Tan Tan WordPress Reports Plugin tells me the following:
During the past 7 days, your site received 56 visitors (+143%) and 373 pageviews (+604%).
That’s a fact. Pretty amazing, yes? It’s all because I took the time from coding the site and actually posted something. Somebody even took notice and put me on BlogOfTheDay. Wow. You can just write, and have people read it.
This is an important realization to have (and remember) for one such as myself. It’s really easy to be a do-nothing perfectionist. If it’s not perfect—screw it! Here I am, striving forward in my own private multi-day coding marathon, but do the means justify the end? Why have an awesome-looking blog if you only post twice in a month? I feel I should declare some sort of resolution. I know there’s supposed to be a personal challenge statement somewhere around here.
Hm. Now where could I have left it…
So far I’ve refrained from calling it Glot 2.0. I’m not sure if that’s because 1.0 never officially came out, or if it’s my nagging fear of bandwagons. It’s just so trendy this season, isn’t it? Got nothing better to call it, though. And it is the second version. What the hell: GLOT 2.0.
most recent WordPress build
nice admin css (Aenonfire design & Camera On Road)
css color variations a la aNieto2k, Impact Switcher
categorical css layouts
unvisited links underlined, visited crossed out (e.g. visited)
link :hover interestingness a la SevenNine
post number determines color
tags listed at end of post
SIFR rich typography replacement
very visible Comment Here link
sub-titled per-post taglines
front-page category segregation
smaller text for long posts, larger for short ones
printer-friendly version (downloadable pdf version?)
IM status indicator
BDP Referral stats
latest Flickr photo Polaroid-framed
better-than-live searchhybrid posts/tags search
integrate links to pages (FAQ,
before I die list=43 things)
digidentity, or, more than you’d ever like to know about my life online:
about page w/sub pages:
all organized by brain phrenology regions
custom search pages
404 error page (100%x100% background image)
tag cloud + tag info
front-page comments (Inline Ajax Comments, Expand Comments)
custom comment text (5 of you reckon…)
canary comment (possible…)
human validation: pick three cute things method
gravatar inclusion (Comvatar)
fake more comments on old entries
# of comments (comments meter=ProgressFly)
comments imaginary point system (points for browser, pictures, # words)
rewards for points (signed shoes, minidiscs, clothing, art crap…)
Attention visitor! There is no new glot for you here. The Glotmaster has travelled very far to glot from an entirely different continent, and you can sample his incredible excursion to the wonderful land of Oz right here:
Until such and such a time when he decides he’s no longer there, you should all be able to get your daily smacking of glot right there. And hey! New feature—you can now contact this dude. There’s a form right there on that site. He loves mail.
What’s that you say—it’s too obvious I’m just writing this in the third person? I’m just trying to distance myself is all. Ha! And with that sublime pun (sublimely dumb) you’lll have to tide yourselves over for the next several months. Till then—ozzie ozzie ozzie(glot)!
- David DeAngelo is a very “cool” man
- My Job
- Crichton’s State of Fear (why people want you to be afraid to read it)
- The Archive — (here, keep this on your hard drive now)
- My Flowers and Trees Movie
- Up North, or the way we were
- CSUMB Sucks and I can prove it.
- Re-do Hello World
- “I am the coolest person I know.”
- Ten Topics for Future Entries
As of 7:38 am Pacific Daylight Savings time, WordGlot theme 0.9 has gone live. Whoo! One chromo-glot-gasm to rule them all.
Take a look around… doesn’t look like an 8th grader did it anymore, does it? Well, there’s still a few wrinkles. For instance the entire sidebar. But dammit, I wasted half a day just retrofitting the stupid thing and countless hours refining the design itself — now I’m gonna reap the reward of all this.
Reward… reward… hm.
I’m not sure what that is now. I seem to have forgotten the point. The point in doing all this. Of fixing up a blog that’s hardly read, that’s irregularly written. And while we’re on the subject, hey YOU: who are you thinking that this is good reading material? You have better things to do and you know it. I want you to stop reading this. Now.
- Counter-intuitive Rule #422 — If you want someone to do something, discourage them from doing it. Their essential contrarianism will cause them to do it more.
- Counter-intuitive Rule #422a — Unless, however, you point out their essential contrarianism, in which case they will not do it just to prove they aren’t contrarian (corollary).
- Counter-intuitive Rule #422b — If you point out that, they will most likely just get confused (counter-corollary).
I recently added a few more taglines to supplement the all-purpose, totally true, “blogs Я dum. read GLΘT.”
- Way too much time, I know.
- Yeah. I’m a sucker for free stuff too.
- Everybody’s got a damn blog, don’t they?
- Actually, I don’t have anything better to do.
- Self-centered American naval-gazing at it’s best.
- Boy, do I miss books sometimes.
- XHTML-compliance is a vice.
These turned out a little pessimistic, I admit. Especially since I like blogging more and more lately. I just… I wish there was another word. “Blog” used to mean the mixture of different alcoholic drinks you stole by the capful from your parents liqour cabinet. No, really—I read that in a book.
- Exhibition of Fort Ord Pictures
- Application to be my g/f — with CGI integration
- 10 reasons why America’s not so great no more
- Why you should destroy your computer
- Pictures of people’s hands
- Complete listing of music on my computer
- Reviews of people on MySpace
- Points of Cool (treatise—?)
- My Flowers and Trees movie
- 10 Topics for Past Entries
Let me address, for a moment, a subject of male preoccupation: machines.
