Okay, I'm having fun with echo beta, but there are a couple yucks. It's beta, so I'll forgive them for now. First, they don't know how to alphebetize. If you browse through their artists, they alpha individuals by their first name, and when you get to the T section--guess what--they've listed all the band names beginning with "The". That's kind of pathetic. Also, they use RealPlayer. I recently wiped that for screwing me up again. But because I wanted this new toy so badly, I installed it. There's gotta be a better way. If you go there, look for my first station, frykitty zero, and listen to some junk. I don't guarantee it's all stuff I like, since it just tried to play Van Morrison (SKIP! SKIP!!!!), but it's mostly peachy-keen goodness.

Someone told me something at work. This person is the very vision of veracity and competence, so I should just flat-out believe her. Nonetheless, I've been looking everywhere for confirmation. I can find no information to confirm or deny. She says Keanu has a house in Portland. She saw it when she took a paddlewheel trip up the river. She says it's a beautiful southwestern-style stucco mansion on the banks of the Willamette. I know I should trust her, but I long to hear an assenting voice. Does anyone know for sure? I promise not to stalk him if it's true.

Best Google search string for today: naughty kilts.

I'm exploring another music site: echo beta. You choose your favorite music and create custom stations, where you and friends can listen and chat. The best part? If you don't like a song, you can SKIP it. Yep, radio without the bad stuff. Could be good. Link via Table Talk.

I'm in love. Mubu is just what the doctor ordered--a place where I can listen to samples and get recommendations. Sure, I've seen that before, but I've never seen it done this well. I'm floored by this site. So be patient, get their plug-ins, and have yourself a really good time. Link via SiteSherpa.

Whistle while you work, but don't whistle at us. Good article on street hassle.



I have to admit, when I go over in my head all the reasons I'm fat, street hassle boils to a place near the top. Sure, being invisible, or even loathed, isn't fun--but it's a helluva lot more fun than being humiliated several times a day every single motherfucking day. Sorry, I get emotional.



Men are wonderful creatures. It's a shame that a few vocal ones on the street do their best to ruin the reputation of the entire gender.

I admit it, I'm a MetaFilter junkie. I check in several times a day (she says, slapping at her arm trying to raise a vein). After reading MeFi for a while, certain voices begin to stand out. One of those minds is today's blog of the day. Zach brings us arguments well-reasoned and well-written. He always makes me think, and gives me a point I hadn't considered.

Wesleyan church on Halsey:

You are a child of God. Call home.

Well I was going to do a lyrical spoof of the song Heat Wave, only call it Heat Rash, unfortunately I realized I don't know the original lyrics. And I'm too lazy to look them up. And the Lyrics Server doesn't have it. Oh, they have another song by the same title that was done by The Who, but they don't have the Irving Berlin tune. So fine. Hey, did you know that you can't copyright the title of a creative work? It's true.

Just for that, I'm gonna mention you again. Not worthy. Heee.

You know what would kick ass? If you got together with the guy in the previous post, and anyone else who was game, and you all did a 24-hour at the same time. People would stay logged on for endless hours just cruising from blog to blog. You could even make a temporary webring to facilitate that very cruising. That would be cool. Consider this idea free for the taking.

I love you too, Stuy.



I'm glad you're not too mad at me. You know, Alli and I were talking about how it would STILL be extremely cool if you did a 24-hour gig. Just find your own special twist. Actually, just being yourself is pretty twisted (I mean that in a good way). Speaking of twisted, I got my name because I am. Twisted. Way back in the dark ages, I tried the nick KittyFritters, but it was too long. Thus, frykitty. Not a small cat, but rather crispy feline goodness. Yeah, I'm sick. Yeah, I actually do love my cats.

Hey--Tommy from Trainspotting is in Topsy Turvy. Does he remind anyone else of Rocky from the Rocky Horror Picture Show?

I turned on the tv to play a video, and there was the face of Princess Elizabeth of Toro, who's autobiography (I'd link, but it's out of print) I read some years ago. I knew this movie could only be Sheena, a terrible 1984 queen of the jungle flick with Tanya Roberts. I'm half tempted to watch it, though royalty should really stay away from acting jobs.

I would like to take a minute to say THANKS to all the people that blogged about me, stayed up with me, rooted for me, collaborated with me, and were generally wonderful people. This may sound cliched, but it's completely true: without you, there's no way in hell I would have stayed up to do this. I'm just not that crazy on my own.

In the spirit of having a front page that loads a little more quickly, the Astounding 24 Hour Blog has been saved to its own page. I haven't even read through the thing yet...but some of it looks pretty interesting. Let the page load, and start at the bottom.

I don't know why I wanted to end this marathon blog session on that note. It had been brewing in this direction all day. I guess I wanted to end this session by giving all of you my heart. There it is. Thanks for staying up with me.



Goodnight.

Mom finally found a way to kill herself. Years of chain-smoking paid off, and she died of lung cancer at 52. I was 19. I suppose it's the only thing I really resent. On the other hand, she'd had a very hard life, and maybe it was best that it was over.



Still, I think she would have loved this world we live in now. She'd be in her late 60s now. I think she would have been able to come out of the closet, or at least be more comfortable with herself. I'm sure I could have got her hooked on e-mail and chat rooms. She'd be forwarding that same damned joke I've seen a thousand times somewhere else. I think that's what hurts the most--that she was just beginning to blossom when she died. The death she'd spent decades nurturing was no longer what she wanted when it finally arrived.



I don't know what happens when we die. Most of me suspects we are just done. Of course I wish it were different. I would love to think she's still around somewhere--still with me in some way. I miss her. I always will.

Yeah, we were dirt poor. Boohoo. We always made the best of it. For my 16th birthday, Mom knew I loved butterhorns, so she got some candles and stuck them in a stack of four. I loved that--it was so incredibly thoughtful and wacky, at a time when we could barely afford that stupid package of pastries. I remember the stack slipping and how we laughed and tried to keep them together. We gave up and ate them.

Okay, just a couple of anecdotes, then I'll get sappy and teary-eyed, and sign off for the night.

Mom couldn't spell. She tried, it just wasn't in her genes. She used to spell "I'm" as "I'am." Kinda defeats the whole purpose of the contraction.



