other of the several drilling machines that drilled out and countersunk each leaf of the hinge, ready to be assembled elsewhere in the factory. (The technical term for what I did was "reaming knuckles". No, really.) My job consisted of placing each leaf in turn in the machine, then pressing a button to operate the drilling mechanism, then taking out the leaf and blowing all the grot off it with an air-hose. Becuase the drill-bits would get very hot they and the leaf had to be bathed in a constant stream of coolant fluid, a thin, milky liquid with a greasy mineral odour. Swarf piled up everywhere, corkscrews and flakes of sharp metal.

The permanent staff were given thick long-sleeved overalls but there were not enough spare ones for the temps. That's pretty typical; when it comes to protective gear, temps and casuals generally get stiffed. This happens in plush offices as well as the factory floor-- you wouldn't belive the number of times I've temped in a huge swanky building for a company whose budget seemed to cover logo-adorned carpets and marble surfaces but not an extra chair, so that temp workers were expected to spend eight hours standing up to type. I have permenant nerve damage in my right arm and shoulder from such practices.

As a temp, I had not an overall but a disposable apron made of thin blue plastic. Someone also found me a plastic sack which I could lay across my knees while I worked. These did not suffice to keep the coolant and swarf off me, however; after ten minutes at the machine my clothes would be saturated with coolant, my face and hair splashed with it. The coolant was nasty stuff. It dried out my skin so that it became coarse in texture and it triggered an allergic reaction which made me itch wherever the liquid got on me-- and it got on me everywhere. I was red and itchy from head to toe, all the time. The discomfort used to keep me awake at night. The swarf was also a problem. It got into my clothes, insinuating itself into the fabric. If I pushed back my sleeves without thinking, it would cut and scratch the skin. I looked like a Slipknot fan.

Thick red rubber gloves were supplied freely. The coolant would react with the rubber, making it stiff and brittle. Eventually it would crack, allowing swarf and coolant onto your hands. The stiffness also meant that handling the leaves became tricky. Since there was always somebody overseeing the work, shouting and demanding more speed, I would sometimes have to remove one or both of my gloves in order to keep up with the pace demanded.

Insert the leaf, press the button, remove the leaf, clean it, put it in the tray. Insert the leaf, press the button, remove the leaf. Insert the leaf, press the button, remove the leaf. I got through about four thousand a day, most days. It's easy, when doing this kind of work, to drift off into a trance state. Easy-- but risky. There were all kinds of eventualities demanding the operators attention: steam from an overheating drillbit, countersinking becoming too deep or not deep enough, a change in the din from the machine indicating some sort of problem. Drift off and you can make mistakes, mistakes that might end up costing you the booking. Unsatisfactory work. The employer can turn round and refuse to pay the agency for your labour; the agency will think twice before offering you work again. Even if they don't boot you out for good and all, they aren't obliged to find you work. So. Focus. Insert the leaf, press the button, remove the leaf. No matter how bored you are, no matter how much you might want to let your mind wander, you must stay in the here-and-now. You must insert the leaf, press the button, remove the leaf. Check every tenth one for damage and dodgy countersinking. Insert the leaf, press the button, remove the leaf, all day, four thousand times a day.

Minimum wage, natch.

Saturday, July 20, 2002

Gizza job.

Okay, seeing as how I'm getting all this new traffic, including a number of repeat offenders, the time has come for me to start exploiting your collective ass.

I want a weekly column somewhere. You people are going to help me get it. Got it? Good. Now what I want you to do is a simple little magick spell, chaos magickians, for the use of. (If you're not familiar with chaos magick, then Phil Hine's Oven-Ready Chaos is as good a place to start as any; there's also some good stuff on

You do your spell as follows:

1) Write down your statement of intent-- in this case, MY WILL IS FOR MORDANT TO GET A REGULAR COLUMN.

2) Cross out all the vowels. We don't need no steeeenking vowels. This gives you: MY WLL S FR MRDNT T GT RGLR CLMN

3) Remove all the repeated letters, giving you: MY WL S FR DNT G C.

Now you can either make a mantra, or make a sigil. Or both. Actually, do both. I really want that column.

