Shop has closed for Saturday evening. The significant other and I may watch Saturday Night Live. Perhaps we will play a video game. We will look at Linux on the computer. We may consume caffeinated products. Or ones containing alcohol. Or both.
I will write in my diary. I have been remiss in recent entries, so I will attempt to make up for it. I will fill the pages with dramatic descriptions of the thrilling events that crowd my days. Perhaps I will play a video game in between.
Dishes may be washed. They may then be cleaned with a cloth and put away. Plastic tableware and paper plates will not be washed, or cleaned with cloths, or put away. They have already been disposed of, as is appropriate. Doubtless, at some point in the evening, I will change into sleepware (that is, a T-shirt and a pair of brightly patterned boxer shorts).
Reading could be involved. The Tampa Bay area newspaper at which I work may have published a fascinating article. I may not be able to put it down. Or perhaps I will read a months-old copy of People magazine. Or a book about common grammar mistakes. I have several. Books about grammar mistakes, not the errors themselves. (I have made many such mistakes, of course, but I do not plan on reading them tonight. That may change.)
At some point, I will doubtless sleep. As will the boyfriend. Tomorrow morning, at an unspecified time, we will wake up. We will then undertake actions appropriate for Sunday.
This is the current schedule. Plans are, as always, subject to change.
This is the archived edition of a blog kept from Nov. 24, 2002, to
Feb. 29, 2004, by Clay Wirestone.
The original description: "From the overstuffed mind of writer,
editor, cartoonist and crank Clay McCuistion comes a blog full of
-- well -- stuff. And things."
Saturday, November 30, 2002
The Quiet One
A tribute to George (the Quiet Beatle) Harrison was held last night at the Royal Albert Hall in London. Surviving group members Ringo Starr and Paul McCartney pitched in, as did a wide array of the musician's friends. Excellent coverage of the event from Abbeyrd's Beatles Page.
And no, this man does not look like George Harrison. Nor does this man.
Linux
Linux (the Red Hat flavor) is now installed on the computer at home. Within mere days, updates to this site will come from there. Excitement all around, I know.
Also cleaned the apartment. Not all of it, and not thoroughly, but many large objects have been moved off the floor, and a bit of sweeping has been done. I shoved clothes into closets. The usual drill. Perhaps greater cleanliness will come about this evening and tomorrow.
Friday, November 29, 2002
Christmas Tunes
Christmas music used to be a pleasure of mine. This morning, on a drive to a Home Depot to purchase mousetraps (an involved and painful story I will perhaps cover later), I tuned the car stereo into a station playing "all Christmas music all the time."
The first song they played, Elvis Presley's "Blue Christmas," while sappy, was appropriate and classic. The next song, "Home for the Holidays," upped the sweetness quotient to an uncomfortable degree. Finally, an easy-listening ballad sung by a gutless male vocalist pushed me over the edge. The song, replete with mushy string section and tinny acoustic guitars, detailed a little boy's hope for the gift of shoes on Christmas -- in memory of his dead mother. I swear. Perhaps I didn't catch all the details, but it was enough to provoke cries of outrage and slashing motions toward the "power" button on the radio.
So what happened? Why are Christmas songs so -- well -- sucky now? Is it asking too much for something upbeat and happy, even if it grazes this side of tacky? Why do we have to turn to Michael Bolton or Anne Murray as our holiday music exemplars? It's inexplicable and unlistenable. Give me "Jingle Bells" any day.
Or the Phil Spector Christmas album. Ahhhh.
The first song they played, Elvis Presley's "Blue Christmas," while sappy, was appropriate and classic. The next song, "Home for the Holidays," upped the sweetness quotient to an uncomfortable degree. Finally, an easy-listening ballad sung by a gutless male vocalist pushed me over the edge. The song, replete with mushy string section and tinny acoustic guitars, detailed a little boy's hope for the gift of shoes on Christmas -- in memory of his dead mother. I swear. Perhaps I didn't catch all the details, but it was enough to provoke cries of outrage and slashing motions toward the "power" button on the radio.
So what happened? Why are Christmas songs so -- well -- sucky now? Is it asking too much for something upbeat and happy, even if it grazes this side of tacky? Why do we have to turn to Michael Bolton or Anne Murray as our holiday music exemplars? It's inexplicable and unlistenable. Give me "Jingle Bells" any day.
Or the Phil Spector Christmas album. Ahhhh.
