Blog Layout

Today, I’m going to do my blog layout. Honestly I don’t know if I’m going to get it done, but I’m going to try. I was lying in bed and an idea came to me. I intend to develop it.

A lot will be like before:
Symbol in the upper-right corner. Top black bar with title “Wordglot.” Grid, colored, drawn down the side.

Here’s what’s new:
Layers within the grid. Top layer is actual black square grid. Lines maybe altogether 2-4 inches wide or 15% of page. Next layer is in the top-left. Translucent single-colored squares, appearing randomly placed and thinning as they descend. Below these is the bottom layer, which is determined by the post category. Unique images for every category.

Possible issues:
Aligning the images to properly fall at the left-most edge while still having post fall beside it. Matching up the category images so they don’t end inside squares; they change underneath the gridlines. Proper translucency tapering for colored squares. Possible issues with the cat_images plugin that allows custom images for every category.

I’ll post an image of the draft when I come up with it. Why? Because I can, that’s why.

A Walk in the Night

I’ll be damned.
That did solve something.

You never think of walking as being a real prouctive activity. A to B.
Maybe that’s culture. But… allow me to explain.

I’d been dicking around on this damnable website for at least 5 hours. Not doing anything, really, but reading and researching the life out of me. And so I got up. Tried to trim my stache but the razor was dead. Remembered that I needed to move my car from the closer lot to the faaar lot because I’d get another ticket otherwise. So I got my brown blazer on, the one that used to be Emily’s Dad’s, and headed out.

As I started walking I start listening. The first thing I heard is this clack-clack-clack as some kid rides his skateboard across the cracks in the wet pavement behind me. Then my own shoes on the concrete stairs. My car beeping as I unlock it. The engine turning on and the jazz station. Wheels backing over a curb as I, dumbass, went over it. Then the softer sound of tires on wet road. Between the barricades I run over a large metal ring lying there in the crosswalk, which has a sound I enjoy but cannot describe. Then back to the parking lot the new way, the new road they just made way, as I realize there might be available paking spaces. No such luck. As I was about to go back the way I came I heard voices, people walking up the parking entrance whom I didn’t even see. I waited but didn’t want them to hear the silly Santa Cruz reggae that had come on. So, I drove to the BBC parking lot and on the way I HONKed my horn at the police station for a good solid second because I was pissed at the stupid cops for giving me stupid tickets.

This is important,

I think.

So I get out of my car and I’m all kinda mope-y cause I have to park here so faaaar away and I pull out this rope to see if I can rip down that fucking parking sign with my car frame. Verdict: probably, but I’m not that hardcore and/or an anarchist. I walk back. The rain starts again, even though it’s been dripping from the trees all along. I start talking to myself. A monologue of alternating bile and self-chastisement. Mostly about cops, how much I hate them and then me rationalizing why I really don’t. As I get back to the quad what did I see, of course, but an officer doing nightwalk. Nightwalk is this thing where any girl student that calls can get a fully armed polizia to walk them to and from their dorm. I power-walked ahead of these two, the cop and his escortee the Resident Director, trying to get into the elevator before them. Sooo close. They come in just as the door opens and I run inside jamming the close button and as I do, the officer says and I quote,

“I smell pasta.”

I’m sorry. Really. But if one is pissed pisssssed at cops in general and one of them comes into where you live and says something so retort-worthy and inane as “I smell pasta,” or “I smell anything,” for that matter well…

I’m sure you can’t blame one for uttering “I smell bacon.”

Thought I got away with it too. Damn. I didn’t. He stuck his flashlight/beatstick in the door and asked what I said. I don’t even remember what the hell I answered at that point. What did I not do? Make some shit up. Get in his face. Stonewall him. I think I probably apologized. Kept his stick in there till the ellelater was buzzing something nasty. Then he let me go up to my room.

I’m beyond irked, at this point. I’m making bestial sounds and my spit is frothing at my lips. I’m not really making words anymore. People used to say you had a sharp tongue if you could curse viciously enough. My tongue was blunt and spiky, like a mace. I didn’t stay long in my dorm.

I took out the trash. Pfft, why not. Was I looking for a fight when I went out? Kinda sorta. Walked by his cruiser. Didn’t spit on it, though I was tempted very tempted. Called myself a pussy a few dozen times. Finally I settled on going back to my dorm and being angry.

When who … do I see … again … but Officer Brown.