4a) Mantra: Shove random vowels into the string of letters. It doesn't matter where or how many, just make it into a pronounceable word.

4b) Sigil: Turn all the letters into a ickle pritty picture. How is up to you. Doodle. Have fun. Take away repeated lines, add dots, add squiggles. Use a graphics package, use crayons, use paint, use your own bodily fluids, I don't care. JUST GET ME THAT COLUMN!

Having made our mantra and/or sigil, we now have to charge it. There are various ways of doing this but they all boil down to the same thing: persuading the conscious mind to shut up and sit down so that the id or the unconscious or the temporal lobe or the Higher Self (insert theory of the month here) can get a good look at the sigil and start doing stuff to the fabric of reality. I've seen many techniques suggested and tried out. These include, but are not limited to: holding your breath, jogging, running round in a circle till you fall over, meditating, tagging the sigil in dangerous places, looking at the sigil whilst really, really stoned... actually, there's almost nothing that someone, somewhere, hasn't tried (chaos magickans being, frankly, a bunch of sluts. Mad sluts.) However, the most popular and the easiest technique is to chant the mantra/stare at the sigil at the moment of orgasm.

See? See how easy it is? Go on. You were just looking for pr0n-- I can see your Google referrals. You were going to party with Mrs Palm tonight anyway-- why not lend your sordid, grubby self-abuse to a higher purpose: getting me a job? Go oooon.

Hell, it worked for Grant Morrison.
Ananova - Students do washing-up for free bondage sessions

Lady Sian of Teeside: "Because of their loans they haven't got much money. I just ask them to vacuum or do the washing up before they go."
Marks & Sparks busted for smack!
The "I'm going to have a fit" thread

Okay, so last night I was online and I realised that I had a fit coming on. At the time it seemed like a good idea to start a thread about it. Here are some edited highlights:

At 23:52 19.07.2002:

I'm going to have an epileptic fit.

Soon. Like in the next half hour or so.

Given that I can't do anything about it, I thought it might be interesting to stay online as long as I can and tell you what transpires.


Any questions?

At 23:57 19.07.2002:

...Just now everything is illuminated with a blush of yellow and rosy-pink.

At 00:15 20.07.2002:

The thing I notice most are tones of blue. I see them everywhere, like crystals. My movements feel very stylized, as if I am taking part in a noh play or a puppet theatre.

At 00:17 20.07.2002:

I can taste something, like salt but not salt. An illusiory flavour, on the tip of my tongue like a forgotten word. The keybord is bricks, sandstone bricks.

At 00:18 20.07.2002:

This is the aura. The fit comes later, a sensation like a fast train.

At 00:19 20.07.2002:

It's not going to be a bad one. It's come up fast. The slow burn is the worst.

At 00:21 20.07.2002:

It was the smell that told me. I smel lthings like burning herbs. Then they go, and when its over they're gone.

At 00:24 20.07.2002:

I can feel a weight in my palms, like stone. But it is a stone that moves with me, weight without weight.

At 00:29 20.07.2002:

I can feel fragments of identity speaking to me. It gets harder to describe. I taste salt and something else. I exult in these moments. it's the payoff for the bad times, the weary times. In these moments I kiss God.

At 00:31 20.07.2002:

I can see all the colours now. under your skin! look at your hand. do you doubt that you contain an infinity of shades? tone and chroma chapter and verse. you are the book of madder-rose and indigo. my hands will be taken soon, for a while. but how lovely that i can speak colour with my hands, while the time lasts!

At 00:33 20.07.2002:

its coming. i break open like achrysalis, i split. cant say much more. but you are the divine! look at your hands, draw breth, and do not doubt that you taste eternity.

At 00:37 20.07.2002:

over soon. i would be a river if i could. i would bleed eternal/divine. wont see it when i wake up. see it NOW.

all colours. when you see all the colours. all the colours, in any one colour. that is to taste the divine. over soon. I want to remember! the keys look like bone, like brick. pyramids and saints toes. all colours. all the colours. they all saw all the colours.

At 00:40 20.07.2002:

keys like bone, but containign all colours. the colours never leave us. God is spectrum, infinite spectrum. sound, colour touch all a spectrum.

