The porcelain bowl-shaped collection dish of my thoughts

Among other security changes, I installed a new firewall on my server. I derped up the port ranges, leaving port 80 closed for the past few days. Since I rarely surf to my site unless I’m about to blog, I didn’t notice. For the non-nerds, port 80 is a mandatory port to have open for web access.

And you know what? Unlike the $14.95/mo customers that LW has, my downtime didn’t cost me thousands of dollars. Whats my secret? Zero cost, zero profit. I should write a book.

In preparation of the upcoming move, I’ve been going through my heaps of crap in storage. Discarding what I can. The new place is a bit smaller than this one, so I don’t want the same piles stacked up in various rooms. Some odds n’ ends I’ve come across:

1) Computer parts. Mainly lots of CD-ROM and floppy disc drives (the only parts I never manage to reuse).
2) Mementos. There’s srsly tons of ‘em. From middle school all the way up to a few months ago. Every note passed in highschool, too.
3) One of Bethany’s baby socks. Not intentionally saved, even.
4) Evidence dust. From a semi-recent break-in, the police dusted for prints. In my side-bedroom closet there is still some remaining. Maybe I should leave it behind for the new tenants?
5) Bits of every game I’ve ever owned. Boxes, game manuals, (Nintendo) cartridges. Even some systems.
6) Books! Calvin & Hobbes, Zitz, etc. Old gifts I can’t part with.

Meh, this seemed more interesting when I thought to post it.

Wow, just realized my subject line could be misconstrued. I was quoting Homer Simpson when he fantasized about two women slaving for him. Instead, it could be taken as pretty grim.

I’d die a happy man if I could shake the hand of Bill Watterson.  I wouldn’t push for a lengthy conversation, an autograph, or a tour of his paintings & other work.  Just a handshake to show my gratitude. He’s been a big part of my childhood and, with having been learning more about his values and behind-the-scenes work, am still impressed with the guy.

I think seeking him out would be disrespectful, but is the only reason I don’t consider achieving such a goal.  His reluctance from the public eye has made him intentionally difficult to communicate with.  Still, it’d be such an honor. 

Bewildered from being shafted by Verizon, I unwittingly entered my apartment armed with only some take-out Chicken LoMein.  Within in few moments, it was clear that my premises had been violated.  I could hear the telltale signs of movement within a few feet of me.  Surprisingly, even with my dinner in hand I still felt inept to deal with the intruder.

Manning up to the situation, I calmly exchanged my food in hand for a large binder cookbook.  I took a few quiet steps toward the source of the movement, readying to strike.  I paused to muster up my courage, scraping together my obligation to defend the sanctity of my home.  Knowing what I was about to get into, part of me (most of me?) felt unwilling to proceed.  It was like being compelled to dive off a cliff, but pausing for a precious moment, hoping some divine force would grace me the opportunity to bow out of this inevitable dance.

I raised the book in front of me, it became both my sword and my shield, I closed the remaining space between me and my adversary.  Now entering the dining room, advancing unto the blinded window overlooking my balcony, my body flooded with adrenaline as I lurched forward.  A bellowed roar filled the room, the source of it forever lost between me and thy enemy, I engaged him with my weapon.

scuffling

raspy gasps for air

a grunt (whimper?) from exchanged blows

My familiar heart rate returned, sweat beaded down my brow, I faltered from my exerted strength.  I surveyed what just happened, not from my eyes but from the scene.  Relieved not for my victory, but for the knowledge of strife’s end.  I reached forward, spreading the blinds on my window, I could see the remains of this proud (if not foolish) warrior.  His black-and-yellow striped corpse lay against my window.

“This calls for a celebration” I murmured, then returned to my kitchen to retrieve my spoils of war.

My thoughts on it.  Unfortunately, there’s no way to tell if I’m right.

- You couldn’t go back in time for a pre-planned purpose that involves altering the past.  Upon completing the task, you’d undo the whole point to traveling back in the first place, rendering your former self without said goal.

- In the remake of The Time Machine, the main character travels to the past multiple times to try saving his lover from her fated doom.  But in each attempt, he prevents the previous cause of her death but indirectly contributing to her new one.  I forget if the movie actually spelled this out, but I really found that aspect of the story interesting. If she was never killed then he’d have no reason to invent the time machine to save her.  But it made me wonder how things would pan out if he traveled back to leave the time machine’s blueprints for his past self, with convincingly urgent instructions to build it asap.  THEN saved her.  Or would that introduce a new paradox?

- Realistically, if we could ever pull off traveling to the past, it’d have to be in an incorporeal form.  We’d be a ghostly observer of the events with absolutely no means of affecting things.

- The end result of such a discovery would surely spell doom.  The past holds answers about all religions, creation, etc etc.  Even without meddling in crucial past events, simply bestowing “what really happened” upon the masses today would probably lead to chaos.

All in all, this isn’t a product I recommend you invest in.  Just avoid it altogether.  Probably give you cancer anyways.

In my Earthdawn (DnD) group, my character ‘Malik’ has been compared to a lawyer on Night Court.  I’ve never seen the show, but after being introduced to the following clip I feel it’s safe to agree with the striking similarities.  Sprinkle in a condesending tone and Dan Fielding becomes Malik.

Give it a minute or two.

On a serious note, I think joking about races is a better ice breaker for the world than pretending it doesn’t exist.

I hate them.  To acknowledge the full extent of the word ‘hate’, I truly mean I hate them.

Consider that Water Chestnuts are Hitler.  Nazi leader of yester-era.  Sure, a few people might say he’s misjudged, but you still wash up after shaking their hands.

Brussel sprouts, too.

‘Brain poop’ is the best way to describe comments I make sometimes.  I’ll feel compelled to spout an observation, compliment a cute chick on her [appealing physical feature], or ask for something even while knowing it’s unlikely, uncalled for, or unacceptable.  Holding back  just makes it worse, I lose interest in moving onto something else.   Ignoring the feeling just ensures I regret it later.

Anyways, you get the point.  The most common instances of my brain needing to poop are:

1)  Talking to somebody either really smart or really focused on a topic.  I feel compelled to dismantle their train of thought.  Confusion, double-takes, and stammering are all ideal responses.  Example:

- Phil of the networking team is smart.  He often shares interesting tech news or updates me on his stock trading.  Every now and then, after a lengthy dry explanation from him regarding either topic, I’ll recite back what I’ve learned, using a bizarre confusing analogy.  Seeing his mental gears grind to a halt to comprehend how our exchanges are (probably) related is satisfying.

2) Pretty girls, hot chicks, aerodynamic high-speed low-drag babes.  Call them what you will, they’re a distracting species.   Not often I make a point to compliment them, but occasionally I’ll happen across one that has particularly pretty eyes or a smile that steals my attention- sapping any intelligence from my carnival funhouse mind.  Complimenting them sates two important urges.  One, girls thrive on the reassurance that all their effort of looking pretty was successful, and Two, it lights them up.  They smile, or giggle, or blush.  All of which adds to whatever stole my attention in the first place.