If you’re coming in on this rant for the first time, here’s the starting post.

Regina Lynn, writer for digital lifestyles/relationships over at Wired.com has this to say about the whole Cult of the White Wire:

…those who choose to shield themselves from strangers in public may very well be devoted to their connections in private.

snip

I value the e-mail I get from readers who disagree with my columns. I don’t particularly enjoy being called a slut or accused of derangement, but a well-reasoned dissent helps me develop a deeper understanding of the topic at hand. The day I refuse to read anything but my own opinion reflected back is the day I should stop writing this column.

snip

I would rather distance myself from the world at large in favor of connecting more closely with my loved ones. If using my iPod and ignoring street artists, rooftop gardens, mural art, European tourists and all the other wonders of urban life help me get home to my partner in a good mood, I’m going to make sure I keep the batteries charged.

Regina has said what I was trying to say about Mr Sullivan’s fear and loathing of technology, succinctly. If I miss the subtle nuances of social interaction while on public transit because I’m digitally distracted, what does it matter? I certainly won’t be trying to talk to Sharkboy while wearing my iPod or while engaging guests at a party.

And with that, I feel this futile experiment has been a waste of good ‘Pod-time and the plugs are back firmly in my ears. But, I am charging my Newton 130 right now to take notes on the subway.

Shock blonde is so 1997.

Over at the Institute of Official Cheer, James has posted a running commentary of Big Little books. The first book he reviews is Major Matt Mason’s Moon Mission. I HAVE THIS BOOK! Funny how the whole “eating algae cakes on the moon while bunnies ruin your crops” thing didnt phase me one bit as a kid.

Go and read. Its packed with cubicle gufawing goodness.

Havent had many Shop-it-Amazon links lately in the Referers, thankfully. I think they got the hint.

But now a new threat is showing up. Moniker-com is a site promoting wholesale domain listing that seems to allow link farming. Or at least they seem to have no control over the link farming that their clients seem to be doing like out of control children on Xmas day. Yet Moniker provides mass domain name registration for their clients and assist (for a price) with site promotion. (sarcasm) I wonder how they do it?(/sarcasm)

This whole thing makes me think that they’re buying up Euro-domains so that it looks like the “culprits” are outside the CAN SPAM reach of prosecution. The domain shut down page (crescentarian.net – cut n paste kids, its banned on this blog now) is as poorly written as Kevin Smith’s last movie and doesn’t sound like someone from Pompano Beach, Florida wrote it. (dont fill out the form on that page, I think I smell email trap)

Then again, maybe Pompano Beach, Floridians actually talk like that.

Regardless, its getting annoying. Soon I will be sending an email. You betcha!

To Whom It May Concern At Your Faceless Corporation, Amazon dot com,

Every other day I put a variant URL of “shop it here.com” in my blocker and every other day a new URL shows up, redirecting back to your site.

You’re a big money making website, getting your little spiders to put your link on private blogs in hopes to drum up business. I’m just a little guy with about 800 visits a month. I pay for my hosting and URL out of my own pocket, I get measly traffic from friends and family and take pride in knowing that whoever visits my site is not bothered by ads. I have tried to stop you but you’re pretty insistant in displaying your link on my small site, so if you want it there, you better be prepared to pay for it.

Whom should I address my invoice to?

Waiting for your prompt reply.

Dead Robot

PS: It took me forever just to find a simple “general comments” form on your site. Getting in contact with your company was like wandering onto the set of Brazil. Your inability to easily accept inquiries makes me think you have something to hide…? A cyberfriend directed me to this number: 1 800 201 7575 I haven’t tried it, yet, as that I suspect its for the US only.

I generally dont like to post news articles but this made me laugh out loud:

Replying to a question posted on the site about how difficult flight attendant training can be, she wrote: “It is challenging if you think memorizing city codes and airline regulations and struggling into a slippery life raft from a swimming pool with everybody in your class looking at your butt and your flailing legs sounds daunting. Oh, and all the meanwhile you have to keep your hair and makeup perfect.”

I encountered similar hardship with this blog in the past. Careful what you write. The web has teeth and is sniffing your butt.

I totally screwed up my linkblog on the left. It will come back this week kids, with fantastic new places to leave this blog for.

Promise.

Not again!(scroll down to “Drama”, Mamma) My UK brother said that Mum is going to have to get a larger piano if he wins (currently there’s a 14×17 photo of my bro at his first award ceremony, shaking the living daylights out of Adrienne Clarkson’s hand).

Actually, I am very proud of him. I have not seen this play of his yet but I did hear that the mother character is rather loosely based on our Mum as she survived summers at the same cottage mentioned below…

I wonder if I could be nominated for a Webby?

I would like to direct you to this blog: Joe. My. God. Read it. Its all that I wish I was as a blogger. Sometimes maudlin, always funny. And he’s a sexy motherfucker too.

Okay…other stuff:

Im in “Out on the Street” looking for my new fave lube, standing in front of the display not seeing the phallic bottle, vaugely embarassed yet determined. This lube is good, folks. If it allows a dork up my shoot then its worth standing there in front of the lube display having 50s housewife shopping anxiety. Out of nowhere an arm shoots past me. Time halts like a slap in the face:

The arm is sleeveless up to mid-forearm. The forearm has rivets of muscles under the skin, shooting out of the shirtsleeve. Its covered in a light brown hair. The hair trails down to just above the wrist. The hands are wide. Meaty. Fingers are hairy to the first digit. The nails are intact. My eyes travel up the arm…

Hello.

Eye contact. Time starts normal again. Actually time seems to speed up like a bastard since it took a few moments off.

He’s grabbed the lube Im looking for.

Holy. Shit.

Porno scenarios are playing out in my mind with fractal clarity. I grab the lube and make my way to the counter. He’s signing his credit card reciept by that time and his stroke is firm and short.

I smile. I put my lube down on the counter as the clerk bags Mr Nice Forearms’ lube. I am smiling like a dork. Both clerk and Mr Nice Forearms look at me. Smiling like a dork.

“Cant keep this stuff on the shelf!” I offer. Like a dork.

Shoot me.