spacematic.net

Oh! Will the gods show no mercy on me? I’ve had one hell of a week. As you may or may not know, the website has been undergoing some drastic code and cosmetic changes as of late. I mistakenly thought that I needed some kind of content management front end for features other than the Electro-Journal. I auditioned several PHP content management solutions, only to find them a little too demanding or a little too limiting for my taste.
After much deliberation, I decided that this, the spacematic Digital Electro-Journal should be the front page! Brilliant. Why wasn’t I happy with this solution in the first place? Probably because I got too big for my britches and thought that blogs aren’t really sites, but rather popular components of larger networks of essays, bulletin boards, movie features and on and on. Too big for my britches, indeed! SDEJ is the reason people come to this site in the first place. No need to get all complex and make people search out content in a complex manglement system. The platform I’m using, Movable Type, is plenty powerful enough to deliver the information I need. Not to mention, I’ve dolled up this template somethin’ sexy! So for once, my better judgment kicked in, only to be squished by my stupidity and impatience.
You see, I was in a big hurry to get this over with and remove the current installation from the former “spacematic.net/journal” directory and migrate it over to the domain name; no back-slashes, no “journal” to qualify its existence. All should have gone well. Eh. All didn’t. I ended up losing my entries. I had to go to Google to find cached versions of my pages just so I could copy and paste the text back into Movable Type. As you can see, some entries were saved and some weren’t. With all this woe going around, don’t allow me to mislead you. THIS WAS NOT MOVABLE TYPE’S FAULT. This was a user error issue. This was a dunce-cap moment on a grand scale. The whole class watched as Ms. Dontyaknowbetter grabbed me by the ear and twisted until I rose from out of my seat. They all laughed as I was crowned King of Duns Men and given a corner of the classroom to rule from a stool.
Which brings me to today. I finally got the saved entries back up. My profile page and the Monkeytronic Museum should be back again in short order. The only pain I now feel is a residual sting due to the loss of two very long essays of which I was very proud. I thought today wouldn’t be a day for writing. I thought I would give the Journal a rest. So I opted to brew some tea. After about ten minutes of watching tea brew, I realized that I was bored. So I took Miss Allison out for a walk. That’s her in the picture above.
Watching a small dog walk down a busy street is some real fun. Their responses to people, their apprehension of holes in the sidewalk… just what’s going on in that little head? I know one thing for sure. Pigeons are the enemy. Pigeons must be prevented from flying. Pigeons must die. And so should the four-wheeled pink and blue rolling beasts that capture babies, known to you and me as strollers.
The best thing about Allie is that she’s never met a stranger. She can reliably coax a smile from the face of a passing pedestrian. Those who do not smile obviously prevent the creeping grin consciously, and with great effort. They are the bastards; they live in a world so gray and callous that smiling at a little dog carries the penalty of castration. Brian Warner is watching you Goths, Townies, sundry Poseurs! Let’s just face it, a little dog smiles at you – you can’t help but smile back. It’s not a social faux-pas. It’s not a put-on. I think the reaction is caused somewhere in the amygdala, hard-wired. You can’t do much about it unless you choose to clench your ass cheeks until you’re in dire hemorrhoidal pain. Thankfully those who do this are few, otherwise I would start to feel like a jerk for unleashing the cause of ass-clenching epidemics on the streets of Atlanta. Vampire and Suicide Girl wannabe’s aside, walking with Allie is a hoot and a half. And so when I returned from our walk, I was in a much better mood.
And Viola! A new entry for today. That’s how I leave it for now, folks. More to report later. –mike

