Subterranean Beefworks

Bang the side of it

Disappointing and exciting at the same time, I lost a 19x19 game of go tonight. Disappointing, because I lost. But exciting because I didn't lose by much. Had I played the endgame a little differently, I would've won by a respectable margin, which is something I never envisoned myself doing.

The other guy definitely felt stronger, but I developed a little better so I had a huge swath of territory at the bottom. He had the top, left side, and lower right corner, while I controled most of the rest. The important thing is that I actually played a game to completion and didn't feel completely lost the whole time.

I'm glad I don't pay attention to the weather forecast. It means that sometimes I can look out the window at night to see everything suddenly covered in snow, probably one of the best simple things I enjoy. Right now, hordes of tiny, flimsey snowflakes are making it look like nature is getting bad reception. With any luck, they won't have the problem sorted out until tomorrow afternoon. Maybe then we can have some actual accumulation.

The only reason I ever listen to Megadeth is because it is such a departure from all the other music I have. I listen to my favorite things so much, that it feels good to listen to something that isn't incredible at all. That way, when I go back to what I like, I like it even more. Megadeth is inoffensive, normal, rock music. It's like a sandwich. Just some bread, some deli meat, some condiments. It's always okay, sometimes approaching delicious. But never something you'd want to subsist on.

Bowie Song

I use Mt-Blacklist to keep comment spam off this site. It works beautifully. In fact, it has never missed a single message, nor has it made any false-positives. However, there is one very annoying problem with it (which the creator insists is not a problem, but a development choice). That problem, and it most definitely is a problem, is that it cannot deny comments on old entries (which is where the vast majority of spam lands). The creator insists that to add old-entry blocking is "dangerous," that it is important to keep comments open, just in case someone is inspired to comment to September 21st 2003's "Quadruple Dose."

Instead of denying the commment attempt, it is "moderated" which means I get to be notified every time someone wants to sell me penis pills. Then I have to manually delete the offending comment, which is the very thing I wanted Mt-Blacklist to do instead of me. Although the spam never actually makes to my site, it still makes me feel like the spammers won. I still saw their unsolicited bullshit, and I still had to take my time to get rid of it. They still won.

But today, I solved that problem. I upgraded from BerkelyDB to an SQL database, which means that I am now able to use Conversation Killer, the final piece of the puzzle. Now, comments older than 20 days will be closed, and 99% of spam will never make it to my site.

This fills me with an unreasonable amount of joy. I am fucking ecstatic, man. I am so thrilled that I can't even kljsdhfkadhsflhaf...sdfhlaksjdfh oh god it's awesome.

Spammers, I hope you can see this, because I'm doing it as hard as I possibly can.

Sweet love of mine

I begin this entry by saying I had some spectacular dreams last night. They were the last in a series of wonderful things that Sunday presented to me, making it one of the best Sundays in a long time. Most of the day was spent in somatically noticable acuteness, as I made the conscious decision to get some things done. Mundane tasks as they are, doing a wardrobe's worth of laundry and thoroughly cleaning my room set the stage for a really productive evening. With my world organized, I set about digesting two tutorials on socket programming for network security and preparing myself for this morning's German exam (which I defeated categorically). All this before climbing into bed at the comparitively reasonable hour of 2am.

My writing sounds robotic because I just got through entirely too much critical reading of Alfred Hitchhock.

Sleep came fast and was deeply enjoyable.

In the morning, the first dream I remember was one in which two girls, one older and one closer to my age, were hanging around my sleeping self. The details have since faded, but the one girl had a crush on me and was being collectedly giddy while she watched me sleep. At one point, I dreamt that they stirred me awake but I was still pretending to be asleep. They noticed that my hand had closed slightly and had assumed that I was on the way to waking up (physically, I was). The girl who liked me said to her friend, "Need anything from his wallet? It's under his pillow." She reached under my pillow left a note before the both of them left. In my dream, I woke up and read a little note that said "You're cute when you sleep." It was like a valentine. I actually woke up, looked at the clock, and saw that I had some more time to sleep.