Officer Brown was his name. Young guy. Probably on University Police till he gets enough experience. Brown hair efficiently cut, kinda short-ish. I run into him and the RD on the second floor. My first instinct surprisingly enough is not to shout and curse and be pissed off. I say sorry again this time I’m sure. I invite him up to my room. But I was on the wrong floor of course and said it was one of those days. He said he’d had a few of those. Once inside I offered him water and a seat but he said he was fine. I explained where I was coming from and the tickets I’d gotten and why I was so frustrated and he tried to sympathize. I think even he was a little taken aback by some of the tickets I’ve gotten. We had an okay conversation. I kind of unloaded on him, which was alright. He told me he didn’t write the dumb overnight parking tickets and that, yes, there were some ticket-happy guys on the force.

We had a human mutual respect moment. He’s from CSU Fresno. His name’s Matt. He knows now that sometimes I follow foxes on my bike, even after midnight. He had to go and we said goodbye. I accomplished clearing my head. I felt better.

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And I finally had something to write about, thank god.

Cham Bam Shazam

OK so I’m sitting in class and this emo kid Tyler is sitting in front of me and he’s totally hipper than me. Boy wears a black sweatshirt with a turned up collar and the stitches showing with an ass-tight pair of girl-jeans. Kinda pants you can tell what religion he is. His hair’s shoulder-length strait and black with platinum highlights. Has a pair of mahogany-colored thinline emo glasses.

The coolest thing I have on is an ironic t-shirt that says:
ironic t-shirt.”

This bothers me. Why? No hipster, no hipster I. Damn people. Damn people presenting themselves as more fashionable and current than me. At least I don’t come off as pretentious. Well no, I do. Damn. But I’m not a clothes whore though. I don’t think. An inept clothes tard maybe.

I’m gonna redo my MySpace. It’s gonna be all default-conscious, no color schemas for this shiny attractive metallic object.

In related news there do exist actual, non-figurative MySpace whores:

From “Candice” :

I’m here because one of my girlfriends said this site is a great way to meet people online. I’m 21, with brown hair and green eyes and I have a butterfly tattoo but I’m not telling where! I’m looking for people who have an open-mind, not shy and people who don’t mind what I do for a living. I’m online a couple hours a day between work hours so if you want to chat over my webcam, hit me up and mention you saw my profile.

Occupation: Online Stripper

MySpace + WebCams = possibility for new levels of sluttishness.

Need also to set up computer for music/design and not games. Nobody cool ever went: “oh wow you have a level 40 shaman with all 4 totems?!” They say “ oh wow you make your own music!? And it’s fricking awesome?! ” Yeah. No.

Ok I’m gonna go now coolness be damned.
Dinner. Jenna. Hungry.

Pace. It’s Italian for peace.

Dream Recording Session

This was some assignment for a music class I’m taking. The topic was “describe your dream recording session”. Like how it turned out.



Well I guess I’d just have to do it with the TradeMark G., Mark Gunderson of the Evolution Control Committee. He is the Evolution Control Committee. He’s the one who’s inspired me the most.

We’d record in a gigantic converted zeppelin hanger deep in the labyrinth of Skywalker Ranch/Area 51. It would be filled with all manner of hard-to-come-by audio toys, and also groupies. Dorky groupies who would praise our oddness as they ogled us over their cat’s eye glasses. Our double length would be produced by the same guy who helped on “Hot Shots II” by the Beta Band, and reigned in their craziness exceptionally.

He and a crew of about 20 engineers would follow us around with a good dozen solid-states, DATs and old reel-to-reels trying not to get frustrated whenever we overshot with our jetpacks. Oh yeah we’d have jetpacks. We looted them from old Boba Fett props/counter-ops research.

We would glut ourselves on THX sound effects until the cows came home. It is a ranch, right? Lucas has been hogtied so he can’t complain. And/or do they have cows in the Nevada desert? Doesn’t matter.

Instead of having the normal Skywalker sound engineers we could get Buddha to master. It’d be doubly fruitful because you know he’d be totally in the zone and I would only have to pay him in loving-kindness. For the cover art Magritte and Da Vinci will be collaborating. Jesus will market.

Awake

It’s 3 AM the morning after Christmas and I know I should be asleep but I can’t. I just keep thinking.

There’s so much to think about. There’s a new year and a new semester and I have the chance to change my life. I have the need to change my life. I don’t even know what it is, but I have this need to explode across somewhere, that I’ve been bottled up and there’s so much potential and energy and ideas that I can’t keep it in anymore. I want to dedicate myself. I want to stop procrastinating and sabotaging myself. I want to be a daytime person. I want to write, and often. I want to listen to more music, and make more music, that which I haven’t done in years. I want to have life on my own terms and vivaciously; to strike out with the force of mind and will to make a mark on the great big world that I can tell my grandchildren about. This entry goes on, so keep reading.


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