centre of the universe - the dreaming

And lo, "Beauty always comes with dark thoughts"; the angels gathered, and among them there was not one free of sin. The Kingdom Come game was very, very, very, very-very good. There were demons and angels and nephilim and nearly a crucifixion and a super magic knife and confession and mandates from kings and penance for murder and begged-for punishment for suicide.

All in all, it was a *really* good game.

And I must say, the folks who drove for a while really helped to make the event for me. Pictured at the left on the left is one of the sexiest men alive, besides His Nibs and my boyfriend Johnny Depp, and on the right is Ayla (one of our regular gorgeous and wonderful players). Mister Sexy is from Edmonton. And also, there were folk from Saskatoon, as you can see in the image on the right below.

In this photo, from left to right, you see O. Wode, TandG, and Girl Called Cat. They were all quite a lot of fun to talk to, and they also made the night a joy. I'm always flattered and pleased when folks take the time and effort to drive to our city for a game. I'm not sure what O. Wode is pontificating about here, but he seems very beatific, don't you think? TandG was having a little sojourn on the Court Tables, but that was okay because the Kings hadn't called Court to order yet. And Girl Called Cat just made me smile every time I heard her speak. Also; she has the most *amazing* eyes. And all three are Very Fun Folk. Thanks for coming down!!! And to our two re'glar S'toon folk (Nezrix and the man who gets nervous when someone shows up looking better in a suit than he does. This one makes me smile an awful lot), I think you're both keeping me just about as passionate about this game as is possible at the moment. I mean *everyone* in the game is keeping me pretty passionate about it; it just gets so exciting when you know that your friends are travelling From Away to take part in a story that you are helping to tell.

Now, in this last photo, you will see the binary kitten. It makes me sad that we live so far apart, because if I had my druthers (currently, I am using someone else's druthers, which works, but I'd really rather have my own) I'd get to see this amazing woman much, much more often. She sang and danced and leapt and bowed and consoled and conscripted. She arrived with Mister Sexy.

Labels: Kingdom Come

At the stupid, annoying big box store I was at yesterday looking for fishing line and ceiling hooks, a mother and son were strolling the aisle with me. The boy was maybe four, maybe five. He said to his mum, "I have to go pee", and she started railing on him.

"Why didn't you do that when we were just there?" she cried. "That's why we went to the bathroom!"

"I don't know," he said.

"Well, you should have gone when were were there."

"Yeah," he said.

A couple of minutes later (I'm comparing the line weight of two different spools):

"Can we go to the bathroom now?" the little boy says.

"You should have done that when we went to the bathroom before," the mum says, looking over some tackle boxes.

"Yeah."

A few minutes later. I've chosen my fishing line, and I'm distracted by shiny lures. They work on more than just pickerel, folks. I glance over, and the little boy is crossing his legs, holding his crotch and doing that crouchy thing that means pee is imminent. I say "he's going to pee his pants." I *think* I have said it inside my head.

He's clearly desperate for a bathroom. He's saying "PLEASE can we go to the bathroom now?"

His mum says, "Yes, we'll go in a minute."

I was horrified. I walked up to the woman and said, "I don't think you have a minute. He's about to wet his pants. You should go right now."

I know I meddled. I know it was none of my business. But for Christ's sake. I know how that would have played out. She'd have stood there with some goddamned trinket in her hand, and her little boy would have wet himself, and then she would have yelled at him and berated him and said 'why didn't you hold it?' And he was young enough that he wouldn't have said "I DID hold it. For a REALLY long time!" And I don't know anything about this family, but I assumed she'd fed him pop (which always makes you have to go often and lots), by the look of his teeth.

Now, I'm certainly not the best parent on the planet. I lose my temper an awful lot. And I let my kids fight with each other until someone gets hurt. And sometimes, I let them play computer games *all day*. But let me tell you this: when one of my kids says "I have to go to the bathroom", I drop what I'm doing and get them to the loo, because there's no worse feeling than having to go when you're in public.

So maybe I was out of line there, but honestly, I don't care. That woman was being a bitch.

Labels: I have to go

I am utterly addicted to television shows that feature American small-claims court.

