If you see just one meaningless short video this year, make it this one.
In attempts to censor profanity on the Internet, the first try is almost always with search and replace, or as smart people call it “regular expressions.”
The Daily WTF today reminded us all of the result.
This clbuttic howler is easy to find now with Google. There’s a world full of blue-glbutt banjo, paranoid theories about buttbuttination from the grbutty knoll and systematic chemical mbuttacre, and Big Mouth Billy Bbutt.
It reminds me of the possibly apocryphal news story in which the suspect fled in a late model African-American Dodge sedan.
I was dragged out of my Fünke by John & Elan this evening. We consumed maragar tit ass and coffee, and cased a fancy B&B, and then harassed Nick at the Barnes & Noble. I was Media Bastard and demanded to know why they had neither the new Mountain Goats CD nor the DVD of the real version of The Wicker Man. He could only shrug, sadly, like a Beirut cab driver.
The B&B around the corner from 21 Ocean Front in McFadden square is odd in a European way. There are pictures outside of the rooms, only four or five of them in total. The entrance is a tiny box of a room with only an elevator and a telephone. There’s something you must do to get in, but it’s Myst. Anyway his friend wasn’t working there that night.
Great horror movie fog & moon out tonight. The Mexican restaurant was acceptable for its type but full of Americans.
We’re supposed to get a good slosh of rain and HIGH SEAS OF DANGER this weekend. Who wants to go down to the jetty and get swept off and down into a terrible fate?
I have no means to myself express how my brain feels right now, so I’m going to let my friend Karl-Heinz Stockhausen speak for me. With helicopters, a string quartet, and ululating.
And so to bed, at 5 am! Exit stage right pursued by bees.
1981 New Wave, otherwise known as My Glorious Teenaged Years:
The old “music industry” in the United States is dead. This has been clear for a decade now. Parts of it fall off occasionally, e.g., the entire retail store establishment. Those in charge cannot acknowledge that things have fundamentally changed to their disadvantage. Instead they’re driven into ridiculous extremes: suing children, crippling computers and their own CDs and DVDs, attempting to dock the tuition accounts of college students, and buying risible legislation.
They have no choice. The music industry distributes its product via trucks through warehouses, and there is cash involved. Therefore they are in part controlled by organized crime. In the golden years of the 70s and 80s, so-called “cutout” or remaindered discount records were a cash equivalent, and everyone had some good times with the resulting piles of $50’s. Lew Wasserman helped out his old buddy Ronald Reagan with slush money, and later there was a polite to-do about the Mafia and MCA.
Now imagine the reaction of the wise guys to the elimination of trucking and cash, the elimination of warehouses, and the elimination of networks of middlemen. The made man in the corner office isn’t happy.
It’s clear we need to get these guys out of the picture. They’re trying to make money off something dead, and they aren’t going to let it go. But they’re armed, and wealthy, and very good at using legislation and muscle to keep a good thing going. What to do?
Another problem has been getting worse the last ten years: spam. Annoying email, most of it for illegal or fraudulent businesses, is gumming up the works badly. The spammers are winning the arms race, too: it gets harder and harder to filter their crap without losing legitimate communication. Worst of all, it can’t be legislated out of existence because it originates offshore and is transmitted by zombie armies of compromised computers controlled by crafty Russians. So now we have another organized crime problem: the damn Russians won’t stop spamming us and we can’t do a thing about it.
I propose that we solve both problems simultaneously.
A mission of music executives, internet portal and technology managers, and suitably anonymous government figures will be sent to a Godfather-like summit with the Russian mob’s top leaders. And we will say this to them:
“We know you’re businessmen. And we respect that. We’re businessmen too. And we have a problem for us that’s an opportunity for you. If you want to come in and wipe out the guys who are holding back our music industry, the business is yours. Clearly you know how to sell on the Internet, and how to sell music for that matter. You’re digitally sophisticated and you know how to get paid without trucks and wads of cash. Come on in and enjoy, and we’ll overlook the crime wave as you whack all these bastards.
“In return we ask only one thing: stop the spam. It’s bad for business for us, and it can’t be a long-term business for you either. Technology changes, you know that. If you walk away from spam we’ll hand you the key to digital music, and that’s not going away. Deal?”
The result in my utopia would be a short, exciting series of gangland murders, followed by the emergence of slightly too expensive but totally functional music download services. And spam will go to about 5% what it is now; the government and tech people can take credit for this.
I for one am willing to pay 10% more on my music downloads for this deal.
So my shoulder hurts, and I went to the doctor. And we tried a couple things and they didn’t work. So he sent me to the MAN! Super-neurologist. Pain specialist. That guy was indeed a skilled and professional physician. He tried a very special thing and it didn’t work.
So then the MAN said that there was a higher, more esoteric, almost hermetic knowledge held by one whose feet he was not worthy to clean, and sent me to him, with the warning “it can take a while.” Since the MAN himself was hard to see, I was full of the fear of this sage’s appointment queue, and today I nerved myself up to call.
September 22. (Forty years in the desert.) I made the appointment. I also made a “start over” appointment with my humble yet proficient physician, and let the MAN know how high the peak and how covered in mist, and the terrible length of the journey.
My brother told me to get tested for the autoimmune problem that has made his life hell. Hey, why not?
I’m still a little upset that the nature of my ailment makes mall shooting sprees difficult. I could shoot lefty but I hate brass in my teeth, and I can’t even use a machete too well without my right hand. I guess I’ll have to go amok slapping people, or kicking them like the Black Night in Holy Grail.. Suck.
There is no force, however great
To pull a wire, however fine
Into a horizontal line
That shall be absolutely straight
Stone walls do not a prism make
They’re better made of glass
If you had studied Science
You would not be such an ass
— My father