Ma's middle name was Lourene. She was named after her maternal Aunt Lourene, who was a nun. In turn, she gave to me her middle name. She showed me my birth certificate and carefully taught me the unusual spelling: L-O-U-R-E-N-E. Pronounced Looreen. I was proud of my unique middle name, and used it as my primary name for a number of years. Lou for short.



When Mom passed away, it fell upon me to go through her legal papers. This sad duty was punctuated by a stunning bit of humor. Among her things I found her birth certificate, her name clearly spelled out by her own mother, Elizabeth. Phyllis Laurene. L-A-U-R-E-N-E.

Mom was also my ideal of a strong woman. If there was an obstacle, she bulldozed her way through it. If someone treated her (or me!) unfairly, they were toast. I am also very strong, though I don't think I live up to her sheer cussedness. She managed to harass my high-school counselor into early retirement. Believe me, that crappy counselor deserved it.

The final hour begins...



While Mom loved to tell me I was beautiful, she actually wasn't big on appearances. She looked the dyke part--she had little understanding of makeup, dresses, and other female accessories. I remember her having one tube of lipstick, and that's it. Oh, and one green dress, but once it was worn out, she stuck with more practical clothes. I've inherited this from her. I can dress up, but it's not important to me. That's something I like about myself. A freedom she gave to me. I place a much higher premium on my intellect.

Laura at Ninepercent.net has two requests--after Madonna we'll be putting on En Vogue's Funky Divas, and I'll be singing along with "Free Your Mind," which is why I bought the disk. She suggested I lull myself to sleep with a little Jeff Buckley. She is so right.

Okay, I'll talk a little bit about Mom. It's time. She was a pack of contradictions. Not so much the woman herself, but explaining her to strangers can be difficult. If I tell you she was schizophrenic, and had Multiple-Personality disorder, you would probably assume she was a bad mother. She wasn't. If I told you she was a lesbian, you would probably make another set of assumptions. Those may or may not be true.



Yes, there was a lot of care-taking when it came to Mom's illnesses. There was a lot of indulgence. When she told you about the water-powered engine she was working on with Senator Kennedy, you did a smile and nod. Especially when she pointed out the oil company spies parked outside the house.



Suicide watches were a way of life for me as a teenager. The members of the family took watch times, and checked in on a regular basis. That's just the way it was.



Sometimes her delusions became so overpowering that she became frightened even of us. She once stalked the house for over a week, never coming in. My brother finally found her sleeping by the garbage cans and brought her in.



Did all that make her a bad mother? Do I resent her for her faults? No, because the gifts she gave to me far outweigh those things.

Dave's out finding me weird links. This is the ebay item for the cook who has everything. Ew.

Two hours to go, and I suddenly have a lot to say. Okay, here's the rest of that rant I started. It was supposed to be three blogs, so it hangs together badly. Sorry.



On the other hand, what am I going to think of these 96 (I hope) posts in a few days, or a few weeks? I'll probably pull them off and put them on their own page, just for posterity. Will I scroll through and see some secret to myself? Will I slip on some truth I'd missed before? I love data. I love patterns. Will I see one in the other?

Also, I realized about an hour ago, there is going to be a hell of an anti-climax when midnight strikes. No one is bringing me a cake. No one is calling to congratulate me. I don't get a little statue. The audience I've gained today will, for the most part, drift away over the next few days. My reward will be the bliss of passing out for 12 hours. Heh, that could be enough.



But then, there's the fun factor. This has been fun. I do feel good about it. Staying up all night makes me feel like a teenager. Especially staying up all night for something like this. I get my friends online, and it's like a big slumber party. I'll probably enshrine this experience and parade it out from time to time. Was that a mixed metaphor? Oh, who cares.

I knew as soon as I said it, that Jerwin would find my only Madonna album and make me play it. Mind you, I bought it for the Rain cut because I was making a great Rain mix. That's all I used it for, and I've never listened to it. Well, maybe this will expand my mind. So here it goes, Madonna's Something to Remember.

When Andre mentioned it would be cool to blog every 15 minutes to tie in with PB, that had been in te back of my mind. I figured I would do it for a few hours, then drop back to less frequent updates. Somewhere in the middle of the day that number got stuck in my head. 24*4. 96 PB cycles. Could I do them all? Had anyone ever done them all? I'm afraid to pop an e-mail to Andre to ask. I don't want to know if someone has been there first, or worse, if no one has. Then the pressure is really on. But again, why? Of course this is pointless. At least it looks that way from the inside. It's climbing the mountain because it's there. I suppose there's nothing wrong with that.

I'm feeling like a rant, but I can't think of a single thing to go off on. All the common topics have been beaten to death. It's just as well...I'm losing coherency. In fact, I have no idea how to spell koheransee at this point. Still, I wouldn't classify this as suffering. And if I were suffering, for what would it be? Certainly not my art. Suffering for my art means I'm struggling against a weakened, scrawling hand to finish work for Jamie to make into a comic. That's suffering for art. Is this blog art? Sometimes. I've said some things I'm pretty proud of. But by and large, and especially today, this is not art.



So what is it? What am I doing?



Well firstly, I did this because I hadn't done it before. It seemed like a little test of my self. I figured I could stay up, but my will can be so weak. Would I stay up? So far I've proven motivated. But again, by what??? And why do I use so many italics?

Three hours. Three. Hours.

I just got the nicest e-mail. It was from Carrie over at Agent Diesel making sure it was okay if she linked to my site. Of COURSE I said okay. Then I went and checked out her page, and found I'm linked at the bottom along with phattitude, Blogger, and Freespeech.org. That is some great company, and I'm honored. Thank you.

Kitty needs some interactivity. Here's a little job for you. Go take a look at my music collection, then tell me what to play. It's an all-request blog for the next few hours. All participants get a mention.

What was it I said about the comic book Red Star earlier? Uh...I don't remember. But I think it was weak, because I just finished the second issue and I'm stunned. The layout, the art, the combination of hand-work and CGI, the writing...this will be a premier work this year. Comic fans: Go. Buy. This. Book.

