History of the weblog.

This essay is a fairly intriguing examination of the history of the weblog (and since the lovely view provided by the MOUNTAINS OF KAF is itself a weblog, I felt obligated to include a link) and in particular I want you to notice this paragraph:

The Metafilter interface instructs the writer to contribute a link and add commentary; Blogger makes no such demands. Blogger makes it so easy to type in a thought or reaction that many people are disinclined to hunt up a link and compose some text around it.[...] It is this free-form interface combined with absolute ease of use which has, in my opinion, done more to impel the shift from the filter-style weblog to journal-style blog than any other factor.

This is actually the least important sentence of the article. What she argues for is an increasing saturation of filter-style weblogs to combat the suppressive carpet bombing of mass media (itself, according to Rebecca Blood, a creature predicated on saturation), but simultaneously a proliferation of journal-style (or whatever style the creator wishes) blogs to allow for increased self-reflection and awareness. I wonder if it's so much a history of the weblog as it is a call for reform disguising itself as history. Then again, with no sources listed, it could be anything.

Just like the MOUNTAINS OF KAF. Hope you've enjoyed the view.

Emotional Crippling, Redux

Ahhh, the joys of a sweet reversal of fortune. My British/American Lit professor hands back two papers today, and both of them--first drafts, I might add--wind up satisfactory. Well, he can just shove them both up his ass and light them on fire. It provides for me some comfort not in knowing that he appreciates them, because I'd much rather he contract gonorrhea, die, then burn in hell while never experiencing respite from the stinging feeling he'd get while urinating, than have him consider my paper satisfactory. At least I don't have to do the work again. "Satisfactory." Goddamn, even his terms for a good paper really only amount to "good enough."

What a jackass.

The life of Michael Else.

So I bought the Sims yesterday (Sunday), wondering if the open-ended play structure would provide me with some kind of game that doesn't rotate on a fixed axis of bloody, enjoyable killin'. How foolish I was.

So my Sim, Michael (in the game I think his last name is Bachelor, but that is stupid, so I call him Michael Else), is fresh out of college and trying to make his way in the world. Omen #1. He is social, not so hardworking, curious. All he wants is a little peace and a little happiness, but in tonight's simulated space he will have neither. At first I try micromanaging, I buy him a nice house with some nice things--not posh, but nice. He gets a job as a medical technician. He even meets some people from across the street (Bob and Betty) and he and Betty get along swimmingly. He has a television, a computer, a good job, a good house.

But something is off. His Social meter drops. Tomorrow night, I promise him, we'll call up Betty and she'll come over. He'll make dinner, and things will progress from there. He calls her up. There's no answer. She picks up finally, and he proposes dinner. Count me out, she says. Michael calls up Bob. They try to talk but Bob is yelling. Michael watches a little television before he goes to bed. He is lonely. The next day he gets back from work and we call up Betty again. This time there is yelling. Michael cannot meet people because they come over when he's gone at work. I decide to stop micromanaging. I simply hit the fastforward key and I watch.

First thing he stops doing is the dishes. They're piled in the corner. He takes a shower, he watches television, he reads. He fixes dinner. Next morning alarm goes off. He doesn't go to work. He watches television, he wanders around outside. There's an infestation of bugs. He cleans the dishes, he eats, he plays the computer. Midday there's a phone call. You miss work once, accident. Twice, it's a sin. He gets fired tomorrow.

He spirals out of control. Sleeps during the day. Plays computer games at night. Runs around outside at the middle of the day. Sometimes he stands in the living room and sobs. Not crying, but full-throated wails. A woman comes over after three or four days and he talks to her outside because the house is shit. She leaves after yelling at him for being such a slob.

When I quit the game he was standing outside in the yard in his pajamas screaming at the top of his lungs. His meter was all the way at the sad mark. Screaming and crying because he's so lonely, out of work, abandoned. When I quit the game it was with the thought, My God, what have I done? One week managing the life of someone else and he hits the bottom.

