I have finally joined the 21st century

I am now the proud owner of pajh.org, not to mention a generous hosting solution that involves more bandwidth in two years than I will conceivably require in the next ten (and that's assuming that we've all uploaded our consciousnesses to the Blogosfear™ by then).

Due to the weak dollar (and a money-off coupon from the SA fora, courtesy of figg), two years' worth of owning more real estate on the Internet than I will ever need—like a ranch in cyberspace— came to rather under eighty quid. I love the weak dollar. Keep provokin' those unnecessary wars, Dubya, because my purchasing power keeps going right up.

(Although, on reflection, the weak dollar means that we get fewer American guests, and they're the ones who tip. So, on reflection, I'm probably just about breaking even.)

(And lots of people are dying unnecessarily, but logically that's their problem, not mine.)

So I am now the proud owner of pajh.org. Don't bother whois-ing for me just now, because the domain registration won't have propagated yet. But it is in the process of doing so.

If you took the world away and left only the electricity, it would look like the most exquisite filigree ever made—a ball of twinkling silver lines with the occasional coruscating spike of a satellite beam. Even the dark areas would glow with radar and commercial radio waves. It could be the nervous system of a great beast.

Here and there cities make knots in the web but most of the electricity is, as it were, mere musculature, concerned only with crude work. But for fifty years or so people had been giving electricity brains.

And now it was alive, in the same way that fire is alive.

That's what's happening to pajh.org right now. Domain name servers across the internet are being advised of my presence, and they in turn are advising others. My name is radiating outwards across the invisible expanses of the internet, blossoming outwards into cyberspace like a newborn barbaric yawp. And soon the whole world will know my name.

I can get this kind of power trip for eighty quid? I feel like a mad scientist. I want another hit.

Give it a week or two, and there may even be a website there, of sorts.

OAAT: Barbaric Yawp wbaenfarb.

Ooh-de-lally

I downloaded the new BBC version of Robin Hood.

( Summary: I liked it. )

And all this despite a somewhat unsavoury incident of sword-throwing. (Film producers: your homework for today is to list all items less aerodynamic than a sword.)

Mind you—the Sheriff was awfully camp, wasn't he? It may or may not have worked in context, but my major complaint is a severe lack of Alan Rickman. And Marian wasn't redheaded enough (not mentioning her apparent subscription to the Guild of Plasterers and Cornicing Articifers' School of Blusher Application). Marian is supposed to be a redhead, dammit: it's as much a part of the myth as robbing from the rich and giving to the poor.

(I used to think that a penchant for redheads was strictly the purview of straight males, but that was some time ago, and 559 Google results for turlough slash can't be wrong, now can they?)

One thing that worries me is the media's portrayal of the new series as the BBC's attempt to do a Doctor Who. What exactly is that supposed to mean? If it means create a successful television programme, then what the fuck have they been doing with everything else for the last fifteen years?

I should also point out that it is exactly three years ago this evening that I had dinner with Michael Robin of Sherwood Praed. This was back in the pre-LJ days when I only had my mailing lists to brag to.