Four hours left. The time is going by so quickly. It's strange, I'm becoming more and more detached from the task itself. Some voice in the back of my head is asking why, but it's so far removed from the act of sitting down and deciding what to type--it's like I have two brains. It's like the last 20 hours has simply disappeared. I don't recall them directly. They certainly were not long, arduous, or difficult. A shame. This seems like a project that requires pain, if only for payment of its sheer pointlessness.



I'm gonna read this tomorrow and have no idea what I said.

Welcome Crystal at Frequent Thoughts! She's our newest Poser. She has a really clean, pleasant design. Go say hello.

I realized a little while ago that I haven't taken the time today to go through my own favorite links. I haven't done MY reading for the day. Been too busy blogging. Time to cruise.

Soon, there will be stories about my mother. That's the only way this can end.

Five hours. I'm amazed myself. I never expected to get this far or feel this good. I can't believe I'm still forming full sentences.

Dang, just finished herding a really stupid wasp out of the house. You would think that if I opened the front door, and that was the brightest thing in the house, that the stupid thing would go out. Or maybe they're attracted to shade. I don't know. Anyway, I had to herd the thing out with a broom. Rrrrr.

Wow. That's a lot more embarrassing than my story. I have nothing to touch that. So I'll just tell a different story.



My first "real" (read: first guy I had sex with) boyfriend and I used to go to school really early and sneak into the light booth in the school theater. The booth was in the center of the balcony--our school had a top-notch, rather large theater. We'd climb in through the opening for the spot. What was creepy, is this dark little room was at the top of the building, and there was some sort of opening in the ceiling. This resulted in a shadowed room with one shaft of light, shining godlike, on to a table in the center of the room. Very eerie. I don't remember what was on the table. We moved it and had sex.

I just realized I used the word "delightful" twice when I was talking about Mumford. I suppose if that's the most wear I'm showing, I shouldn't complain.

6 hours. And I'm still not an asshole. You'll have to scroll for the joke.

Okay, I'm not even finished watching Mumford, and I already think it's going to be one of my fave movies this year. It's delightful. The performances are subtle and genuine (except for Martin Short, but he wouldn't know subtle if it tackled him and gave him head. But I guess that wouldn't be subtle, would it?), the story is engaging, the dialogue is fresh and cliche-free. Delightful.

Wait until midnight, honey. I ain't done yet.

That's okay, I don't have anything to talk about either. Soon, I think I may stoop to emoticons. What do you guys think? What's more desperate: mother stories or emoticons?

7 hours.

Okay, true confession time: I think Asian guys are hot. I just woke up one day and suddenly they were the most beautiful men on the planet.



Okay, there's a little bit more to it.



Eight years ago Asian guys had no special pull for me. I was an equal-opportunity flirt. Then I had this dream. No, nothing naughty I'm afraid.



I was a college student, a musician that played hammer-dulcimer. Since I was interested in the dulcimer during my waking hours, nothing Freudian there. His name was Jim Chen, and he played violin. Since I knew violin players, nothing Freudian there. He was handsome, if a little geeky. Quiet and serious, with hidden depths. We became music partners. Again, nothing Freudian, so just quit thinking it. I said stop, you sickos. That was it. But when I woke up, it was as if my eyes had opened. Suddenly I was frustrated at the paucity of Asian men in the media. Garret Wang was my first Voyager crush.



Does this mean I'm not attracted to other guys? HAHAHA...yeah right. But I am biased.

I'm reading the new Image comic, The Red Star. It is shaping up to be solid sci-fi. I'm still in the introduction/exposition part. The only thing that bugs me is they use an idea that Jamie and I were gonna use, about battle-gods being summoned. Dammit. I hate when that happens.

You know how in the movies, they always show politicians going from door to door meeting people? Well, I just met State Senator Frank Shields. I have to admit I'm impressed with that kind of dedication, especially on a blasting hot day. Will I vote for him? Probably not, looking at his conservative sponsors. Still, that was just damned cool.

Eight hours to go. A mere workday.

I finished watching Get Bruce a while ago. Very, very interesting. A lot of things I didn't know. They even talk about the infamous Ted Danson black face incident. I recommend this to anyone who's into entertainment and would like a peek behind the scenes.

It's time to watch another movie in 15-minute increments. I rented Topsy-Turvy and Mumford, and I bought copies of Eye of the Beholder and Dogma. Lots to love.

I came home with straight Pepsi, rather than my regular Mountain Dew. After too many days of Dew, it starts to taste like ketchup. Really cold, runny ketchup. That's just wrong. So I'm on Pepsi for a while.

I have arrived back home in time to inform the general populace that I have 9 hours of blogging to go. That means, for the hyperbole impaired, that I'VE BLOGGED EVERY FIFTEEN MINUTES FOR FIFTEEN HOURS! Hey Andre, tell me this is a record.

Wow, okay, I'm starting to get tired. I need to put on some traveling clothes and make a quick trip to the store for more caffeine. Worry not, my dearies. I'll be back in 15.

Speaking of Ritchie, he's back from lunch and keeping me company again. He was fixing a cheese smokey, and it exploded when he stuck the fork in. For some reason, I find that hilarious. It could be sleep deprivation. It could just be that an exploding cheese smokey is pretty damned funny.

So Ritchie says I should talk about embarrassing moments. He says that might be fun. I said yeah, for YOU. But okay, I kinda got one. The best part about it is the other party may even see this. He's around somewhere.



When I was in high-school, I fit in nowhere and everywhere. A lot of people knew my name because I liked to be on stage, but I didn't have a lot of friends. My best friend was a guy named Brian, and we used to spend hours sitting in the back of the school theatre watching the reflections of the cars spin against the walls. We talked about our various and sundry romantic problems. And practicing psychic tricks, but that's another story. This is about romantic problems. A problem named Sean.



Sean was another thespian. Very funny, kinda ugly in a cute way, talented. He had charisma. He also smoked a lot of pot. My little teen brain tweaked and decided I could save him. I had a terrible crush on the guy. I would watch him intently as he performed, but I barely spoke to him. I went over to his house with friends a few times, still keeping to my assigned corner.



I had it so bad.