They're *so bad*.

I think it was first her scent - a mixture of Mikado perfume oil and stale cigarettes. The combination fo floral overtones and smoke brought her to the front of my vision; my memory snapped to attention like a taut rubber band. The woman wore her hair short and she had laughter in her eyes. Blue eyes that sparkled as she smiled, and the corners of her mouth turned down. An upside-down smile, just like Mum.

She stood in front of me and all I could do was stare. How old would she be now?

Sixty-two.

She would be enjoying her retirement, reading...maybe she'd join a book club. Maybe she'd still teach sometimes, or maybe she would have moved out to the farm. She would gather my boys up on her knee and tell them horrible lies about my childhood. Horrible lies that are all irrevocably true.

So I stared at this woman, someone I did not know, I stared at her hands, the shape of them, the way her fingers tapered so beautifully. I stared at her ears, and the earrings that perfectly matched what she wore. I stared at her neck, her profile, so delicate and firm. This was a woman who had the Strength of Conviction, as Joyce would say.

I stared and stared, willing her to transform, praying that she would turn toward me, with that smile in her eyes, and tell me a story. It would be a story I'd heard before, not once or twice but dozens of times. I wanted that woman to tell me a story I knew the end to, a story with few surprises and many laughs.

But she didn't, of course. She glanced at me, smiled briefly, and said "hello" as she walked away.

For the briefest of moments, I lost my mother again. She'd been there, so close I could smell her perfume; I could have touched her. For a moment, I could see her. But with a flicker of a smile, she was gone.

Those stories at Christmas and on the phone late at night, they suddenly got much harder to hear. Those hugs for my children became ethereal ghost whispers. As the woman walked away from me, I reached out to her. "Please stay, " I whispered.

She didn't hear me. I'd spoken in the secret language of mothers and daughters, the language unspoken but felt or longed for in every daughter's heart. It is the song that blooms in every spring crocus.

She walked away, the woman I didn't know, and with her my settled heart. How many more years will I live in relative numbness, only to be caught off-guard by the scent an unknown lady wears?

Labels: Mum

Smarty Pants sent me this link (the video is horrible, so be warned), about the Russian plan that essentially killed Ukrainians by starvation (a quarter of the population of Ukraine starved to death in 2 years). It made me think about how effective starvation is at killing people and making them accept your terms. The Russians starved the Ukrainians; the Germans starved the Jews; everybody's starving everybody else in Africa.

The American government cut the Aboriginal population off from their main food source, then prevented them from hunting what little there was left. The British government, who'd had a long and bold history of starving people to colonise their land, watched the Native population here dying. The Irish people lost 25% of their population the same way over a span of 7 years.

What I don't understand is how you can watch someone treat other people this way. How could you look at a child so near death, or a man so weak he cannot stand...how could you look at them and know "I did this", and not be filled with self-loathing?

It has to be more than propaganda. Just because I tell you "don't feed the Indians/Irish/Ukrainians/Tutsis/Mennonites/Jews/Japanese/Homosexuals, even if they're pretending to be hungry, because they're not really people" doesn't mean you should believe me. How can we still be doing this to each other? How could we have let it happen at all?

What's *wrong* with us?

(list of famines)

Labels: genocide

You know, it's becoming more and more difficult for me to dislike the current government. Because sometimes, they really do the right thing. Sure, their particularly conservative bent makes me nervous. But even then, in the meetings I've had with their administrators and their Ministers, I certainly feel like I'm being heard.

Just please, please, SaskParty, don't pull a Grant Devine. This province can't handle being bent over a sawhorse again. Not when we're just about ready to finally be financially stable enough to leave home. It's bad enough that we've had to live in Mum's house all these years (although she's been happy to make us lasagna every Sunday)...but geez. At some point, it'd be nice to have a date, you know?

Labels: Grant Devine, Saskatchewan, SaskParty does the right thing

From Health Canada's quit smoking website:

Rewards of Quitting

Almost everyone knows that smoking is bad for you but do you know all the benefits of quitting? For the vast majority of smokers, quitting smoking is the best single thing they can do to improve the length and quality of their lives. Persons who quit smoking immediately begin to reduce their chances of developing heart disease, cancer, breathing problems, infections, or being in an accident.

