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Thursday, April 17, 2003
If you're at all interested in photography, I suggest you take a peek at Photo.net. It's a huge site which can be somewhat overwhelming, but there's lots of good stuff there: articles, searchable discussion forums, and lots and lots of photos. I've found that the best thing to do is just go to the site and start looking around.
I bring this up because the Featured Presentation on their home page right now is very interesting. It's a series of photos from the photo diary of a guy named Oliver Truan. He has a Polaroid that he uses to take one picture a day, every single day. He started in 1989, so he's presumably got over 5000 pictures by now.
I actually had this same idea a few years ago. I got a small camera and started carrying it with me everywhere I went, and for a while I was pretty good about taking pictures regularly. Unsurprisingly, I didn't stick with it. Seeing this guy's pictures has inspired me to try it again, though. Last summer I upgraded my everyday camera to a digital point and shoot (which I still carry with me everywhere), and I'm close to having a software solution that will allow me to reliably archive and track all of my digital pictures. That seems like a big problem with using a film camera for a picture-a-day venture. What are you going to do with 5000 Polaroids?
So anyway, I might try this again. If I can work out the publishing aspect of it, I may start up a photo blog that will operate in conjunction with this here word blog. We'll see if it happens. It's not like I have any other projects at the moment, right?
• • •
I had a weird dream last night. I was taking a vacation to some Caribbean island with a bunch of friends. Oddly, we were taking a bus. (This wasn't a problem in the dream; it didn't seem strange to me until I woke up.) I decided that, since we were going on this nice, relaxing vacation, I would abandon my normal anal-retentive style of packing and just pack quickly the night before.
[A little background: when I go on a trip I typically start packing 3 months in advance. I use powerful computers to construct exhaustive projections of everything I might possibly need on the trip, and I then gather two of each item in a special clean room I added to my house specifically for this purpose. Using proprietary software written with advanced genetic algorithms, I generate packing strategies for my redundant sets of NASA-engineered luggage. Each set of luggage is packed several times using different schemes in order to attain optimal weight, balance, and access time. This is followed by a lengthy rehearsal period in which I simulate typical use to insure that I've covered the 1200 most likely travel scenarios. I employ a staff of twenty scientists and researchers to assist me, many of whom were hired away from the world's top laboratories at fantastic cost. The entire operation is ISO-9001 certified and performs to six-sigma quality standards. If I were as thorough and exacting in other aspects of my life as I am when packing for trips, I would be the most powerful person in the history of the world, with hundreds of millions of people under the yoke of my vast empire. I would be able to redirect the course of humanity at my slightest whim, and I would be in command of my own space fleet. As it stands, I'm just a jerk with six cameras and a partially painted den. Alas...]
In my dream I did not use the services of my high-tech packing organization; I just threw a bunch of stuff in a bag. I actually don't remember the packing part; I just remember making the decision about how I was going to do it, and the next thing I knew I was getting on the bus. For some reason the bus was leaving from an abandonded parking lot in downtown Seattle in the middle of the night, and I was late getting there. (This also never happens in real life. I am hilariously early whenever I travel. "I can't check you in for this flight yet, sir - it doesn't start boarding until next week." "That's OK, I'll wait.")
I hopped on the bus and everyone was there having a good time. It was a big comfortable Greyhound-type bus that we'd apparently chartered. The bus left immediately, and we all started talking about what we were going to do when we arrived in the Caribbean. (We were apparently unfazed by the fact that weren't going to get there for at least 5 days, part of which would be spent underwater.) As we started talking, I realized that I hadn't brought any shoes. Not only had I forgotten to pack shoes, I wasn't even wearing any. I had apparently walked to the bus barefoot.
At first I was nonplussed by this, as befitted my new tropical attitide. But as the discussion continued, I started to get more and more panicked as I realized that I'd forgotten to bring a bunch of other important stuff, like shirts, socks, underwear, the clip-on sunglasses that were custom-made to fit my regular glasses, suntan lotion, pants, toiletries, money, my wallet - all items which might come in handy if you are taking a trip to the Caribbean or are attempting to, you know, live.
