High school students gradumatated today, and congratulations to them. That's the last time I'm going to one of those, though.

Anyway, time to play a little game. Is the initiating party in the conversation below real or a bot of some sort? You be the judge:

Session Start (AIM - CobblerRob:DarkIceChix666): Sat May 25 03:24:40 2002
[03:24] DarkIceChix666: Hi.
[03:25] CobblerRob: hi!
[03:25] DarkIceChix666: HI!
[03:25] DarkIceChix666: What's up sexy man?
[03:25] DarkIceChix666: Haha just kidding.
[03:26] DarkIceChix666: I'm going to sleep, tah tah.
[03:26] CobblerRob: right, then
Session Close (DarkIceChix666): Sat May 25 03:28:49 2002

~

[03:34] <nautone> rather odd, yes.
[03:35] <rmcmahon> I suppose it's telling of where we are as a civilization, though, when it is impossible to tell the difference between a real person and a simple automaton.
[03:35] <]ani> hehe
[03:36] <]ani> i'm having alcohol for breakfast
[03:37] <nautone> my headphones just spat something on me. i'm frightened.

...so I guess it was just that kind of night. Or morning. Pre-day, then. Though for Jani, it would have been early afternoon, because he's in Finland. Right.

More log analysis, which I'll summarize briefly. Alpha, our GoogleRank thing is going up, which is odd because no one really links us. Regardless, the logs are very interesting now, which brings me to my beta, a point I direct to certain visitors only: THERE ARE NO PICTURES OF SUMI DAS NAKED HERE! NONE! CLICK 'BACK' ON YOUR BROWSER AND LOOK IN VAIN ELSEWHERE, YOU DISTURBED FOOL!
I hope this concisely clarifies what the Fish is all about. Disrobed celebrities, no. Douglas Adams books, yes. Which reminds me--Last Chance to See is a really interesting work. It's partly Adams's writing style, and partly the mandate behind the book: to wander the world in search of endangered species on the verge of extinction. Well worth the $10 or so it retails for nowadays.

Went for a walk in the rain a couple of hours ago. Fun, but I made the mistake of walking on a dirt path that wasn't quite dirt and wasn't quite mud. When I returned to paved surfaces, I noticed that a few centimeters of the stuff had accumulated on the bottom of my shoes. This was new to me... but I scraped off the goop, and now my shoes seem to be fine.
Not much to say, except to link the lyrics page so Google will find and index it. I'm employed again, so expect to hear from me a bit less--not that I've been spending too much time behind the terminal lately anyway. It's summer on this side of the earth, though, so I'm a bit less apologetic now...

Oh, if you ever wanted to get in to a certain communal file storage site, here's your chance. Several months have passed since the site was closed to new members, but I would gladly trade $40 for another several months of membership. That's all I should say, though; MeFi linked 'em, and the site's server has been pegged ever since. MetaFilter effect?
Addendum: if you don't want to shell out $40, read this. (Or, I suppose, this, but the first one might get you a login sooner.)

+ + +

More 'Fish log analysis, one: the infamous Brian Bear solvency dump lives up to its billing, apparently. Two: So many Morgan Webb fans! And people desperate to see Sumi Das naked...? Three: finally, this, which I cannot even begin to explain.

Rapidfish has too much free bandwidth. Please drop me a line and ask how you can help eliminate it.

Double post! I have some updates to last pre-day rantings, which I just now pulled off of my Visor; I'm not being productive or especially giving today, just slightly more neurotic than usual.

In regards to that wagon (Wagon, yes! Stagecoach, no!) farce, I drove by on the way to do some banking of my own. I did not stop and gawk, even though the perfect parking spot presented itself; by the time I drove by around 3:30, a crowd of at least twenty tourists and photographers had already appeared. No Allison, though, from what I could see.
Also, these festivities were apparently where half the police force of Rapid City was gathered. Fuckers! About an hour ago, though, at about 2:30 am, about the same quantity of fuzz was accumulated in front of my house. Ambulances, too. Maybe this is one of those emergent properties of complex systems.

Next: in the post before last, I mentioned everyone's favorite bane on society, instant messenging. I also mentioned J______, whom I have never actually talked to online, and whom I have not seen in person for over a year. J______ remains on my contact list, however, solely because her profile is always filled with amusing and insightful comments. Apparently she's back in town, however, because a night or two ago, her tagline read, "I will trade my family for a case of beer and a loaf of sandwich bread." This got me to thinking, so note to self: perhaps trading a case of beer to one's family for a loaf of sandwich bread might be more beneficial for all parties involved.