Former smokers also live longer than those who continue to smoke. For example, those who quit before age 50 have only half the chances of dying in the next 15 years compared with those who continue to smoke.

Women who stop smoking before pregnancy or early in their pregnancy reduce their chances of having a low birth weight baby. Quitting can also reduce the chances of stillbirth, early infant death, and improve the health of the woman.

Within 8 hours - carbon monoxide level drops in your body oxygen level in your blood increases to normal

Within 48 hours - your chances of having a heart attack start to go down sense of smell and taste begin to improve

Within 72 hours - bronchial tubes relax making breathing easier lung capacity increases

Within 2 weeks to 3 months - circulation improves lung functioning increases up to 30 percent

Within 6 months - coughing, sinus congestion, tiredness and shortness of breath improve

Within 1 year - risk of smoking-related heart attack is cut in half

Within 10 years - risk of dying from lung cancer is cut in half

Within 15 years - risk of dying from a heart attack is equal to a person who never smoked.

Go circulation, go! Go lung capacity, go!

Labels: formaldehyde, quit smoking

"You should eat your soup, Pooky."
"I don't like it, Mama. It's yukky."
"Well, you'll not get any cake if you don't eat your soup."
"Oh. Okay."
*eat* *eat* *eat*
"Hey, Pooky?"
"Yes, Mama?"
"I put extra spider legs in the soup tonight."
"...oh." [turns to Auntie Missus Smarty Pants] "Maybe that's why I don't like it, then." [makes scrinchy-up face] "I'm not fond of spider legs."

"WOW! What's that on your cake, The Nipper?"
"It's a dinosaur!"
"What kind of dinosaur is it?"
"A TASTY dinosaur! That's what kind!"

"Uh-oh."
"What's wrong, Pooky?"
"We-eelllll....it's just that...[clicks tongue]...I...don't know how to make this train go."
"Oh. You have to give it to Daddy."
"I do?"
"Yes. Because he has the magic screwdriver that opens it up so we can shove a new battery in its innards."
"Ohhhhh."
"Or, you could just push it on the track, like this."
"Ohhhhh. That's fun, too!"

It was a good birthday party.

Wednesday, 10th December is International Human Rights Day.
This year, members of GLBT community (that's Gay/Lesbian/Bisexual/Transgendered) are advocating an economic boycott. It's an interesting idea, and cenobyte is going to participate. From the Day Without a Gay website, here are some suggestions for how you can observe this day, if you are so inclined:

Strike: call in gay, shut down your business, or just take the day off.

Boycott: don't buy anything, spend money or support the economy.

Participate: visit www.daywithoutagay.org for a list of volunteer and/or protest opportunities.


I would *love* to "call in gay". In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if the entire office called in gay.

It is ridiculous that there are still 30 some states where it is still legal to fire someone because of their gender identity or because of their gender preference. Just think about this for a minute: you could be **fired from work** because of **the way you have sex**. From now on, I'd like to suggest that everyone who has ever had a *heterosexual* relationship also lose their jobs. And anyone who has referred to breasts in any of the following ways immediately have their children removed from school: "jugs, hooters, ta-tas, paps, tits, love puppies". Also, if you have ever used any of the following words or phrases in public, you're no longer eligible for government funding or tax rebates: "God, prayer, traditional values, "adam and eve not adam and steve", sex education, mixed-race marriage".

Do you see how stupid this is?

Now, let's do the 'change the words' thing again here. This is an article from The Right Side News, a right-wing news/tabloid source in the USA. I've changed some of the text.

Inter-racial marriage will end the value of traditional marriage in America. How do I know?

The Federation of First Nations tries to paint an "Ozzie and Harriet" picture of the poor Aboriginal couple that wants to get married and raise a family. But what are the facts. We know because inter-racial marriage is legal in the Netherlands and has been for some time. Surveys conducted in both America and the Netherlands show that there is no comparison between an "inter-racial marriage" and a "normal marriage."

