All posts for the month May, 2006

‘average homeboy’

Published May 30, 2006 by lisaolisa
John Richards’ playlist mailers include a link demonstrating that "the end is near." These links often lead us to, where we find us denny ‘blazin’ hazen. Ouch.
–> ‘average homeboy’
–> john richards


Published May 26, 2006 by lisaolisa
This tool take safe results and dirty results, does some math, and tells you how much of a slut you are. Surprisingly, Bill Gates rates Promiscuity: 22.24%, while personal hottie Ralph Fiennes rates Promiscuity: -40.91%.
–> Slut-o-meter

where user pictures are stored

Published May 26, 2006 by lisaolisa
On Windows XP these pictures are stored in: C:\Documents and Settings\All Users\Application Data\Microsoft\User Account Pictures\Default Pictures
There is also one image – the Guest account icon – stored in the folder one up from that folder: C:\Documents and Settings\All Users\Application Data\Microsoft\User Account Pictures
Each picture is a 48×48 pixel, 24-bit colour bitmap.

whiskered wife

Published May 26, 2006 by lisaolisa
All the good things are worth the wait
but an empty pocket and a burning shoe
make it easier just to clean the slate
and what’s a family but a bill that’s due

how to talk to a new yorker

Published May 21, 2006 by lisaolisa

I’m listening to You Just Don’t Understand: The Sociolinguistics of Everyday Conversation, partly because of the sociology, partly because of the linguistics, and partly because after so many years of trying, I still haven’t melted into the pot of Puget Sound. On a conscious level, I expend much energy doing my best imitation of a Californian. I can hear my self-editing self sounding drunk or retarded most of the time, and see listeners impatiently watch me struggle to express myself through this filter. Invariably the New Yorker goes off, as off-putting and confounding as a percussion grenade in this tea room we call home. Here, I am retarded and inarticulate, except for the times I am explosively unpredictable.

–> PBS: Do You Speak American? New York style
–> That’s Not What I Meant!: How Conversational Style Makes or Breaks Your Relations with Others (abridged and less interesting version)

good day, sunshine

Published May 21, 2006 by lisaolisa

February 10 11:09 PM — In case you have not been looking at the news for, oh, I dunno, ever, it has rained a lot this year. Hills have slid away. Highways have moved. Highways have moved A LOT. But we finally have had a break in the weather. Yesterday was brisk. Today was moderate. And today we had sunshine. Lots and lots of sunshine.

I worked at home today, which meant that Noodle every 45 minutes stood by the door whining, explaining to me that it was much more fun to be outside than inside talking to a box. I took a break in the afternoon around three o’clock, which is the warmest time of the day in the back yard, to clear a pathway for a doggie play date tomorrow. Our arborist came this week and left his handiwork upon the ground, as we asked him to. This means that there are a lot of sticks about that could poke out a puppy eye. Noodle followed me around, waving various toys at me, dropping one to pick up another, until he could wobble no more. Chief dug numerous new pits in the yard so he could piss me off and eat dirt, mysteriously, which he has taken to doing. Perhaps he believes it is easier to eat his way through a hole than to dig it, which is more strain on his arthritic back.

Days like today make me hopeful that spring is coming. Intellectually, I know that spring is coming. The planet rotates, the solar system does whatever I learned in fifth grade, and the seasons change. But in January, which bleeds into February, I have a crisis of confidence. Today I believed that change will come.

I love being outside. Every moment that I am inside I feel like an irriplacable cell of my spirit is dying. In reflecting on the day, I think back to my favorite place to go as a child with a rust-colored Schwinn banana bike with chopper handlebars that my dad put together one Christmas eve and nothing to do until dinnertime. Inevitably, and often for eight or more hours each day, it was Stair Park.

–> Stair Park