Delightful things.
I’ve been a crab lately. I have, it’s true. Admit it. You didn’t want to say anything, but when I was out of sight you’d roll your eyes (lovingly, perhaps, but they would roll); out of earshot, and you’d sigh concernedly. (How expressive it can be: the sigh.)
But enough of all that! Enough of Ann Coulter and WorldCom and the appalling stupidity of Bush and co. Enough of disingenuous attempts to distract us by carping shrilly against judgments we all know are right (if rather touchingly petty in the bigger picture). Enough of worrying about the Mouse, for once. Or its cohorts and fellow-travelers. —Begone, the lot of you! Piss off! I want to be delighted.
And so: Dean Allen. For this, yes; a self-indulgent comic gem. But also because he pointed me to this.
Utah Phillips. Because even though my dad says Dick Cheney’s the right man for the job, I know Utah would still hit him right where it counts.
Stupid CSS tricks. —Also, stupidly glorious mathematical stunts I haven’t a hope in hell of ever understanding, but can just about manage to stand in stunned awe of.
Angela Carter. (How the hell did I manage to get this far without reading her?)
The Museum of Jurassic Technology, which is worth braving LA traffic for. Seriously. It is. You won’t believe me, you’ll be sitting there, stop-and-go, bullets of sunlight ricocheting off the chrome and glass all around you, cursing my name, you’ll pull off the highway and find the street corner and maybe five minutes later after parking and walking back you’ll stand in front of that unassuming little storefront and you’ll scoff, yeah, right, no fuckin’ way, Kip, you’re off your knob, but you’re there, you might as well go in, you’ve come all this way, so you punch the buzzer with an annoyed finger and then the door opens and in you step to the coolth of it and the darkness and—oh, oh my God—
The look on Jenn’s face, yesterday, when she showed me her first fan mail for title= Dicebox ::”>Dicebox, which is having some nice things said about it, here, and here, and over here. She’d told Chris it was okay to link to her, because he had before, and then there was this whole domain name fuckup (that, astonishingly enough, did not involve Verisign), and so to make sure people could find her again, she told him he could link again. (She’s been quite chary with the whole linking and promoting thing so far. “I want to have a full chapter done,” she says. “It can wait.” Maddening, perhaps, to impatient husbands like me, but it’s her call.) —Thing is, Scott McCloud saw Chris had linked to it, and so he assumed it was okay to let loose the hounds of hype. And even though Jenn says “He shouldn’t have done it! He was supposed to wait till I was ready!” she’s grinning like mad and she’s—I swear on anything you hold holy, a Bible, a Crowley biography, the Ifa oracle, whatever—she’s glowing. Little sparkles of light crackling off her. She got her first piece of unsolicited fanmail, you see…
—And while we’re on the subject of Scott McCloud, I’m also finding it inordinately amusing to say: “A search engine stole my eyeball!”
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