I write this post at the risk of sounding old, out-of-touch and a tad back-asswards. But things are moving fast, ladies and gentlemen. The times are a-changin’, and it took a new cellphone to wake me up out of the Stone Age of 2002 and come to the realization that in four years, I missed the tiny steps in-between. These tiny steps are like small towns on a road trip – if you nod off for a nap, you’ll miss the scenery and arrive at your destination with a start. Woah! Here already? Such a thing just recently happened to me, and it led to a benign but annoying case of technological and cultural alienation.
Last weekend, my cellular provider left a cryptic text message on my phone. It stated quite simply, “Your voicemail is changing. Please contact Cingular. “ I did not comply. This cellphone, a Nokia candy bar, has been reliable. It has put up with my abuse for four years and I’ve been very happy with it. I’ve dropped it, I’ve forgotten to charge it, I’ve cursed at it, I’ve carved into its face, I’ve drawn on it, painted it and I’ve thrown it at (okay, toward) a cat. It still works perfectly. Then the weekend came and went – and so did my voicemail.
I hopped in the car and went to the Cingular store to see what the problem was. It seems that the problem wasn’t my phone, it was my account. Even though I’ve been living in Atlanta since 2004, my phone still had a Florida (850) area code. The rep couldn’t help me with my problem. He suggested that I modify my account to reflect local customs and conventions. While I was at it, I decided to get a new phone. This time, I opted for the Motorola Razr V3c. It’s a nifty device. It takes pictures, it plays video, it supports mp3 ringtones… and if you want, you can use it as a phone!
I don’t consider myself technologically naive. In fact, I try to keep an eye on advancement simply out of interest. After all, I grew up with computers. I’ve been smitten with gadgets ever since I first got a TI-99/4A computer and learned to make it say nasty words. That was back in 1983. Since then, I’ve watched the advent of the hard drive, the 3.5″ floppy, optical media, wireless networking and the rapid spread of Dippin’Dots: Ice Cream of the Future. So I’m not naive, but I can’t help myself wanting to say “Scotty, how long until we have the warp engines back online?” when I flip my Razr open. This thing comes straight out of Star Trek. It’s a Star Trek phone, for Godsakes, and it came to us two centuries before its time! But this futuristic gadget even has a leg up on Kirk’s communicator. Kirk couldn’t snap a shot of the rubber-suited monster he was fighting in the California desert. Back in the Sixties, visions of the future were still a somewhat practical, even if unbelievable. Phones were phones, cameras were cameras and never the twain would meet. It seems that the future turned out even stranger than the wild and optimistic visions of our previous generations’ speculative mind-trips. In all their attempts to predict the advancement of technology, the writers of sci-fi never thought of combining devices into bizarre and improbable combinations. They must have thought that in the 23rd Century, man would had evolved beyond entertainment through novelty. Obviously, in the 21st Century, this trait is still hard-wired and going strong.
Not long after I got this new chunk of technological candy, my “harrumphs!” about having a phone that is also a camera were quieted. This little all-in-one device can be a lot of fun – hell, it can even be practical! How many times have I wanted to get even a low-res snapshot of a funny situation, only to remember that I left my camera at home?
I hopped on the Web and started looking for articles that detailed how to get images from the phone to my Mac. It was then that I stumbled upon a review that stated, “The RAZR V3c has a lot of features that please, although to save both battery life and space, this phone has no flash.” I read it again. “This phone has no flash.” I think I pulled a ligament in my brain. What the hell? This is the future? You have to take one star off an otherwise great review because the TELEPHONE you are reviewing doesn’t have an integrated FLASH BULB? I was confused. I was tickled. I started thinking.
What surprises are in store for us in the next four years? I imagined reviews of appliances from the year 2010.

“The Maytag QuietCycle 4400 is a superb front-loading washer, but to maintain its Energy Star rating, the manufacturer opted to produce this particular model in two-wheel drive only. Therefore, Road And Garment has to rate this otherwise spectacular washer a 3.5, a star and a half below the BMW Z-13 Terrain Tumbler.”