Being a teenager, I should have let it pass, or become distracted by some trauma, or otherwise moved on with my life. Hah, we're not talking about just any teenager. We're talking about me. With Brian's support, I decided to confront my greatest fear. I had to stop riding my bike past his house. Stop staring at him when he wasn't looking. I had to tell him how I felt.



What the hell was I thinking?



A week went by, but finally, trembling, I dialed the phone. I didn't hang up. He answered. My normally boisterous voice was whisper-quiet. I nearly choked.



"Uh, Sean? Um, I just wanted to call to say, uh, for about the past year, I've been, um, fascinated with you."



"Oh, well, uh...I," unintelligible mumble, "have a girlfriend...," mumble, "...friends." His reply was as awkward as my admission.



"Okay. Okay, I just wanted to let you know. Bye." Click.



I hung up, I cried, I got over it very quickly. I guess I don't regret my handling of the situation. Better than pining away for another year.



Sean has become a moderately successful musician in the Portland area. I've read positive reviews in the papers. I've seen him once since high-school. We didn't have much to say. At the time, he was still smoking a lot of pot...but I no longer think that merits saving. I'd like to get out and hear him play some time.

I can't believe I only have 10 hours left. Surprisingly, this is going by very quickly.



Why do I get the feeling I'm going to eat those words?

Kelly is my "movie buddy", but we spend quite a bit of time together. He has an incredible mind for detail. He's the one that likes his discs upright in the jewel case. He can remember the last several years of Academy Awards. He remembers movies, directors, actors, characters...he's a walking imdb.



To top it off, he's also a great handyman. He has a friend for whom he does house repair, gardening, remodeling, you name it. Plus he can hook a rug. How many people do you know that can hook a freakin' rug?? He's a wonder.



But Kelly has crappy self-esteem. He's cute, but he thinks he's just fat. He's brilliant in all the above-mentioned ways, but he thinks he's dense. Sure, he tends to pick losers in love, but we all do that. He doesn't listen to his friends, but we all do that too.



Kel, wise up. You're the bomb.

I will now proceed to talk trash about my friends. Kidding. But I thought it would be fun to introduce everyone.



I've known Darin for over ten years. He was my fashion role-model in the early 90s. Thank goodness. Of course these days I've gone back to dressing like my mom, but that's another story.



Darin is sharp as hell, but he won't tell you that. He'll let you take years to figure out that he's smarter than you are. His tongue is as wicked as his mind. This is the guy you want to take with you to buy a car, or clear up any kind of customer service crap. He doesn't just get it fixed, he bloody gets people fired. My hero.



In the final analysis, I have to admit I have no idea why Darin and I are friends. We have about zip in common. But we get along. We're easy in one anothers' company. We laugh a lot. We've always been able to count on one another.



Everybody say "Awwwww."

I see faces everywhere. No, I don't mean I hallucinate people. For me, random patterns usually resolve into faces. Often several different ones.



My shower stall is a blue plastic marble pattern. In the eight years I've lived here, I still see new faces in it. A sampling:

• Santa
  
• Satan
  
• Two Mullahs
  
• Kermit the Frog, his head tilted back in ecstasy
  
• An old man laying on the breast of his old wife
  
• A wrench with great creations spewing from the tines (okay, not a face, but anyway)
  

11 hours left. I am not an asshole.

You know, I thought that while doing this blogathon I would get a bunch of updates done--all sorts of web stuff I had to do. Problem is, sitting here at the computer makes me sleepy. Oh well. So I'm off puttering around the house or watching movies or reading comics. Guess the house gets cleaner that way.

I don't know how much longer I'll be able to avoid telling stories about my mother. I'd like to save that until the last few hours, when I'm truly groggy and morose. I have a few ideas. Bear with me--I had to take a quick shower-break. It's getting very hot here.

Okay, I don't believe I've ever quoted lyrics here, but this has been in my head since I first heard it a few days ago. It's off the new Crowded House CD (a compilation of rarities) Afterglow. It's about a dog:

I will change if Lester lives

Not messin' 'round just 'cause I own him.


He was nearly wiped away,

But he had good luck, and strong bones

Inside and behind him.

BEHOLD, WE HAVE REACHED THE HALFWAY POINT. WE ARE PERKY. WE ARE INVIGORATED BY OUR SUCCESS THUS FAR. WE SHALL PROCEED WITH GREAT BOPPISHNESS.

Andre has an entertaining little collection of media bits. Of course anyone who knows my opinion of kids v. cats can figure out my favorite.

It's 11:30 in the afternoon. In 30 minutes, I will be halfway through my 24-hour blogathon. I have only one question for myself: Hmm...is that cat barf dry enough to pick up yet??

What is this odd relationship between the web and Mr. T? I don't know if it started with Mr. T Ate My Balls, but that was the first I'd heard of it. Somehow Mr. T has a resonance with the web subculture. Wacky, but not crazy. There is now an entire Yahoo! category for Mr. T vs X, the newest incarnation of his strange web-rapport. And let us not forget this is an election year. I have no answers, only questions. What is this thing called "T" ?

13 hours to go. I've gotten over the asshole thing. You see, if I am attempting to blog every 15 minutes for 24 hours, I think I'm entitled to spend one blog in four just expounding on progress. It's like keeping score. Also, just to be absolutely clear, my ultimate goal is one blog per hour. Andre thought going every 15 minutes would be cool, and I agreed that I planned to try. No guarantees.



I just want an out for when I need a 55-minute nap.

My darling Philippine Webby Nominee is finally awake! Top o' the mornin'!

When I hustle over to the desk every 15 minutes, the movie goes off and Fox Kids comes on. It's all anime these days, which is cool. The craftsmanship is a little better. I have to admit I haven't watched many cartoons since I was a munchkin. Not because I don't love cartoons--but because around the time superhero cartoons became popular, the frames-per-second rate dropped dramatically. Understandable, as those frames cost money--but even as a little kid I noticed the drop in quality. The jerky movement of the characters bothered me, and I stopped watching. What a little snob I was. Thank goodness for comic books.



While televised anime still has a crappy frame rate, it does make creative use of what is available. Interesting characters, gorgeous backgrounds--almost worth getting up for. Almost.

