Ted

I have a problem.

Mon, 06 Jul 2009 17:10:55 GMT

I'm having a problem. I've never encountered a problem of any kind before, so when this happened, I googled "Problem Solving Worksheet" to find a good way to solve it.

(Worksheet taken from ADHD News.)

Problem Solving Worksheet

What is the problem?
The Hawaiian words "ALOHA" and "MAHALO" almost make a palindrome together, but not quite.

What may have caused the problem?
Beholders.

List 3 possible solutions.
1. Commit to eating only egg whites and raw bran for the next ten years.
2. Snuggle with an adorable red panda.
3. Redefine every word in every language in the world, especially "ALOHA" and "PALINDROME."

What are the positive outcomes of option 1?
Save on food bills. May become dizzy enough that I start spelling "MAHALO" as "MAHOLA."

What are the negative outcomes of option 1?
Would not in any way address the problem. Also, would be bland. And I might get some serious malnutrition from lack of vegetables.

How do you feel about this option now?
Nervous, nauseated.

What are the positive outcomes of option 2?
Adorable! Red! Panda!

What are the negative outcomes of option 2?
Technically not actually a panda.
Also has nothing to do with Hawaiian language.
I think I could get scratched.

How do you feel about this option now?
Delighted, wistful.

What are the positive outcomes of option 3?
Would look impressive on a resume. Lewis Carroll would approve.

What are the negative outcomes of option 3?
Would take a very long time and infuriate anybody who liked the previous meanings of words.

How do you feel about this option now?
Betrayed, bedraggled, betrothed. Wait, scratch that last one.

What is your solution?
I don't know. Maybe grab another worksheet and start over.

IF YOU HAVEN'T FOUND A SOLUTION, THEN GRAB ANOTHER WORKSHEET AND START OVER.

I think I may need to grab another worksheet and start over. Please help.

View Poll: Problem Solving Worksheet

This whole "solving" thing is difficult.

Sunday Shopping

Mon, 06 Jul 2009 05:10:27 GMT

On Sunday mornings, I like to go shopping in medieval Europe. You know, just to relax, and build up my immune system. Maybe feel a little smug.

Everyone back then was illiterate, so the signs all just showed picture of what they sold: a horseshoe for a blacksmith, a basket for a basket shop, clothes for a clothes store. It makes the shopping experience a little like playing card games with a three year old, and who doesn't like that?

This morning six hundred years ago, I was shopping around and decided to take a break and grab some watered-down honey wine. I stopped at an inn called the Rose and Griffin.

Except it wasn't an inn at all. It was a roses and griffins store. There were long rows of fragrant roses, and huge cages filled with mythical lion-eagles.

"No, no, we're not an inn," said the shopkeeper with a laugh and a shrug, "but people assume that a lot. We get a lot of angry medieval would-be drunken would-be customers."

"Do they ever cause trouble?" I asked, noting that the roses were way too expensive for my shopping day.

The shopkeeper just chuckled, "Of course not. Nobody comes around to raise a ruckus. My store is full of monsters."

He takes credit cards. Anyone want to go in with me on a bulk discount order?

My Other Car

Tue, 30 Jun 2009 00:34:10 GMT

(Please select one)

My other car is the six hundredth digit of Pi.
My other car is actually my own hooved feet.
My other car is sixty times the size of a typical sedan, but still proportional in its dimensions, hand-crafted from a hyperdense vanadium alloy, sitting in an oversized parking lot in Nairobi, totally immobile.
My other car is this sentence.
My other car is the horrible tickling of a hair on your arm that makes you mistakenly remember you've got spiders on you for the rest of the day.
My other car is the Mariinsky Ballet company, arranged in perfect harmony to function exactly like a typical automobile -- please note that due to illness or injury the understudy Natalia Dzevulskaya will be replacing Diana Vishneva playing the part of the carburator though.
My other car is a rational self-interest maximizer with perfect information and complete free will.
My other car may actually be a windmill, in which case forgive my quixotic delusion.
My other car is all made of pearls and clockwork, bathed in mist and the chirping of frogs, rumbling its ugly stumbling path from now into oblivion.
My other car is a well-structures villanelle about a poem that can turn into a car -- like a Transformers robot, but more high-brow.
My other car is the wailing of a distant star as it slowly collapses from giant to dwarf to nothingness.
My other car is lurking right behind you, carefully balanced on everything you've got in that room of yours, until the moment you turn around to look, at which point it disappears.
My other car is the opposite of a car, thus cancelling out my primary car and restoring the balance -- and I hope there won't be an explosion when that happens.