That's about all for now. Oh, there is one thing--I had a nightmare the other night. The usual routine: being chased, struggling against fate and failing, missing pants. Always the missing pants. And lots of CHS, somehow; apparently, back in the 70's or so SDSM&T ran out of classroom space, so fourth and fifth floors were built onto the high school for some college classrooms, offices for the geology department, and a bowling alley. Pretty much everyone I went to high school with was there, nightmarishly enough, though Steinken was fronting a band in the basement, and I eventually found my pants in a chair next to one of the bowling lanes. Even curiouser, I wasn't the only one who was inexplicably pantsless, for once, so I wonder if it wasn't someone else's nightmare too.
But the last thing that happened--the very last thing I remember before the phone rang--was walking, terrified, into a showing of Star Wars: Episode II full of the scariest, most rabid Star Wars fans I've ever seen. Never before have I been so happy to talk to an accountant.

In closing, reflections on today's referrer logs:
I am not Joan. I know, I know; I wish I were Joan too. But I'm not, and you'll have to deal with it.
I finally got a search hit from someone looking for Benoit Mandelbrot holding a chicken, and I feel really good. I bought this space to provide random crap for Google to index, and Google is finally indexing it. Hooray! Here, have the lyrics to New Slang by the Shins. The alternate video for that song, included on the CD, is eerie as all hell, by the way. I won't share that, though, because I want you to buy the CD! Instead, I will cough up the completely unrelated video for DJ Shadow's You Can't Go Home Again. Please, for your own sake, enjoy.
The Morgan Webb World Domination League and Sewing Circle is already drawing much attention from avid Morgan Webb fans. There are avid Morgan Webb fans. She's on a cable show only available in about thirty million households worldwise. I... have yet to get it, so to speak.
WE HAVE NO JOSH GROBAN SLASH FAN FICTION! GO AWAY!

Well, it's eight in the morning, which translates to about the middle of the night (3:00 AM or thereabouts) to you diurnal folk. Initially, I wasn't going to update for another few days or so. However, staying up this late has a tendency to cloud (or rather, to eliminate) my usual judgement, so here I am, ranting. Ranting why? Because in twenty-four hours, I could find myself in a barn outside of Sioux Falls, a compound near Denver, or a high school in Rapid City, and I'm not sure of where I should go. Hence, I am writing my thoughts down in an effort to ignore the problem for as long as possible and doing such a damned poor job of it, aren't I? At least this time, my sleep-deprived exploits in no way involve random intriguing young people of the opposite gender who have nothing to do with me, and thank God for that.

All right, unrelated business: some bank in town--First National or First Federal or something... first--is holding a parade for itself at 3:00 p.m.. Why? Because they're opening a new branch near a hardware store on a brilliantly nondescript street named 'Eglin' and need the free press. So they're loading a wagon--not a stagecoach, a wagon--up with "gold" and driving it to my side of town. This is tempting, sorely tempting. Were I to stay up for another seven hours and observe the ceremony in my current semi-deranged state, I'm not quite sure what I would do. More than take pictures, I'd wager. It's just so tempting...

I had something else to write about. I know I did... ah, yes. The Salmon of Doubt by Douglas Adams would have been a fantastic book were it ever completed. Unbelievably good. I'm not kidding, just read the draft summary:

Dirk Gently, hired by someone he never meets, to do a job that is never specified, starts following people at random. His investigations lead him to Los Angeles, through the nasal membranes of a rhinoceros, to a distant future dominated by estate agents and heavily armed kangaroos. Jokes, lightly poached fish, and the emergent properties of complex systems form the background to Dirk Gently's most baffling and incomprehensible case.

Most startling is that not only is that bizarre synopsis right on, it leaves out the extensive bits about a half-lost cat and Thor, Norse god of thunder. All the same, I did really like the chapter written from the nostrils of a rhino.

It's about 8:15, and I have an email to write before I go to bed, so!

To your right, you'll see evidence that South Dakota has become warm and habitable again. Note that of those listed, d_____ and N_____ are always on, L_____ isn't real, f_____ and J_____ are both in places that are not here at the moment, the bottom three are all me, and there are an additional thirty-odd contacts in suppressed empty groups. Suppressed empty groups are why I love Trillian, and they're why you'll love it too if you give it a chance.

I was at the mall the other day looking for shoes when I wandered into a newly-remodeled Target. Now, I was already a bit disoriented as a result of all the different Macerich-owned and operated malls in this part of the country. That the Target in Rapid City's mall now looks, from the inside, almost exactly like the Targets in several other cities I frequent only further confounded me, a confounding that completely flattened me when I ran into someone who I had worked with in Iowa. Or rather, someone who looked like someone I had worked with in Iowa. Maybe she thought I looked like someone she had worked with in Montana. It's hard to say. But we both walked out of that store utterly confused, she with some scented shampoo and I with the realization that standardization and traveling do not mix.

