Kennyblog Redux

I don't know that I mentioned it the other day, but the version of the eBook reader that I got was the Sony 505.

I don't want to bitch too much about this thing, because I think it's really cool; a super neat device that I'm very excited to have. But I feel like there were just so many bad decisions that were made with it that will prevent it from being made a vital part of my life.

For instance - you can subscribe to RSS feeds, and have the e-Book Library software (which we've already established is kind of a piece of crap) download the latest posts and sync them automagically. Which is great! Except that you can only subscribe to a closed set of blogs (about 2 dozen). One of which is Gawker, and another of which is the Daily Kos.

Dear Lord, save me. On the other hand, this is a surprisingly good opportunity for me to learn how to program an XCode application. What are the aspects that I'd really want a library management tool for this thing to have?

Ok, wow - this is awesome. Manybooks.net is a bit Project Gutenberg (they have a lot of books, many of which are in the public domain), but they have a whole slew of download options for the books (which I assume they build on the fly, which is cool).

The best part is that they have an option to take any of their texts, and build a custom PDF. You can specify the width and height of the pdf to be made, the font size, and the line spacing. I'm going to try a few settings to see what my optimal PDF sizes are. 90mm x 120mm seems to be the right size, but 12pt font and 1.25 line spacing is a bit too much, I think. Also, my margins are a bit much.

Well, at least one of them. I installed Parallels v.3 in my Mac, and tried registering the eReader with an XP install on that machine. The USB driver wasn't working when I first installed, so I downloaded new USB drivers for Windows. But those wouldn't install because I had to upgrade to Service Pack 2. about an hour later, I had the eReader being recognized by my Windows instance, and registered with Sony.

Which, for some reason, is a success story. Ah, well. I started downloading some of the 100 free "Sony Connect Classics" or whatnot (the public domain books that Sony charges for in their store), and that was working well. The software is still annoying, but at least it's working now.

By the way, the new Parallels is awesome. If you have an older version installed, I highly suggest upgrading. Even little things like not having to have your mouse locked into the Parallels window when using the virtual machine make a big difference. Also it's more stable, and seems to deal with memory management and swapping between computers a little better.

Nearly every one of my friends is really really funny. So funny that you really have to pay close attention to make sure that you see all of the funny bits. I despair when I think of all the incredibly funny jokes I've missed, just because I let 5 minutes go by without reading everyone's status message on GMail. I'm reminded of this because, after sending an email telling my people that Ally and I are going to be offline for a couple of weeks on our honeymoon (woohoo!), our friend Ton puts in his status message: "seriously, do you want me to fedex you some webpages?"

That's funny stuff, for real. Also, due to the traveling, I'm afraid the furious pace at which blog entries get put up here is going to slow down a bit. Sorry about that.

Actually, not really sorry so much. But still.

As I mentioned a couple days ago, nearly all my friends are really, really funny. Especially my friend Ben, who you all know well from All Too Flat.

Unfortunately for me, I keep giving Ben root access (for the less geeky readers of this blog (which would technically be Ben, seeing as he and Ton are the only regular readers of this blog (for which I thank them (and speaking of geeks and this blog, have you ever noticed my blog syntax looks a lot like common lisp?))), that means administrative rights) on my computer.

Once I gave him root access on my media server at home. For the next month, he would sporadicly log in to my server from his phone and reboot my media center from anywhere in the country. Pain in the ass, that one.

Anywho, I am now away on my honeymoon with my new wife (w00t!) without a net connection for 10 days, and, unbeknownst to me, Ben has administrator access to the box that hosts my blog.

On the other hand, at least it will get updated while I'm gone, which is hella lot better than when I'm here!

I'm really psyched to see my friend Ton's (whom you probably know from
All Too Flat (and perhaps the less geeky of my two friends)) band play
at Galapagos on Saturday night. The last time I saw him play in New
York was at my birthday party, which coincidently (or perhaps not
coincidently) was also at Galapagos, so from experience there's a good
chance that I'll end up dancing with a stupid grin on my face,
watching some guy throw knives at my brother, and being seduced by two
girls dressed as gigantic cupcakes (the one with red topping is now my
wife (w00t!)).

Anywho, here are the show details:

Saturday, Nov 10 @ 10pm
Galapagos Art Space
70 North 6th Street (btwn. Kent and Wythe)
Williamsburg, Brooklyn, NY 11211

Lineup:
10pm - SO3
11pm - Audition Lab (Ton's band!)
12pm - Cornmo
1am - The Bullocks
2am - DJ G Force

I spend a non-trivial amount of time shaving my own head. (Or persuading others to do it for me; I'm not terribly particular and it's a wonderful way to make friends. Particularly if you pay them, which to be honest is how I make most of my non-shaving-my-head friends anyway.) In order to maximize efficiency and shaving pleasure I've experimented with a variety of shaving contrivances, and my findings indicate that using the edge of a bladed weapon--a katana, a machete, one of those Crocodile Dundee knives--is no more effective than simply relying on a Mach 5 Turbo. They do, however, make me feel like more of a man, a task which surpasses the head-shaving itself in both importance and level of difficulty.