The next dream was really awesome. It took place on the lawn outside the arts library on campus, the entire student body crowded onto it and the surrounding area--some event that made me happy knowing it brought the whole campus together where people don't normally assemble.

There's a lot of jumpiness from here on. I was given the task of replacing the wires in a BMW's dashboard, and later of filming a movie. The most interesting part about this was that at some point, I was working on the movie's soundtrack, listening as a female vocalist sang my arrangement of Guns and Roses' "Sweet Child 'o Mine," complete with musical dynamics and vibrato. The tune sounded like a lullabye. Operetic is a word I could use, but only because I don't know the word for when a woman just sings expressively. The tempo was slower, and she sang very tenderly, soothingly even. It sounded really beautiful, and somehow really plausible. I had to listen to the actual version as soon as I woke up. I really like that song now.

Here's to another good night's sleep.

Thanks

I also want to say thanks to the well-wishers who left comments to the interview post. You guys rule

Service with a smile

Commercialism hits two different nerves for me. I had time to think about this when I was in the city a few days ago.

Firstly, as an American, I see artifacts of commercialism as reminders that I'm home. When I look at a colorful sign, written in English, appealing to my consumer-whore American sensibilities, it reminds me that I'm where I am most comfortable culturally. That's a nice feeling. Conversely, the biggest mind-fuck during the aftermath of 9/11 was that all the things Americans love to do were stifled. Baseball games were cancelled, movie theaters became "potential targets," and most importantly, advertising was suddenly a lot more tame and sensitive. Nobody was in the mood to respond to explosions, boobs, or toilet humor. Moreover, as an entire nation of eyes were glued to the TV, advertising agencies seemed to turn a blind eye to what was surely a huge penetration opportunity. Ironically, it seemed Americans were suddenly unwilling to be American, for what is more "us" than our daily bombardment of burger, beer, and babe commercials? What is more "us" than those impulse decisions to buy that new chewing gum, featured last night as a sponsor of Survivor and now strategically placed next to us at the checkout line?

This change in mentality, temporary as it was, goes to show how significant certain things are to the definition of "American." When things are normal, we are pelted with gleeful adverts that somehow manage to convince us to buy shit we don't need. And we subconsciously love it.

Personally, I hate advertising. I hate having my interests targetted, I hate being offered things I have no use for, and I hate the thought of somebody else thinking they know what I need. But what it comes down to is that the rubbish strewn about our world and our experience is why we call America "home." Companies spend millions of dollars trying to think of ways to get me to buy shit I never intend to buy, and they never realize that no matter how many times I see an AOL logo or some celebrity's airbrushed cleavage, they'll never win me over. Their efforts infuriate me, but I love it. It's what I know. It makes me an American.

The other nerve that commercialism hits is a sensitive one. It's the same one that gets set off when someone tells me how I should drive, that gay people are evil, or that President Bush knows what he's doing. In fewer words, commercialism makes me want to smash shit.

Case in point: Starbucks. In New York I used the bathroom in a Starbucks to change my shoes and straighten myself up before heading to the interview. Before leaving, I naively decided to buy some mints.

It is an absolute travesty that companies are able to rob people as they do. I paid about $2.00 for a tin of mints that could not have cost more than 20 cents to make, pack, and ship. Highway robbery aside, there's more that pissed me off. Starbucks, in their infinite wisdom, designed the tin with the cosmopolitan in mind. That is, this item was only meant to be purchased, not actually consumed. For one thing, the tin was impossible to open. I had to dig my nail under the lip of the lid and use such force that when the thing finally opened, it caused my thumb to scrape against the sharp decorative plastic and gouge out a scoop of flesh. Their fucking product spilled my blood.

Once the blasted thing was open, I noticed that the plastic piece with my skin on it was actually the rest of the tin. It completely sealed the containter, save for a small oval opening. It was pleasing to the eye but of no use if you actually wanted to get at the mints. The hole was probably included as an afterthought. A little shaking, and a little work, and I finally got a mint into my hand and into my mouth. But I'll be god-damned if it wasn't the worst mint I'd ever had. The taste was a vague and impolite nod in the direction of something minty, dominated by notes of saccarine and chemical esters that left a cold, bitter film on my tongue.

