Happy Advent

Thu, Dec. 1st, 2016 02:47
gominokouhai: (Default)

Across the nation, every beloved comedian, treasured thespian, and talented musician tentatively opens door #1 on their festive calendar, hands all a-tremble. Can they last through to calendar's end?

It was a choice what was behind that door: a choice between a miniature chocolate and the Reaper Himself. Anxiously collapse that waveform. The chocolate behind door #1 is, however, an advent calendar chocolate, and therefore somehow still manages to be disappointing.

2016 is 91.667% done with, folks. Let's at least try to make it with [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] still intact. Names removed, because at this stage I don't want to tempt fate.

gominokouhai: (Default)

Which idiot called it e-liquid? The far superior choice for a name was sitting right there, and that choice is snus juice.

It has the added bonus that, were one to walk into a room and note that characteristic fake-strawberry aroma that signals someone has their voltage tunred up to macho levels, one could sniff the air and proclaim:There's snus juice aboot this hoose.

gominokouhai: (Khaaan!)

How did Kirk know he had to steal the Enterprise? Last thing he knew, Spock and his tube were burning up into their component atoms in the upper atmosphere of the Genesis Planet, to the tune of Amazing Grace. As far as Kirk knows, there's no body for him to rescue.

In the novelization, Saavik secretly adjusts the torpedo's orbital parameters to give Spock a soft landing. That's not the case in the movie, since David and the crew of the Grissom are surprised to find the tube on the surface. The gravitational fields were in flux, David says. That's remarkably fortunate, because otherwise it would have made for an incredibly awkward conversation with Spock's dad.

Sarek's logic is uncertain where his son is concerned )

Of course none of this would have happened in the first place if Chekov knew how to count to six.

On faith

Thu, Feb. 4th, 2016 23:05
gominokouhai: (Default)

Oh folks, hello folks. Tell me your personal canons. What's 100% true for you that isn't supported by the evidence?

Here are mine:

  • Season 6B.
  • The Romulans' backstory from the Rihannsu novels.
  • Elliot Pope is an unreliable narrator, and The Deadly Assassin didn't happen.
  • Sito Jaxa survived the events of Lower Decks. She was either on a super-secret mission that even Picard didn't know about, or she was captured by the Cardassians and released after the war.
  • John and Nancy totally got together when they grew up. I hope they survived the war.
  • The Daleks deployed the [or a] Time Destructor during the early stages of the Time War, which explains why the Doctor lost fifty years off his stated age somewhere between Sylvester McCoy and David Tennant.
  • Edward II wasn't killed at Berkeley Castle. He lived afterwards as a hermit in Europe.
  • John Harrison was merely the first of the Augments to be woken from cryofreeze when Admiral Marcus found the Botany Bay. With his genetically engineered intellect, he was smart enough to claim to be Khan.
  • Fall Out was another drug-induced hallucination, just like Living In Harmony or A, B, & C. Shattered Visage is personal soft canon.

Those are mine. What are yours?

gominokouhai: (Inspector Fuckup)
  • Okay so this spider is roughly the size of my hand, and it's been sitting on this ceiling beam for the better part of a WEEK now, what gives
  • okay so if I remove the wedge attachment to widen the hoover hose aperture, it also shortens the hose as a side consequence, so now I need to stand on this chair
  • so now I have a twisted ankle as well as an indestructible spider the size of my hand occupying a, quite frankly, unacceptably large part of my living space
  • this time I'll try standing on a non-swivelly chair
  • and it's hanging on to this beam somethign fierce against the suction, I think this spider might be part gecko
  • you know what, spider? you can have the living room. this is why we have laptops
  • at least I managed to make it run onto the part of the wall that's painted (inexplicably) red, so now it's a bit less noticeable
  • I'm just going to go ahead and call that a win

I'm not good with hoovers.

gominokouhai: (Default)

Those of you who grew up in the 90s will know already that perky elfin teen-pop princess and sometime Ozzie soap star, Natalie Imbruglia, in a dark and terrifying departure from her usual glittery milieu, once witnessed the terrifying Frankensteinian reanimation of a previously deceased human being. It's well-known that her popular song Torn is a postmodernist retelling of T'Pau's China in your Hand from the perspective of an affected observer descending into schizophrenia.