At 00:41 20.07.2002:

it comes. ill tell you in a minute. be fine. i love you

At 00:54 20.07.2002:

It's over. I had the fit, I'm fine except I think I hit my elbow on something and I bit muy tongue. I'm going upstairs for hugs and food. See you in the moring.

Improv Message Boards - True Porn Clerk Stories

"It's THAT kind of personal service that sets your store apart from the Blockbusters!"

(Lifted elegantly from metafilter)
Yahoo! News - Weird Fossilized Flying Reptile 'A Vision of Hell'

Six foot long, massive wings, big lizardy crested head, ate fish, and may have been covered in fur.

I want one.

(Snaffled from Barbelith.)

Friday, July 19, 2002

Men are from Mars....

No. No, actually, they're not. Sorry. Opposite sex does not equal strange alien species what is all strange and alien, and/or a bitch/bastard. Try looking at the person you're trying to formulate a relationship with, from a viewpoint of What if They Were Me? What would I want?

Stop looking for codes and sigils and signs and wonders, and just... get to know each other. Stop playing those damnfool games and you'll stop losing them.
Okay, so here's the deal. Obviously a weblog award run by a national newspaper is all dodgy and messed up, right? And we all know this, right? We also know that the Guardian (heretoafter refered to as the Paper in Question or PIQ) has overlooked some totally class weblogs in the past, favouring instead the flashy and derivative (aside from certain notable exeptions, natch). Ergo, anyone who actually wins is basically going to be reviled as a humungous sell-out, their reputation ruined, cut dead in street by their former friends, horsewhipped on the steps of their club, etc etc.

Ergo, the person with the most to gain and the least to lose is me. I have no reputation and few friends; also, I tend to frequent clubs where being horsewhipped on the steps generally costs extra. I am therefore going to make a serious effort to become the Biggest Blogslag Of Them All.

My campaign to blag the blog award, Day 1

The Entry Form.

I filled it in and sent it off. Then I had a nice big glass of squash and a hayfever pill.
Wired 10.08: Strange Blood

"Cataclysmic shortages. Tainted supplies. There is a solution: artificial blood."

okay, my archives are down and are likely to remain so for a while. I'm trying to find a way round this but basically it's a Blogger glitch. It happens-- Blogger's been going through a period of change recently, and some of the guts are a little wonky still. That said: the thing is free, goddammit, it's not like it's a public service or something. Blogger has become one of my all-time favourite toys ever. Mad props for Blogger/Pyra.

Even when my archives disappear just as I'm trying to blag a best weblog award off a national newspaper.
And now it's all back. But the links are gone. And nothing I do seems to bring them back. I've tried resetting the archive but to no avail. I'm going to kick something in a minute.
All of my archives before June have disappeared. Everything. It's all gone.


It would seem that the Grauniad has launched a Best British Blog competition

My thoughts on this can be boiled down to the following:

1) It's a really, really barmy notion
2) I really, really want the money.

1) because, well, weblogging is such a nebulously defined activity. What is a weblog anyway? And "best"? Best what? Content? Style? (Having read the Guardian Weekend I'd be inclined to go with the latter *snicker*). Best picture of a hedgehog in a pink party hat? Who knows.

2) because I'm mercenary as hell and I have debts the size of a big hill. Vote for me.

Thursday, July 18, 2002


For no other reason than I want it in my sidebar and I can't have it until Blogger stops being strange. Sulky sulky.
Real Ultimate Platypus.

Duck-Billed Platypus


The duck-billed platypus (Ornithorhynchus Anatinus) lives in rivers on the eastern side of Australia.

The duck-billed platypus lays eggs and suckles its young.

The duck-billed platypus lives in burrows and finds food in the rivers using electrical impulses.

The male duck-billed platypus has a poisonous spur on his hind legs.

The duck-billed platypus grows to about 50cm and can live for up to 12 years in captivity.


(Picked up like an embarrassing disease from Barbelith.)

Armed robbery 101

(A coda to the events of Wednesday the 10th of July)

1) Do not go on the rob at 4:00 in the afternoon.

Not many people know this but 4:00 in the afternoon is when all the kids get out of school. They, or their parents, may notice your black balaclava and sunglasses and conclude that something is amiss.