Why hast thou forsaken me?

the View

the View, by Modest Mouse
"As life gets longer, it also feels softer
Well it feels pretty soft to me
And if it takes shit to feel bliss
Well I feel pretty blissfully
And if life's not beautiful without the pain
Well I'd rather never even see beauty again
As life gets longer, it also feels softer
Well it feels pretty soft to me"

That's the song of the night. I'm back from Thanksgiving break and all seems to be well here in college, the roommates are back and the moon is out. It's a little bright for me to sleep well, but after last night's 4:00 AM Half-Life 2 spree, maybe I'll be tired enough to cancel the illumination. Ah, Half-Life 2. What a beautiful game. One of the first to make me take video game violence seriously. It's amazing what realistic physics, sound design, and character design will do to you when you pull the trigger--seeing a massive splatter on the wall and hearing an EKG flatline makes you take it a little more seriously. Though not seriously enough to spare them. Hell, it's my virtual man against their virtual men, and by God I'm not taking it lying down.

I'm probably too long-winded to work well in blog format, but you'll just have to deal. "We are fixed, right where we stand." More Modest Mouse. My mood is inscrutable and the best I can do to describe it is fatalistic. One of my projects for class is writing my autobiography. Nothing like realizing your life is a series of burnouts and failures to make you think twice about taking a zero and leaving the depths unexplored. Though a roommate asked me about my plans after college and I realized the future is a dark highway at night.

But taking off my sunglasses would help, too.

"We are fixed, right where we--are."

Gobble, gobble, gobble

Happy Thanksgiving! Happy Turkey Day!

Nothing like celebrating the genocide of a people by eradicating a species!!

In case you think I'm extremely serious about that last sentence, not really--I ate turkey today just like many other self-absorbed Americans. And it was yummy.

An hour....

An entire hour. Of the fire alarm right beside my desk going off every 5 minutes. And when the alarm isn't screaming, the light on it is still flashing, so that if there were a fire, we could have a party complete with strobe lights. Honestly, people, what good would the flashing light do? If there's a fire, there's already going to be plenty of flickering light by which to see our certain fiery doom approach. And if we are to die by smoke inhalation, will a flashing light really help us see better than a constant light through thick clouds of noxious fumes that choke and burn? Or will it just trigger seizures in some, and migraines in others?

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Pause.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Pause.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

Pause.

(Almost as an afterthought) Beep!

Wait 5 minutes. Repeat. Welcome to my hell.

One last fire related ridiculous observation: there are three bright green exit signs in my office. One of them hangs above the door that leads to the stairs, the quickest way out. A second hangs above an emergencey exit that leads, not to an exit, but to a confusing mass of more offices and cubicles. A maze before you reach the actual exit. The third hangs above a door to a single room that has no exit. No door but the one you entered through. No windows. Just your personal corner of hell in which to burn. Enjoy.

Agonizing, fiery death

All alone at work this morning, in the basement (ahem, sorry, "lower level") of the library, I hear the fire alarm go off. What do I save on my way out the door? First the iBook, then my purse. I pause as I look at my notebook of grad school applications and information, sitting underneath Gender in Archaeology by Sarah Milledge Nelson (quite a read, if you're interested in the subjects of either gender or archaeology). I decide to leave both behind--they are replaceable, the laptop isn't, and the purse I save more out of convenience for myself. What a pain in the ass to get credit cards, checks, driver's license all replaced. Upstairs I learn that it's just a test--since my workplace is eternally under construction, they're just testing the fire alarm.

Let me note--sometimes the emergency exit alarms go off when people use the wrong doors, and everyone in the library wonders, "What is that? Is that the fire alarm? Am I supposed to leave?" Let me tell you--when the goddamned fire alarm goes off, you will bloody well know it because there's no DAMN way to ignore the piercing shriek reminiscent of the screams of the damned that rips through your skull.

As of this writing, the damn thing has gone off at least 6 times, since they have to be damned (7 times) sure it works. Well, it FUCKING WORKS!!!

If the fire alarm goes off today because of an actual fire, well, I'll just burn, thankyouverymuch.

Eight times.

Recognition! HA!

Check out Mischieftodata.com, our friend Ghani's blog. Recognition is so sweet.

Statement of Purpose

Why do graduate schools expect that you have a purpose, some purpose, any purpose, and then expect you to make coherent statements about it? I have no purpose, and I don't see why that should be important, really. At least, no purpose beyond whatever is immediately in front of me.

Current purpose: blog about statements of purpose.

