not falling down

I like “Horse with No Name” so much, and I don’t think I have it on my iPod! Which means I can’t play it over and over again tomorrow, my last day of driving through desert. So far the desert has had the pleasant effect of being very pretty. It has also had the unfortunate effects of making me drink three times as much water as usual, making me run the AC all the time, and oh yeah, being like a fucking desert.

Also, it scared Hugner, and not without reason. I had to take these pictures from a rest area without him in them. Unless… unless he was hiding somewhere!

But today’s drive (the shortest of this trip) was worth it for the chance to hang out in Phoenix, which included my being the first Kentucky-friend to get a tour of the new digs of the Chinese Shao-Lin Center from its proprietors:

Then they took me home, fed me delicious raw vegan “cheese” “cake,” and permitted me to indulge my gadgeteering impulses in the process of watching Love Actually. Now I am falling asleep while writing this on their couch. Tomorrow is the big push: Phoenix to SF in one day, hopefully by 8 pm. It’s not going to be easy. Hugner, better set snuggling to max.

Let’s out with it: in a blatant bid to grab some of that hot, sexy Starslip traffic, I am taking my new Jinxlet, Hugner, with me on the road across America. Now instead of trying awkwardly to take pictures of myself in different places, I can take pictures of the stuffed animal instead! No one has ever thought of this before.

Hugner was delivered to Louisville, so I don’t have any pictures of him from Day 0 (Winston-Salem), but there he is the passenging position which was once my purview on Day 1. Pretty cute, right! Except after that I had to stuff him in the back so I could put my giant backpack where he is.

The next two pictures are going to seem similar, but only until I explain that Hugner has a clever defense mechanism that makes all dogs think he is a chew toy. I’m… I’m not sure how the defense works. Up top he’s with the famous Brenna, and on the bottom he’s with my friend Taylor’s dog, Lizzie.

Once the trip is over I’ll put together a Flickr gallery of these, but even by tomorrow we should have a VERY SPECIAL Hugner road trip update! It’s a surprise, but I will say this: the next stop on our trip involves his home planet.

Of Texas.

Look why are you not reading The Fabian Society? If what we had in Space Paris meant anything you’d read The Fabian Society every day and even on days when he (Quintus) (or possibly Henry) doesn’t update you’d be all up in his archives reading the older stuff you missed. I know I already told you to read it back in 2006, but obviously you weren’t listening, and anyway since then he’s been developing the kind of effortless grace in prose that makes me stomp around in jealous anger. I am so angry that you are not reading The Goddamn Fabian Society! What! Yes! Don’t impose your human consistency on me! We already had this fight in Space Paris!

Start with Petra, Endless Frank, Fishbowls and Ptolemy I, and if you’re not hooked by the third one you’re doing it wrong.

My phone has no ringtones and I’ve never owned a CD I didn’t rip, but the record industry has finally found a way to get even me to pay for songs I already own: Rock Band. At least the downloadable tracks have the value-add of being interactive at multiple levels. What they do not have, sadly, is a way to cater exclusively to my taste. Until now!

I put these together working on the three-songs-per-band model they’ve established on Live so far, and basically within the creators’ bent toward three- or four-piece groups and a fairly narrow definition of “rock.” Also with the fact that I don’t really know anything about music before 1998.

Semisonic:

• “Brand New Baby”
• “Closing Time” (well, I mean, come on)
• “Get a Grip”

Queen, although I know these are all impossible for one reason or another:

• “Bohemian Rhapsody”
• “Under Pressure”
• “Killer Queen”

Jimmy Eat World:

• “Lucky Denver Mint”
• “Sweetness”
• “Nightdrive”

Barenaked Ladies (man, this is hard):

• “Brian Wilson (live)”
• “Too Little Too Late”
• “Maybe You’re Right”

Ted Leo and the Pharmacists:

• “Me and Mia”
• “Counting Down the Hours”
• “La Costa Brava”

I know there are already a million Foo Fighters songs, but still:

• “Everlong”
• “Breakout”
• “All My Life”

The New Pornographers:

• “Mass Romantic”
• “Letter from an Occupant”
• “Sing Me Spanish Techno”

And, finally, U2 (yeah, I know they’re working on it):

• “Desire”
• “Mysterious Ways”
• “If God Will Send His Angels”

I invite you to eviscerate me in commentary, or post your own wishlists. Maria, for example: Prince? Lisa: TMBG? Someone: Beck or the Decemberists?