2) Do not knock off two businesses in one area in one afternoon.

Even if you only get a few hundred quid from the off-licence, resist the temptation to pop into the bookies for another go. It may have occured to the bloke in the offie to phone the police, who in turn may decide to start looking for you.

3) Do not "hide" evidence under a car where everyone can see it.

Especially when you've just run past half a dozen six-foot tall wheelie bins, many containing rubbish which could easily camoflage anything else you put in them.

4) Do not leave your black balaclava lying around for hair and fibre to play with.

Ditto your half-smoked cigarette. Although DNA evidence is the least of your worries if you've already broken the next rule...

5) Do not leave a packet of cigarettes covered in your dabs in with the gun you used for the hold up. Ditto sunglasses with even better fingerprints on them.

Just in case you think I'm on the side of the robbers, here's a tip for the police:

When cordoning off an estate so as to catch a miscreant, ask a local person if there's any other way out of said estate. That way you don't end up looking like wallies when the moron described above nips down a short-cut.

Oh, the shame.

Do excuse the "bandwidth exceeded" notice adorning my sidebare where a picture should be. The unprecedented number of dog-oglers who've swung by recently means that my free image hosting thingy can't cope. I've got a less bandwidth-hungry image all ready to put up instead, but Blogger is having a bit of a tantrum at the mo and I can't change the image URL.

It's all your fault. I hate you.

Wednesday, July 17, 2002

Mike and Jarvis have built a lego robot that plays reggae on a ukelele. As you do.

(Biting B3TA's stuff again.)
First there was warchalking. Now we have.... Whorechalking: collaboratively creating a dirty dirty language that helps you pay for sex.

(Spirited away from plasticbag)

Tuesday, July 16, 2002

Inaction Figures

Inaction figure is "a group of friends who want to make everybody's life better by selling them plastic toys and whatnot." Including the strangely menacing plakky duck. Go away, plakky duck! I fear you! You look moody and resentful; you wear a polo-neck but no trousers. Arrrrgggghhhhh!

(Ripped off of Machete)

Here, in no particular order, are some of my goals for the next two months.

Tidy up article & make a start on the next one.
Finish two of the three stories I've got hanging around on my hard-drive half-done.
Get ahold of Quark Express (probably a downloadable demo) and learn to use it.
Aquire mad HTML skillz.
Finish that damn tape for Saveloy.
Create confidence-boosting servitor.
Bother the electronics agency I'm signed up with about a job.
Sign up with and bother a couple of modelling/acting agencies.
Check new media jobs frequently with a view to finding out what skills I need.
Get back into my psi exercise routine.
Send off more CVs.
Create website to showcase my work.

Monday, July 15, 2002

Queer Granny Designs

"You have to pick a girl bear for your second bear."
"Why? I bought two boy Kiss Kiss bears here last December."
"Well, you were really wrong to do that."
"OK, will you sell me two pairs of boy-girl Kiss Kiss bears?"
"No! Because you are gay and you are just buying the extra bears to get two gay bears, and I won't let you do that. No gay bears will leave this store!"

Sunday, July 14, 2002

Great news!

Readers! How often have you thought to yourself, "Darn, I wish I could watch When Come Back, Bring Pie translated into French, complete with tacky accordian music and berets" ? Well now-- thanks to the wonder of the internettywebtypething-- you can!

Also of interest is this helpful and informative page for epileptics. Ha bloody ha, you swines. Don't for god's sake click the link if you're flicker-sensitive.

(Smuggled away from the B3TA newsletter. In my pants.)
Schizotypal:Very High
Borderline:Very High

-- Click Here To Take The Test --

"Moderate" paranoia? "Moderate"? I'm shocked and offended. I have mad paranoia skillz, goddammit! I am the Para Queen!

(From Fenwick Rysen's LiveJournal)

Saturday, July 13, 2002

Ugly Reject Seeks Modelling Work

Generation Xtras is a new agency, currently recruiting (and I quote) "Goths, Punks, Hippies, Bikers, Metalers, Rockers, Crusties, Pierced, Tattooed, Cyber, wild alternative people for FILM, TELEVISION & PHOTO WORK!"