As an aside, it turns out that Clear Channel's ancillary services group is doing some marketing work in RC. God help us all. Up until now, Clear Channel has had no penetration on our little side of the state at all--and who would want it? There are probably fewer than 200,000 people living here, and neither CC nor its main competitor, Infinity Broadcasting, own any radio stations within several hundred miles (though on the other side of the state, CC owns most of Aberdeen's radio stations and a couple in Sioux Falls.) But if Clear Channel marketing is here, Clear Channel radio will undoubtedly soon follow, and I doubt it will be too long before the vacuum of culture here is filled with vile, disease-infested dung shipped in from California.

That should fill my weekly rant quota for now. If you've read this far, you must really like... words. And if you really like words, then by all means, click the magic link. You will not regret it.

He's a lounge-singing alcoholic farmboy moving from town to town, helping folk in trouble. She's a chain-smoking communist soap star with a flame-thrower. They fight crime!

May what? Oh, dear Lord.

Internet Connection Sharing using ICS/NAT
Currently, certain extended features of MSN Messenger, such as voice conversations and file transfer, might not work behind Internet Connection Sharing applications and hardware (often called NATs). Basic functionality such as signing in, instant messaging, and checking e-mail should not be affected at all.

Those are the words of dirty, lying bastards at Microsoft to whom vile curses and my modest slanders do no justice. I am indeed behind a box performing Network Address Translation (often called NAT) and I can't connect to their damned network at all. I wouldn't mind, either, if it weren't for the fact that their drones are hell-bent on convincing me that I'm just imagining things.

With that out of the way, hi. I'm done with finals, done with school for a month, and done with Iowa for three. I'm writing this from my room in Rapid City, and realizing now that it doesn't really matter that I can't connect to MSN Messenger because no one is online. Everyone's cramming for finals, I suppose. Ahh, the life of a college student... such a waste, isn't it?
On my last morning in Iowa, however, I realized something. Every morning I wake up, insert my contacts, stagger to the shower, cleanse the night scum, brush my teeth, and cover myself with articles of clothing in a strange ritualistic fashion. The entire time this goes on, I am, in my mind, exploring one and only one line of thought for the twenty or so minute span. Wednesday (or was it Tuesday a month ago? It's so hard to tell) the subject was how String Cheese Incident is really a quite good live band. Before that there was something about how great it is to finally have a physics model that makes use of a meaningful fifth dimension of space-time. Were I smart, I would write this down and draw an audience in the process. Instead, I just have lots of pointless thoughts that disappear by the time I dig into my bowl of cereal. Blargh.

On an unrelated note, now I discover:

[23:47] <ViciousMark> msn messenger is a piece of crap
[23:47] <ViciousMark> they say they will be down for 10 minutes, it's been a hour now

...so I guess it's not just me, and it's not just a bane of Network Address Translation. At least I get to keep my precious scapegoat...
And what the hell? I'm writing about an Internet service being unavailable for a few moments. What is wrong with me?! Forget it. Just forget it. I'm going to go get kidnapped or something and have some new shit happen to me. Good day.

(Oh yeah... more on mailboxes.)

"We're going to a place where the sun never sets, the size of your wallet matters, and actors and actresses slave all day!"
"We're going to Denny's?"
--The Brain and Pinky

...oh, I guess I just passed midnight, so it should now be May 4. Oh well.
I've been thinking about doing a reflective rant looking back on my first year of college, class by class. I probably won't, though, if only because I really should be studying instead. For now, here's an excerpt from my last chem lab write-up:

Discussion
In conclusion, we constructed a rudimentary scale of cell potential values by gathering a series of relative data (the Ca-R reactions) and tying them to an absolute value using the E₀-Ag/AgCl data provided to us. [....]
Anyway, this concludes our time together in the dank, dusty depths of Gilman Hall. You, Alex, the calculator, the lab book, everyone else, me... I think we had a good time together doing things we all mutually hated, and being subjected to carcinogens and rank-goat-smelling fluids together with all was a terrible, terrible pleasure I hope we all have the privilege of never being forced to endure ever again. So on this note I bid you adieu, godspeed, and caution: not all toxic chemicals are marked.

All grad students at ISU must spend their first year student-teaching. My lab instructor was one of these, and she hated this with a passion. She admitted to us within the first three weeks that her main motivation in the lab was to get out of Gilman as quickly as possible, and we students soon agreed with her aims. College!
The last sentence up there in my lab book, by the way, refers to signs posted in every science and agricultural building on campus. It makes the first week of class very eye-opening...

Iowa stuffs: the television box just reported that some guy is going through eastern Iowa, stuffing pipe bombs and propaganda in mailboxes. From the text of this flier, it seems that there is a genuine lunatic running around doing things that usually only occur in bad action movies. Somehow, though... somehow, it reminds me of The Evil Midnight Bomber What Bombs at Midnight.
...and there's the tie-in: Maurice LaMarche, who sounds like the Orson Welles for the next generation, but probably won't be unless he starts doing some acting.

This is for Jesse.

End.