• In normal marriage 90% of women and 80% of men surveyed have never cheated on their spouses. Contrast that with the fact that surveys show Aboriginals in "committed" relationships have sex with eight other partners in an average year (the number of liaisons with each of those eight was not recorded)
• In heterogeneous marriage, studies show that 70% of first marriages last at least 10 years while 57.7% last over 20 years. When Aboriginals are involved, the average relationship lasts 18 months.

Currently, in Scandinavia, 60% of first-born children now have unwed parents.

Is there a cost to society for not having a white Mother and a white Father in a home? In America, single parent homes are 700% more likely to live in poverty while in our prisons, 70% of prisoners are from single parent homes. Just as the cell is the basic building block to the human body, the family has been the basic building block in America. If we destroy the family, America will not be far behind. But even if a person didn't care about our Nation and didn't believe the Bible, if a person claims to have compassion for his fellow man, he would still oppose inter-racial marriage.

Over the past 15 years, there have been many surveys trying to determine what percentage of the population in America was Aboriginal. Even liberal think tanks place that number at around 15% of the population. The percentage of sexually transmitted diseases, depression and suicide should be consistent with other population groups if marrying an Aboriginal was a safe alternative. The evidence proves the opposite.

In 2003, the Centers for Disease Control reported that inter-racial marriage with Aboriginals was responsible for 60% of all cases of HIV in America. A 2004 study on Gonorrhea revealed that 64% of all cases were the result of inter-racial marriage. When such a small percentage of the population is responsible for such a large percentage of STD's a question should be asked about the safety of that behavior. An epidemiological study released in 1997 from data gathered over a five-year period in Vancouver, Canada, concluded that those who married Aboriginals lost up to 20 years of life expectancy. If someone truly cared about the Aboriginal, this data should be cause for concern.

Along with the medical risk is an unusually high occurrence of mental disorders and illness among Aboriginals. Research results in the October 2000 issue of the American Medical Association's Archives of General Psychiatry reported that Aboriginal youths were 600% more likely to commit suicide than their white peers. The excuse is made that suicides and mental illness among Aboriginals is a result of bias or "racism" in America, but that myth has also been proven wrong. The Dutch are considered progressive in their sexuality and inter-racial marriage is legal in the Netherlands yet, statistical results there are consistent with the statistics in America.

We in America have taken great care for the well being of our fellow man. We require seat belts to be worn in order to save lives. Cigarette smoking is discouraged because of the increased risk of lung cancer . We even have limitations on vending machines in schools because of the danger of obesity . Yet, if someone dares raise a question about the obvious dangers associated with inter-racial sexual habits, that person is labeled a racist. It is more loving to speak the truth in love than to placate those practicing self-destructive behavior.

Inter-racial marriage is dangerous. Inter-racial marriage is sinful. Inter-racial marriage will destroy the very existence of the home in America. Never in the history of America is the traditional home facing the threat of extinction as it is today.

How stupid does that sound? How stupid is it to say "I don't want my children learning about Indians in school, because knowledge of how Indians have been treated by colonial interests might damage them. They might get scared of Englishmen." Or "Please don't teach my children that women can be firefighters. It puts fancy ideas in their heads". I mean, really. How many steps are we away from that?

So, yeah. December 10th, call in gay. And if you can't call in gay for fear of being fired, then don't be a consumer. Don't buy anything; don't pay your bills. Support equal rights

Labels: equal rights, GLBT

Okay, this is the thing.

I have a few things I'd like to talk about; a few posts to make. But there's a Porblem. And the Porblem is that I just haven't gobs of time to physically sit down and write them.

And my co-worker has just come up with the Best Thing Ever: Einstein's theory of special button relativity. Which is closely related to the problem of Shroedinger's button hole. Maybe some day, I can explain these concepts to you.

Then again, maybe someday the roast will cook itself.

It's been an odd day, Marcy. An odd day.

Labels: Button Theory, Einstein, Odd day, Shroedinger

Just a brief note to let you know the Mad Scientist hair is now Even Redder.

And it makes me happy.

Yes, cenobyte has Sideshow Bob hair.