I suppose it is a good publicity stunt, but only if I finish. If I fail, I'm consigned to blogger oblivion. Forever the loser that couldn't follow through. No guts, no glory. No pain, no gain. No milk, no Froot Loops. And the image is a special favor from Andre, because he's a wonderful human being. Someday, I'll compose a springy pop-tune in his name.

14 hours of blog on the wall, 14 hours of blog...I'm gonna quit with the asshole joke now. Really.

I'm watching Get Bruce in 15-minute increments. It's a fun little documentary. So far, I'd recommend it. I'm stunned that anyone could be consistently, prolifically funny for a living. I mean, I can do a few funny paragraphs a week--but all the time???. Oh no.

Never has a school portrait more accurately depicted a child than in this picture of Shawn Umphress.







I am so not kidding. This kid was very weird, and very funny. When I moved away in 6th grade, turns out he moved right behind me, so we ended up at the same school again. You would think that two kids uprooted and sent to a new school would bond together. Um, no. We weren't friends. But the first several lines of his favorite song are forever burned in my brain. It goes like this:

Diarrhea! Ungh! Ungh!

Diarrhea! Ungh! Ungh!

Oh the pain, oh the strain,

Just sit and let it drain.



Diarrhea! Ungh! Ungh!

Diarrhea! Ungh! Ungh!

Some people think it's funny,

But it's really brown and runny



Diarrhea! Ungh! Ungh!

Diarrhea! Ungh! Ungh!

This darling little geek is Pat Hoffart. He had the worst crush on me.







He used to be so obvious about it. Giving me valentines that were a little too heartfelt. Blushing and stammering around me. The best one: we had an assignment to go home and find out where our family names came from. I gave some ridiculous contrived story about the origins of the name Crawford that my dad and I concocted. When it was Pat's turn, he took my story and ran with it, explaining that his name was derived from mine. "Crawford, Croffort, Hoffort, see," he stuttered, glancing sideways at me. Oh god it was so cute.

BUNGHOLIO!!!!! Ahem. 15 hours to go.

This is my buddy Lance.






We used to hang out after school a lot. Lance could do a backflip over a fence taller than he was, and land on his feet on the other side. Most of the time. Once he landed flat on his back. I believe that was the last backflip over the fence. Too bad, it was a cool trick.

It's been a while, but this seems like a good opportunity to add some grade school installments.







This little creep is Don Hurst. He was always trying to get people in trouble. I felt like it was just me, but it was everybody--little nark. I was particularly hard to get in trouble, so I suppose I was a special challenge for him. Usually, it involved helping Terry with something she was supposed to do alone. He once spotted me quietly explaining some assignment (Terry wasn't the brightest crayon in the box, but she got a lot of use), pranced to the front of the class and tattled. The teacher asked me to move to the other side of the room. As I got up, the git had the nerve to sit in front and wag his finger at me. A long, skinny, infinitely waggable finger. So I walked right up to him on my way across the room, and I slapped that finger. The stunned look on his face will last me a lifetime.

I actually have about 16 hours to go, but thanks--I'll take your early congrats as a prophecy of success!

16 hours to go. I'm tired of calling myself an asshole for wasting a post on my hourly status. So instead, I'll be a bunghole. Bungholio!

So I'm trying to do things so I have something to talk about here, but does anyone care that I'm lacing up the new Chucks and putting them in the closet? Didn't think so. Only slightly more interesting is the fact that I put them in beside the orange Chucks, and I tend to get pink and orange mixed up. I just know that's gonna embarrass me. I'll go move 'em.

It makes me nuts when I can't find something. After I've looked in about four places, I start swearing and fuming. It's silly, really, but that's me.



I often harangue about the corporate oligarchy and greed and the media and how we're all sheep...you know all the stock phrases. These are all good reasons to simplify one's life, and have fewer possessions. They are my reasons, with an addition: I just want to have so little crap that I can always find what I need. No clutter to move around. Everything in its place.



Since I'm not anal enough to be organized, I resort to reducing the number of things I need to organize. Maybe that only makes sense to me?

Know what sucks? That humans don't have tails. Think of the fashion possibilities alone. There would be special dye for tail fur. Tail rings, tail tattoos, tail piercings. Tail clothing for Winter, as it would only be hip to bare the tail during the Summertime.



Of course if we had tails in reality, they would either be hairless, or covered with some nasty variety of hair that we'd want to shave off. But oh, how cool it would be to have soft, multi-colored fur.



Our language would be peppered with tail metaphors. "He's got his tail up," "Tail-swingin' melody," "She looks like someone stepped on her tail."



Conductors could face the audience--if only for a brief joke. The computer mouse would no-doubt be designed specifically for tail use. And I don't even wanna get started on sex, except to say how sweet it would be to see a couple walking with their tails entwined.



Yes, tails would be cool.

17 to go. I'm still an asshole. Not sure that's still funny, but I'm gonna keep doing it.

Church on Halsey at about 112th:

"Smooth seas don't make skillful sailors."

If you're following this traffic accident, see an update, and rush in here to find I've spewed NO pithy comments for you to share with your friends, it's probably because the update was me changing the disk. See above. I'm purposely not putting my music on repeat so I have to get up and change it.

18A

Thanks, Peter! You know, I've always liked that name. And no, that's not a stupid pun or naughty joke. I just like the name Peter. Pronounced with an English accent. Petah.

I've officially been awake for 24 hours. Just wanted everyone to know that. I started the 24-hour blog at midnight because I thought I could get a nap. Hah. I'm so funny. Like I'd ever be able to sleep when it was actually important. Okay, not that important, but sort of important.

So I'm looking all over the web for a pic, when I realize--DUH--I have the CD in front of me and a scanner to my left.






Well Jamie, it took me six stores, but I finally found a Lucksmiths disc. I like it. They remind me a lot of the Trash Can Sinatras. Oh, and I mentioned you in the blog, see? I may mention you again before my time is up.

19. Asshole. You know, in a few more hours even I am not gonna remember where that came from.

Busy looking for a pic of my Lucksmiths disc. Back in a moment...

Oh yay. I managed to buy one I didn't already have. I bought this used, and just opened the booklet to peruse and the thing reeks of cigarette smoke. I mean, how much do you have to smoke before that happens? Maybe they just blew smoke directly at their CDs. Ah well, no biggie. This disc has some of my favorite songs; I particularly love Blood of Eden, so gentle and yet so visceral.