Punch Out
I'm looking at a bottle of Hawaiian Punch. Its flavor is listed as "Grape Geyser." It contains:
Water
High fructose corn syrup
Concentrated juices (pineapple, grape, apple, pear and passionfruit)
Purees (papaya and guava)
Citric acid
Natural and artificial flavors
Pectin
Red #40
Blue #1
Sodium hexametaphosphate
Potassium sorbate
Sodium benzoate
Ascorbic acid
And for all of that, it still taste nothing like grapes, or grape juice. Its flavor most closely resembles that of grape chewing gum. Yummy.
Water
High fructose corn syrup
Concentrated juices (pineapple, grape, apple, pear and passionfruit)
Purees (papaya and guava)
Citric acid
Natural and artificial flavors
Pectin
Red #40
Blue #1
Sodium hexametaphosphate
Potassium sorbate
Sodium benzoate
Ascorbic acid
And for all of that, it still taste nothing like grapes, or grape juice. Its flavor most closely resembles that of grape chewing gum. Yummy.
Das Kapital
More information about sweatshop violations by the Gap, which happens to own Old Navy. That is, the same place I bought my comfy sweater. Ah, capitalism.
Friday Verse
Friday demands a poem. (Not to mention sacrifices to the gods, but we'll get around to those later.)
On the Run
Where did you go?
So many beautiful poems, once.
Glimmering, spilled over paper
Like a glass of red wine
On a shag carpet.
Soaked up by the paper,
Leaving a burgandy stain.
Where did they go?
So many, it seems, rejoiced around me.
They float away,
To fine tune their structures
With others, more dedicated
To nurturing them.
Tolerating frantic gestures
Of gestation.
Surely you didn't think
Big words would solve it all?
They swim away,
Hide between the onionskin pages
Of confused literary anthologies,
Where they will be safe
For the winter.
On the Run
Where did you go?
So many beautiful poems, once.
Glimmering, spilled over paper
Like a glass of red wine
On a shag carpet.
Soaked up by the paper,
Leaving a burgandy stain.
Where did they go?
So many, it seems, rejoiced around me.
They float away,
To fine tune their structures
With others, more dedicated
To nurturing them.
Tolerating frantic gestures
Of gestation.
Surely you didn't think
Big words would solve it all?
They swim away,
Hide between the onionskin pages
Of confused literary anthologies,
Where they will be safe
For the winter.
Thursday, November 28, 2002
My Sweater
Purchased a sweater (made in Cambodia, according to the label) at Old Navy on Tuesday. It was $20. Indefensible, of course. I should have grown my own pesticide-free cotton, harvested it with my bare hands, spun thread, and woven the sweater whole. But time is limited.
To those in Cambodia, doubtless working in sweatshop-like conditions to produce this comfy piece of clothing I enjoy, I apologize. I will try to do better the next time.
The sweater is a deep green-gray, with a khaki stripe running horizontally across the front. The colors are ones I often wear, and it seems as though I have already owned it for years. That's how I prefer clothing. I don't like to break it in or make it my own or accustom people to seeing me in this or that. It should be me naturally, from the start.
Or perhaps I'm just rambling.
To those in Cambodia, doubtless working in sweatshop-like conditions to produce this comfy piece of clothing I enjoy, I apologize. I will try to do better the next time.
The sweater is a deep green-gray, with a khaki stripe running horizontally across the front. The colors are ones I often wear, and it seems as though I have already owned it for years. That's how I prefer clothing. I don't like to break it in or make it my own or accustom people to seeing me in this or that. It should be me naturally, from the start.
Or perhaps I'm just rambling.
Watching, Learning
On the slightly more upbeat side of things:
Spent my weekend (a.k.a. Tuesday and Wednesday) learning about Linux. Soon, all of the computers in the apartment may be running compact operating systems based on open-source code. Viva la revolution. Or something similar.
Watched Die Another Day, the latest installment in the Bond franchise. While I thought it would be the last go around for Pierce Brosnan as Ian Fleming's superspy, Entertainment Weekly is reporting that he's signed on to do another film. As for the movie, it had gleeful fun with the ridiculous plot turns and ruthlessly silly villians one expects from a quality Bond film. Halle Berry, as an American agent, hit her marks exactly right.
Then the boyfriend forced me to watch a couple of episodes of the Avengers. I'd read about the 1960s British spy TV show and seen the awful movie, but I'd never encountered the actual program. It was quite a hoot.
Spent my weekend (a.k.a. Tuesday and Wednesday) learning about Linux. Soon, all of the computers in the apartment may be running compact operating systems based on open-source code. Viva la revolution. Or something similar.