In 2010, will BMW also be the Ultimate Washing Machine? –mike

Not too long ago, I said that TiVo makes it possible to enjoy better programming in the same space of time one would normally be watching crap TV. That remains true, but if you haven’t gotten one of these things yet, let me warn you about an illness I’ve encountered: Two-Week TiVo Overdose.
Don’t get me wrong, you need a DVR. But making the adjustment to the new device’s many features and capabilities will turn you into a fool for about two weeks. When I got mine, I dove into the relatively trouble-free setup, spent an hour or two watching TV and promptly went about my business. The first few days, TiVo was just another component in my entertainment system. But then the silly little bugger started finding things for me to watch, and I was unprepared for such altruism. Each time I went to the TiVo Suggestions menu, I was intrigued by the offerings. Shows I never even knew existed were magically waiting for me! I had to watch.
Before I knew it, my normal viewing habits were out the window and I spiraled into an ungodly television binge over a two-week period. I couldn’t move, my eyes were bloodshot, I felt the need to snack almost constantly. Roughly thirty hours a week were spent in this state. TiVo – Damn You! You weaseled your way into my home and hijacked my spare time with countless episodes of “South Park,” “King Of The Hill,” “Flavor Of Love” and “Mail Call.” And those were just a few of the Season Passes I had set up.
What makes the little beast completely irresistible is its ability to seek out new things to record based on your interests. TiVo quickly learned that I like documentaries, so while I caught up on R. Lee Ermey’s hyper-enthusiastic demonstrations of military technology, TiVo simultaneously recorded nature shows, disaster scenarios and biographies. My favorite doc title by far was “When Beaches Attack!” Who could resist a show so fetchingly titled? I simply had to learn about beaches that lurk in the shadows, waiting axiously for the chance to strike out at unsuspecting tourists. In all of my years of visiting beaches, not once have I worried about turning my back on one. The last thing you expect is a beach sneaking up on you, deftly slicing through your achilles tendon, pummelling you into submission and taking your wallet. But wait a second – I have had a beach steal my sunglasses. And my money. But homicide? Not the beaches I know. They’ve always seemed so calm and quiet. Just kinda keep to themselves, ya know? Now I know better.
Toward the middle of my two-weeks of television mayhem, my dog started to whine whenever I picked up the remote control. She was my savior. If not for her constant attempts to pry me away from the idiot box, I probably would have remained there, basking in the warm, lobotomizing cathode-rays. I would have been overcome with the mysterious urge to lean on random watercoolers and recapitulate the latest happenings on “24.” As she helped me recover from my addiction, I realized that there really is a Dog… and she loves me very much.
Now things seem like they’re back to normal, and I’ve been able to temper my viewing habits. I’m back to my old schedule of three hours a day. When used judiciously, TiVo is a brilliant tool. But as is the case with all technology, it must be treated with respect, and maybe even a little suspicion. Dare I continue using the TiVo? Of course I should! The cute little thing would get lonely if I just left it there.
Truly, the marketing of a component as an anthropomorphized “TV friend” who is eager to please was a brilliant move.  As if television weren’t addictive enough already, TiVo has incorporated a Tamagochi-esque animated mascot who magically learns what you like to watch, seeking out programming tailored to your interests and input. Aww, simpwy puh-wesshious! But Allie’s got things under control. She’s ever vigilant, and she’ll be damned if a silver box replaces her as man’s new best friend. –mike

If you’re familiar with spacematic.net’s previous entries, you’ll notice that this is a holdover from the old site. I thought that I’d re-introduce the archives a little bit at a time, only adding the entries that I like best. All such entries will be filed under appropriate ‘current’ categories, but they will also be classified under “Pre-2006 Archives”so you’ll know they’re re-runs.

What happened to the great stadium acts of Rock & Roll? I can count on one hand the bands who still draw a crowd large enough to sell out a bona fide stadium, and do it two days in a row! Let’s see here- The Rolling Stones, Rush, Pink Floyd- I’m sure I’m missing a few somewhere in the woodwork. U2 has the power to fill a stadium-sized crowd, but for some reason or another they’ve opted for a limited arena tour this time around. That’s fine by me, since there’s a better chance of actually being able to see the band when you’re in an arena as opposed to a mammoth outdoor sports venue. The sound is usually a lot better, too.