Statement of current purpose: you're reading it right now. Blows the mind, doesn't it?

Next purpose: write a statement of purpose about a purpose I don't have and if I did have, I wouldn't want to make statements about.

Can't grad schools just assume that if I'm applying, then my most immediate purpose is to be accepted (I'll have no problem stating that), and my subsequent purpose will be to graduate with a degree of some sort affiliated with whatever program I'm enrolled in?

For those of you not in the know, I'm applying to a couple of different graduate schools for an MA in Public Archaeology or Cultural Resource Management, whichever the relevant school calls their degree program (I want an MA in PA or CRM, possibly at BU, USF, or USC, who all want SOP's, the SOB's).

Unrelated comment: I miss Djinn, who is home in Nashville right now for Thanksgiving Break to spend time with his family. He's spent the past three months with me, so I suppose I can begrudge them a week of his time (although to be fair, they had him for almost 21 years before I met him, so you'd think that would be enough).

North America occupied earlier than previously thought

That link is to an interesting article about radiocarbon dates that push human occupancy of North America back to 50,000 years ago. Yes, this is something that may only interest me, but there you have it. There's plenty of debate and conjecture about just when and how the Americas were settled by humans. One theory is that they crossed the Bering Strait land bridge before it was under water. Another posits that humans sailed along the coast of North America even earlier. Of course, most evidence for something like that would be under water due to rising sea levels. Anyways, the article is an interesting read.

On the road through Atlanta

Whilst in the middle of what is normally a 4 hour drive, recently taking 5 hours thanks to the hell that is rush hour traffic in Atlanta, I dared a much needed glance at my car's gas gauge. As the needle inched closer to the "E", I felt that immediate action should be taken. I found a nice, quiet little Citgo gas station for myself and Katrina Eveshka (yes, the car has a name), shut off the engine, reached my hand down to pull the lever that opens the little door to the gas tank, pulled, and felt nothing.

I pulled again.

Nothing.

Baffled, I repeated said actions a few more times in disbelief, then got out of the car to double check that indeed, the gas tank was as locked against me as ever.

I reached for the user's manual to my 2001 Mitsubishi Mirage. "The lever to open the fuel tank is located to the left of the driver's side seat, inside the door. See diagram." Thanks a lot, you sons of bitches. Real helpful there.

Undeterred, I phoned the Mitsubishi dealership where I had bought the car almost 4 years ago--the salesman's business card was still tucked away inside the user's manual--and begged for assistance.

Transfer to the technician in the service department.

"Try opening the trunk and pulling the lining out of that so you can see the thick wire that connects the lever to the door. Tug on that wire. Didn't work? Hmm, try ripping out more of the carpet lining your trunk and reach around the opening of the tank and open the door from the inside. Still didn't work? I bet the spring fell out or broke or something. Anyone there with you? You're alone? Ok, try wedging the lever up with something, yeah, a pocket knife will do, and then use something flat, like a key, and open the door. What's that you say? 'Holy shit, it worked?' Well, you're certainly welcome ma'am. Have a nice day."

And thus I managed to continue my trip. With the carpet ripped out of my trunk. I'm a practical woman, and in a choice between being stranded in Atlanta and ripping out the carpet.... well, that's not really a choice at all, now is it?

Rough Monday.

Just a bit of an update. A revised report that bears the weight of my entire course grade sits in the English department office. A boot bearing the immobilizing wrath of Public Safety sits on my rear right tire. Fifty-eight dollars bears the responsibility of keeping my bank account safe. My wornout stomach bears an agony I probably deserve.

I wish Genie was here.

Thoughts and prayers.

Today (Monday) Genie is going back home for the funeral of her great-grandmother. If you're the praying type, I'd ask that you say a little something for her today. If you're not particularly religious, well, it doesn't hurt to hope everything is okay these next two days, does it?

I probably won't say much until she gets back.

I'm thinking of you, too, Genie.

Operation: Retort.

I mean, come on. Genie's portrayal of my comment about Operation: Buy Cute Things for the New Kitten doesn't really tell the truth of the matter. We were walking out of work, talking to Genie's skanky friend TheSkank, and Genie mentions the codename of this particular operation. I look at her supportively and acceptingly, and I tell her, "That name sucks. Call it Operation: Vanguard."