Update 1432 hrs: Andy suggests replacing “Sing Me Spanish Techno” with “The Bleeding Hearts Show,” and offers a Tragically Hip three-pack:

• “New Orleans Is Sinking”
• “38 Years Old”
• “Fireworks”

And Ken, inevitably, has a list with a lot more depth than mine:

Jamiroquai:

• “Canned Heat”
• “Alright”
• “Black Capricorn Day”

Smashing Pumpkins:

• “Cherub Rock”
• “Bullet With Butterfly Wings”
• “Today”

Guns N Roses:

• “Welcome to the Jungle”
• “Live and Let Die”
• “Nighttrain”

Pearl Jam:

• “Life Wasted”
• “Alive”
• “Rearviewmirror”

Talking Heads:

• “Psycho Killer”
• “Uh Oh, Love Comes to Town”
• “Take Me to the River”

Beck (most doesn’t translate well to guitar, bass and drums):

• “Loser”
• “E-Pro”
• “The New Pollution”

Spoon:

• “Don’t You Evah”
• “I Turn My Camera On”
• “Sister Jack”

Jimi Hendrix:

• “Spanish Castle Magic”
• “Voodoo Chile (Slight Return)”
• “Fire”

Pink Floyd:

• “Comfortably Numb”
• “Money”
• “Arnold Layne”

Sublime:

• “Smoke Two Joints”
• “Santeria”
• “Pawn Shop”

And single songs:

• The Dandy Warhols - “Bohemian Like You”
• TV on the Radio - “Wolf Like Me”
• !!! - “Must Be the Moon”
• Arctic Monkeys - “I’ll Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor”
• Styx - “Renegade”

And Scott put up a list for Bryan Scary and the Shredding Tears, who would be insanely fun (and REALLY HARD) to play in RB–not impossible, either, as Harmonix has been pretty good to indie rock:

• Flight of the Knife
• Imitation of the Sky
• Son of Stab

Every two weeks I post a new bit of what is, I must reluctantly admit, Star Wars fan fiction. This week I made Han Solo a girl. Andy really liked that, and this started as a response to his commentary.

Luke and Leia hold at least as much mythic significance most people of our generation as, say, Theseus and Ariadne would have held to your typical Athenian. Putting them onstage applies a certain pressure of reader expectation to your plot; twisting that can have the same effect as subverting other, more generalized social norms, and has the benefit of coming from an unexpected direction. Sumana’s excellent post about slash and subversion points out that such twists can “disorient and reorient” your experience of the original work. It’s exactly what Euripides did with Medea, and Virgil with Aeneas (and Dante with Virgil).

But since our high-information society allows–indeed, legally requires–traceback to the writer who first introduced any given character into our awareness, we no longer have stories that seem to have spontaneously informed our culture. When every dollar has a serial number, there is no common coin. The consensus-approved solution is to wait until the story you want to rewrite is a) old and respectable and b) in the public domain, and right now, the former still takes longer. The problem is that the rate at which we produce stories is accelerating, and a story that fills the Western imagination one year will likely have been forgotten in the tide of newcomers eighty years later. This is what fanfic tries to solve.

My basic conceptual issue with fanfic is that it caters mostly to niche audiences; it tends to reinforce cliques and generate closed language instead of transcending boundaries and bringing together disparate audiences (props again to Sumana for illuminating that distinction, although at the time it was in the context of neo-web projects). Cross-genre fiction appeals to a unity of two groups, where crossover fanfic appeals only to an intersection. In that way I actually have more sympathy for stories written in the context of ultra-popular milieu: you can parse and enjoy Star Wars fanfic without being a Star Wars fan. If you’re alive and reading English in 2007, it very likely has connotations and relevance to you.

Of course, by the same token, the word “fanfic” has enormous connotations (and connotations of enormity) to people who’ve been internetting for a while. It’s usually either a sniveling kleptomania that must be stamped out or a persecuted child who must be defended. I maintain that fanfic is a gradient based on how well you hide your influences, that authors who deride fanfic as stealing could use a strong dose of self-examination, and that I personally prefer work on the better-hidden end of the scale because that means you had to do the work of hiding it. Lazy fiction is not good fiction, and I say that as someone who is pretty lazy, pretty often.

From the LJ comments on yesterday’s story:

Stephen: Man, you must draw inspiration from some shitkicking women, Brendan.

Me: Pretty much, yeah!

At Lisa’s persistent instigation, Will, Kyle and I drove up to Pittsburgh on Friday to jam on games for the One Laptop Per Child Project. We actually got to handle some of the XO prototypes, which are even smaller than I expected, but also pretty neat.

We didn’t win, but we did create a complete game, albeit one that only fully worked four hours after the judging round. We also had a lot of fun, and not a lot of sleep. Some of the other projects looked great, and the winner was really polished–I have no doubt it will end up as part of the standard XO package.

I feel bad about the way the game turned out, because all the delays and problems were due entirely to my inexperience in the required tools (Python and Pygame). On the other hand, I’ve been mumbling about needing to learn Python for four years now, and now I have! Mumbled. I mean, learned.

The game (”Caketown”) lacks a lot of things (an intro, an outro, more than two levels, etc) but I’m going to post it anyway so you can hear Kyle’s fantastic music and see Will’s amazing art. What you don’t get to see is Lisa’s work as project coordinator, colorist and, now, one of the few living experts on how to install software on the XO.

Here it is as a Windows executable, in zip or gzip form (I recommend unzipping to C:\Caketown\). If you’re not running Windows, you can have the gzipped source and data, but you’ll need Python and Pygame installed to use it. You could also wait a little while, as I really do want to put together a finished and more coherent version with code that will not, when read, summon Nyarlathotep (the Crawling Chaos).