Labels: hair, mad scientist, sideshow bob

The Nipper was born with a look of extreme confusion on his face. This is how I knew, without a shadow of doubt, where the other half of his genetic material had come from. I mean, I knew it *anyway*, but the moment I saw his little face, all scrimpled up, and imagined him hollering "CHANGE!!" in a Very Alarmed Voice, I looked at His Nibs and said, "well. He's certainly YOUR son."

He was born without any assistance at all, the doctor busying herself with things like doing something else as The Nipper squipped out onto the bed. When the nurse handed him up to me (as I was reaching down to get him, for the record), she looked at me and said, "well? What do you think of your baby boy?"

And I said, "He isn't black."

And the nurse said, "...?..."

And I said to His Nibs, "I told you I wanted a black baby."

And the nurse said, "..."

And I said to the nurse, "I suppose you'll have to put this one back."

And our Doula had to have a sit-down with the giggles.

Happy Birthday, The Nipper. You're perfect the way you are, buck teeth and backwards pants and all. I love you, pook.

Labels: Happy Birthday, Pook

I was talking about this with my friend Road Rage this weekend, and I can't seem to get it out of my head. Apparently, professors at many Universities are being asked by their students to adjust students' marks based on, it seems, *anything but* merit.

Which is to say, there are people out there asking, "If I do most of the readings for this class, will you give me a B?" and "I tried really hard; shouldn't that account for something?"

I won't even begin to tell you how ludicrous this is. Okay, that's a complete lie. This is more than ludicrous. I couldn't imagine asking any of my profs whether they'd be willing to hedge my marks a little because I smiled sweetly and asked nicely and 'tried real hard'. Because, really, it doesn't matter how hard you try. What matters is how well you understand the material, and, more importantly, how well you can explain what you've learned. University is just another form of training. In elementary school, you're trained to to basic math (in many places. I wasn't at the school that taught math), you're trained to have a basic understanding of the written word, and sometimes, if you're not sick for a week, you learn about cloud formations and things like condensation and what happens when you mix baking soda and vinegar.

In high school, you're trained to pine after Blaine Duncan.

And in University, you're trained to think critically or you're trained to hone your mathematics abilities and your skill with research. You're taught, basically, different ways of thinking and different ways of learning. Which leads to different ways of looking at the world. If you can't muster a B in University, you're either doing it wrong or you just don't have the ability. And there's nothing shameful in not having the ability (and if you're doing it wrong, you can correct it). Not everyone is cut out for "higher learning". And the truth is, many people just don't like it.

But if you're not cut out for it, or if you aren't able to do it, why the hell should you be coddled along and encouraged?

Let's be honest, here. University isn't about training you for Real Life. Whoever argues that hasn't spent a lot of time at University for a very, very long time. So if anyone's arguing that the reason you shouldn't be asking your profs to adjust your mark based on gumption, they don't get it either. You shouldn't be asking your profts to adjust your mark based on gumption because *effort doesn't matter* in the long run. University isn't about trying hard. It's about learning. It's the Yoda thing, right? "Do or do not; there is no try." That should be the motto for every University on the planet.

And another thing. Whoever thought it'd be a good idea to stop failing kids in elementary and high school ought to be stood in front of a line of thirty illiterate, innumerate teenagers whose biggest ambition in life is to not get pregnant, and that person should be forced to teach those kids basic math, basic reading, and basic LIFE SKILLS.

There's this movement afoot that no child should be allowed to 'fail' a grade in school. If they can't do the work, they simply get moved forward because some pointy-headed child psychologist figured it does more damage to a kid to be 'left out of his peer group' than it does to ensure the kid has a BASIC UNDERSTANDING OF HOW THE WORLD WORKS. I'm not kidding, either. At least around here, I know people whose kids literally cannot read, and the kids are simply moved up to the next grade to tackle higher concepts and more difficult passages before they've even mastered the previous level. And now, apparently, in Saskatoon, there is a school that is at least discussing the idea of removing 'failing grades' from the high school. This would effectively replace the "45" you get in arithmetic in grade nine with "tried real hard" or "no mark". So, what, when you reach grade 12, instead of getting a diploma, you get a blank piece of paper and are asked to clean out your locker with the other mooks?