You all know what I'm talking about, but because I'm nice I shall provide the vid for context. Behold.

In which there are several embedded media )

Splains why I always liked the theme to Ski Sunday so much, but: how the FUCK did I not already know that about Ski Sunday? My musical recognition skills were hitherto frankly superhuman, but lately I've noticed that they've begun to diminish with age, or possibly with lack of practice. I'm now all out of faith in my own abilities. This is how I feel: I'm cold and I'm ashamed, but thankfully still fully dressed.


Mon, Mar. 24th, 2014 13:09
gominokouhai: (Inspector Fuckup)

The 23rd century is going to suck, and this is why: all of those hot alien babes, green-skinned or otherwise, saying what is this human emotion you call love, to which I am compelled to reply: baby don't hurt me, don't hurt me, no more.

Buwuh? [Or alien equivalent.]

Honey, you wouldn't understand. It's an Earth thing.



My wall planner indicates the phase of the Moon with little moon icons (moonicons). Down at the bottom of the planner, to splain the different moonicons used for the different phases of the Moon, there is a legend, or key. It is (and it says so at the bottom of the planner) a moon key.

It is particularly good at the gibbers phase.


The security light outside my flat door has started strobing. This wouldn't be a major problem but that I'm now unable to pass it without throwing some shapes and singing THE SYSTEM. IS DOWN.

We bought those security lights so that you could escape the building safely in the event of major power failure. Not so that you could throw light-switch raves.


I am in the process of developin a series of whisky-tasting evenings, themed, with narrative cohesion and everything. Partly this is for work use and partly so that I have something I can do if they ever fire me. The big practice session is tomorrow night. I bought all of the whiskies myself (and did so for the pre-practice session last week, and for the copious amount of targeted bar time it took to select the whiskies in the first place). Next time, I hope to be able to expense this shit.

Thinkin of a name for myself should I ever take the whisky-tastings freelance: I quite like Six Nine Two Events, or possibly 692 Events, which is a tip of the hat to the 692 illicit distilleries closed down in 1834, eleven years after the Excise Act made it much easier to be a licit one. I like the idea of raisin a glass to those stubborn holdouts who kept to the old ways, as a tribute and a memento mori. Plus, it sounds trendy enough that nobody ever needs to know.

Other possible business name ideas included: LASER SPLOSION WHISKIES, DIAL-A-SPLOSION (because somebody needs to have a business called that and it's not my responsibility that dialling for splosions isn't exactly what I offer), and Whiskypalooza, at which point I gave up.


gominokouhai: (Default)

The irrepressible and frequently incorrect [twitter.com profile] dhothersall started it. It's not my fault, I promise.

So #indyrefpoetry is a thing. All of my efforts have been far, far too terrible to commit to the Twitters, but that's what I have a longform blog for, so now you all must suffer. [personal profile] scotm deserves credit for originally enduring all of these over IMs. He will testify that, although terrible, they were at least written very fast. Regular readers may recall that I seem to do all right at iambic pentameter. How bad can it be?

Pretty damn bad, actually )

My last attempt actually fit into 140 chars, and was Oh, ye cannae shove yer Westminster oligarchs aff a gravy train. Thus was it indicated, quite appropriately I think, that it was time to stop.


Oh, no, there's more )

I tried to do a pastiche of Sassoon, but it just isn't going to work. Sassoon is beyond my meagre skills. You should probably consider yourselves lucky.

No, I'm not going to do Rabbie, and you all already know why.

gominokouhai: (Default)

So there was a march on Parliament by the EDL and the BNP. Naturally there was a counter-march by Unite Against Fascism and Hope Not Hate. Coincidentally. there was also a march by a group of girls in badger costumes, protesting against the badger cull, led by Brian May, probably the world's greatest astrophysicist rock god.

