internet dream

I had a dream last night. In it, a friend had tipped me off that some stuff I did back in the TRS-80 Model I days had appeared online in a search engine. I used the suggested keywords, and sure enough: a blast from the past.

I immediately began composing an update to my Facebook status: "The internet is an autistic savant manchild - 82, 82, 82...82 what, Ray? 82 flamewars".

When I tried to copy the URL, I was thwarted. The search engine was built into my Maytag oven, but was not very user friendly. I went to my MacBook to read more about it: it was a failed attempt to modernize kitchen appliances. I found a snarky post, in a forum, about how one shouldn't even bother creating a search engine if you're just going to abandon the effort a year later.

I woke, remembering that the last thing I had read was by Alton Brown.

the burninator

"That looks pretty good...coming out of the back of his neck there." - Strongbad

I've been told, in no uncertain terms, that the name "Trogdor" cannot be used as the baby's name...in neither the first nor middle positions. Still, from the sonogram the baby is just a few consummate Vs away from the mighty dragon. Oh, yeah - check out baby's majesty.

And, speaking of mighty dragons, the sonograms this week also showed another beefy appendage. (It's a boy!) I won't post it, though, as that seems totally inappropriate.

So what would an awesome name for a baby boy be? Help me out, here.

kwisatz haderach

March madness brackets are not an obscure form of punctuation? I'm disappointed.

sold, closed, and closure

Hollywood makes it look like it's all over when you blow the alien out the airlock — as if all that stands between the nightmare and your new life is some chamomile tea, the soothing purrs of your feline friend, and some quality time in a hypersleep chamber.

In the real world, you own the Nostromo. God knows you don't want it anymore: more cubic feet than you can care for, someone else talked you into buying it in the first place, and you keep seeing facehuggers out of the corner of your eye.

But you wake on one of the core worlds to find that The Corporation's shipyards have been overproducing interstellar craft. The builders are starting to default on their subprime loans, and the entire financial system is a moon-sized ball of dung hurtling towards a planet-sized fan.

So you quickly replace the deck plates that were damaged by the acid, price it aggressively, and hope the buyers don't notice egg sacs under the mist during the walk-through.

When you close on the sale, it's over.

That is what I have done today. W00t!

Edit: And, just to keep me on edge, a last-minute miscommunication has pushed the closing back to Tuesday morning. I'm popping a cork anyway.

dexter is running out of ideas

Today someone found my blog using a particularly disturbing search phrase.