I decided to open my bag and see what I actually did bring. I had a black nylon duffel bag that I used to use in real life. It contained a yellow and blue striped swimsuit, a blue and yellow striped towel, and, for some reason that I never discovered, several coffee table books of poetry.
I berated myself aloud for being so dumb and abandoning my tried-and-true packing procedures, and I lamented the fact that I was in serious trouble and could do nothing about it. My friend Stephanie, who happened to be sitting next to me, didn't understand what the big deal was. She told me not to worry about it. (She was doing a better job of being tropical than I was.) Then I started thinking that, well, at least I had the poetry books, so maybe it wasn't so bad. Then I started thinking about what would happen when I wanted to walk somewhere, or buy something, or wear a shirt, and that made me panic again. As we rolled along through the sunny streets of some city, I alternated between feeling good and feeling colossally stupid.
And then I woke up. I was extremely disoriented when I got out of bed, but I was very happy to have shoes.
• • •
This is funny: "Time Traveler" Busted for Insider Trading
(If you actually need convincing that it's not true, click here.)
I bring this up because the Featured Presentation on their home page right now is very interesting. It's a series of photos from the photo diary of a guy named Oliver Truan. He has a Polaroid that he uses to take one picture a day, every single day. He started in 1989, so he's presumably got over 5000 pictures by now.
I actually had this same idea a few years ago. I got a small camera and started carrying it with me everywhere I went, and for a while I was pretty good about taking pictures regularly. Unsurprisingly, I didn't stick with it. Seeing this guy's pictures has inspired me to try it again, though. Last summer I upgraded my everyday camera to a digital point and shoot (which I still carry with me everywhere), and I'm close to having a software solution that will allow me to reliably archive and track all of my digital pictures. That seems like a big problem with using a film camera for a picture-a-day venture. What are you going to do with 5000 Polaroids?
So anyway, I might try this again. If I can work out the publishing aspect of it, I may start up a photo blog that will operate in conjunction with this here word blog. We'll see if it happens. It's not like I have any other projects at the moment, right?
I had a weird dream last night. I was taking a vacation to some Caribbean island with a bunch of friends. Oddly, we were taking a bus. (This wasn't a problem in the dream; it didn't seem strange to me until I woke up.) I decided that, since we were going on this nice, relaxing vacation, I would abandon my normal anal-retentive style of packing and just pack quickly the night before.
[A little background: when I go on a trip I typically start packing 3 months in advance. I use powerful computers to construct exhaustive projections of everything I might possibly need on the trip, and I then gather two of each item in a special clean room I added to my house specifically for this purpose. Using proprietary software written with advanced genetic algorithms, I generate packing strategies for my redundant sets of NASA-engineered luggage. Each set of luggage is packed several times using different schemes in order to attain optimal weight, balance, and access time. This is followed by a lengthy rehearsal period in which I simulate typical use to insure that I've covered the 1200 most likely travel scenarios. I employ a staff of twenty scientists and researchers to assist me, many of whom were hired away from the world's top laboratories at fantastic cost. The entire operation is ISO-9001 certified and performs to six-sigma quality standards. If I were as thorough and exacting in other aspects of my life as I am when packing for trips, I would be the most powerful person in the history of the world, with hundreds of millions of people under the yoke of my vast empire. I would be able to redirect the course of humanity at my slightest whim, and I would be in command of my own space fleet. As it stands, I'm just a jerk with six cameras and a partially painted den. Alas...]
In my dream I did not use the services of my high-tech packing organization; I just threw a bunch of stuff in a bag. I actually don't remember the packing part; I just remember making the decision about how I was going to do it, and the next thing I knew I was getting on the bus. For some reason the bus was leaving from an abandonded parking lot in downtown Seattle in the middle of the night, and I was late getting there. (This also never happens in real life. I am hilariously early whenever I travel. "I can't check you in for this flight yet, sir - it doesn't start boarding until next week." "That's OK, I'll wait.")