It was this latter badger-becostumed group that chased the EDL off.

(Reports that the EDL tossers were crying aah snake aah snake! ohh, it's a snake as they fled remain unconfirmed at this point, so we're forced to assume that they did.)

This is a real thing that happened. I love this country.

gominokouhai: (Inspector Fuckup)

My preferred serve at the moment is—no really, trust me on this—whisky and cream soda. Get yourself a nice smoky Islay blend (Black Bottle is good, plus the purchase of it pisses off Donald Trump; Islay Mist is far superior if you can find it), pack an old-fashioned glass with plenty of ice, and add cream soda. Since I am a posh New Town bastard these days, none of the supermarkets round here sell cream soda. I have to walk for twenty minutes before I can get to the grotty kind of shop that has a proper shelf full of Barr's products. It is worth the walk.

There is a commonly held belief that one shouldn't add mixers to single malts. This view is incorrect. You still shouldn't, ever, add mixer to single malts, unless you have a really good reason, which I often do. In defiance of this naive view, I have tried the same pour with Smokehead. Smokehead is a single malt (Scuttlebutt has it that it's a seven-year-old vatted Ardbeg with a dash of 10yo), but it still doesn't work as well in this serve as Islay Mist, which is a bloody fantastic drop for a blend, and cheap too, if you can find it.

Limited Edition, single hogshead, Ximenez finish cask strength 1996 Ben Riach: bloody marvellous. This is the bottle I was saving for when Maggie died, and now I finally have something for which I should thank the horrendous old bitch. Worth waiting for. Not a lot of point in my reviewing this, since most of you will never get to drink any. I have bottle no. 112 of 310, and this one's not coming round again. But nonetheless: bloody marvellous. Tart apple, hint of stewed raisins, and strong acetone on the nose; incredibly sticky mouthfeel, with a touch of burnt golden syrup on the palate; lighter notes and the sherry and oak all come out when you add a drop of water. The concentrated essence of apfelstrudel in a glass. Bloody beautiful. Thanks, Mags. Please feel free to die again any time you like.

Now, who's up for clubbing together to buy a cask of something nice, so that we may drink it when Gideon Osborne is finally deservingly assassinated?

I had a whisky recently that tasted exactly like Scarlett Johansson. I'm not kidding, that's what it tasted like. Or possibly it tasted like how she looks. Unfortunately I can't remember anything else about it, not even the whisky's name, or how it could possibly taste like that, or how I would know. Must have been a good one.

Many of you will know of my fondness for Lidl's finest Ben Bracken single malt. Lovely fresh vanilla cream notes, hint of lemon sherrrrbert, and it's about eighteen quid a bottle. Scuttlebutt has it that it's the last expression from the mothballed Tamnavulin distillery, but if that's true then I'm not sure where they're still getting the stuff from, since Tamnavulin reopened in 2007.

Vaguely related, today's find has been Aldi's finest, Glen Marnoch 12yo Highland single malt. There's no such place as Glen Marnoch and Internet is suspiciously silent on where this stuff came from. It's spent some time in a sherry cask, without question. Dry white pepper and old wizened cinnamon sticks on the nose. Packed full of fresh fruits—watermelon, guava, tropical fruit salad—citrus, and a warm welcoming sherry length to it. Nice long smoky finish with a little ethanol kick at the end. And the whole thing comes in at under twenty quid.

I'm starting to like Aldi. Their weinerschnitzel is good too.

gominokouhai: (Khaaan!)