Unfortunately, one of the bands on my list will probably never reunite for another tour. Pink Floyd was a great act who knew how to entertain the masses. Many fans argue that the light show was always the focus and not the players. I agree to the extent that mere human beings are much smaller than giant inflatable pigs, and they’re slightly less luminous than humongous flowering mirrorballs. The only way a puny mortal could approximate the grandeur of a Floyd show would be if they covered themselves in hyper-reflective ballon mylar, taped lasers to their body, added a gallon of gasoline and struck a match. Then they would have to shoot themselves out of a cannon while being tracked with those giant police searchlights. Still, for the effect to even come close, the whole thing would have to be viewed on the Times Square Jumbotron. That’s the only way one person could ever hope to measure up.
If you were up close to the Floyd and weren’t a musician, you’d probably be disappointed since you wouldn’t be able to see all the pretty pretty lights. Fans claim that the show is best appreciated from a considerable distance. But I was (and still am) a musician and David Gilmour has been one of my idols since childhood. So when my time came to see the Pink Floyd, I tried to get as close as possible. I cared much more about the players than the spectacle. That’s what concert videos are for.
I was lucky enough to attend the Atlanta performance at Bobby Dodd Stadium, The Division Bell tour, 1994. I succeeded in getting eight tickets in the fifth row. God bless Turtle’s Records and Tapes. Their people knew how to freak the Ticketmaster computers right. My girlfriend, six giddy high school seniors and myself were wedged between Georgia Tech students and aging hippies, and we were all having the time of our lives. Throughout the crowd, there was a general consensus that it was quite possibly the last time we would ever see this band perform. Little did anyone know that Gilmour, Waters, Wright and Mason would decide to do a one-time-only reunion for “Live” in 2005. The 2005 London show was pretty cool, but the show I attended in 1994 was everything I hoped it would be and more. They played two sets of both new and classic material, followed by three encores. The second encore, “Wish You Were Here”was probably the largest sing-along I have ever taken part in.
If you put on the right music and drop me in the right situation, I’ll cry like a baby. We all held our lighters aloft, swayed back and forth and sang at the top of our lungs like we were in the world’s biggest pub – a pub with lasers and fog and weed. My girlfriend turned to me and saw tears streaming down my face. Her glee turned to concern. I simply smiled back at her and said “It’s okay.”Still, she was weirded out to see me openly weeping, since I’m usually not a “Kleenex Moment”kinda guy. Just to point out how silly she thought I was, she yelled into my ear, “I’m sorry. Did I miss something? Did he just propose to you?”
I havent’ done anything like that since. At all other rock shows that followed, I simply rocked. I didn’t cry at the KISS show in 1997, nor did I shed a tear over the Smashing Pumpkins. I’ve come pretty close whenever U2 play songs like “Bad”or “Walk On.”
I’m waiting for the next wave of great stadium bands. I fear they’re going extinct. I still like club shows and I appreciate the intimacy of a small venue, but there’s something really special about a stadium crowd enjoying a really big show. It’s little wonder that people who see their favorite band playing to a sold-out crowd often compare the experience to religious ecstacy. We’re social animals, and in the brief span of two hours we get to live the otherwise unattainable social dream in which everyone is gathered in common purpose and agree on at least one thing- the band we’re watching totally rawks. –mike

As is often the case in the realm of sports, victory proves bittersweet once again. Veteran Tetherball great Jeffe deEstado was disqualified in the fifth round of the Suicide Finals, just one step away from his first-ever TetherBowl appearance. But according to fans, “El Jeffe” wasn’t ousted by any fault of his own. An angry crowd of fans protested loudly at the Chevrolet Suburban Driveway Arena on February 23rd as officials called El Jeffe out after the entire anchoring apparatus spontaneously failed.

“El Jeffe had Habersham fair and square.” commented Ellison McManus, an enraged spectator. “Then he pulled out his signature “˜Thunder Wumpus 720,’ and the whole thing just shattered! At first, we were all like “˜Damn! Jeffe gave you the Wumpus, Habersham! Go back to Talmo!’ But then the officials declared that no-talent putz winner by default. That’s just bull$#!%, man.”

The “Thunder Wumpus 720º has been a hotly-debated move in professional Tetherball ever since deEstado debuted the maneuver in 1998, defeating three-time TetherBowl champion Martin Clearwater in the Vancouver Semi-Finals. In that classic match, deEstado cocked his fist in anticipation of the ball’s advance and then punched it squarely in the air-hole. The resultant explosion of the ball, in combination with the player’s brute kinetic force, caused the rope to wind around the post rapidly, with the ball ultimately stopping for a win.

deEstado has only been able to replicate the “Wumpus” during two other matches – once to defeat Arthur Hutchinson in the 2002 Jacksonville Classic, and once more in yesterday’s match against Habersham.

But it wasn’t the “Wumpus” alone that caused the hotly-contested disqualification. An unforeseen structural failure of the tether mount as a result of the “Wumpus” move was the culprit. When questioned on the game call, official Bob Pettinaugh had this to say: “deEstado has always wondered why we watch the Wumpus carefully, and now he knows. We had no choice but to call it as we saw it when the post anchor broke.”

According to the International Tetherball Association’s Guidelines, Rules and Sportsmanship Handbook, any player “that willfully destroys an anchor, post or tether must be disqualified on the charge of subterfuge.” Subterfuge, in the sport of Tetherball, is defined as any activity by a player that prevents either side from successfully scoring.

At a press conference this morning, Pettinaugh continued to defend his judgment and added “The ball never actually hit the post. The sequence of events was clear. deEstado Wumpused the living hell out of that ball, and he knew what the consequences could be. I’m sure this will make any Tetherball athletes in our Association think twice before emulating the dastardly tactics of El Jeffe.”

Although his fans have been vocally abrasive about the turn of events, deEstado seemed to take the loss in stride. When asked about it in a post-game interview, El Jeffe simply said, “Sometime you give the Wumpus, and sometime the Wumpus gets you. That’s just the Wumpus way.”