UK residents & over-16s only, I'm afraid. If you're up for it, or know someone who is, then strike while the iron is hot-- they want new faces, NOW.

Spiderman Will Make You Gay Apparently. (Found wrapped in a plasticbag.)

It's entertaining and all, in a totally juvenile way, but... eggy. Distinctly eggy. As Tom Coates says, "What the hell is it about the world that makes the word 'gay' so intrinsically funny to people?"

Incidentally, it's Tom's b-day soon. He's one of my favourite stalkees, but I'm currently too skint to send any creepy and inappropriate gifts :-( Maybe a passing 'Lither would like to do the honours?)
"HEY! Who are all you people?" mk II

I see from my site tracker that between The Guardian's weblog list and Lukelog, I notched up 89 hits yesterday and 49 so far today. So. Um. Hi! I see that one or two of you have been emailing my URL to your mates. Some of you have spent a full hour reading the damn archive. Some of you have come back two or three times a day.

You are strange. You disturb me, strange people. And you have put a terrible strain on my image host.
Temp Hell

Was reading an article today, an extract from this book, Below the Breadline: Living on the Minimum Wage by Fran Adams. What the author has done, right, is go round Britain, taking minimum-wage jobs for a month. Then she's written about her experiences.

I nearly wet myself laughing. I mean, what the heck? She couldn't just go round the country and talk to folk on the minimum wage, oh no. She has to take a job away from someone who actually needs it, and then write about how hard it all was. Apparently people actually living on the minimum wage-- people who are stuck in rotten jobs working rotten hours in rotten conditions for rotten pay, people who are probably going to have to live in that wretched accommodation on that pittance for the rest of their miserable lives before they finally succumb to the ravages of occupational disease-- apparently they aren't qualified to talk about life on the minimum wage.

I suppose the lower orders lack the neccesary training, or maybe they're not articulate enough. Or perhaps it's just that they're untrustworthy. Yeah. That must be it.

Build Your Own Dead Chick. (Can you belive they stopped making these? Via Cruel Site of the Day.)

Friday, July 12, 2002 | Broadcast | HIV-positive vibes on Sesame Street

An HIV-positive puppet character is to be introduced to the South African version of long-running children's favourite Sesame Street... "We know she'll be lively, alert, friendly, outgoing and HIV-positive. She'll be healthy, not sickly," Joel Schneider, the vice-president of Sesame Workshop, told the 14th international Aids conference in Barcelona.

This is great stuff, of course-- but why no HIV+ muppet elsewhere in the Sesame Street watching world? While S. Africa obviously has the direst, most urgent need, I'm inclined to feel that certain other nations are becoming way too complacent. Also, confining a move like this to an African nation might reinforce a whole pile of truly ugly stereotypes.

U.S. Drops Demand for War Court Immunity

UNITED NATIONS, July 10 -- The Bush administration agreed today to drop its demand that the U.N. Security Council grant Americans serving in U.N. peacekeeping missions permanent immunity from the international war crimes tribunal.

(Via the mailing list)

A random trawl through my endless list of silly and timewasting links throws up....

The Cthulhu Mythos Story Name Generator!
ISRAEL: Conscientious objector sentenced to 14 days imprisonment (IndyMedia UK webcast news)

Read it and weep, bloggybabies. Read. It. And. Weep.
Guardian Unlimited | Weblog | UK weblogs

I'm so utterly chuffed it's disgusting. I'm probably setting off some kind of Chuffedness alarm at GCHQ. My door will be kicked in any moment by the Suspicious Chuffedness Squad. That's how chuffed I am.

Of course, now my image hosting service is going to start wigging out again.
Bloggus Caesari

(Filched from


So last Wednesday I was half-an-hour from going home, right? And one of the people from the Tenants' Association buttonholes me and points out that:

a) There's been a police helicopter circling overhead for the last few minutes and

b) There's a coat shoved under her mate's car which wasn't there ten minutes previously.

Apparently since I am the caretaker, this is my problem. Gingerly approach coat, clock the fact that there's a package wrapped in a black plastic bag underneath it, panic slightly. Ask if anyone knows the number of the local nick. Nobody does. Local kids now home from school and starting to take an unhealthy interest in Suspect Package. Panic goes up a notch. Dial 999, explain situation to Plod. Plod tells me it's probably just some stolen property and generally makes me feel about 2 inches tall & mad, but says he'll send someone round.