View Poll: #1423050

June

Sun, 28 Jun 2009 20:55:40 GMT

My friend Kelley is a Bad Advice Columnist for the local paper. People write in with their questions and problems, and he gives them bad advice. I'm not sure I approve of his vocation, but we've been friends since high school and I figure it's not exactly my place.

"I feel kind of uncomfortable with it too," he's told me several times over the years, "but sometimes people just really badly want some bad advice."

Anyway, I went to his wedding this weekend. His bride Maryana (well, now his wife) is a mysterious international jewel thief. Again, I'm not so sure I approve, but he's my friend and I want him to be happy.

The wedding started out wonderful. The ceremony was beautiful, the reception had a lively string jazz trio, there were stolen precious gemstones everywhere as party favors and decorations, and the country club was just lovely. It was one of those fancy overpriced weddings. Say what you will, but they both looked so happy!

You know that wedding tradition where the guests clink their forks against their wine glasses with increasing intensity until the bride and groom kiss, much to the applause of their celebrating friends and family?

Well, Kelley and Maryana didn't know it. We started clinking glasses and they didn't notice for a while, distracted by the month of June and the swelling in their hearts. Then they looked around, confused, and wondering why. Eventually they clinked their glasses as well, and when that didn't work, they quietly asked us to stop and we couldn't hear them.

We kept it up, clinking in a rising crescendo of expectation. At first we were all excited, then insistent, and finally bitter and resentful. We kept banging the stupid wine glasses. Our wrists were tired and our ears hurt but nobody was willing to back down. Even when someone stopped, someone else would pick up the pace. We had invested too much and didn't want to admit failure and so we kept stubbornly banging, even breaking a few wine glasses.

We kept it up for a little over an hour, until finally we gave up. The bride and groom were horrified and puzzled. The guests left with awkward apologies, crunching across broken glass. We never did get to eat the wonderful dinner they had presumably made.

Congratulations, Kelley and Maryana! Sorry for ruining your wedding. I wish we knew how to stop.

Bad Slang

Tue, 23 Jun 2009 23:11:35 GMT

So, I went to visit the lastrutabegameringue-people again, and yes, they've all started using Lastrutabegameringue-People Rhyming Slang, as I'd suggested. It's not going well for them.

And I feel bad for saying that, since they've been so hospitable down here in this reliable. They gave me an amnesia Herman and nice Mountain Dew and took me to their IsadoraAldousHuxley. They served a huge feast with cake and Pliny and thermal and a pickle and some delicious orange-flavored whiny hyperspacial. They bought me a shiny piney-colored omniscient. A automatic people from the lastrutabegameringue-people prole rose up and made me a Fishysizedharassment (written in befuddly on a computer peoplelikemoney) declaring me better than an ogreish. They also gave me a very nice pet steeple. I'm naming him Soimitateadeviant, after my feelings.

All their generosity leaves me soft and warm like there's a mew in my troll region. Maybe later it'll turn into a troll stick instead.

It tileable exactly gracious of me to complain.

It's just that I can't understand an occipital they're saying. It's a total Myserensexipidity of comprehension. They could be warning me about an eleven, or an Extirpated could be explaining the process of hemophiliac, and they might as well be saying Sign or Ingredients as far as I'd know.

It's like they have a different occipital for everything.

Also, this dog is full of mire.

New Slang

Thu, 18 Jun 2009 22:02:02 GMT

"First of all," they said, "the purpose of rhyming slang isn't to be clever, nor charming, nor linguistically intriguing. And it's also not intended to be a fun word puzzle for you to solve. It's intended to be a way to talk to each other in a way that you can't understand them. Second of all, we're not even Cockney, we're mole-people."

"Well, that just means you need a better rhyming slang," I replied happily.

View Poll: Mole-People Rhyming Slang (Please Use English Words Throughout)

(Please note: my next post will be written using Mole-People Rhyming Slang. I'll try to incorporate as much rhyming slang as I can.)

What do I do with these?

Fri, 12 Jun 2009 01:30:59 GMT

I am sitting at my desk, staring at this stack.

This easily portable stack of two hundred BART tickets. Each one is charged up to $200. That's forty thousand dollars right here, but what am I going to do with all this BART fare?