Weird footnote: unexpectedly, I recognized and got to meet a couple of people I knew or knew of from Internet (Bryan Cash and Tom Murphy). And they were both kind of startled / scared! But somebody did that to me once so it’s only fair.

Sometimes I am mean! Sometimes I am a mean person.

But she started it.

Mom and Grammo, you might not want to read this.

I got a new phone a couple months ago, with a reassigned number, and sometimes I get unexpected phone calls for the person who used to have it (I believe her name is Kate). What I had not received–until last night–was unexpected text messages.

Dis is diamond do
lee like me

I am not as young as I once was, and I confess this took me a while to parse. At first I thought it might be some kind of arcane dance instruction. Eventually, I determined that I was being asked to be some sort of intermediary. So wasn’t it only fair that I be brutally honest with Diamond?

no,

I replied,

he said hes in2
guyz now lol

Diamond was understandably confused! I soon came to see why:

Who u talkin
about im talkin
about leeanna
dat light skin gay
gurl

Ah, so I was being asked to play Cupid between lesbians. Having been burned on this before, I resisted.

Oh dat bitch, she
a ho u dont want
nun a her, she
got the gwarts

At this point, Diamond called me. I let it ring through to voicemail; surely when she heard my greeting she’d figure things out for herself.

Then she texted again.

Ray who u talkin about

(Ray! I… am… Ray!)

im talkin about dat gurl
dat was wit us
today

At this point we picked up our takeout food and I decided to let the matter drop.

Until the next morning, when Diamond called me again, then texted when I didn’t
pick up.

Get up n start
gettin ready cuz
im goin 2 the
library at 11

Despite a resurgent suspicion that my dance-instruction hypothesis was correct after all, I decided to come clean.

Okay, I can’t
keep this up anymore.
Have you not figured
out from the
voicemail
greeting that I’m
not whoever you
think I am?

Diamond had now had T-Mobile shout “Bren. Dan’s. VOICEMAIL!” twice at her, so naturally she sought clarification.

Who is dis

Dis is Brendan.
Like it says, very
loudly, when you
call my voicemail.
Listen, if you
hook up with Lee
you’ll send me
pics, right?

Either Diamond wanted to confirm said greeting once and for all or I had finally drawn her ire. She called a third time, and then:

Tis is diamond
mom if she do
hook up ill kill her
want a pic of
that dont ask no
more dum ass
question i kill u
diam is not a hoe
dont ask 4 no
pics

Now the teenage lesbian was pretending to be someone else! In Soviet Russia, Internet wastes time on you! But the sheer verbosity of her reply surely indicated that her blood was up; I thought maybe that was the place to stop.

It only took her half an hour to start gloating.

U dont have any
more dum ass
questions freak

You poked the bears! Why did you do that! Will suggested an appropriate greeting for my final reply.

Dear Mrs. Diamond:
Your textual fusillade
has left me chagrined.
You’ll have no more
dum ass questions
from me; forthwith,
I’ll issue only
the most
erudite queries.

Now pics or gtfo.

Sadly for us, dear reader, she chose the latter optin.

Good bye & dont
text my phone 4
diamond

And there, it would appear, the matter rests.

I just wish she’d accidentally typed in Ken’s number all those times instead.

The quarterly investing magazinelet I get from my IRA holder has, as its latest cover line, “The Best-Laid Plans.” Like Anse Bundren, I don’t think they know the rest.

Plans are worthless. I had half an evening free from work tonight and it confused me: I had kind of forgotten what else to do with myself. I haven’t billed a mere 40 hours since the (four-day) week in which I flew back from London; last week–of which I theoretically spent half vacationing–I billed 60. It’s all for the same hideous, endless project, the kind you hear spook stories about from people who have spent too long working with computers. It was supposed to finally launch tonight, and I–as the project lead–hit every target that was required by 6:00. At 6:02 the client decided that two more problems were worth delaying launch for. By 8:30 (with my Tuesday friends waiting in the living room) I’d fixed those too. Guess whether the launch happened!

I need a vacation; the last one I had was nice, but it amounted to what most people would call a “weekend.” I’m running bufferless in all my endeavors and I obviously haven’t had time to write anything here. I also haven’t had time to get a haircut, pick up my new glasses or practice for a fairly important test.

Boo hoo, I get paid well to work on my couch. Pretend there’s a good segue here about writing, buffers, responsibility and personal milestones.

I miss MC Masala and I’m sad to see its archives disappearing from the Inside Bay Area site. Obviously, Sumana’s still blogging, but her column was different: the early ones had a conspiratory enthusiasm, as if the author was sneaking you in to see how columns work and wasn’t supposed to be there herself; the later ones displayed an enjoyable assurance and a growing set of tools for telling stories.

I hope she posts her own digital archive soon. Or (he murmured hypocritically) perhaps a book-on-demand?

When Ian and I talk on the phone it is for express and efficient reasons, so we don’t really bother with greeting protocols. When I called Ian earlier this evening to determine the provenance of one of Yale’s expletives, I forgot that he wouldn’t have my new cell number, and I was already on edge in a feverish Halo match. Thus:

Ian: Hello?
Brendan: DO YOU SAY FUCK BEANS!
Ian: … Who is this?