Panic panic panic. Police turn up, stroll over to car, poke jacket, pull jacket, find cigarettes in binbag, laugh. Unwrap binbag further to find 1 (one) black balaclava and 1 (one) shotgun barrel made of two bits of pipe taped together, robbers, for the use of.

Police stop laughing, cordon off area, start yelling at kids to get away from the car, etc etc. Apparently someone had knocked off the turf accountant round the corner, hence helicopters and bruhaha.

CID turn up. Divers alarums and excursions. Hang around nervously for a bit then go home, reassured by police assertions that the gun is a dummy.

Go into work on Thursday moring to be informed that alleged fake gun was actually a real gun. A real, homemade gun. A real, dangerous, unreliable, blow-your-face-off, explode-if-you-look-at-it-funny



I was never in any danger. I think. But if I'd just phoned the local police station instead of 999 and then hung around and waited while they decided whether or not to bother turning up, what's the betting that one of the kids would have gone over and kicked said homemade gun, or pointed it at someone-- with hilarious consequences? Homemade guns are not noted for their stability.

The next time I see something like that under a car, I am going to dial 999, snidey plod or no snidey plod.

Wednesday, July 10, 2002

Whine II

Great. Another day of scraping chewing-gum, picking up rubbish, and humping buckets of dirty water up and down stairs. It's not so terrible, of course-- at least I've got a job-- but I find myself thinking, Is this it? Is this all there's ever going to be?

See, what my current situation brings to mind is this. As a kid I worked my backside off to get my BTec, and then I came out in the middle of a recession and found there was hardly any work for anyone, let alone a 17-year-old with a qualification that nobody's heard of. I spent about three and a half years on the dole, being turned down by fast-food joints. I wrote and wrote in those days, some of it better than others, and all I got was a pile of rejection letters.

And now here I am ten or eleven years on, in virtually the same position. Okay, I'm not on the jam roll anymore but Jesus, I've been at Uni for four years (what with doing a foundation course and all), I'm £20,000 in debt, I don't even have my degree yet, and it looks like I won't be signing up for that OU course anytime soon. And the punchline? The best job I've been able to find is caretaking on a housing estate, which leaves me aching all over by the end of the day and nearly too tired to think, let alone write. In another couple of weeks I won't even have that.

Is this it?

Tuesday, July 09, 2002

New Scientist: Humanity's "massive overdraft" with Earth

"Humanity is currently overusing the Earth's resources by 20 per cent and, if current trends continue, then by 2050 we will need two planet Earths in order to live sustainably..."

A major five-year programme to develop the "holy grail" of HIV vaccine research has been launched... Biotech vapourware or new hope? Either way, I hope the nations where they really need this aren't holding their breath.

Revealed! The truth behind the IVF mix-up!

(Sneaked out of B3ta's coat pocket.)

Monday, July 08, 2002

New Scientist: "Light can be turned into a glowing stream of liquid that splits into droplets and splatters off surfaces just like water...."

I love the New Scientist. It's better than drugs. And cheaper. And doesn't turn out to be chalk or shoe-polish or a bit of a fencepost.

(Torn from the numb, trembling fingers of Blogdex)

It's 7:50, and I have to go to work in half an hour. I am dead. I was up half the night with asthma. Concentrating on anything is going to be interesting today, and I still have to finish that *$?! article. Goddammit.

I'm tired, I'm wheezing like a comics fan poring over a superheroine's clevage, I don't have any good drugs and I have to spend the next eight hours picking up litter for a bunch of rich people.

I hate you.

Sunday, July 07, 2002

Mr Stabby - written by Joel Veitch, animation by Weebl

(Knicked shamelessly from theB3ta NEWSLETTER)
[Insert macho hangover description of choice here]

Wluuuurggggh. Luke's send-off last night. Tired and emotional.

It completely bites that London shall now be Lukeless. I hope nasty things happen to his erstwhile employers for they richly deserve it.

Saturday, July 06, 2002

"Just say no!"