Why are frozen waffles always cold again as soon as you take them out of the toaster? Toast isn't like that. Even Gardenburgers stay hot for longer. And Pop Tarts, man, those things burn for ages. So what's up with waffles? Dammit, butter won't even melt.

20 Hours. I'm an asshole.

Well, so far Ritchie has kept me company on ICQ, and Andre has popped me an e-mail here and there. Stuy has sent me threatening letters (but not that threatening), and Jerwin has mentioned me kindly. I'm sure he'll be here when I really need him, in about 18 hours. Right now they're all asleep.



Hey, didn't there used to be an 18-hour bra? Woo...random thought.

Yet again, I've been saved from actually writing a new dear frykitty. The Kegelmaster himself speaks.

I listened to some in-store samples of Travis and liked what I heard. When I'd listened to the disc a couple of times, two things irritated me. One, they are Radiohead Lite. That's not a crime, it just rubbed me wrong for some reason. Two, they have "bonus tracks" on the US release of the CD. Note to whomever had this bright idea: 10 or more minutes of silence to get to a bonus track is a pain in the ass unless you have blank skip! I don't have blank skip. Rrrr.

21 Hour Asshole Blog. (I was going to use the word "entry" instead of "blog", but it sounded really bad)

My friend Kelly is a little picky about his CDs. He actually makes sure the disc itself is upright in the jewel-case. I mention this because it really stuck with me--so much so that I find myself doing it. I try to stop. I don't want my discs upright. I don't want to spin them around until I can read the label. I don't care. I'm sick.

I have discovered nothing.to.say, and I am happy. Thanks, Dumbrella!

I'm wearing my Exploding Dog Shirt. I rule. I'd take a picture, but I don't have a good digital cam. I bought an old, cheap one, but it's a piece of crap and a pain in the ass. If it were a convenient piece of crap, I'd use it. If it were a high-quality pain in the ass, I'd use it. But it's not, so I don't.

22 hours to go. I know, I know, asshole.

Uh, Dave? Remember you were going to give me those free internet workarounds? Well Freewwweb went belly-up and is turning everything over to Juno. They suck so bad I won't even link 'em. Helllp meeeee.

When I was in junior-high, there was this towering amazon who's name I cannot remember. 7th grade, and she was six feet tall. She was understandably awkward, and unforgivably mean. Flip, hurtful comments fell effortlessly from her lips. Afterwards, realizing she'd blown it again, she'd say "Heh, only kidding," as if that could exonerate her. As if it were my fault for having an inadequate sense of humor. Even at that age, I had a great sense of humor. If I didn't get it, it's because it wasn't funny.



The preceding paragraph was a true anecdote used as a veiled indictment of a certain pop star. You fill in the blanks.

On that CD shopping, um, I'm gonna be struggling for content here, so bad news and good news. Bad news: I'm blogging them one at a time. Good news: I'll actually take a minute to talk about each CD. You like that, right? Okay, here's the first one:







I bought Peter Gabriel's Security because I want everything he's ever, ever done. I think he's completely brilliant. I even think he's sexy. Also, I bought it because I forgot I already had a copy. Dammit, dammit, dammit. I hate when I do that.

23 hours to go. How lame is that? Coming in here and just posting how many hours I have to go. Am I gonna do that every hour? Probably. I am such an asshole.

Andre, lord and master of Power Bloggers, has done something special for my listing, in honor of my round-the-clock blog. This is but one among the billions of reasons to love Andre. Rush over and peek.

I have been doing some CD shopping that I haven't posted. I'll show 'em off in a bit. Yes, as of a few days ago, it's all used. I'm boycotting the RIAA, but not for the reasons you may think. The whole Napster/RIAA thing seemed a good opportunity for me to throw my voice in with others who are boycotting, because a protest of one is a lonely and futile thing. I'm not into copyright infringing, but the enemy of my enemy is my friend.



So what do I have against the big five record companies?

1. CD prices were too high to begin with, and they just went up a buck.
   
2. Artist contracts are tantamount to slavery. Record companies have used the power of exclusive distribution to compel artists to sign away their rights. If the record company doesn't fulfill their end of the deal, the artist is trapped in obscurity, unable to escape without a protracted legal battle.
   
3. Record companies are concerned with the bottom line rather than nurturing the medium. Many would say "hey, they're a business, what's wrong with that?" Well, I say it's wrong. I say any endeavor motivated solely by greed strips our culture and rapes our souls. But that's another subject altogether.
   
4. The greed motivation leads to a music industry that doesn't promote artists at all. Why? Oh, this needs a sub-list:
   
   
   
   1. Record companies aim for the most buyers. That demographic is, like it or not, very young. I love 12-year-olds, but most of them have crappy taste in music. It will never mature if all they're offered is N'Sync.
      
   2. To reach this demographic, producers create bands rather than nurturing mature artists.
      
   3. In the service of these artificial pop creations, artists that have strived for years in the service of their music are consigned to invisibility by corporations with other things to do.
      
   
   
5. The oligarchy run by these corporations is threatened by any loss of control over distribution. They want things their way or no way. Hence, no creative negotiations with Napster. No attempt to bend, to bring this new idea into the fold. Instead, a lawsuit. To be honest, I'm glad they didn't insinuate themselves, and instead chose to fight. The lawsuit brought the information into the public milieu. Rather than a back-room merger (which is how our media choices are insidiously disappearing), it became a bloody fist-fight with everyone jumping in. The stuff democracy is made of.
   

So that's my beef with the big record companies. How long will I boycott? Because I'm comfortable with buying used CDs and am finding more ways to buy directly from the artist, I can't say. I'll go as long as I can. Probably a damned long time.

Baby got a new pair of shoes:





You know about eight months ago, I dreamed I was wearing a pair of pink Chucks. Upon waking, I became desperate for a pair. They didn't make 'em then. Pink had existed years back, so you had to get them used. I bid on a pair here and there on ebay, but they usually weren't the right size. Then suddenly, this Summer. Heh. Yep, pink was added as a color. Mind you, this is after I spewed about my dream all over the place. Was it a factor? Who cares? All I care about is that I got my pink Chucks!