Willie Habersham of Talmo, Alabama now advances to TetherBowl XXXVII, where he faces Izquierda Enrique Quantum of Cobb Parkway. Quantum is favored by a variable but wide margin. The TetherBowl will not be televised. –mike

Just so I don’t look like a total ass for yesterday’s post, I have chosen to post some WORD FOR WORD excerpts from the iTunes Music Store’s customer review section. These nuggets of wisdom were written for David Gilmour’s newest album, “On An Island.” Enjoy yourselves as I exonerate myself from suspected hyperbole! I do this all in the name of linguistic integrity:

“all of the qualities we love about Gilmours musical genious.”

“A thoughtfull and pasion filled body of work.”

“This is now way a good album defently the worse music of pink sense Umaguma I can definataly see why this is bad because waters isn’t writting the music You’ll probably gana have too beg him after this”

“i deffinatly recomend “On an Island’”

“What would expect from David Gilmour?”

“Wow, this album sounds like David Gilmore or something.”

“David Gilmour is truely one of the greatest artisits”

“A ture master”

It is now clear to me that “definitely” is the single most-misspelled word in all the Web. If all these low-wattage keyboard cretins got together and wrote a Rolling Stone review, it would come out looking something like this:

David Gilmore is in now danger of falling out of favor with his fans, nor is he apt to fade from contemtpoary relevance any time soon. His trademark style and flare for enhanting mellodies comes through on his lastest offering, “On An Island.”
Fans of staight-up Gilmour our bound to hail this album as a ture work of genious, but there is a vocal cramp of Pink Floyd fans who will say that this is defently worse sense Waters had no hand in writting the music.
Gilmour doesn’t just dish out melodies this time. Instead, he exspearmints with them, but what else would expect? He is a ture artisit whose pasion, unencumbered by contributary sacrifice, exploids in anthemic magesty. Lush lead lines accenshuate suttel orcestrail arraignments that sounds like David Gilmour or something. This is deffinatly recomended listing. You’ll probably gana have to beg you’re record store to keep this one in stork.

“Roiling Stome”

God forbid.
If you’re interested in hearing what I have to say about “On An Island,” please keep reading. That is, if you weren’t blinded by the crap I just posted above.

The album begins with “Castellorizon,” a charming, yet obscure play of words on the Greek island of Castellorize and the word horizon. A dark, flanging foghorn-like sound reverberates against a gentle plucking of strings and it is immediately evident that Gilmour is going to craft not a song, but a soundscape. Within the first minute, you have a setting in mind.
Bells, rhythmic pulsing and sweeping orchestral lines all combine in what feels like an ethereal, brief homage to the storied career of Pink Floyd. By the two minute mark, Gilmour introduces himself with trademark bluesy charm. But something seems off-kilter here. “Castellorizon” isn’t so much a song as it is an incoherent passage that attempts to be an appetizer for the experience that ensues. Instead, it makes the listener hope the rest of the album isn’t crafted with similar quirk. On its own, “Castellorizon” merely confuses; but when taken into account with the tracks that follow, it is clear that it performs its duty and then quickly gets out of the way.
After “Catellorizon,” the listener is duely rewarded with standout track “On An Island.” For this first true song, Gilmour enlists the assistance of Dave Crosby and Graham Nash, who mix very well with the guitarist’s delicate vocals. If this song were performed a cappella, it would be a lullaby. Then again, the same can be said for most of the album, except for “Take A Breath” and “This Heaven.” Keep in mind, however, that these two tracks only seem heavy-handed by comparison, capping out at what feels like eighty or so beats-per-minute. Clearly, this album is not for those who want fierce, aggressive rock.
The majority of the work consists of what we’ve come to expect of solo David Gilmour. Most of the tracks are pretty, devoid of the dark tinges that haunt similar offerings by Pink Floyd proper. The maintenance of melodic purity is a distinguishing characteristic of Gilmour’s lone efforts, and some say that such maintenance is indicative of a lack of inspiration. But I believe that Gilmour’s music is very much thought-upon as it is being written. The only criticism I have of such music is that it feels “floaty,” and often devoid of conflict. When the majority of an album’s tracks play out in this fashion, it is almost too easy for many listeners to lose interest.
Of course, I am reviewing this album after only three listenings, and I believe that to pass judgment so early is unfair. There is a lot to like in this album, especially for the deep-cut fans of old Pink Floyd. These listeners will find much to enjoy and compare. That Gilmour can resurrect such sounds in a modern studio environment is a testament to his talents, and those of his engineering and production team.
If I were to be held to any comparisons of “On An Island” to a particular “Pink Floyd sound,” I would say that it feels as if Gilmour picked out the most musical sections of “Alan’s Psychedelic Breakfast” and expanded those vignettes into true songs. If you are a newcomer to Pink Floyd and have either not paid attention to such songs (or if you simply don’t like them), then you may have a hard time understanding why many fans of the band are lauding this album as a triumphant solo effort.
Such praise by old-guard fans is what prompted me snap to this album so quickly. I possess Gilmour’s previous solo albums “About Face” and “David Gilmour,” and never found much there to spark my interest. His first attempt seemed to contain matierial that was deliberately held back from “Animals,” and “About Face” felt like a desperate effort to set himself apart and prove that he had other ideas about style, more than merely what was expected of him with Pink Floyd. Even though neither album held my attention very long, it wasn’t for my lack of really trying to like them. And that’s where “On An Island” marks a departure in the solo career of David Gilmour, at least for me. Yes, the tracks are slow, and to put a visual spin on the sound, it feels more Monet and less Picasso. But that doesn’t mean it’s not inspired. It all comes down to a matter of personal taste. This isn’t music for regular rotation, and it certainly doesn’t belong in your “Wake Up” playlist. It is music for a certain time and place… perhaps when you are on an island, with some time to sit alone, ponder and simply enjoy. For the especially patient and imaginative, consider this album a budget-price ticket to just such place. –mike

