We celebrate the moment: hold it down, breathe memory into its mouth. We exhale constellations of vapor, watering each other with our words. Sentiment freezes into comets, orbits, stars. Festivity is a holding pattern; the universe is limitless intent.
I've been going to bed somewhat content lately. I don't know how I feel about that.
(I'm not really compelled/inclined to update STREAM much these days, but SCENE and SOURCE remain current. Just FYI. XYZ PDQ. ETC.)
(I have no idea why my photostream is doing that.)
I may not have been very opinionated of late, but I've been other sorts of -ated.
I had the comment spam threshold configured a bit overzealously. More comments should actually post through now. Assuming you fuggers post comments. Fuggers.
I've also reformatted the title attribute tooltips, per some long-standing requests. The code seems to be working across OS X/Win XP, Mozilla/IE/Safari/Opera. As usual, if something breaks, gimme me a shake.
So it turns out this site's been looking like shit in/on Mozilla due to that browser's handling of hyphenated text. Oops. Fixed the offending entry.
Seriously, rain, go away.
Does anyone actually know how to use Movable Type's dynamic content feature? My stabs at it have brought me nothing but anxiety.
(More futzing with the code. Heads up if anything busts.)
(Fiddling with some Flickr photostream automation. Pardon the dust.)
I have an "owie" above my left eye, a "booboo" if you will; and although it's as miniscule as my euphemisms suggest, requiring both of two sutures (I declined Dermabond; thanks, I'll pass on the Krazy Glue substitute), it has become a focal point of my physical being. I am somehow larger, more lumbering because it is so small. That its inciting event was a brief encounter with a left-open cupboard door only makes me feel more conspicuously clumsy. There is a grave accent over the eyebrow I am currently reluctant to cock, denoting a timid, completely internal disaffection that I will be glad to rid myself of come Monday, when the stitches come out.
Come, Monday, come. Stitches come out. Monday can't come soon enough.
Has anyone in the annals of mixed beveragedom ever ordered a Jack and Pepsi, and, if so, did the saloon pianist abruptly strike a discordant note and did the resident strumpet gasp at the immodesty of the request as a Mexican standoff ensued between the unsuspecting deviant drinker and every one-eyed card shark in the joint?
A question, particularly for fellow Angelinos: is anyone, or does anyone know, a good storyboard artist? B____ and I need one for a short we're working on. I figured I'd throw this outlet into the mix of my usual inquiries. As for the boards themselves, we're not talking The Mysteries of Harris Burdick here. Just quick, concise pop-arty compositions.
As 2006 lumbers, imminently sundering from 2005, I'm reminded of the neurotic hold such signifiers have over the transit of the mind.
I've come to value the notion of a libration point between passing years, a temporary amnesty from anticipation and retrospection, a sort of four-dimensional neutral buoyancy. A grace period.
In lazy-speak: no recaps or resolutions.
(Yep, that's my big stinking cork-popping thought. I'd garnish it with a hug, but this is the internet.)
This design dates back to the summer of '04—when, bored with the site's decline, I undertook the requisite diligence and half-baked some sibilantly semantic CSS. Imagine my horror and recalcitrance when no two browsers would render my assiduous XHTML-whatever consistently. I became irritated. I dropped it.
It's been eighteen months now. The year is winding down. Long-dormant vanity-site guilt is stirring. So I've spent a couple of days converting my circa-Bourne Supremacy style sheets to sacre-licious tables. My hands are dirty but my conscience is clear.
It will take a while for the layout to settle. It's uncomplicated but I have an unhealthy, unproductive obsession with pixel placement, so there will be tweaks. More to the point, hopefully, there will be posts.
It begins again.