LET THE GAMES BEGIN!



I'll live up to my name over the next 24 hours. I will truly be a fried kitty.

I now begin the fortification period. I will gather things to me: dew, munchies, movies, music, coloring books. Oh, and stuff to blog about. I don't even wanna think about how many entries I'll be doing. The betting pool shouldn't be for how long I can stay awake, but rather how long it takes me to descend into drivel.



I should probably stop blogging now. Wouldn't want to waste precious content. See you in 5-1/2.

A friend of mine had a good idea a while back. He suggested I blog a 24-hour period. I know, I know, it's been done before. But not by me. For a change, I don't have anything planned this weekend, so now is the time. At the stroke of midnight, I shall begin. At least one post each hour for 24 hours. Guess I should think of something entertaining to say. Hey--anybody wanna do this with me? Stuy? Jerwin? Anyone? E-mail me and we'll inter-promote each other until our readers remove us from their bookmarks in disgust.

This is the future of music. Find the music you want. Buy it from the artist. I'm so in love with this site.

Someone found me via Yahoo! Search Results for blog sex. It's a new kink.

Well, here's an odd one. I think the only person that has my Canbox voicemail number is Jerwin, nonetheless I got a very brief message from a female saying "who are you?" in a rather pissy tone, then hanging up. Thanks to the web, I can determine that this person was M. Delsey, living at 506 Braeburn Cres, Pickering, ON, L1V3Z8. Her number is 905-831-5996. If you're local, feel free to give her a ring and let her know she shouldn't be rude on other peoples' voicemail.

Oh no. My Yahoo is down, leaving me to get my news from other bloggers. I actually have to type in URLs. I'm sooo pathetic.

Blog of the day is Torrez.org. Andre is a blogger workhorse. He's the mind behind Power Bloggers, and the recent (and very useful!) FilePile. But the site I visit most often is where he spews essays. Sometimes a rant, sometimes a laugh, always interesting. He doesn't update every day, so you'll want to subscribe for updates.

I'm alive, I swear. Just busy. Anyway, took a break tonight and went to see What Lies Beneath. Zemeckis spent a bit too long on some of those shots. Possibly most of those shots. Got some good jumps out of it. Kind of a lame-o ending, so be forewarned. On the way over, stopped at the Wherehouse. Oooh...I just LOVE their bargain-bin. Went hunting through and found (for $8 total!):

Oh, and I really do have a good reason for not updating much. No, I do. Imagine for a moment that you love to draw pictures of flowers. It's your favorite thing in the world, and every chance you get, you draw flowers. Now, imagine a special project comes up at work where, for the good of the company, you have to draw lots and lots of flowers. Yes, that's right, I'm doing the office web-page. It's not going to be public, but rather an in-house resource we'll use to launch forms, provide help, make announcements, point to resources...well, you get the idea. So far it's very pretty. Soon it will be very useful. And by the time I get home, HTML is the last thing on my mind. So bear with me. It doesn't mean I don't love you.

Bicycle update: the seat still moves. I can't seem to get it tightened down enough--but--I'M RIDING! Twice around the block (country block) is my limit so far. I'm in the worst shape of my life. Still, it feels incredible to get on that baby and GO! I know that in time I'll be able to zoom around the neighborhood.



I was worried about adjusting the breaks--but now I don't know why it even has hand-brakes. It has pedal brakes as well. Sheesh, ya only need one.



Ah, I'm sweating as I type. Yum.

Blog of the day is Tom's Barbelith. This has been one of my favorite reads for a while. Tom is a sweetie. He's what I would be if I had a better education. Yep, a cute gay male with an addiction to tobacco and a wicked intellect.

I've decided Monday is my new favorite day. Partly, this is to combat "Monday-itis", but also when I consider it, I really do have a lot of reasons to enjoy Mondays:



--I get to see lots of bright, friendly people. I admit most of my co-workers are not people I would hang out with because they just aren't the purple-hair-and-tattoo crowd, but they are intelligent, friendly, and dedicated. They're also computer illiterate, which means job security for me.



--I get to do fun, challenging work with lots of variety. It's as much fun as being at home, only at home no one pays me.



--I get to see my sci-fi posters. I don't have any up at home anymore--most of my toys and all of my posters are at work. Admit it, you covet my office.



--I get to listen to music all day. Sure, I can do that at home too, but often the washer is running or I'm off in another room. Here, I'm pretty much chained to my desk and I get a chance to listen a CD many times.



--The food is better. At home, I have a few restaurants close by--all of them bad. Here at work, I'm two blocks from the best bento in Portland (and I'm not exaggerating), a good cafeteria, and just about any other kind of food I could possibly want. At home it's crap or sandwiches. No, I don't cook.



So Monday is my new favorite day. It will take its place of honor beside Thursday, which is also my favorite day (I was born on Thursday). Happy Monday!

::sweatsweatsweat::


They turn off the environmental controls in the building on weekends, so if you come in, you're liable to suffer the vicissitudes of whatever weather is happening. Today it's a bit warm. Plus, I came in to do grunt work. Removing hard drives from boxes we're giving to schools (yes, they get the drives too--we just have to erase them first); inventory tagging our delicious new flat-panel monitors and our backup tape drives; moving boxes of things to sit beside other boxes of things. Sweatsweat. Who wants to sweat on a weekday? If only I could be guaranteed no one else was coming in, I'd strip. But people often come in on the weekends. And just imagine their consternation upon turning the corner and seeing...

Comic book shoppie:


Preacher 65

Acme Novelty Library

The Compleat Moonshadow

Dead Enters 1-6

Breakfast Afternoon 1

Powers 1-2

City of Silence 1-2

Lucifer 4

The Red Star 1-2

Violent Messiahs 1

Accelerate 1

Jenny Sparks 1

Jim Mahfood's Stupid Comics

V for Vendetta TP

It's odd that I don't blog more on the weekends. I'm online most of the time. Not actively--usually I'm puttering around the house, reading comic books, playing a game here and there--I just leave an e-mail notifier on so I can hear if anyone wants to send me some love. Or some miscellaneous newsletter I've long since opted out of. Newsletters are like athletes foot that way.