The whole idea of achieving excellence by lowering your standards really casts a serious pall on this province.

But you know what? I say sure, go ahead. Let those kids who can't read pass grade two. Take away failing grades. Raise your kids to feel entitled to succeed simply because they were born. Go ahead! But don't come whining around here when they smash the windows in your car and ask for a minimum sentence because they 'tried real hard' on probation. And don't you dare complain that they're still living at home when they're 35 years old, with no job and no ambition and no goals. And ultimately, just think about this: these illiterate, spoiled kids who figure the world owes them the high life on a platter are going to be deciding mill rates and taxation systems in another 30 years. They're going to be in charge of your retirement funds. And if you really want a bunch of folks who figure they should get special treatment because they had a tough time in high school running the country the way they're running their own lives, you go ahead and put all your support behind lowering educational standards down past the point where they have any meaning.

I'm waiting on tenterhooks for the day when my kids come running home in June shouting "Mama! They've removed all standards from my classroom, so now I get to be just as smart as the stupid kids!"

Labels: education, Lowering standards, piss in your eye

Well, Saskatoon, it's been great. It's been grand. You know, sometimes I miss you, you old lug. But it's time for me to move on. I'll stick around for a while longer; there's somewhere I have to be until five o'clock tonight. And I know it'd be rude for me to mention those things that don't work for me any longer, so I won't. And I won't bring up those things that...well...there's a good reason I had to end things. But this visit has been good! It's nice to know we can still get along.

Listen, I want you to take care of some folks for me. I mean, just make sure they're doing okay and for God's sake, **be nice to them**. I mean, we both know that sometimes, you can be a little cold and self-centred. Okay, a *lot* self-centred. So just, you know, keep an eye out for these folks, because they're good to me, and they mean a lot to me. I won't lie to you; it'd mke me happy if they'd think pretty seriously about moving south.

Anyway, thanks for the nice visit. I know I didn't get to see everyone I probably should have seen. Hopefully some of them will drop in at Exhibition Park or whatever that place is called before five today.

Also, a note to my body - thanks for not doing the crampy thing again. That was truly EXTREMELY unpleasant. But is it entirely necessary to do the bloating thing so much that my fingers look like sausages? So much so that it hurts to wear my rings? I mean, is that *really* necessary? Really? Because I think it's pretty silly. How about if you don't do that anymore. That'd be great. Thanks.

Der Kaptin, Kate with one gold eye says to say hi.

Labels: Kate with one gold eye, Saskatoon, sausage fingers

Road Rage and I went for lunch yesterday at one of my favourite restaurants in Toon Town. I feel no shame in mentioning it: we went to Calories. At Calories, I bought some cheese. Some garlic and chive cheese. (I also bought some chocolates, but this isn't about the chocolates.)

I spent the evening sitting in bed, reading a book, and eating garlic and chive cheese out of the package, with no crackers, no knife, and no fork.

It's good cheese.

I'm so bohemian.

If you're in the Toon Town area, the Saskatchewan InDemand thingummy has all kinds of wool/yarn folk. Three or four Alpaca places, and Golden Willow Natural Fibre (my favourite knitting store) has a booth there as well. Y'all should come. And buy books. Heh.

Labels: garlic cheese

Don't know what life is like in your end of the universe, but I'm really glad I came up this way yesterday. Because apparently if someone attempts to drive today, they will instantly burst into flame and wither and die.

I learned some interesting things at the funeral yesterday:
1) I have far more cousins than I even *knew* about. I mean, I knew my granddad had 8 brothers and sisters, and I knew each of them had had at least two kids (with the exception of one of them), but...well. I *didn't* know that my great-granddad's brother settled in the same area and I didn't know how many kids *he* had.

2) My father and I both learned that my father *might not be* an only child. OOOH! INTRIGUE! SCANDAL! Heh.

3) There's a Very Good Chance that Your Truly has at least one or two beige ancestors. In living memory. DO YOU EVEN KNOW HOW COOL THAT IS!!???