Yesterday, Russell over at Banapana wrote an entry on the use and abuse of links. In particular, he’s not all that fond of links that say “click here.” I’ll have to admit that upon reading it, I began to feel a little self-conscious. After all, there are links in my archives and search pages that say “click here to read full entry” or something like that. Plus, the whole damn sentence is linked!
Russ contends that such links are akin to the sticky sludge that spills from the wastewater nozzles at the Department Of Redundancy Deptartment. True as this may be, I believe that there are still many web users who wouldn’t know a link if it reached out of their monitors and clicked ‘em in the ass. This is especially the case with today’s web, where there is no consistency in a link’s visual appearance. Many sites’ links aren’t underlined until a user rolls his or her cursor over them, and things are made worse for the common noob when weasel designers refuse to differentiate their links with a color that contrasts significantly from their body text. If neither of the typical conventions are followed, even I have difficulty knowing whether an author wishes me to click. I could blame designers all the live long day for committing to bad decisions, especially on the basics, but it still remains the responsibility of the user to determine what this whole World Wide Web thing is about anyway. Even the best designers can’t anticipate some morons’ special talents for misinterpreting or misusing a clean and simple interface. There is no fee or test required for using a mouse and keyboard. I am living proof of that.

I trust no one until they give me a clear reason to do so. Therfore, I don’t trust the majority of web users when it comes to using their brains. After reading countless forum posts, comments and “FWD:Fw:fwd:Re:” style emails, people have proven themselves incapable of proper English usage. I know that bad spelling is not the litmust test for intelligence, but it’s not exactly putting your best foot forward, either. How can we expect most web patrons to understand the functionality of a link unless it says “click here?” The concept of the hyperlink is widely understood, but many people are afraid to click unless the very link text itself tells them exactly what to do, followed by an explanation of where it goes. It is the Web equivalent of a real world button upon which is written “press the button to do the thing.” Wait! Scratch that. I wouldn’t press any button that said that. What thing is it referring to? “Press the button to initiate meltdown?” “Activate the hydraulic press?” “Tickle the kitten?” Who knows? Maybe users just need to navigate friendly websites, places where they can trust the author not to lead them into a universe of appliance porn and llama-cuddling fetishists.
I think that a link’s included text should depend greatly upon the expected intelligence level of a given site’s audience. As such, I’m not sure whether a text proxy for a button in and of itself qualifies as some kind of new punctuation. If the humble link is eventually assumed into the diverse languages of the world as punctuation, I hope it’s when all those forum-posting goons approach mastery of their native tongues, or learn to preview and spell-check before posting. Little Bobby Afterschool doesn’t seem to understand that most people who read the forums will never meet him. The manner in which he writes reflects who he is to the world. In fact, that is ALL he will ever be to ninety-nine percent of the people who read “I thank your stuped so stfu!” Sadly, this bad behavior in regard to language is not just the domain of the Bobby Afterschools of the world. It also applies to adults.