It is now possible to have a mocap system that links directly (and accurately!), in realtime, to a fully realized 3D set. Both the motion-capture system and the set in which it is to be rendered are simultaneously available to a sufficiently skilled technician, who can manipulate elements of same as required while the motion-capture is still continuing, from a single laptop. This might not excite you in the way I've just described it, but what you must consider is the fact that we have these tools available. This in itself has potentially broad-reaching effects about the nature of storytelling in the 21st century. And, which is much more important, as a direct result, tonight was possibly the first time ever that the following phrase has been uttered, honestly and without irony, to an actor:

Don't worry. Stand still and I'll rotate the world around you.

Oh yeah baby. If there were ever a reason why I got myself into acting, it's this.


The Muppets do Bohemian Rhapsody. Presented without any further comment. I'm going to have terrible mosh neck when I wake up tomorrow, and it's entirely the fault of Dr Teeth and his Electric Mayhem. Okay, partially their fault and partially the fault of Penelope Spheeris.

(You should follow that last link; I'm giving you a no-honk guarantee.)


It transpires that I gots a smartphone app. Some of you should remember the pajh-inna-box of old. Now it has an app. This would be unsurprising in itself were it not for the fact that Googol Play allows user feedback comments, most of which are about how awesome I sound. There's one there from user Jessica Rabbit thus:

I own many, many tts voices but this is the best, yet! [...] this male, u.k. voice is the most natural sounding and also elegant & sophisticated! [...] I can listen to this imaginary Englishman throughout my day helping me with my appointments and such!

I suspect the real Jessica Rabbit would say LOL somewhat less, being a lady who knows what elegant and sophisticated actually means. If this were the real Jessica Rabbit commenting, none of you would see me for dust.

I'm not bad. I just sound that way.

gominokouhai: (Default)

The other day, [personal profile] stormsearch and I were walking past Castle Rock, where bunnies have been observed in the past, but recently there has been a dearth of such bunnies.

J: I came down here a few weeks ago, and we saw occasional bunnies, but there was no major rabbitsplosion. Of course, it's not even rabbit season.
J: You are making a cartoon reference.
I: Yes. Wait a minute. Say that again.
J: Cartoon reference?
I: No, before that.
J: Rabbit Season?
I: DUCK SEASON! See, it is actually impossible not to say that when you say that.

Go on, I dare you. Try it. Get someone to say rabbit season at you and try not to say duck season. Try it. It's impossible.

ObWabbitSeason, DuckTheathon.

gominokouhai: (Default)

What? I defy anyone to claim that isn't totally valid.

Oh, all right.

I run a place where people pay me money to stay over night. The money goes to people in a bigger business in a big city, and I can use some of it to pay my people for the work that they do. I make sure that the rooms are clean, that the breakfast is made well, that the people who stay here can learn all they need to know about the city they're staying in, that enough people stay with us, and that enough money goes to the people who own the building. Sometimes I have problems making enough money, because the place I live is a city that has ups and downs, and the people in the bigger city who own the building don't always understand that. But I am most interested in making sure that the people who stay with us are happy, and that they will come and stay with us again.

I have to make sure that we don't spend too much money on stupid shit, but only on things we need. I also have to make sure that my people are doing what they are told to do. This bit is the hardest.

There are other things too.

(Created using the Up-goer Five Text Editor, using only the ten hundred most used words in the English language, according to some arbitrary corpus that isn't the one I would have picked had I been in charge of this bloody silly meme. Alas I don't get to be in charge of memes, only hotels.)

(Words I was not allowed to use: business, company, spreadsheet, and enantiodromian.)

gominokouhai: (Default)

The shirt I'm wearing has gone out at the elbows. That's okay, though, because I wear suits these days. Suit jackets cover up a multitude of sins.

I don't even have to iron any more. You can get away with being reasonably shabby as long as you own a suit while doing so.


Last night I was beset by terrible dreams about my time in Iraq. That time we were holed up in a massive stone cathedral when the Americans deployed their terrifying new petrification weapon on a bunch of insurgents. The screams. Being invalided home on a commercial airliner. It took me a good few hours after I woke up before I realized: hang on, I never actually served in Iraq. But it made for a very interesting morning at work. You weren't there, man, you couldn't know. You weren't there.