Watched Die Another Day, the latest installment in the Bond franchise. While I thought it would be the last go around for Pierce Brosnan as Ian Fleming's superspy, Entertainment Weekly is reporting that he's signed on to do another film. As for the movie, it had gleeful fun with the ridiculous plot turns and ruthlessly silly villians one expects from a quality Bond film. Halle Berry, as an American agent, hit her marks exactly right.
Then the boyfriend forced me to watch a couple of episodes of the Avengers. I'd read about the 1960s British spy TV show and seen the awful movie, but I'd never encountered the actual program. It was quite a hoot.
Happy Happy
Driving back from the grocery store today, saw a cluster of fire trucks and police cars. A dozen or so people gathered. As I passed the group, saw a motorcycle and people kneeling around a sprawled figure. A policeman was directing traffic around the scene. And then I drove home, and I ate a Thanksgiving meal.
Let's welcome the holiday season, folks.
Monday, November 25, 2002
Translated
The first two paragraphs of my essay about Florida weather, as rendered by the AltaVista translating program. The English was translated to French, the French translated to German, and the German translated back into my native tongue.
I think it's an improvement.
"As more midwesterner transplanté I find to reroute time of Florida. We here at at the end of November and change the seasons finally in the Rue Petersburg. The temperatures swim from the 80s at the soil 40s after the mood of the daily. The persistent summer mutating in the two-pole case.
"I carry the first sweater of my domicile of Florida, a number brun et gris, which rested itself calmly in a motor vehicle trunk for the five last months. Can you say of flour rope mushroom? Well you would say it regarding this sweater. It is rather obliging, although I further-ask myself, where my front arms disappeared. In the cases I assume. "
I think it's an improvement.
"As more midwesterner transplanté I find to reroute time of Florida. We here at at the end of November and change the seasons finally in the Rue Petersburg. The temperatures swim from the 80s at the soil 40s after the mood of the daily. The persistent summer mutating in the two-pole case.
"I carry the first sweater of my domicile of Florida, a number brun et gris, which rested itself calmly in a motor vehicle trunk for the five last months. Can you say of flour rope mushroom? Well you would say it regarding this sweater. It is rather obliging, although I further-ask myself, where my front arms disappeared. In the cases I assume. "
History
The history of blogs...boiled down to a few easy-to-digest links.
Rebecca Blood has one of the most chatty and personable histories. It's also a couple of years old, but you can't have everything.
A few tasty historical morsels from the man who says he has the longest-running blog.
This is a far slicker history, with further reference to Ms. Blood.
Now I should get around to reading them.
Rebecca Blood has one of the most chatty and personable histories. It's also a couple of years old, but you can't have everything.
A few tasty historical morsels from the man who says he has the longest-running blog.
This is a far slicker history, with further reference to Ms. Blood.
Now I should get around to reading them.
Baffled
As a transplanted midwesterner, I find Florida's weather baffling. Here we are at the end of November, and the seasons are finally changing in St. Petersburg. Temperatures fluctuate from the 80s to the low 40s, depending on the day's mood. Persistent summer is mutating into bipolar fall.
I'm wearing the first sweater of my Florida residency, a brown-and-grey number that sat quietly in a car trunk for the past five months. Can you say musty? Well, you'd say it about this sweater. It's pleasant enough, although I keep wondering where my forearms have gone. Into the sleeves, I suppose.
The apartment is going through similar adjustment problems. The small heater puts out a bit too much heat for the still-mild climate. But I risk becoming a copy editing ice block without it. (The world's new superhero -- Ice Editor! Able to correct stories with a single swipe of his frigid pen!) I've tried running both heater and air conditioner at the same time, but that just seems wrong.
So I continue shivering and sweating. Sometimes I do a bit of both. Perhaps the weather will make up its mind soon.
I'm wearing the first sweater of my Florida residency, a brown-and-grey number that sat quietly in a car trunk for the past five months. Can you say musty? Well, you'd say it about this sweater. It's pleasant enough, although I keep wondering where my forearms have gone. Into the sleeves, I suppose.
The apartment is going through similar adjustment problems. The small heater puts out a bit too much heat for the still-mild climate. But I risk becoming a copy editing ice block without it. (The world's new superhero -- Ice Editor! Able to correct stories with a single swipe of his frigid pen!) I've tried running both heater and air conditioner at the same time, but that just seems wrong.
So I continue shivering and sweating. Sometimes I do a bit of both. Perhaps the weather will make up its mind soon.
Can She Say That?
Good afternoon.
Political matters aren't going to be a mainstay here (I hope). There are enough people talking about the quirky state of affairs in this country already. They have reasoned opinions, etc. I just tend to get really angry, sputter for a few minutes, and then go look for some chocolate.