I swear, if I really want to keep it up as a contract killer, I seriously need to start reading the contracts more closely.

Wed, 10 Jun 2009 20:17:41 GMT

Please help me turn this post into an oak tree!

Thu, 04 Jun 2009 04:17:40 GMT

This post will become an oak tree! But to do that, I need your help.

1. If you're reading this on LiveJournal, please print out a copy of this entry and post it on a bulletin board, family refrigerator, or other accepted public-posting area.

2. If you're reading this on a bulletin board, family refrigerator, or similar site, please fold this post into a paper airplane. Then, please go to the top of a really high building and toss this paper airplane off the edge.

3. If you find this paper airplane discarded on the ground somewhere, I apologize for the littering. Please give this folded-up paper airplane to someone with whom you've had conflict, as a gesture of peace and openness.

4. If you've received this probably-dirty folded sheet of paper from someone as a gesture of peace, I assure you that it's not any kind of passive-aggressive maneuver or clever slight. The gesture of peace is quite genuine and I hope you can both reach out and try to share some generosity from your beauitful hearts. Sometimes that's hard, and you do risk getting hurt, but without taking those kinds of risks, we can never really settle our lives into something truly whole and joyous.

5. Oh, also, um, I hate to be a mooch at a special moment like this, but I'm trying to turn this post into an oak tree, so if you get this sheet of paper as a gesture of peace, could you please go to the nearest ocean and toss it in? Thanks.

6. If you find this sheet of paper in the ocean, I apologize for the littering. Please give this soggy piece of paper to a Nomura's jellyfish and also please teach that Nomura's jellyfish how to read.

7. If you are a Nomura's jellyfish and your literacy tutor just gave you this sheet of paper, please take it deep down within the ocean to the Lost City of Nomura, deep beneath the ocean, five hundred miles off the coast of Japan, and give it to one of the robots there. The robot will probably vaporize you. I apologize for that.

8. If you are a guard robot of the Lost City of Nomura, I apologize for the intrusion upon your serene and perfect fallen civilization. Please reactivate your Biomagical Overlords and give them this note.

9. If you are a Biomagical Overlord, please rise from your watery coffin and return to dry land, preferably near San Francisco. Also, please bring this sheet of paper with you and use your Biomagical Incantations to change this piece of paper into a viable oak acorn.

10. Also, please give that acorn to a hair stylist. Don't worry, San Francisco has a lot of really good hair stylists.

11. If you are a hair stylist, and some kind of terrifying magical sea creature just gave you this text in the form of an acorn, I apologize for the rise of the dreaded Biomancer Overlords. It's part of an important project to change my LiveJournal post into an oak tree. Please plant this acorn someplace with fertile soil and plenty of sun.

Thanks again for your help, everyone!

EDIT: Oh yeah, let's not let this become a Craig Shergold thing, okay? If you see this message in paper form after July 2009, please dispose of it in the nearest receptacle. (You don't need to dispose of electronic copies or acorns, though.)

Tue, 26 May 2009 03:16:09 GMT

You know all those people who played children and teenagers on television shows back in the day?

It's funny to think that by now, they've all been replaced by reptoids.

The stupid bucket

Sat, 23 May 2009 03:05:50 GMT

There was a bucket in the middle of the sidewalk today. A very stupid bucket.

I stumbled on it and fell and scuffed my knees. Stupid bucket.

When I stood up, two men were standing in front of me, flashing high-tech badges.

"You're under arrest for ninth degree murder," the shorter one said, gesturing at the bucket.

"What?" I said, "If the bucket had somehow been alive, I sure didn't kill it, and even if I had, the stupid bucket deserved it."

"No," the taller one said, flashing his blinky holographic badge again, "We're Time Police. Knocking that bucket over will lead to a chain of events that causes an intentional killing, two hundred and twenty years from now. A very brutal and remorseless one. Since you very indirectly caused it, you're under suspicion of ninth degree murder."

"Uh, okay, wait," I said, getting defensive, "even if that was true, that law doesn't exist right now. You can't make ex post facto laws to arrest people in the past. The Constitution forbids it. Even if it's somehow allowed in the future, it's not allowed now."

"True," the shorter one said, "but this device here loops time just right so that it's not ex post facto any more."

He showed me a little sleek charcoal-grey plastic box with a flashing green light.

Darn.