About two bucks for a cut on my thumb and a chalky white ovule that ruined the taste in my mouth. Pissed, I threw the damn thing in the garbage.

Commercialism makes me glad I can go into a stylish coffee shop and buy some mints if I need them. My senses are instinctively impressed by the design of the shop and the cool packaging of my desired mints. After all, such things are engineered to please me. However, I now look down at the scab on my thumb and become angry; angry that a huge corporation caused me to physically bleed, angry that I bought a terrible product, and angry that I am such a total sucker and they know I always will be.

Lot of famous places in NYC

For some reason I felt that splurging out a few entries in quick succession afforded me a few days during which I didn't have to write to keep people interested. I was probably a little too quick to make that judgement, so here's a little more.

I have no news.

Wait, yes I do. I had an interview on Tuesday for the Congress-Bundestag Youth Exchange program. It's an exchange program organized by the American and German governments that gives people the opportunity to live, learn, and work in Germany for a year (or the US, if you're a Deutsche). They seemed to be impressed enough by my application that they called me in to New York City so they could meet with me one-on-three to see if I really cut the mustard.

That's where I spent my Tuesday. I was to be interviewed at 2PM until roughly 5PM by three representatives of the program, along with a group interview with two other applicants. That morning, I got all fancied up with my fanciness and boarded a commuter's bus into NYC. (incidentally, I would like to mention that Greyhound wanted about $100 to get me to the City, whereas Bieber Tours gave me a flexible ticket for $30 aboard a clean, quiet bus patronised by quietly sleeping professionals. Greyhound would've been a zoo).

I got there a little before 10am on a dullish cloudy day and found myself in the same position I was in Frankfurt, Germany: by myself in the middle of a major city with more than four hours to kill. As before, I decided to explore unfamiliar surroundings while trying to not look vulnerable and lost.

[Flashily dressed black woman]: "Hey mister!"

[Dan, confident in how sure and together he looks]: "Huh? Yeah?"

[Flashy woman]: "You lookin' for the terminal?"

[Dan]: "Oh, no. Just lookin' around."

[Flashy woman]: "Oh, aiight. You looked lost."

[Dan, to himself]: "Wow, I suck."

Regardless, once I knew my way around the Port Authority, I decided to head outside and maybe make some more decisions. I had a hell of a lot of time to kill.

New York City, commercial New York City, isn't scary at all. It's overrun with people of all walks of life enjoying the anonymity of living in one of the largest cities in the world. They pass out pamphlets about repenting, wear whatever the hell they want, jabber with unrelenting belligerence into their phones about stock prices; without shame, they do all the things that would earn them instant ire anywhere else. And they do it loudly.

Regardless, it seemed like a completely normal day in the City. Besides a really ugly nag of a woman screaming her head off at her increasingly annoyed hubby, everything in New York seemed normal and routine. I was a little disappointed.

The interview went pretty well I would say. I reserve judgement since feelings at the end of an interview have no bearing whatsoever on the outcome. But I recall being coherent, concise, and relaxed, in spite of feeling wet sweat on my back every time I shifted in my seat.

So that was that. Really quite simple, much moreso than I had imagined. I hailed a taxi back to the authority, got my bus, and went back home to a shot of nyquil.

We'll see in mid-March.

Diable d'odeur

There lives a demon under this campus. A couple of times a week, it shifts around in its subterranean hovel, stirring up the corona of biblically foul smells that surround it like a terrible brown aura. The scent is thrust upwards through the soil as the demon resituates, defiling the fresh air and unsettling the gastric processes of anyone unfortunate enough to breathe in. Before long, the entire campus is haunted by this nauseous sulfuric cloud. It roams freely and menacingly over the mountain like an untamed plague, permeating even the most stubborn nasal blockage with what seems like almost sentient olfactory malice.

It remains, not without palpable belligergence, for most of the evening before fading. Growing more vague as the hours pass, the ripeness is gradually ushered off by the fresh breeze, lumbering off with it like a sour old curmudgeon escorted by a kindly, though exasperated orderly.