I hopped on the bus and everyone was there having a good time. It was a big comfortable Greyhound-type bus that we'd apparently chartered. The bus left immediately, and we all started talking about what we were going to do when we arrived in the Caribbean. (We were apparently unfazed by the fact that weren't going to get there for at least 5 days, part of which would be spent underwater.) As we started talking, I realized that I hadn't brought any shoes. Not only had I forgotten to pack shoes, I wasn't even wearing any. I had apparently walked to the bus barefoot.
At first I was nonplussed by this, as befitted my new tropical attitide. But as the discussion continued, I started to get more and more panicked as I realized that I'd forgotten to bring a bunch of other important stuff, like shirts, socks, underwear, the clip-on sunglasses that were custom-made to fit my regular glasses, suntan lotion, pants, toiletries, money, my wallet - all items which might come in handy if you are taking a trip to the Caribbean or are attempting to, you know, live.
I decided to open my bag and see what I actually did bring. I had a black nylon duffel bag that I used to use in real life. It contained a yellow and blue striped swimsuit, a blue and yellow striped towel, and, for some reason that I never discovered, several coffee table books of poetry.
I berated myself aloud for being so dumb and abandoning my tried-and-true packing procedures, and I lamented the fact that I was in serious trouble and could do nothing about it. My friend Stephanie, who happened to be sitting next to me, didn't understand what the big deal was. She told me not to worry about it. (She was doing a better job of being tropical than I was.) Then I started thinking that, well, at least I had the poetry books, so maybe it wasn't so bad. Then I started thinking about what would happen when I wanted to walk somewhere, or buy something, or wear a shirt, and that made me panic again. As we rolled along through the sunny streets of some city, I alternated between feeling good and feeling colossally stupid.
And then I woke up. I was extremely disoriented when I got out of bed, but I was very happy to have shoes.
This is funny: "Time Traveler" Busted for Insider Trading
(If you actually need convincing that it's not true, click here.)
Tuesday, April 15, 2003
I've heard your requests. When my public asks for something, I give it to them.
Actually, that's not really true. You've been asking me for "good writing" for months, and I've yet to deliver it. Perhaps I should amend that to say, "When my public asks for something that is within my power to deliver, I give it to them."
At any rate, here I am. You wanted a post, and you got it. This is it. The post. Here we go. *cough*
...
This sort of demonstrates why I haven't updated in the last couple of weeks - nothing has happened to me that seems worth writing about. And when I actually get an idea, I go to another blog and realize that someone has already written about it, but better, and sometimes with Lara Croft thrown in for good measure.
I Googled an old high-school classmate on a complete whim and found her, and that seemed like a very, very, thought-provoking thing to write about until I read Sarah Hepola's last five posts and remembered what "thought-provoking" actually means, what with the "thoughts" and the "provoking", thus disqualifying my idea completely.
Then I counted all of the change in my change jar and had a fascinating observation about the relative distribution of pennies to quarters that was just begging for an essay, until I remembered that people like to read things to be "interested", not bored to death with "observations" about "my fucking loose change". (BTW, I had about $320. See, you're bored already.)
Then I got sick last week and didn't really feel like writing anything, and now I'm panicking about making my Stockstock movie which is due in two weeks and that I just started on last night. You can see how I've been so busy and yet so uninteresting.
How about I just throw out some topics and you can see what you like? Uh, let's see. I got a new computer...anyone care about that? It's all sleek and shiny in the way that only Apple can make them, and I have a big, huge monitor that allows me to do work without feeling like I'm staring into a porthole. Anyone? OK, moving on.
I started painting my den briefly. My friend Abby got me some test paint that I could put on my wall to see if I liked the colors. I painted a couple of 2' x 2' squares on the wall, along with a little pyramid dealie that I thought was pretty cool at the time. I then proceeded to catch a cold and was unable to pursue it any further, thus leaving my den looking like it was briefly inhabited by some very unmotivated conceptual artists and then abandoned. We'll see how long it stays that way; I'm betting at least two weeks.