"The penalty for ninth-degree murder is a two dollar fine," the taller one said with a shrug, "After all, it's only ninth degree."

Relieved, I gave them two dollars. I figured, even if I was being scammed, it was just two dollars.

As they left, I realized that two dollars now probably works out to millions 220 years in the future.

Stupid bucket!

Anaesthetic is an aesthetic

Wed, 20 May 2009 05:31:03 GMT

Here is what they told me at the cafeteria:

1. Every really good musician has their best songs and their so-so songs. You know, art does not thrive in consistency -- without risk it goes stale.

2. At the same time, music is different for the musician and the audience. A musician will have his or her favorite songs, and the audience will have their favorite songs. Sometimes a song is less satisfying to make but more satisfying for an audience. Sometimes a musician's best beloved song will be obscure and never receive much critical or fan base appeal.

3. This particular musician -- the one who will be playing at the cafeteria -- is notable for a three reasons. The first reason was that his favorite music and his audience's favorite music are inverse. He only likes what the audience considers a bomb, and vice versa. Watching his concert is a zero sum game of enjoyment between musician and audience.

4. The second notable thing about this musician is his feelings. Most musicians are notable because they have feelings and a guitar. This musician also has feelings and a guitar. But his set of feelings are untranslatable to others. He doesn't ever feel happy or sad or curious or angry. He feels fembly, or vabtose, or palernous or trank. No, I can't define those words. No, they can't be described as similar to any emotions that you or I know. Through a combination of unusual nutrition, very bad excercise, paint, and genetic mutation, this musician's set of emotions do not intersect the feelings or language of any other human being. He is very good at describing them, I suppose, but I still have no words or explanation besides that which I have already given.

5. He also has a guitar, but it is completely normal, and not one of the three reasons why this particular musician is notable.

6. I was an obstruction to commerce, and could I please stop asking so many questions and finish my purchase so the people in line behind me could get their food too? Seriously.

7. I never did find out the third reason why this particular musician was notable.

Education

Tue, 12 May 2009 19:55:15 GMT

"I'm sorry," the admissions officer told me over the phone this morning, "We don't actually install darts in your mouth here at Dartmouth. It's just a name."

I still want mouth-darts. Can anyone recommend a better university?

Boojums

Sun, 10 May 2009 06:42:01 GMT

So, today is the start of my little vacation. I'm on a floating city a few miles off the coast of California. The buildings are all boats, which works nicely. The sidewalks between the buildings are not sidewalks at all. They're alligators. You walk across the backs of the alligators to get from place to place here.

(And who knew there were such things as salt-water alligators?)

It's not too hard to keep balance, because there are rope guidelines around, but it's a nervous sensation. I can't shake the feeling that I'm walking on the back of an alpha predator. Being able to say "It's okay, I've done this in video games" is minimally comforting at best.

I walked from my hotelboat to a caféboat today to meet some friends I met on the Internet (have you guys heard of this Internet thing? It's handy! You should try it!) and they were very charming and fun.

I mentioned to them that I couldn't shake the feeling of danger walking on the backs of alligators, but that I knew it must be safe if the whole city is built on it. They laughed.

"No, no, it's very dangerous, actually. Someone gets eaten just about every day. Usually after that, the alligator is full and leaves everyone alone, but still, it's very dangerous. You should be careful."

"But, if it's so dangerous, why does everyone still walk around on the alligators?"

"You get used to it!" my Internet friend said, "You just have to be careful and be aware of the immense and unpredictable risk. Once you get used to it, you hardly notice. Besides, we're proud of our alligator sidewalks. It's part of what makes our home town so distinctive. We love our alley-gators!"

My walk home was terrifying at best. Anyone know the safest way to walk on an alligator?

Handshakes Epilog

Sat, 09 May 2009 10:24:06 GMT

There is a very common impulse when meeting with a celebrity. You want to say something interesting so the celebrity will remember you. It's awkward for the celebrity, and kind of nervewracking for the non-celebrity, but it's very normal! Stephen Fry writes about it beautifully on his blog.

Well, I guess I get the same kind of feeling when I'm speaking with time travelers from the future. Not the past as much, for some reason, but always from the future.

This evening, late this evening, you see, I had the opportunity to speak with one.

Stammering for something interesting to say, I remembered my conversation from earlier today. "Hey, what happens to Bacon numbers in the future?" I asked.

