Andy stopped by sunny California for a couple days this weekend, and as
usual, it was a lot of fun. One of the unholier byproducts of our reunion
was this little
ditty (3:14, 2657Kb),
providing further evidence of our quirky yet lovable obsession
with farms with dinosaurs.
The single-take, off-the-tops-of-our-heads approach to musical composition
never goes out of style.
My website now has an
I'm not sure why I didn't do it sooner, since I've long been aware that
nobody wants to trudge through blawg to find out about site updates.
So now, blawg can focus exclusively on the sort of whining self-deprecation
that makes my personality so charming, with a separate room for exhibiting
the additions and changes to the website content.
Deletions, on the other hand, will most likely go unlogged. I sometimes
think of my site as the web equivalent of "newspeak", to use an Orwellian
metaphor. Most websites accumulate content over time, or at least
stagnate with a constant amount. My content is actually decreasing.
Every time I take the tour, I find more and more bits that I'm embarrassed
about or are no longer appropriate, and remove them from the site.
The act of deletion is itself a bit strange, because I have somehow
adopted this mentality that once something is removed from the site, it
immediately ceases to ever have existed, and is automatically erased from
the memories of all who have seen it. That is, once I take down something
embarrassing, I need no longer be embarrassed by it because no one will ever know about it. Not even those who already know about it.
I think that this delusion is somewhat a consequence of the internet's
instant-virtual-publication paradigm. Back in the day, once you published
something, it was published for good. You handed your draft to the press,
it wound through the bindery, warehouse, bookstore, and eventually ended
up sitting on bookshelves scattered throughout the world. And if you
later noticed a particular sentence or chapter that could use some
reworking, well, there wasn't a thing you could do about it. Nowadays,
you simply save a file to some server's hard drive and, wham, it's
published! If you don't like something about it, you pull it into emacs,
fiddle with it, save it again, and wham, it's revised! And not only that,
the original version no longer even exists. A single keystroke
instantly propagates to every virtual bookshelf in the world. History is
The point is, sometimes I get so caught up in this way of thinking that I
forget that original does indeed still exist -- in people's memories. The
world is not completely Orwellian, after all. The impressions that people
have of me will remain, even after their stimuli have been deleted.
This comes into play whenever I am seized by the overwhelming desire to
tear down this entire site, which is fairly often. It will occur to me
that my egotistical, pretentious monument to some hacked circuitry and hack
writing doesn't really represent who I am at all, and a simple "rm -rf
www/data" would save myself from all sorts of embarrassment, or at least
misrepresentation. But I don't do this, because... what effect would it
have? I can't change the impressions of those who have already seen all
this. The original still exists in memory. And as for the visitors
to come... well, it's better than being nothing. In this way,
I come to my senses, and the website lives on.
Anyway, despite all of these deep internal struggles, I imagine it's more
of a "tree falling in a forest" kind of situation than anything
else. I am occasionally reminded otherwise (and this never fails to
surprise and delight me), but I usually operate under the assumption that
this website is evaluated in a void context, as a Perl programmer might
say. Which is unfortunate, since this site really is nothing more than
a desperate cry for attention. I guess I'm just not crying loud enough.
Perhaps I would get all the traffic I crave if I provided some sort of
useful service. I dunno.
Sometimes it feels like my entire life is being evaluated in void context.
Okay, that's enough. Go creep
or something. There are other people around here who want attention, too.