Lessee...I watched 8 Mile while I was sick. I liked it OK, but it was really only interesting when he was in the rap battles. I think Eminem is a very talented rapper, and this gave me an opportunity to listen to him perform without his typical lyrics, which I just can't bring myself to support, no matter how clever they are. As an actor...I dunno. He didn't embarrass himself, but he also wasn't stretching too far. I imagine the script went something like this:
(Note: If you haven't seen the movie, Eminem's character is called "Bunny Rabbit". Just go with it.)
Without question, the funniest part was watching the behind-the-scenes bonus documentary in which director Curtis Hanson explains the nature of freestyle rap battles. I never realized it before, but Curtis Hanson is the WHITEST PERSON IN AMERICA. It was hysterical listening to him describe rapping in his Mr. Howell-esque Whitey McWhite voice. "I was so intrigued by these young people 'flowing' and 'spitting' their 'rhymes'..." I'm as white as they come, and even I can't understand how he made it through the movie without getting punched. If you rent the DVD, be sure to watch the extras. You won't be sorry.
That would be in direct contrast to how you are feeling right now, since I presume that you are extremely sorry that you begged me to write a blog entry. This is what happens when I shoot from the hip; the results are even less pretty than usual. I will attempt to put a coherent thought on the page the next time I can muster one. If not, I will be forced to talk about my loose change. Loose change.
Actually, that's not really true. You've been asking me for "good writing" for months, and I've yet to deliver it. Perhaps I should amend that to say, "When my public asks for something that is within my power to deliver, I give it to them."
At any rate, here I am. You wanted a post, and you got it. This is it. The post. Here we go. *cough*
...
This sort of demonstrates why I haven't updated in the last couple of weeks - nothing has happened to me that seems worth writing about. And when I actually get an idea, I go to another blog and realize that someone has already written about it, but better, and sometimes with Lara Croft thrown in for good measure.
I Googled an old high-school classmate on a complete whim and found her, and that seemed like a very, very, thought-provoking thing to write about until I read Sarah Hepola's last five posts and remembered what "thought-provoking" actually means, what with the "thoughts" and the "provoking", thus disqualifying my idea completely.
Then I counted all of the change in my change jar and had a fascinating observation about the relative distribution of pennies to quarters that was just begging for an essay, until I remembered that people like to read things to be "interested", not bored to death with "observations" about "my fucking loose change". (BTW, I had about $320. See, you're bored already.)
Then I got sick last week and didn't really feel like writing anything, and now I'm panicking about making my Stockstock movie which is due in two weeks and that I just started on last night. You can see how I've been so busy and yet so uninteresting.
How about I just throw out some topics and you can see what you like? Uh, let's see. I got a new computer...anyone care about that? It's all sleek and shiny in the way that only Apple can make them, and I have a big, huge monitor that allows me to do work without feeling like I'm staring into a porthole. Anyone? OK, moving on.
I started painting my den briefly. My friend Abby got me some test paint that I could put on my wall to see if I liked the colors. I painted a couple of 2' x 2' squares on the wall, along with a little pyramid dealie that I thought was pretty cool at the time. I then proceeded to catch a cold and was unable to pursue it any further, thus leaving my den looking like it was briefly inhabited by some very unmotivated conceptual artists and then abandoned. We'll see how long it stays that way; I'm betting at least two weeks.
Lessee...I watched 8 Mile while I was sick. I liked it OK, but it was really only interesting when he was in the rap battles. I think Eminem is a very talented rapper, and this gave me an opportunity to listen to him perform without his typical lyrics, which I just can't bring myself to support, no matter how clever they are. As an actor...I dunno. He didn't embarrass himself, but he also wasn't stretching too far. I imagine the script went something like this:
(Note: If you haven't seen the movie, Eminem's character is called "Bunny Rabbit". Just go with it.)
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That would be in direct contrast to how you are feeling right now, since I presume that you are extremely sorry that you begged me to write a blog entry. This is what happens when I shoot from the hip; the results are even less pretty than usual. I will attempt to put a coherent thought on the page the next time I can muster one. If not, I will be forced to talk about my loose change. Loose change.