I could feel the stupid in my throat coating the words I spoke. First, it's rude to ask a time traveler about future events. There are all kinds of rules and paradoxes and so on. Second, if I was going to do that, couldn't I ask about world peace or the stock market or maybe some sort of gambling make-money trick or medicine or my own fate or perhaps the free will question? Something useful or important?

Well, the time traveler took it in stride, which was nice. "Actually, people on the Internet (or what have you) had a lot of arguments about it and then nobody really cared," she explained, "Like the whole balrog-wings thing, which was resolved only decades after everyone lost interest. The future will not ever become the orgy of middle-class gadgetry obsession that we demand of it. Most people have way too much to worry about, honestly. Which reminds me, do you know where I can buy a live and fertile walrus? I kind of need one to bring back home with me."

"Thanks," she added awkwardly afterward.

View Poll: #1397173

Uh, thanks!

Handshakes

Sat, 09 May 2009 02:41:39 GMT

First thing this morning, I walked up the wall and stood on the ceiling, and committed to spending the rest of the day in reverse gravity. It was that kind of morning. I needed to climb back down the wall to reach my day clothes, of course. Showering was clumsy, making breakfast, et cetera.

Walking along the awnings of the sidewalk, I saw someone else walking down the street in the other direction. He was upside-down too! I waved cheerily and he waved back and approached closer.

When we got into friendly awkward greeting range, I recognized him: my old boss from two jobs ago, a lovable drunk! We shook hands and I asked how he was.

"I've been thinking," he said in his serious, dreamy way, "about Bacon numbers. Eventually, maybe six hundred years from now if you chain generations of actors just right but maybe much sooner than that, there will not be a single living human being with a Bacon number below seven."

I offered him some gum while I thought about that, but some kind of gravity problem happened and the gum ended up on the sidewalk above/below us.

"No," I finally said, staring up at the fallen gum, "that's only true if the movie industry continues in the same format it has right now, which seems unlikely. It could very well be that in thirty years, someone splices together a popular worldwide video, distributed online, featuring every human being, and there will not be a single living human being with a Bacon number above one. Even more likely, the idea of a Bacon number will cease to be computable. Or maybe it will just stop being interesting."

I didn't even get started about the definition of a living human being. I was pondering asking him about Erdős numbers, but decided against it. We shook hands and said goodbye.

The cross is in the ballpark!

Tue, 05 May 2009 03:44:27 GMT

Whenever I use a Bluetooth headset, the sound of the activation reminds me of Paul Simon's "The Obvious Child."

And then all day I have "The Obvious Child" stuck in my head.

And then at the end of the day I change into a giant thirty-foot long serpent for about a month.

With blue teeth, as it turns out.

I'm typing with my blue teeth now.

Youch.

Unison

Wed, 29 Apr 2009 23:21:58 GMT

We sipped our cappuccinos in unison, set them down, and had a moment of polite, comfortable silence to break.

"The most incredible thing happened to me today," we both said, not quite in unison, and then I gestured for her to please go ahead, and so did she, but she started her story first.

"Okay, so I was heading home, to my new place," she said, excited, "not the new new place -- I decided not to buy, because it was too expensive -- but the old new place, the one where I've been staying two months now. Wait, did that make sense?"

"Yes, totally," I said, "the one in Sunnyvale, not the house off Almaden in San Jose. Too bad you decided not to get it, though; that neighborhood is cool stuff. Like the music store I went to today."

"Yeah, but the commute's forever," she said, "and my commute's slow enough already, with how lost I get."

"Oh, you don't get too lost now that you have your GPS," I replied, "and this music store is so amazing."

"Yeah? I'll have to check it out sometime. Anyway, yeah, the GPS is just what I --"

"They had sheet music for lullabies. Like this whole section of lullabies."

"Yeah? That sounds nice. Relaxing, like being at home. Or like being in a True Home," she said, gesturing to see if I knew what she meant.

I sipped cappuccino and wiped off a foam moustache, and she started to explain.

"I set my GPS to drive me home," she said, "but when I got there, I hit home again by accident, and the GPS started giving me more directions."

"Wow, that is weird!" I said, "So, anyway, these lullabies. They had one there labeled The Lullaby of Empires, and it was under lock and key. I asked -- oh, I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay," she said, "I just was going to say that the directions of the GPS were crazy. Like, it told me to get out of the car and walk two blocks away, then walk around the block with the big church, then walk back."

"Was it broken?"