Damnable machines. The intricacies and interminglings of mechanical and electrical, the mystery and lure of esoteric knowledge, the elusive and seductive usefulness of them—such aspects evoke what the ancient ones would call the summoning of spirits. Caveman call to God with the same sticks and stones. A key turned, a button pressed, and a powerful and nigh-understood beast is yours to command. As spoken by Arthur C. Clarke: “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” Think about it. I haven’t.
Years ago American lore tells us that we men were fascinated with automobiles. We knew all the intricacies of engine parts, created mythologies (such as the ever-faulty Knuter valve), and “talked shop.” How quaint. Today these honored traditions are mostly just useless and annoying distractions. Example. Example. Example. Which of course makes them dishonored traditions. Because people have pooped on them.
Today, modern machines of manliness aren’t built from aluminum, but rather silicon wafers. By my scientific calculations the average american male knows a hefty 1.8 terabytes more in the category of “shit about computers,” as compared to the relatively clueless american female. Bear in mind this fake statistic takes no account of age and there are often pleasant exceptions. But by and large, I think you’ll agree, womenfolk have to deal with us cause it’s a man’s job to take care of the computers.
The ramifications: if you’re like me, there will be occasions when every-single-person-you-know will want you to fix their computer. Recently I had two computers break on me—the same day. The first, the PSU simply exploded… or, uh, imploded… I don’t know cause I wasn’t actually there… but am told the sparks were impressive either way. And the second? It’s PSU was momentarily temporarily disconnected. This (of course) caused catastrophic driver corruption. It’s now stricken with the condition I like to call “POS syndrome.” And, the day before, I’d picked up an old-timey laptop which needed to have everything reformatted, reinstalled, and re-gotten-working-again. Windows ME doesn’t seem to even exist on the internet.
And so, my essential caveman nature was faced with three highly sophisticated (highly busted) thinking machines. We’ve only evolved so much in 10,000 years, people. Let me assure you that only the best-placed utterings of damnation can sway a determined machine. General cursing helps, but not as much as besmirching the name of Engelbart. They hate that kind of besmirching.
How I eventually managed to fix all these problems isn’t actually important. Even though you probly’ve been lead to believe it is, by me. Although hint hint—my method did involve money and throwing. Needless to say the computer that’s mine is working again.
Somtimes a realization can spring upon you like a nightmare in the… in the night. And that realization for me is: I am boring.
Now this is not the kind of thing I like to admit openly. And in this day and age, where coolness is a personal commodity, this is not a paltry thing to admit. Especially for a 21 year-old. Especailly for me—I’m the coolest person I know. What does that say about the rest of you fuckers? Poor sad bastards. No wonder I’m so boring. I’m bored.
Has the world lost it’s luster? Or has the stunningly doldrum-hohum warm-piss wooden-shoehorn nature of this stucco’ed strip mall of a town finally begun to egg away at the colorful and wild-hearted edifice that is ME. Maybe this ham-it-up phone operator spchpiz-niz is getting to me—the need to speak clearly and in an elevated tone, having to to say things like “how may I direct your call?” and “I’m sorry, sir, I’ll have those bath towels delivered right away.” I need to do something soon, man, soon. I just used the word spchpiz-niz in a sentence and it made perfect sense.
I swear I have never listened to a rap song on purpose.
What brings on this tide of troubled thoughts to my toiling cerebrum? I’ll tell you: girls, goddamn… damn… girls. Being all, there, and all. They taunt me with their… making me think about them. That’s the best I can explain my feelings at the moment.
I am reminded of the cosmic precept (not quite a law), that is applicable in a situation such as mine. The more you need something, the more you feel you have to have it, the less likely you are to get it. Conversely, if you are terribly afraid of something and obsess about it happening it will happen. You’re going to lose your hair. The germs are going to get you.That airliner’s going down. And you know what—this isn’t just some cheeky-tongued blaaah-zay adage here. It deals with the primal force of manifestation, and a powerful force it is.
This is science (or philosophy—depending on how you view the very nature of consciousness). I’ll give you an example: you’ve heard of that cheesy R&B song, “I Beleive I Can Fly?” Well that song is full of crap, no one can fly unless they’re on a feakin’ plane. Now, that’s an example of negative manifestation: I believe it’s impossible ergo you can’t fly. And it’s true! See what I’m saying? This same principle keeps me from being suave with women: I know I could be reallly good. But I know I’m not. I think myself into doing the wrong things even though I know what the right things are, and this happens because… because…
Damn I’m bored. I need a hobby. Like web design. Or blogging. Wait—you know what, fuck that shit—I’m gonna go whittle a boat or something. I hate tha intarweb. I hate calling it ‘tha intarweb’. You heard me, Internet. I know you’re out there. Sending you’re little robots to check up on me alla time. Coming in 12:15, 12:30, 12:55, what do you think I am, a blog junkie? You’re lucky if you get one entry a week from me Internet. That’s cooler than Kottke can say, working his b.s. as a full-time gig. What a loser…
Please, like me. If I blogged more would you like me? Would you grant me the graciousness of your pagerank, send me the beloved unique IP hits that pad my ego so? Tell me, in so many bits, that not only is my prose lively and un-boring but is worthy of actual readership? Well fine then. I’ll do that, and I’ll make it XHTML-compliant-valid-and-douched just like you told me to. But you gotta get me a girlfriend, Internet. You know the kind—smart, pretty, willing to engage in long bouts of smart-assness. And she better be from this country too you ass, stop sending me girls with surnames like Iripov or Kerpletzka. If you have to pay for it that’s cheating (I don’t know if you realize that, being a formless amalgam of machines and all). Also I’m cheap; tell her that just in case. Other than that she should know I don’t need her, but uh, you know it’d be nice. Just make it sound cooler than that when you say it. I don’t want to sound boring.