I currently have all the influenzas but I am in the process of defeating them with whisky, soup, a steak this thick, the Cure For The Common Cold (Pat. Pending), and more whisky. I have to be well again by 3pm tomorrow or my duty manager doesn't get to go home. And that would be bad.

gominokouhai: (Default)

As the demigoddesslike (and deipnosophistic) annajroberts draws to a close her epic deconstruction of a certain popular novel (which magnum opus begins here), it is time once again to turn to your regularly scheduled lamentations that E L James is, for some unfathomable reason, remotely successful.

annajroberts[twitter.com profile] ajrobertswrites
When you type SHA into Amazon's search engine the first predictive result is Shakespeare. The second is Shades of Grey.

annajroberts[twitter.com profile] ajrobertswrites
I suppose it could be worse. Could be the other way round, but talk about opposite ends of the talent spectrum.

annajroberts[twitter.com profile] ajrobertswrites
I wish Shakespeare HAD written Fifty Shades of Grey. It might have contained some actual dick jokes. And maybe they'd have killed themselves

pajh ‏‏[twitter.com profile] gominokouhai
@ajrobertswrites I foresee a project.

annajroberts [twitter.com profile] ajrobertswrites
@gominokouhai Ugh. Forget it. I've only just put one parody to bed and I only wrote that to get it off my chest.

pajh ‏‏[twitter.com profile] gominokouhai
@ajrobertswrites I'm just considrin the potential for proper rhetoric in the contract scene. I might do it if you won't.

annajroberts[twitter.com profile] ajrobertswrites
@gominokouhai Do it! I won't - I've had more than enough of those mewling, worthless assholes, with their sex contracts and crap BSDM.

pajh[twitter.com profile] gominokouhai
@ajrobertswrites I have four lines of stichomythia in iambic pentameter earworming me now. I may have to write this down to exorcize it.

You asked for it, you got it. (Okay, you didn't ask, but still. Nobody expressly forbade it.) I include the foregoing discussion as context, so you know who is to blame for the ensuing nonsense.

(A further disclaimer: no I've not read Fifty Shades of Grey. In fact I once had to discipline a staff member who I suspected of reading it. Turned out to be a false alarm. So having only read the parody version, and not having read Twilight either, I have no idea if this scene actually takes place, but I'm led to believe it does. So there.)

Or, A Bardish Bawd for the Bored.


Chr. My lady, shall I tie thee up with ropes?
Ana. Yea, even with your cable ties withal.
Chr. O madam, wilt thou take it up the butt?
Ana. My lord, I never so had thought before.
Chr. Not e'en consider up the butt to take't?
Ana. Mayhap I shall consider it.
Chr.                           Dude, sweet.
Ana. But shall we speak not of our hearts'—
Chr.                           We'll not;
      For thou art but a paltry Mary Sue
      And I a ripoff vampire libertine.
      No more than this we are, no more;
      And poorly written are we both at that.
      No sooner would I tear off both my stones
      Than tarry long in such a perfect void.
      But use thee shall I for my carnal aims,
      For what this novel lacks in plot it shall
      Repay with dirty bits in purple prose.
      With organ perpendicular I'll search;[0]
      In pleasures horizontal shall I find
      My consolation for thy lack of mind.
        For surely there could be no woman dumber
        Than one who seeks to romance such a—
Ana.                           Bummer.
Chr. I seest what thou didst there.

There, now it's out of my brain. And possibly into yours... sorry about that. I started off with two couplets I had to get out of my head, and ended up with a full-blown sonnet: there is a lesson here, I'm sure, but I'm damned if I want to know what it is.


[0] Bad Quarto editions have probe here, but later editors bowdlerized it for the sake of their own sanity.

gominokouhai: (Default)

I have solved the conundrum of how Prometheus can fit in with the rest of the Alien canon while still being true to the artistic values of the previous films. Fear not, everyone. I am here to speak truths unto you all.