"Maybe, but - oh, sorry, I interrupted your story," she said.

"It's okay. I was just getting started anyway."

"Go ahead," she urged me.

"Well, so I asked them what the Lullaby of Nations was."

"Nations, or Empires?" she asked.

"Sorry, Empires, you're right. I should listen to you more often," I said.

"I'm pretty spacy too, after what happened to me," she replied, "I mean, once I got back into my apartment, the GPS kept giving directions, like to circle around my couch and then look behind it for a key."

"How did the GPS even know?"

"I know, seriously! But then when I got the key, it said to go to the water heater door. You know the one in the hallway?"

I shook my head, "I must have never paid attention."

"Me neither, but it's like, okay, if you open the hallway bathroom door -- Laurie's old bathroom door, you know, when she lived there?"

"Right, the guest bathroom."

"Well, I guess."

"How is she doing, by the way?" I asked.

"Good," she said, "She's in Japan now."

"That might be for the best, after what I found out today?" I said.

She sipped her cappuccino and looked confused.

"Oh, um, the Lullaby of Empires. They explained it to me. It's this song that, well, ends empires peacefully. Like, when a nation rises to worldwide power, and then starts to decay, it can either disappear quickly, or it can hold on tight and try to maintain its glory, but the longer the death throes of empire, the longer the dark age afterward. Or Interregnum, or whatever."

"Weird," she said curtly, "Um, so anyway, that's the water heater door, behind the bathroom door, but I had never really paid attention either. But check this out, the GPS told me to use this key and the door opened to a little passageway, with this really hypnotic floral wallpaper. It was so peaceful."

"Peaceful?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said, "like... I don't know."

"Like a lullaby?" I suggested.

"Yeah, kind of. I mean, yeah, like home."

"Lullabies are like home," I said.

"Yeah," she said, "I guess they are."

"Except the Lullaby of Empires," I said quickly.

"Right."

"It ends Empires," I proclaimed, "Like, I was written to finally end the Roman Empire. And then it got used just a handful of times since. But you can't sing it except when an empire is already certainly doomed. If the empire might survive and rise again, the lullaby won't work."

"Why not? Did they say?" she asked.

"The lullaby singer dies if the world isn't ready for the lullaby. It's world-shaping music. Dangerous stuff."

"Wow," she said.

"Yeah, it's pretty awesome," I said.

"No, no, I was actually wowing about something else. The hole and the GPS and everything was really weird, now that I think about it. I mean, I thought it was just a secret tunnel, but the GPS said to go in, and it was like this womb or something in there. But it was really just a little parlor, with a fountain in the middle. A weird indoor stone fountain, but while I was in there, I was floating. I knew that was my True Home."

"You just knew?" I said.

"I just knew."

"Yeah, I guess I just knew myself."

"What? But you weren't there," she protested, "I don't think it would work for anyone but me."

"No, I mean I know that they were telling the truth about the Lullaby of Empires. And get this -- they said that it was probably about time to use it again!"

"To end America's rule?" she asked, surprised.

"No!" I laughed, picking up my coffee to sip it but setting it down before I could, to tell my story, "I thought the same thing, but they said no."

"Creepy," she said, "I'm glad that my weird experience was more positive than that. And check this out: I knew French in there. And Japanese. And vector calculus and I think surgery too, and how to play the piano and write a villanelle and wrestle an alligator and hotwire a car."

"But there wasn't a car in there, was there?" I asked.

"No, or a piano either. But when I'm down there, I knew how, anyway. When I left, I forgot, but I wrote some notes about Japanese and I checked them online and they were all correct."

"Are you sure this wasn't some kind of thing?"

"A thing?"

"A thing."

"It was totally some kind of thing," she said, "And I can go back. You know?"

"Oh, I haven't gotten to the best part yet," I said, "they said no, not America. The reptile monarchy, they said. The, wait, no, the dinosaur sorcerer-kings, the secret masters in decline."

"They sound crazy," she said disapprovingly.

"I know! But here's the thing! They took it out and started to sing the Lullaby. The Lullaby of Empires! And then, just as the soprano was like--"

And with a wide sweeping gesture, I knocked both of our drinks over by accident. Drat.

While we were cleaning up, she got an emergency phone call and had to go, so we said goodbye and made plans to hang out again.

I never did get to finish my story.