In any case, I've had a couple of thoughts and thought I would share them. Sorry about that.



Thought number one: I've been ruminating about why I didn't post my Gillin screed at the Ironminds site. Fight the good fight, and all that rot. Well, I didn't do it because I don't feel like putting up with the idiots who'll respond to me. Sometimes my opinion isn't open for argument. This type of issue in particular tends to draw a lot of sheer stupidity. I don't suffer fools well, so why suffer them at all if it's avoidable?



Thought number two: I've also been cogitating a bit about how this site has changed my relationships. Most of my friends read it, as well as several co-workers. If these folks had any illusions about me, they are certainly gone by this point. Overall, it seems to be a positive thing. My friends often take my dispeptic babblings as the beginning of a conversation, and I like that. Now I just need to get over saying "Hey, did I tell you about--oh, nevermind. You probably read it on my damned blog already." I guess it forces me to think of twice as many interesting things to talk about. One set for here, one set for real life. I've no idea which is getting my best.

Blog of the day is Tim over at Psionic. He has a clean design style I enjoy looking at. His blog is daily life with some links tossed in. Always a nice read.

OK, first let me explain who Eric Gillin is. He is a talentless hack. A totally unoriginal, full-out waste of flesh. He works at Ironminds.



Hackjob ala Gillin:



1 dead story, rancid

1 stupid, immoral woman who happens to be fat

Add as many fat jokes as you like

Stir conservatively



It never ceases to amaze me how writers and comedians can take a story ripe with possibilities, full of criminal and/or incredibly stupid acts, and find nothing better to do than comment on someone's appearance. This takes an astounding lack of imagination, not to mention a healthy dose of bigotry. And often sexism. If I do something boneheaded, wrong, or otherwise diabolical, I expect to be made fun of for what I've done, not what I look like. Fat people are not inherently stupid, lazy, or evil. Well, I'm certainly evil, but I've been evil longer than I've been fat.



So here's my message to all you fuckwits (sorry, I just couldn't get through this angry bit without saying "fuck" at least once): stop writing. You have nothing to add to the world with your words. You should probably stop talking as well. In fact, you're probably taking up more resources than you are worth by your very existence. No, I don't wish any violence on Eric Gillin, Jay Leno, or any of the other worthless bags of water. Instead, I wish for you peaceful sleep and delightful dreams. Just don't wake up.

Blog of the day: Jerwin. If you've read either of us for any time at all, you'll know that Jerwin and I share a lot of linky-love. It's a Julia/Everett thang. Jerwie (heh, he's gonna kill me for that) blogs news items with a healthy dollop of his own sass, plus personal anecdotes and the occasional dream. Most peoples' dreams are boring--but don't skip his or you'll miss lots of celebrity cameos. His design is unique and gorgeous. But best of all, he breaks into song on my voicemail.

Bicycle update: the only other pump they had on the shelf was broken as well. I hate Rite Aid. Since they took over the Payless franchise, the store has gone screaming into the sewer. I used to depend on those guys to carry every little thing a bachelor could want around the house. Twice-weekly trips furnished my cupboards. Now I go in maybe once in six months, and something is always wrong. Worse, whatever is wrong usually can't be fixed. Like having two broken bike pumps on the walls. So on the way home tomorrow, it's a trip to a larger, better store.



Yes, there is a gas station locally where I could get air in the tires, but there's a bit of a rub. Because it's been so long since I rode a bike, I want to do it on home turf. The gas station is on an extremely busy corner, and I'd like to maintain some dignity. So why don't I just walk it home? Yeah, right. Could you?

Funny he should mention that. I was on the phone today with a friend who reads my blog. She had followed the link from Dear frykitty to Matt.



Her: Oh my god, that man. I'm in love, er, I mean...

Me: In love with his mind?

Her: Yeah.

Me: Me too. I know a few that are.



We then went on to discuss how lust for ideas does not necessarily equate to lust for a physical person, though sometimes it feels the same.



It's like my crush on Harlan Ellison (man, I need to put up a better pic). Would I sleep with him? Do I even want to meet him? Uh, no. He's a blast-furnace of intellect, and he makes me tremble in my boots. Intimidation on a grand scale. Still, reading his diatribes leaves my jaw unlatched and my back wet. I feel compelled to touch the page.



Or the screen, as it were.

My bloglove section kept turning into cobwebbing, and I was too darned lazy to update. Instead, I've put one link up top with my other "current" items. I'll rotate my faves, and put up tasty new stuff I'm reading. Don't miss Fugue Comedy. Matt Rossi and Pete Milan dish up intelligent humor.

Zakh has a new project, the team blog no sex...? So here's welcoming Zakh back to the Posers! ring, and welcome for the first time to Heather & Leslie.

Doing his best to squeal through heavy traffic, Kelly managed to get us to Mailboxes Etc. 10 minutes before closing. There, in a box UPS should be thoroughly ashamed of, was my new bike. Hoping no vital parts had escaped through the gaping holes in the cardboard, we got it home in the back seat. Kelly left to run errands and head home to feed his foster cat, while I faced the challenge of finishing this partially assembled teal beauty.



I got as far as the front wheel before I realized I needed new tools. I have the basics--socket-set, screwdrivers, adjustable wrench--everything except an allen wrench set. I knew I'd have to schlep up the street to get a pump anyway, so off I went in 85-degree weather. After much searching, I found all the pieces I needed. Pump, allen wrenches, sturdy lock and chain. Kitty litter too--but that had nothing to do with the bike.



Happily, the handlebars, seat, and pedals went on smoothly. Had some trouble adjusting the breaks as the nuts were a non-standard (read: bastards! dirty bastards!) size. Finally, I'm ready to pump the tires and take a test ride. I open the bag on my new pump to find...



...it's broken. The tip is completely broken off, and the pump is unusable. Angry? Oh, yes. Disappointed? Even worse.



You see, I haven't had a bicycle in 13 years. When my brother gave me a baby-blue ten speed for my twelfth birthday, it became like another appendage. So what if the store was a half-block away--I had to ride. Often once I got to the store, I'd decide to go a little further. And a little further. From