ahawk

06:33 pm: Strangers in Cinema Paradiso
Anyway, so.

Digging through the quarter bin at the comic shop yesterday, I pulled out two old issues of Terry Moore's Strangers in Paradise, which I've not read for years.

Coincidentally, the two I bought were some I had read years ago.  Didn't recognize the covers, but got two pages into 'em and had the oddest feeling of deja vu. . .

Phooey.  And it's not like I know where the others are.

They also had an Invader Zim cell phone face plate, on the markdown table, for $6.

It looked like it would fit my phone, and I'm sure they would have let me try it if I'd asked.

I resisted the temptation.

And that was the most pointless thing I've written since. . . the last time I updated this.

02:20 pm: Between you and me, she don't stand a chance

Had this sitting on the server for the longest, no idea why:

My Scarlet Life - Suspended In Gaffa.mp3

Well, other than that it's a very good song, and a very good cover. That's the late, lamented My Scarlet Life, a DivaNation (or rather, Preston Klik) band, with their cover of Kate Bush's Suspended In Gaffa, from I WANNA BE KATE: The Songs of Kate Bush, "the Chicago-based Kate Bush tribute album." I'm Casey Kasem.

Lyrics over yonder, if you want 'em.

03:52 am: And you're spinning like a 45
Right, changed over to using the cross-platform (as long as you're running Mozilla or Firefox)  Deepest Sender, or deepestsender if you don't care to leave this oddly gated community.

Meaning this post is basically just to see if this crazy gizmo really works.  It does seem to have fewer features than logjam, at a glance. . .

And apparently, I'm not meant to be typing html directly into entries.  Right, I can do that.  Not do that. Something.

08:29 am: Sorted
Then again, is an off-line LiveJournal entry editor really something I need in my life?

Meh.

08:16 am: Give me a minute

Right, instead of writing an update, just ran apt-get install logjam after noticing the "download a client" link on the update page. Meaning I'm off to play with that rather than actually writing an update.

You're welcome.

09:42 am: Wil-HANE. It's French.

No one read Priest's STEEL series, did they?

Right, brief notes of an explanatory nature regarding me last blog entry, which a sensible person would actually post on the blog itself:

1. As I was leaving the reading, Ms. Garner said (from sketchy memory) "Link me anytime, 'Uppity.'" To which I replied, "Oh, no problem, um, 'Familes.' Right, I'm gonna think of a comeback to that. . ."

   That blog entry was the best I could come up with. Told you I ain't so good with the avengin'/revengin' thang.

2. She's really not towards that end of the Kinsey Scale, but mentioned that during one of the entirely-too-many interviews she'd done earlier in the day, she thought she'd slipped and said she was gay rather than het. And, being a pro, just kept right going. You have to appreciate that level of. . . whateverthehell.
3. She actually recognized me before the reading started, while I had no clue who she was due to only ever seeing b&w author photos and her still wearing the FOX NEWS™ tv interview makeup. Hence, the comment about her being high femme. Again, revengin', not a strong suit.
4. Further to the recognizing thing, after the reading I remembered that she'd mentioned visiting Heather's site, meaning that the thing you're meant to do when you're nervous about public speaking, where you picture the audience naked? Possibly not so much of an imagining thing where I'm concerned.

Now you know, and knowing's half the battle!

07:52 pm: With Diana Rigg as Mrs. Emma Peel
I needs must take revenge on Tristan Risk.

Yes, that littlemissrisk.

The specific nature of her transgression is irrelevant.

All that matters. . . is the form my vengeance shall take.

I'm open to suggestions. Been a while since I've had to do the avengin' thing.

Let's think outside the box here, people.

09:29 pm: Can a nigga get a table dance?
I have no idea where my copy of that Chris Rock cd is.

This is one of the problems with the transient life. You're never quite certain whether things are in your possession, in one of the places you've been, or just gone.

Please note that options two and three are not, in fact, different ways of saying the same thing. This seems to be a source of confusion for some folks.

Currently sitting in a WiFi cafe, avoiding the family. This seemed the best of my choices of a) spending time with the family and biting my tongue, b) spending time with the family, honestly speaking my mind, and endearing myself to no one and c) bailing.

I'm moving away from option one there, after generally choosing it in most situations for entirely too long. For some reason, I've come to the conclusion that not endearing myself to people who ain't endearing themselves to me is, in fact, a Good and Healthy Thing. And am annoyed with myself for spending years being nice to assholes.

That's family and some, ah, "friends" in the asshole category. Sneer quotes intentional.

Or I've just had too much coffee today.

09:10 am: The One Where Aaron Said, "You know what, though? Fuckit."

So I mentioned the whole leaving work at 11 last night thing on the other site. What I left out, out of politeness, was why I was stuck there so late.

Just as an example: working on a report, a Word document, where I sat at the keyboard, rather than a monitor the screen was displayed by a projector on the wall, and several engineers called out edits. Usually at the same time. Contradicting one another.

(Oh, and because of the long hair and the fact that I was doing "secretary" type stuff, I was apparently reading female to some of the Indian engineers. Who therefore treated me as they would not just a woman, but a woman of lower intelligence and social status. That they lived is a testament to my newfound self-control.)

So, at one point, one of 'em decided to email the document to The Big Bossman for this project. He asked me to put the file on disk and give it to him, so he could email it from his laptop.

The laptop was sitting across the table, yes, but both computers were connected to the LAN.

Which, you know, The Big Bossman also has access to.

Oh, and did I mention that, as a Word doc, the fairly short, all-text report was still too large to fit on a single floppy?

So I said to him, and my teeth may have been clenched at this point, "Can't you attach it to the email from the LAN?"

And he looked at me like I was crazy. And I looked at him like I was wondering how to dispose of the body. And after showing him the exact directory the file was in -- he initially told me he couldn't see it, and I calmly pointed out that if the file wasn't there, then the last several hours of work were, clearly, gone like tears in the rain, and I hoped they had a nice time re-creating it, because I was headed for the nearest bar -- he managed to attach a copy of the doc rather than, you know, sending the file location to The Big Bossman, which might have resulted in him opening it and making edits. As opposed to opening the attached copy, making edits, printing them out, and having me re-enter them, which you have to admit makes much more sense.

Yes, you know and I know that Word allows you to collaborate on documents, and accept or reject edits, and is really designed for this sort of work, but these people are engineers. They're Smarter Than Us.

Just ask them.

On the other hand, time and a half.

I keep reminding myself of this.

11:28 am: I hate it when a plan comes together

Let's see. . . change site name back to "A Maitreya Buddha Fansite," check. Post lyrics to "Buttercup (I'm A Super Girl)," check. Invocation of Ganesha, check. Quote from The Killing Joke, check. Say, "Some days, I'm Devi," check.

And still they walk right into it.

So this is what it's like to be a Sin-Eater. Christ, no wonder Jaeger is so fucked up. . .

Anyway, didn't think something this fucking obvious would actually work, but like I said, I got a nasty tendency to overestimate winger intelligence.

And got a feeling this one's gonna get real ugly, real fast.

What worries me is how much I'm looking forward to it. . .