Operation: Kitten

Phase One of Operation: Kitten has been successfully carried out. Operation: Vanguard, formerly known as Operation: Buy Cute Things for the Kitten, but changed because Djinn said it "wasn't cool," took place this afternoon at 3:00 pm EST. Her little room, which is also known as "the bathroom," has been set up for her. Subject: Gandalf is still blissfully unaware that his world is about to change, although he did wonder why he would need a litter box that is clearly too small for him in the bathroom, where he's not allowed anyways.

Probable kitten name: Galadriel, "Elle" for short. It just sounds better than "Morgana le Fay," with which it was in competition. Elle pulled into the lead early on, though, and shows no signs of tiring until it wins and the kitten is known as Elle or even Ellie.

I see you've all met my other half

And with the advent of Djinn, the Mountains of Kaf have become more volatile, more unstable, more vivid, and so much more interesting. While our Mountains here may someday have a purpose, a specific subject matter to draw in readers, as of right now, anyone who stumbles across this little world of ours will have to put up with reading our rants and our raves. Honestly, I don't have the penchant for narrative that Djinn does--I don't even try to compete. Perhaps I can be an adequate counter-balance to his stylistic tendencies. We'll find out.

Emotional Crippling 1.0

Now I only have one essay left to write, if you guys give a fiery rat's ass. Yay for me.

Let me say that I hate this class, British/American Lit until 1800, with the throbbing passion of a thousand hulking quasars. If hate were people, I'd be China. My professor looks like Eyore, from Winnie the Pooh, only instead of a sulking donkey he's an insufferable jackass. This is the second time I've had to revise one of these stupid reports. It's a report on a word that was different when the author wrote it than it is now. It's pretty much a glorified book report. So why am I staying up until four in the morning working on it, sending my ulcer into cataclysmic waves of agony? (Though I'm not sure I have an ulcer, what the hell. It works on a narrative level, I think.)

Because in this class, you either get an A, or you fail. No middle ground. No real clear standards at all, actually, except for the whole A/F dichotomy. And the bastard has an attendance policy. "Yes, college is like the real world, in the Job Market you can't just skip your responsibilities." Well, we have to learn that on our own, don't we? And it's not like you're paying me a goddamn cent to show up here. I'm paying you, and in return, I get to do whatever the hell I want with my time, so long as it doesn't involve a crystal meth lab in my bathroom or freaking organ marketing on eBay.

The killer part of it is, we have to cite information from the database Literature Online. Let me say this, too. Have you ever picked up, I don't know, what's comparable... the Physician's Desk Reference and looked for the word "hip"? Just to see if it was ever used in different contexts? Oh, yeah, and this edition of the PDR has collected six hundred years' worth of materials. And the shit people write about this material. That's about how I feel trying to search LION's database for the word "philosopher." I got something like 300,000 hits alone when I narrowed it to articles about "philosopher" AND chaucer. When Boolean logic still gets you ass-raped, you know the assignment is better left unassigned.

Further, it's not like anyone outside of ENG-21 will have ever written a damn report about a word that has changed slightly. What am I going to find to cite? A section of LION about shitty college assignments that really should have been given to high schoolers with literacy problems? Let me just check the tabs at the top of the site OH WAIT it's not there. Well.

If you feel something digging into you from the cushion of your seat, it's just phantom ass-rape pains from me. The assignment is so ludicrous (and intellectually sodomizing me so violently) that you'll be feeling it soon. Like a steamy, messy, hot, human-booster-shot of busywork into your frontal lobes. Dripping busywork.

On a side note, the caramel coffee I bought at Publix is fantastic.

This isn't porn, I swear to God.

If this turned up because of my using the phrase "Asian schoolgirl," sorry, there's nothing to amuse your deviant (and questionably legal) tendencies. No porn here. Save a kitten (and save yourself some chafing) and go read Ulysses or something.

...the real work of blogging.