Just to prove how difficult it can be to understand a writer’s intent when they pay no heed to spelling or punctuation, I have posted a snippet of text that describes a recent Yanni episode, replacing certain real words with omissions, misspellings and bad grammar that I have actually encountered in the past. Read, if you dare:

He was arrested at hes home Friday after an aleged dumestic dispute with his girlfrend.

Yanni, whose regal name is John Yanni Christopher, denies the allegations.

These allegators are crool, false, without meret and baseles,” said the statemint releesed by his manager. “At a more appropriate time and pace, I hope and pay I will have an oportuntity to adress my fans and colleges all over the world.”

Police say the sinner-pianist asked his grrlfriend, Silvia Barthes, to leav his beachfront home in Manalapan.

She told polece she attempted to pack her clothing, but teh 51-year-old musician assalted her.

Do you see how dangerous improper language usage can be? If one read the article in this condition, they would get the impression that Yanni was arrested for assaulting his girlfriend. Oh, wait! He was! HA HA HA HA. By the way, the original text was taken from the CNN website and fooled around with by me. Not to plagiarize, but to make a point. –mike

Check out the pic above. That’s me at around four or five, which puts the photo in the neighborhood of 1977 or 1978. At that time, my older brothers were still both at home and going to high school. Because of the ten year age difference, I wasn’t so much a little brother as I was a personal monkey. They told me to do stuff and I’d have to oblige. Most of the antics involved dressing in garish costumes or drag, harassing Mom or a combination of the two. My oldest brother’s all-time favorite trick was to get me in a frenzy, send me downstairs with my hands on my head and scream “Mommy! Mommy! He put neatsfoot oil in my hair!!!” This invariably shocked and infuriated my poor mother who is genetically pre-disposed to panic, and she would scream bloody and murderous threats to her eldest child. It always ended with me doubled over in laughter as she pried my hands off my head to see what damage came to me from the topical use of leather protectant. For some reason, the unraveling of a lie was a joy beyond joy for me. When she learned there was no neatsfoot oil in my hair, she’d pop me on the bottom and send me back upstairs while muttering something like “I can’t believe y’all just live to make me cuss. What if the preacher was at the door? He’d think we all lost our religion!” This made me laugh just that much harder. “Get in that room, you little demon! And don’t come out ’til I say it’s time for dinnah.” I liked being at the heart of matters of deception.

When I turned five, my brothers thought I was old enough to be competent in performing more complex pranks. My mom used to drag all three of us to the mall so she could shop without fear of the house catching fire while she was away. The problem with this arrangement was that two teenagers and one five year old were stuck in the ladieswear section of Rich’s, bored out of our minds. So my brothers whispered provocative, Enquirer-style headlines into my ears and made me repeat them back until they were confident I had them memorized. Then they set out into the aisles, where I would tug on ladies’ dresses and begin my performance.

“‘Scuze me, Ma’am.”
“Oh my goodness! Where’s your mother? How can I help you?”
“I gotta tell you sumpin’.”
“Well now, are you lost?”
“Nope.”
The unsuspecting ladies’ eyes always searched around briefly before smiling back and asking, “Well, what’s the matter, then?”
“JIMMY CARTER ‘MOKES POT!”
Then I’d cackle madly and run away in search of my devious brothers. I had no idea what I was saying, but my brothers sure thought it was funny, and making them laugh was an achievement I relished. When my mother found out what was going on from another store patron or from management, she dragged us home and gave us a firm talking to regarding possible penalties that could arise from uttering fallacious statements about the leader of the free world.

Following one of these grievous infractions against the establishment, I was sent to my room where my brothers entered and gave me a can of “Billy Beer,” a product of presidential brother Billy Carter and a magazine article regarding the President himself. They then photographed me for the prankster’s hall of fame. The picture above is enduring proof of such shenanigans.

From then on, my mother knew that as long as the three of us were togther, things at the mall would just get worse. So she started allowing my brothers to stay at home while she continued dragging me to the ladieswear section of Rich’s and Davidson’s. The golden days of prankhood were over, and I was doomed to boredom. Or so I thought.

Back in the day, my brothers had competing interests in music and their rooms were right next to each other. My room looked directly at both their doors. My oldest brother listened to Blue Oyster Cult, Pink Floyd, The Rolling Stones, John Denver, Dan Fogleberg, Asia and Led Zeppelin.