However, Molly Ivins has a nice recent column. Read it here. She writes about what she sees as general shift toward corporate control in government, and puts it in historical perspective. Ivins has some provocative books out, which you can buy here.
Political matters aren't going to be a mainstay here (I hope). There are enough people talking about the quirky state of affairs in this country already. They have reasoned opinions, etc. I just tend to get really angry, sputter for a few minutes, and then go look for some chocolate.
However, Molly Ivins has a nice recent column. Read it here. She writes about what she sees as general shift toward corporate control in government, and puts it in historical perspective. Ivins has some provocative books out, which you can buy here.
Sunday, November 24, 2002
Detailed
A transitory enthusiasm detailed: Bright Eyes is an excellent indie band fronted by Conor Oberst. Their latest CD, Lifted, is a collection of soaring tunes and wrenching words. The New York Times Magazine printed an excellent article about Mr. Oberst recently. Read it here. (Free registration required to read.)
Editing Content
A friend suggested I include some copy editing content. Given my job, you know. While making such a suggestion qualifies Will for the Geek Hall of Fame, the idea isn't a bad one.
(Besides, I arrived in the hall of fame years before. I think. Perhaps I just visited its anteroom.)
My quibble tonight: the word "chitter." Have you ever heard this word used in everyday speech? I haven't. But there it was, in the lead of a story I was editing tonight. The reporter wrote that a small mammal was making noise. That noise was described as "chittering."
According to the dictionary here, that means "twittering" (as in the high-pitched cheeping of a bird) or shaking in the cold. Neither seems to describe the sound this small mammal actually made.
The animal was probably chattering. That is, making "short, indistinct sounds in rapid succession [...squirrels chatter]." (Thanks to Webster's New World Dictionary, fourth edition.) The change was made to the story, but not until I raised a ruckus, and presented the evidence I've just given to you.
Why is any of this important? The word was in the first sentence of the story, and presented a roadblock to those who might read it. "What the hey does "chitter" mean anyway?" I imagine them asking, heading for the dictionary and not reading the rest of the story. My job is to save readers that trip.
(Besides, I arrived in the hall of fame years before. I think. Perhaps I just visited its anteroom.)
My quibble tonight: the word "chitter." Have you ever heard this word used in everyday speech? I haven't. But there it was, in the lead of a story I was editing tonight. The reporter wrote that a small mammal was making noise. That noise was described as "chittering."
According to the dictionary here, that means "twittering" (as in the high-pitched cheeping of a bird) or shaking in the cold. Neither seems to describe the sound this small mammal actually made.
The animal was probably chattering. That is, making "short, indistinct sounds in rapid succession [...squirrels chatter]." (Thanks to Webster's New World Dictionary, fourth edition.) The change was made to the story, but not until I raised a ruckus, and presented the evidence I've just given to you.
Why is any of this important? The word was in the first sentence of the story, and presented a roadblock to those who might read it. "What the hey does "chitter" mean anyway?" I imagine them asking, heading for the dictionary and not reading the rest of the story. My job is to save readers that trip.
Transitory
My transitory enthusiasms (the briefest of lists):
George Harrison (New album, Brainwashed)
David Sedaris
The Onion
Metroid Prime
Animal Crossing
Bright Eyes (New album, Lifted)
Mystery Science Theater 3000
Ian McKellen
DVDs (the vaguest of vague)
The all-mighty, all-political Slate
George Harrison (New album, Brainwashed)
David Sedaris
The Onion
Metroid Prime
Animal Crossing
Bright Eyes (New album, Lifted)
Mystery Science Theater 3000
Ian McKellen
DVDs (the vaguest of vague)
The all-mighty, all-political Slate
To the Point
To the point, then, and quickly.
Name: Clay McCuistion.
Age: 24.
Height: 6'1.
Weight: 180.
Occupation: Copy editor at a daily newspaper located somewhere in the wilds of the Tampa Bay area.
Main goal in life: To complete a poem that makes sense.
Secondary goal: To get the mouse out from behind the apartment's home entertainment center.
Another random goal: To figure out what's going on.
Up next -- actual content.
Name: Clay McCuistion.
Age: 24.
Height: 6'1.
Weight: 180.
Occupation: Copy editor at a daily newspaper located somewhere in the wilds of the Tampa Bay area.
Main goal in life: To complete a poem that makes sense.
Secondary goal: To get the mouse out from behind the apartment's home entertainment center.
Another random goal: To figure out what's going on.
Up next -- actual content.
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