Oh, for the love of Mike. Could this be any more insulting? Hello-oo! Slightly more intelligence than a cucumber over here!

(Via batman doesn't love me anymore)
Should a Christian Play Dungeons & Dragons?
More comedy fun from Chick Publications .

(Via Cruel Site of the Day)

Thursday, July 04, 2002

"What's that in the flowerbed, Mummy?"

Started my newest day-job today. I turned up to find the reception office empty and the guy who was supposed to be showing me the ropes incommunicado. I spent about half an hour running around and trying to find someone to tell me what the funge I was supposed to be doing before having to go home and ring my agency because nobody at the company who'd hired me knew anything about the booking. In all it took me two hours to sort out.

The job consists of litterpicking and general cleaning round a tiny and very very expensive housing estate. Apparently it used to be a really dodgy area till they bulldozed it and slung up a pile of yuppie-bait flats with turquiose uPVC window frames. Now it's a yuppie area fringed with a strange incongruous rim of dodgyness: huge shiny people-carriers with metallic paintwork parked yards away from burnt-out, boarded-up flats. My job is to prevent the intrusion of any dodgyness into their turquiose uPVC lives, by fishing Macdonald's wrapping and used prophylactics out of the begonias. Oh, and checking that the punters at a nearby dodgy pub haven't chucked used syringes into the kids' play area. Scumbunnies.

'Course, if I decide I don't like this job I can always get another, e.g.: You shall live in the evil toilet. Your job shall be to smack guilty clocks.

(Job generator from Lukelog)

Wednesday, July 03, 2002

Project Cryo: Cool!

Via B3ta.
Death Row
I got a 12.

He-cat or She-cat. A photo quiz from B3ta.
Killer Japanese Seizure Robots!
(Courtesy of fridgemagnet)

Ryan and Jacob are the intellect of tomorrow.

This one will run and run.
It started with a spam. The following began turning up in various people's inboxes:

There is something extremely wrong with every single person in this world. They seem to be part of a pointless simulation. "The Matrix" has portrayed this idea somewhat, yet we watch it and go back to our daily lives. Yet in this very life, underneath the seeming diversity in people's opinions, values, talents, and interests, there is something that makes everyone the same. It is as though this planet is populated only by mindless fakes, objects that provide the appearance of intellect on the surface but are based on only mechanical reflexes and primitive thought patterns. I don't really care if anything I say has been said before, if it was portrayed in movies, in books, or in the lyrics of some useless song. With 6 billion people covering the globe at any given time, thousands and thousands of years of written literature, probability dictates almost any combination of words has occurred numerous times. Yet there is clear evidence there was no action, so those words, just like the people who spoke them, must have been just more fakes. I am forced to use this language (also created by the fakes) because there is no alternative, so everything I write here could be misunderstood to make me sound like one of them, but it will be the action that I take and the dedication that will separate me from them.

In my estimation the fakes that occupy this planet don't make up 99%, but more like 99.9999999% of the population. I know this because I've searched, and in my search have so far only found one true ally (I have found him via the internet as well). But even with those numbers we would not give up because there is no logic in giving up.

The people on this planet are all fakes because the societies have made them this way. Ideas that populate people's minds have no logic or purpose. Concepts such as religion, god, morality, individualism, freedom, identity, happiness, love and billions of others are all just memes. Like parasites they infect the minds and spread from one person to the next. They have no point or purpose; they exist without any logical basis or foundation. The fakes are completely controlled by them, and they will never see beyond them. To not be controlled by them one must do more then just realize that they exist. One must resist any ideas that have no point, endlessly question, and never accept imperfection or compromise in any answer. We (myself and my ally) are different though. While we have had the limitation of existing only in these societies, something has made it possible for us to resist being indoctrinated into becoming one of those fakes. We have no arbitrary wants, needs, desires, or preferences.

If this world continues to exist the way it is then nothing in it will ever have a point. It will always be just a product of random evolution, one with no importance or relevance. The only logical goal is to dedicate our lives to increasing our numbers, those that aren't fakes, so that in thousands of years our numbers may be such that the fakes would no longer be a threat to progress.

Those that join us must see every other person occupying this planet as the enemy, and us as their only allies. Like us they must have dedication only to taking the most logical action, and to nothing else.