The interests of the younger were more along the lines of Earth, Wind and Fire, Fantastic Voyage, The Village People, Parliament, The Beatles and ELO. The only thing they had in common music-wise was KISS, and even then they’d blare competing tracks. “Detroit Rock City” and “Beth” don’t mix. The cacophonous din that would sail off into the hallway from the two full-volume stereos almost drove me crazy, so I opted for spending time in either room just so I could hear either “Immigrant Song” or “YMCA,” and not have to endure some unbearable ear-shattering hellspawn of both.

The oldest brother loved me no less than the other, but he thought that having me in the room all the time was lame, so I often found myself in the younger brother’s room listening to those damned Village People. Back then, I thought they were super cool. The music was upbeat and lively and all the candy-coated things little kids like happy music for. For my birthday, my brother even gave me a 45 RPM single of “Macho Man.”

One day, not too long after the gifted “Macho Man” single, the elder brother had a frank discussion with the younger. He couldn’t believe his ears. They couldn’t be! The Village People!? They just couldn’t be! He got on the phone with his friends – time and time again, the awful truth was confirmed. The VILLAGE PEOPLE WERE GAY. For a teenager in the mid-to-late 1970’s , such a brand was unacceptable. Why, what would his peers think of him? He had to take action and rid himself of all Village People vinyl and swag.

I’ll never forget the day I came home from preschool, opened my bedroom door and found a veritable Village People wonderland in place of my old zoo posters and stuffed animals. All my brother’s LP’s, 45’s, posters and magazines were plastered on every wall and in every corner of my room. There was even a copy of Rolling Stone featuring the Village People on the pillow of my bed. I had to go thank him immediately. Alas, he was nowhere to be found. So I spun up one of my new acquisitions and started to git down with my bad self. Halfway through the second track, I could hear uproarious laughter on the other side of the door. I tried to open it to see what was the matter, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Hey! What’s the big idea? Whatcha doin?!”
A muffled voice from the other side of the door giggled “Nothin’, man. Just lookin’ through the Village Peep-Hole to see if we can find any VILLAGE PEOPLE!” A new wave of guffaws immediately erupted.
“Lemme out!” I shrieked over the din of “In The Navy.” “Lemme out now or I’m tellin’ Mom!

The door swang wide. The faces of my brother and friend were a hazardous shade of red, their mouths twisted into a confused expression that exhibited characteristics both of glee and agony. Unable to breathe through uncontrollable fits of laughter, they gripped at their ribs tightly, letting go only to ocassionally point at me in amused anguish.
“What you guys laughin’ about?” I asked suspiciously.
“Nothin’. Nothin’, Jonny.” My brother heaved, still red-faced from watching me boogie to the music he had forsaken only a day before.
My brother’s friend then blurted, “Man, don’t you know? Those Village People are totally GAY!” After two or three desparate gasps for air, their laughter resumed. They wailed like mad hyenas in a gas chamber.
“Yeah, so?” I asked.
Try explaining what gay is to a five year old.
The laughs subsided and they attempted once more to embarrass me about the “gay” thing. No luck. I just kept saying “So? So what?”

The source of their raucous glee was fading fast, their twisted smiles gradually faded into thin expressions of frustration. They were struck with embarrassment at the prospect of explaining the birds and the bees, or rather the birds-birds/bees-bees. So they simply left me alone to enjoy my new Village People showcase.

When my older brother found out about it, he had a good laugh too. But when I started to put on a Village People record, he grabbed me, sat me down in his room and made me listen to “2112,” “Animals” and “Destroyer,” back to back to back. Even years later, he felt that his task in attempting to remedy my questioable taste in music wasn’t complete, and he prescribed heavy doses of Billy Idol and Def Leppard. Soon enough, he was off to college, and home was host to just me and my middle brother. He found other bands to enjoy, including Big Country and U2. U2 became our new favorite. One day, as we were listening to October, my brother apologized to me. “Sorry about that Village People thing, Jonny. You know we were just kidding, right?”
“Oh yeah. I’ve been done with them for years, anyway.”
As if to make up for the terrible thing he did, he helped guide me in “proper” musical choices from then on out. Thanks to him, I was one of the only children in elementary school to avoid the craze of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.”

But I’ve got to admit that even today, when I find myself stumbling upon a Village People track on a classics radio station, I leave it there. Without fail, I always see my brother and his friend laughing away at me as I flailed about the room listening to the “gay” band. So what? For all the camp and flair of the Village People’s music and costumes, they remind me of an ideal childhood – when I was a joker in a den of scoundrels during the late 70’s. Boy, what a f&%ked-up Mardi Gras that decade was. Let’s write it off and get back to here and now. –mike