As we all know, the first Alien film was the classic tension-filled don't-look-behind-you horror film... IN SPACE. That's why it worked so well; it wasn't science fiction at all, it was just a bloody amazing horror movie that happened to be set on a spaceship. Continuing the theme, Aliens was the classic 80s action movie... IN SPACE. Alien3 was Brassed Off IN SPACE, although I appreciate I'm reaching a little with that one.

Consequently, Prometheus is Scary Movie IN SPACE, and it makes perfect sense if you watch it from this perspective. A bunch of randy teenagers get drunk and bitch at each other about inconsequential bullshit while making impossibly poor decisions when there's a serial killer on the loose? Classic. The only thing it's missing is Jamie Lee Curtis' tits.

Perform a global search and replace on the script, substituting LV-223 with summer camp, and you have a perfectly workable movie. Thus is overarching thematic artistic integrity preserved. It's possible that Ridley does actually know what he's doing.

gominokouhai: (Default)

The scene: [personal profile] stormsearch is watching the Top Gear Bond Cars Special. I am eating chicken. [personal profile] stormsearch has observed that the Top Gear Bond Cars Special is basically just showing all of the good bits from Skyfall, and is wondering how they can afford it.

Yr. corresp.: Never underestimate the power of the BBC. You know why they just closed down Television Centre? It was so they could move into their hollowed-out volcano.
[personal profile] stormsearch: Please twit that.
Yr. corresp.: No.

On Skyfall: as with any Bond film, I suspect I will have to watch it another four times before I have any clue what's going on, and GODDAMMIT THEY PROMISED ME A SUBMARINE BASE. But with any luck I should be able to stop calling Naomie Harris not Thandie Newton by about rewatching #3.

gominokouhai: (Default)

This crazy fast-paced 21st century world can be a confusing place, what with its technologically-mediated interactions and 3D plasma tele-visual apparati. Hell, I'm still getting used to the concept of hot and cold running water. You just turn the tap on and there it is. And as soon as you've grown accustomed to this modern miracle, you need to learn how to deal with the sense of impotent outrage that occurs that one time when you turn the tap and running water does not, as expected, simply ensue. We need a word for that.

That's far too specific, pajh, you say. Balls, say I, and also bollocks, testicles, gonads, cods, tallywhackers and stones. This is exactly what English is good at, and my new best friend Mark Forsyth agrees with me.

[T]he English language is ready for anything. If you were to surprise a Frenchman in the act of putting a conger up a mare’s bottom he would probably have to splutter his way through several sentences of explanation, filled with circumlocutory verbocinations. However, ask an English-speaker why they are sodomising a horse with a creature from the deep and they can simply raise a casual eyebrow and ask: Can’t you see I’m feaguing?

The ability to explain why you’re putting an eel up a horse with such holophrastic precision is the birthright of every English-speaking man and woman, and we must reclaim it.

Likewise, we need words for the following newly discovered emotions. Some of these you may recognize:

  • The mild but nonetheless tangible sense of disappointment one gets upon using a public toilet and noticing that the hand dryer is of a make other than a Dyson Airblade™. Srsly guyz. Those things are amazing.
  • The rueful smile and shake of the head, directed at someone whom you otherwise respect, upon seeing them retweet their own #followfriday mentions. Oh dear.
  • The involuntary twitch when your phone beeped a notification but you have your hands full for the next few minutes. Worse if you're currently having sex.
  • The gradually dawning realization that a person you follow on the Twitters is actually turning out to be a big old racist.
  • Combined delight and despair at the expensive new headphones you've bought, because they're so good that you'll have to re-rip everything you own as FLACs.
  • Wildly seesawing confusion at the nationality of a blogger based on subtle clues in his writing style. Is he English with a hint of internationalization due to being on Internet, or is he one of those highly-educated Americans who simply sounds English? Or is that just a convoluted way of saying Canadian? And why does this seem to matter to you anyway? Maybe you're the big old racist. But it's perfectly acceptable to be curious about the origins of a writer who interests you. Or is that what a big old racist would say?
  • Vague sense of unease that you just typed srsly guyz up there in a half-ironic fashion, but intent never comes across well in textual media and you're not sure if the reader won't just assume that you talk that way.