4) The ladies at the church make very good egg salad.

5) Sometimes, it's just not appropriate to wear a hat at your father's funeral. Even if it's a brand new white cap. With a poppy jabbed in the middle on the front. Even if you 'have a cold'.

6) The cousins cenobyte *does* have have not become any less weird. Truly weird.

Also, and this is something I knew before, I love my hair. I think it's getting to the stage where I need to learn more science and wander around in a lab coat ALL THE TIME:

Labels: Intrigue, scandal

I'm off to Toon Town for a display for the weekend. With a brief stop at my uncle's funeral ("and remember," Eric Idle once said, "the root word in 'funeral'...is FUN!") and interment on the way.

Which is to say, you won't see a lot of posts this weekend, but I'll be thinking of you.

And attempting to figure out how to post photos and text from my PHONE.

It's the way of the future, man. The way of the future.

Labels: the way of the future

Is it a full moon tonight? Seriously. I had a Sexy Dream about


(wait for it)


Brad Wall.

If you're not familiar with the man, he's the Premier of Saskatchewan. Uh, and he's kind of cute, I guess, in a Casey and Finnegan kind of way. And in my dream, he was the Brad Wall of about 15 years ago. But still. BRAD WALL???

Geez louise.

Labels: Sex dreams about Brad Wall

AAANNNNDDD...

cenobyte, in her infinite wisdom and with quicksilver brainy...uh...stuff...has also figured out how to change the bookmark icon.

Because she cocks.

That is all.

Hey there.

So, here's the deal. The centre of the universe was getting a little chuffed about some of the finicky finickyness about the former bournalling software it was using. So it changed. Relatively painless transformation, other than having to redo the templates. So there's a *slightly* new look, and more features. Like feeds. That work.

That means that you can have the centre of the universe broadcasting *right to your front door*, essentially, which is kind of cool, methinks. You can also access the centre of the universe, I hear, from your handheld devices...ummm...not *that* handheld device. Oh God. Not THAT handheld device...Geez you guys. Sickos. Your PHONES, people. Your PHONES and fancy ting-ringlers.

The whole deal makes cenobyte a *little* sad, in that the software she was using was like an old boyfriend. Or an old shoe. Or an old boyfriend's old shoes. Or something. But it's just got to the point where the features cenobyte wants in a bournal are too bothersome to ...well... to bother with coding and fiddling and all that jazz.

I think the archives from the former bournal will be available at some point, but I haven't farted around with that yet, and even if they are, you won't be able to post comments on them, so, uh. Sorry about that. It was probably the biggest thing holding me back - what to do with the, what, six years of archives? Seven? Guh.

Anyhow. Give the site a new test drive and let me know what you think. Oh. And it's probably a good idea to update any feeds you may currently be subscribed to. The link remains the same, however. Because I'm brilliant.

Labels: fantublers, ting-ringlers, vibrators

Apologies for that.
There were...aahhh...problems. With my server. The issue is being rectified. With my finding a new host.

Anyhow, I've made a number of attempts at posting things this weekend. One per day, in fact. Saturday was my telling of the very cool dream I had that involved the radio station, the radio station's general manager, a computer system that went FUBAR, and the mayor of Regina. And a very witty post it was, but since I have now had to enter it no fewer than three times, and the file in which I wrote it appears to have gone AWOL, that's all you get.

Sunday, I was attempting to bitch about the situation with my bournal being unupdatable. I was attempting to do that manually. No dice. Also, The Captain's hockey game, or, In Which The Captain's Team Smears The Other Team.

Monday, I was going to tell you the story of the visit I'd had from my mother, the destruction and rage it caused, and why that was important. Also, the woman who went to the warehouse-under-construction to get a story for her paper, and who met another woman there, who was working, and how they ended up being lovers. And the fact that it was a dream-story in the style of Saskatchewan author Bonnie Dunlop, whose work I love.

Yesterday was Remembrance Day, and I was going to tell you a story about my granddad.

And now, it's past midnight, and so is technically Wednesday, and I have nothing to tell you but that the bournal has been down but now, she is fix-ed.

Sorry for the confustication.

Labels: porblems