And then it is gone. The demon settles in its cavern under the earth, and with it settle its baleful organic odors. One inhales deeply, savoringly, reminded of the many splendors of wonderful fresh air.

They're gonna kill that poor woman

I'm a little bit put off by where various groups have taken the story of the murder of Nicole duFresne.

With no mention of what I see to be adoption of a story convieniently suited to enflame emotions--a brave, beautiful white woman being murdered by a barbaric black hundmensch--I take issue with how the "National Crime Prevention Council" has taken it upon themselves to do us, the frail vulnerable public, a service by releasing a list of tips to help us survive a mugging.

Firstly, it bugs me that such a 'council' even exists. It angers me that people are so incapable of taking care of themselves that they'll pay attention to this insightful list of tips to keep us alive in the face of a mugging. Anybody spineless enought to turn to this council for survival tips will surely be the type to let their instict guide them through frantic terror anyway. They'll comply with the muggers and have a peaceful transaction.

Secondly, I have my own opinions about the psychology of muggings. Whether they are right or not remains to be seen, but I believe muggers are people who would rather not get charged for murder over 20 bucks and an ATM card they can't use. To show a mugger that you don't give two shits for their little intrusion is to throw them for a complete loop.

Mugger: "Give me your wallet." <brandishes weapon>

Unvictim: "You've got to be kidding me." <remains collected>

Mugger: "No I'm not fucking kidding you, give me your fucking wallet before I kill you." <wields weapon menacingly>

Unvictim: "Listen, I've got nothing for you. Go find someone else to fuck with." <proceeds to steadily move away, though not turning back to attacker(s)>

At this point, the few feet you gain as you leave is enough to give you a good head-start on an escape. The attacker(s) will not be prepared for anything less than complete compliance; it will give them pause, however brief. This hesitation is your ticket out. You can then bolt for safety if you want, preferably around a corner if possible.

This probably goes contrary to our suburban conceptions of what criminals are, that is, soulless beasts incapable of any logical thought. But I don't really subscribe to that conception. I think a person trying to steal wallets is petty enough of a crook that they have some understanding of consequences, and they don't want to be murderers. If you're running fast enough, they're probably going to give up on you. If not, at least you're making them work for their money.

Caveats. I've outlined a very specific situation. You're all alone and one or more people approach you from one direction, and they don't look like they're in the throes of a homicidal frenzy brought on by crack withdrawl. Also, I imagine that if I'm with a woman, I'm not going to fuck around, since petty criminals with weapons seem to feel entitled to sex with anything female.

Besides what I mentioned, these are my honest beliefs about muggings. I am not afraid of being killed by them.
In fact, I think it would be pretty hilarious if I had, in all honestly, like three dollars and change. With a knife at my throat or a gun to my head, I hand over three bucks, a nickle, and a penny.

"Picked a bad night, eh, fellas?"

Die Partei ist die Vorhaut der Arbeiterklasse.

A final verbal purge before I get to bed.

I'm about 33% done with my German -> English translation of the movie Sonnenallee. It's not nearly as gruelling of a task as my last translation effort ("Remarks to Ulrich Lau: Source Studies concerning Land Allocation and Soil Conferment in the Western Zhou Period") which, I realize in hindsight, could well have driven me to join a suicide cult in Oklahoma, were it to be just one more page in length.

"Sonnenallee" belongs to that small collection of memories from my experience in Germany that I'm desperately trying to hold on to. I went over there under the pretext that I would be researching East Germany's metamorphosis from a Communist state to a free market society, and with this in mind, my host father enriched me with all manner of anecdotes and media (himself having grown up in East Germany). One night he pulled out a video projector, a DVD-ready laptop, and tossed on the film while we enjoyed some Öko-Urtrunk.

I thought the film was fucking hilarious, so much so, that now when I fill out those questionaires on dating sites about what I like, I list it among my favorite movies.

I'm taking this German film course now, so I thought it was a good idea to try a translation as part of my independent study. Ideally, my professor will show it in class and people will enjoy it and I'll feel awesome, or at very least, like a person who is in fact in their final semester of a German Language degree.