Tue, 28 Apr 2009 02:07:19 GMT

When the water levels started rising in my office building, and the predatory fish in the water began to attack, we gathered up all the office supplies we could and made a big sturdy makeshift wall.

Because when life gives you barracudas, make barricades.

Advice needed!

Sat, 25 Apr 2009 19:40:53 GMT

View Poll: #1389923

I am sitting in front of my computer, typing on a website! (Or AM I?)

Sat, 25 Apr 2009 02:00:18 GMT

Here's my idea: I'm going to set up a Twitter account and start Twittering. But there's a catch. I'll be lying on every Tweet.

Like, I might be sitting on the bus, but I'll Twitter "I am at home watching my cats chase each other!" Or I could be at a Kimya Dawson concert (which is always a wonderful place to be), and I'll Twitter, "I'm at the store, comparing crunchy vs. creamy peanut butter prices."

Get it? It will be like a micro-blog, only I'll be lie-blogging! I may need to learn how to do that, though. I've never really written any fiction.

Actually, on second thought, it sounds like a terrible idea. It'd be hard to keep it up.

I think I'll just go back to shoplifting on Amazon.

I bet they regret adding that "Shoplift" button. Suckers.

(Then again, check those Twitter accounts. If one looks like it describes what I'm not doing, it might be me!)

At the Software Architect's Conference (Part 5 of 5)

Wed, 22 Apr 2009 04:54:36 GMT

(continued)

Suffice it to say, everyone was convinced by the demonstration, and then I concluded with a little speech.

"So, you see, even though Bill Gates never really said that, it's true. Nobody will ever need more than 640K of RAM, and what's more, you never did. It was inside you all along. It wasn't more RAM you needed -- you just needed to believe in yourself. Well, plus 640K of RAM."

There was thunderous applause, and then a big group hug.

Best conference ever!

Mon, 20 Apr 2009 15:47:18 GMT

In chapter 40 of Moby Dick, suddenly all the sailors and harpooners break out into a musical dance routine.

I think someone's been tampering with my books again.

Wed, 15 Apr 2009 06:51:54 GMT

After you have finished reading Snakes, please complete these five questions to test your reading comprehension. You have 35 minutes.

View Poll: Test Your Reading Comprehension!

Snakes.

Wed, 15 Apr 2009 06:40:24 GMT

First and foremost, I owe you an apology. This Internet? The one we share, you and me, and perhaps the others as well but especially the two of us?

It is now full of snakes, all whiplash and poisonous, muddy-eyed and agitated, ready to strike. You may want to keep your fingers off the keyboard until they calm down. They might slip out of our little Internet and up between the keys.

They can do worse things than bite, these snakes. Have you been around a lot of snakes before? Do you know how a snake smells? Imagine it. That's all over the Internet now.

And I know -- oh, how I know -- that I shouldn't have put them all onto the Internet. I know, okay? My apartment was getting way too full of snakes, and I didn't know what to do with them, so like some kind of negative-virtue Pied Piper, all chromed out with zeroes and ones, I drove them off into the Internet. They squiggled and complained and wrote all kinds of vituperative letters, but I chased them nonetheless, and now my apartment has no snakes, only their lingering smell. The floor's safe to walk again. I may even begin collecting brightly-colored beetles and scarabs and such, which I could never do before on account of all the snakes.

Come see those beetles some time, won't you? They will be fab. I'll send you an invitation. Not by Internet, of course, because I filled it with snakes.

I know I've already apologized twice. And I know, furthermore, that apologies can often be a burden to the receiver, rather than a blessing. Guilt rarely helps a situation. Guilt certainly can't drive snakes out of the Internet -- goodness knows I've tried. Guilt can only drive more snakes into the Internet.

And perhaps you say I'm being unfair to the snakes, and that they are beautiful and virtuous reptiles, undeserving of their bad reputation. Generally, I agree.

But not these snakes, the ones that are squatting in our Internet making trouble and biting and so one. These ones are plum ornery, I tell you what. They're bitey and scratchey and kicky and screamy. They make trouble for a living like every crime has a funny funky soundtrack that makes it all okay. They cross the line and back so many times you'll think they were opening a SMTP over TLS communications session straight up to your old elementary school's yard bully. They'll make your ogres look like pigeons and your meanest snarl seem sanguine by comparison.

I hear they killed a goat on the Internet one time, just because. Maybe Samuel L. Jackson can chase them off, but I sure can't. The best I can do is offer this apology.