To tell you more about us, we've posted some personal information about ourselves on a website. You'll also find past responses to us on that webpage. Obviously anyone reading this email is most likely just another fake. Do not simply reply to this email, if you do your message will almost certainly be ignored. If you do wish to communicate, first demonstrate your interest by taking the effort to find us online, one of the ways to do that is described below.

Use a major search engine to search for every combination of any two words from the list below. The order of the words shouldn't matter as long as you do not search for them in quotes. Also when you pick the right combination you shouldn't need to look at more then the first matches...


If this can't be solved, or if you never reach us, there should be no reason for you to give up as we will never give up and thus there will always be some way to find us.

Ryan and Jacob

Now, to save you the trouble, somebody actually took the time to track down these two geniuses, and roundly mock them in not one, but two articles.

The punchline? The Intellect of Tomorrow, who have so carefully covered their tracks and made it so very hard for any of us fakes to track them down, registered their domain under one of their real names.

Ladies, gentlemen and all those in between: I give you the future of humanity.

(Via the Barbelith Underground.)


Decided to bung a little tagboard in my sidebar yesterday. I wasn't really expecting anyone to use it but I never get tired of toys. About two minutes later I came back to find that somebody had left me death threats and a few choice obscenities, apparently motivated by the fact that I'm a HOMOSEXUAL (his caps, not mine). Which was news to me. However am I going to break it to my boyfriend?

Tuesday, July 02, 2002 Switch Gates

(Found here: 0 fresh)
Look-- Logos linked to my blog! Two of'em, in fact. If Logos can link to my blog, then why can't you? Too good for me, or something? Bunch of stuck-up, toffee-nosed, non-my-blog-linking snobby snobs. I'm going to sulk now.

Barbeblogs of the Faculty of the Invisible College
Fun With Google

The latest dopey fad: typing "yourname is" into Google and then giggling over the results like a three-year-old on nitrous oxide. Thusly:

Mordant Is Iess.
mordant is a metal.
mordant is a sodium salt of humic acids, produced from lignite.
Mordant is in desperate need of.
mordant is required to dye linen.
Mordant is a kind of glaze.
'mordant' is based on an old French word meaning 'to bite'.
Mordant is a Newcastle-based label with six releases under its belt so far.
Mordant is dank, moody city, located in the chill northern reaches of the Syrinwald Swamp.
Mordant is a PowerPC 32 bit painting program.

From Barbelith, yet again.
Top 40

troubled diva has a list of the Top 40 UK weblogs, by number of links. I'm not on it and it's ALL YOUR FAULT. I hate you.
Random Plug

Don't like it here? Fine-- just go. Go! Go! LinkMachineGo!
"What part of non-profit do they not understand?"

Heads up, dog-oglers-- the .org registery is up for sale to the highest bidder! However, all is not lost-- yet. Check out the IMS and ISC's joint campaign to become the .org TLD operator and lend your support here: IMS Signals: .org is a public trust

(Found via the Barbelith Underground.)

Monday, July 01, 2002

"And Heven knows I'm miserable now..."

Sooo, no real updates for a while. Sorry, been busy writing other stuff so no hatey hate for yoooo-ooou!

Okay, I finally scored another day-job. It's a two-and-a-half week cleaning/light repairs gig, starting on Thursday. (The phone thing I started lastThirsday turned out to be one of those scams where they get you in to work for them and then don't pay you, something I sussed out only after I'd wasted an entire morning cold-calling people.) Today I had a half-day of cleaning work, sick cover in a bail hostel. Not quite as skanky as it sounds, but damn nearly. I've never been issued with a personal attack alarm at work before. Lovely.

I've pretty much finished one story I was working on, but I've got an idea which I think will flesh it out and make it much more rich. I like to hang on to my stories for a few weeks after they're done in any case, just so I can cast a fresh eye over them before they go out. Also I've made a start on a couple of sample atricles that I can punt out to the trade mags.

All-in-all, things are starting to look up a little. I'm still flat broke, but it's only for a couple more weeks and then I get paid.
Mmmmmm..... paiiiid....
Perfect final
identity theory | cyber district - creating the perfect e-name