Yeah I don't know what that is. I was talking out of my ass. But I admit it. I'm up front like that. I also realized that maybe it's talking about myself, which I don't particularly like to do, but as Genie's snoozing on the loveseat, you're stuck with me for however long it takes until she wakes up and wrests this iBook from my sweaty little hands. As of this instant I have definitely not started the three papers I have to write, all due tomorrow. I didn't even start on one of them by accident or anything. Sometimes my prolific writing habits just disappear in favor of... well, writing somewhere else, I guess. So count yourselves (though I just realized, there's only three of us, and one is sleeping, and one is me) lucky that I'm procrastinating and placing my academic future in jeopardy for rock-climbing (see? clever reference to the MOUNTAINS OF KAF).

But for tonight's trivial recommendation, I'd advise you to snag up iTunes music store and skulk around for an awesome song by My Chemical Romance, "I'm Not Okay (I Promise)"--they're like the spiritual brethren of the Misfits, only without Glenn Danzig's shirtless Satanism and skullduggery (though both can be good in moderation). Hooky, melodic, and the video they've got out on iTunes is freaking fantastic. Plus they have a snazzy post-ironic maybe-emo name!

Tonight's other trivial recommendation is a fantastic webcomic called the 10k Commotion, done by an Asian schoolgirl with waaay too much artistic talent. The line drawings are still sketched and rough, and she Photoshops the drawings into digital watercolors. The plot's pretty sweet, too, a $10 grand Dance Dance Revolution contest in Hawaii and the numerous misfits who come to win the pot. Go check it out, and if you're like me, you'll read the entire posted comic in one night.

*Sigh.* But I've taken up enough of Genie's space. Until some other time, people. Marshmallow dance.
<(^^<) (>^^)> <(^^<) (>^^)> <(^_^)>

Rub my lamp!

They say you only get one chance to make a first impression. Well, glad I totally ruined it with a juvenile innuendo. But since you can't think any less of me now, how about I tell you a little bit about myself? I'm Djinn, the dashing fire-eyed man to Genie's enchanting woman. Two aspects of the same whole, yin and yang. Well, I won't talk about what we do with our yang, I promise.

Strike two, eh? I guess I should get to the real work of blogging...

Kitten.

Definitely giving the kitten a try. She's a cute little tortoiseshell with a yellow stripe on her nose and forehead. Possible names include: Morgana le Fay or Galadriel (Elle for short). For Gandalf's sake, we'll be taking it slowly. Very slowly. And we'll see how this works out. I get her on Sunday, 11:30 am EST. Yay!

Kitten?

The latest bit of excitement is that I'm going to try getting a kitten. I already have one cat, and he has had mild success getting along with other cats in the past (i.e., in 10 years he's gotten along with one other cat, and they met when he was a kitten himself). When angered, Gandalf the Grey (named that before it became trendy, mind you) tends to do typical cat things to vent his frustration--scratch my roommate's love seat, come into the room of the offending party (me) and stare directly at them (me) as he urinates all over their (my) book case's lower shelves, things like that. The organization I'm going to try to get a kitten from will allow me to "foster" the kitten with the option to adopt. If it works out, all the better. If not, I'll just say goodbye to that lower row of books on my shelves. I read one website that says that resident cats who are upset by new things "regress" and forget to use the litter box. It's not regression, it's pure and vindictive vengeance. Why else must he have eye contact before urinating all over my stuff?

Much better

No more pink. I honestly don't know what came over me to choose that template. I will design my own, someday, I promise. But the ready made templates at Blogger will suffice for now.

Soon...

...this blog will become more interesting. And maybe I'll tell more than one person about it. But that one person might join my blog, and then, it will become our (MY) blog, and we (I) will both be in control. I still need to work on the appearance of it, though. I wanted something fiery, though, for the whole "genie" theme. Especially since the person I invited to join this blog will have the handle of "djinn." But I guess pink isn't very fiery, is it? I'll get off the whole "pink" thing soon, though.

Feeling the need

I hate the current pink background to this blog. But I don't feel like messing with creating my own blog tempate here right now. So I'm creating more posts to cover the background color. A simple, elegant solution. Or so I think. Ahh, and the obsession begins.....

Conforming...

So many of my friends have blogs, I thought, "Why should I bother being an individual? So much easier to give in and follow the trend." So here we are. Since as of right now, I have one reader (myself), thinking of something to post about is difficult. Nonetheless, post I shall. Such is my devotion to my non-existant readers. Just imagine what I'll do when/if someone actually reads this?