I don't have the benefits of a classical education necessary to retrofabrefact etymologically-plausible morphemes in this manner, except possibly just then, with retrofabrefaction. But I can drop Die Hard references into paragraphs that you wouldn't expect.

Vaguely related, Circumlocutory Verbocinations is going to be the name of my next band. Or possibly Holophrastic Precision.

gominokouhai: (Default)

Running to the window, he opened it, and put out his head. No fog, no mist; clear, bright, jovial, stirring, cold; cold, piping for the blood to dance to; Golden sunlight; Heavenly sky; sweet fresh air; merry bells. Oh, glorious. Glorious!

"What's to-day?" cried Scrooge, calling downward to a boy in Sunday clothes, who perhaps had loitered in to look about him.

"Eh?" returned the boy, with all his might of wonder.

"What's to-day, my fine fellow?" said Scrooge.

"To-day?" replied the boy. "Why, Christmas Day."

"It's Christmas Day!" said Scrooge to himself. "I haven't missed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like. Of course they can. Of course they can. Hallo, my fine fellow!"

"Hallo!" returned the boy.

"Do you know the Poulterer's, in the next street but one, at the corner?" Scrooge inquired.

"I should hope I did," replied the lad.

"An intelligent boy!" said Scrooge. "A remarkable boy! Do you know whether they've sold the prize Turkey that was hanging up there -- Not the little prize Turkey: the big one?"

"What, the one as big as me?" returned the boy.

"What a delightful boy!" said Scrooge. "It's a pleasure to talk to him. Yes, my buck."

"It's hanging there now," replied the boy.

"Is it?" said Scrooge. "Go and buy it."

"Walk-er!" exclaimed the boy.

The shop's closed, ya senile old bastard, chirrupped the boy, returning to his daily business, and plunging Scrooge into a deep despair from which he never fully recovered.

~ FIN ~

This post brought to you by Charles John Huffam Dickens and the fact that the bakery didn't bother telling us that they weren't delivering this morning. Cthulhu eat us first, every one.

gominokouhai: (Default)

The other day I'm sitting in Illegal Jack's eating quesadillas with [personal profile] stormsearch, when my phone goes. Beep beep. It's Bixby Snyder.

The lascivious host of popular televisual entertainment It's Not My Problem expressed to me his readiness to purchase something for up to, but presumably not exceeding, the value of US$1.00. Exactly what it is that he would so purchase was not readily apparent. It took me a few minutes to work it out:

  1. The previous evening I had saved a link to an article about the new Robocop film;
  2. The following day the autoblogger had pushed that out to my linkdump;
  3. Twitterfeed had pushed a snippet of text from the linkdump out to the Twitters;
  4. Somebody on the Twitters has a bot that responds to any mention of the word Robocop with Bixby's immortal catchphrase;
  5. Seesmic running in the background on my phone had picked up the twit addressed to me, and sent me a notification;
  6. My phone vibrates on my belt while I'm trying to get creative with the application of hot sauces to pulled pork.

(I'd given the Masonic handshake and asked for the super-secret special hot sauces from the back. Ended up rather disappointed. It was just the Cholula range, which I already own, and none of them were particularly hot.)

At no stage in this convoluted chain of events had a human being been involved since about 24 hours beforehand, when I'd saved the original link to Delicious. The rest was an automatic, inevitable process, mediated solely by Internet herself. The next day I get a text from a non-existent TV star.

I love this century.


Vaguely related: the day before I was walking past a hairdressers which was showing the Gangnam Style video on the TV in the back. I saw about two seconds of it from a great distance as I walked past. And I could swear that I was watching Bixby. There is a certain similarity, no?


gominokouhai: (Default)

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