I've also investigated the efficacy of many different creams, lotions, and lubricants for facilitating the shaving process. I tend to alternate between baby oil and Cool Whip. The problem, however, is that these are so much fun to apply to my head (or other parts of my body; again, I'm not terribly particular and it's a wonderful way to make friends) that I frequently forgo the actual shaving for which the application of said products was intended and simply walk around the apartment, or the sections of the apartment I'm allowed to be in unsupervised, with baby oil or Cool Whip on my head.

This has led to several other discoveries. For example, you'd be surprised how well a bald head dipped in oil works as a ski slope for your snow-themed G.I. Joe action figures. Also, maintaining a supply of maraschino cherries to place atop the Cool Whip makes me feel like a farmer. A delicious farmer.

I installed the new version of OS X Leopard today. I'm really psyched because the new version of Boot Camp will let me run Windows 98 SE.

So I've been listening to OMC's "How Bizarre" more or less nonstop for the past four or five days. For the first 48 hours or so I couldn't believe that this song was written by the same outfit responsible for "If You Leave" from the John Hughes classic Pretty in Pink. How could one band vary their styles this wildly and not be ranked alongside, say, the Beatles or They Might Be Giants?

Of course it turned out that "If You Leave" was by Orchestral Manouevres in the Dark, not Otara Millionaires Club. (It's a common misconception. As EMF might say, it's unbelievable. Oh!) But during the next 72 hours of my exploration of the tune I realized: Does authorship and origin really matter? Surely the story of Brother Pele, sweet Sister Zina, their Chevy '69, a policeman, a ringmaster, a missing herd of elephants, and our unnamed narrator is universal, regardless of whether or not it ever provided a soundtrack to the romantic misadventures of Molly Ringwald. (And who can authoritatively say it hasn't? Besides Ms. Ringwald, I mean.)

"Every time I turn around, it's in my face." Indeed, OMC. Indeed.

I have in my possession several unitards. "Unitards?" you ask. "Aren't they mentally challenged mythical creatures from the pun-heavy Xanth novels by Piers Anthony?" That's a good question, and that was my first instinct too, but no. A unitard is a form-fitting, all-over garment. Wearing one is like slipping my taut, trim body into a giant glove. It's not much different from my multiple pairs of footie pajamas in that regard, just tighter. The tightness is actually rather comforting, especially now that the shaving experiments I alluded to earlier have been carried out to their logical endpoint. (Which reminds me: Is Cool Whip a topical allergen? I haven't chafed like this since sophomore year. But I digress.)

I bring this up because it seems wasteful to own several unitards and rarely if ever wear them outside the bedroom, or occasionally the fire escape. My problem is footwear, specifically choosing which ones go best with these garments, which do not provide their own built-in footwear solution. (This is one area in which unitards are demonstrably inferior to footie pajamas, strangely comforting snugness or no.) My instinct is to go with something that enables my feet to have the freest range of motion and prehensibility, which given the fact that I have webbed toes is a matter of no little importance or difficulty. However, "my instinct" also led me to believe, as I said, that a unitard is a mentally challenged mythical creature from the pun-heavy Xanth novels by Piers Anthony, which is why I ended up the winning bidder for a lot of three dozen unitards on eBay to begin with. I've learned not to trust my instincts, or at least to proceed with extreme caution. So my question is: Crocs, right? Bright orange ones like Iron Chef "Molto" Mario Batali, I'm thinking? Too bold?

Winter came to NYC this weekend, and I'm really unhappy about it. I know for sure because when I woke up this morning, the light coming through my window was so grey it actually sucked all the color (red) out of my room, making my morning ritual look not unlike a scene from Eraserhead (minus the baby). Actually, this morning wasn't so bad, since I've taken to showering and shaving at night. So the morning ritual only involves brushing my teeth, making lunch, and putting on pants (the cruelest cut of all).

And along with winter comes Daylight Savings Time, which began last weekend. There has been a lot of argument about the efficacy of DST, and whether or not we should have it in a god-fearing country such as our own (I personally believe that it's an affront to logic and decency, and that's is probably a mid-western plot to pad the bottom line of farmers. Not unlike the farm subsidies that pay farmers to not work the land) but I'm not here to talk about its wide-reaching effects. I just wanted to mention my own personal battle with Daylight Savings Time this weekend, and how I came out the loser.

The reason I bring this up a week late is that for some reason, is that's how long it took me to notice that we have a clock in our apartment that isn't connected to the internet. Allison and I both have Treos 700p, which obviously update their time properly thanks to the fine people at Verizon Wireless. My MacBook updated its time properly, but lagged Allison's MacBook Pro by about 3 minutes. Sting (MacMini) also updated itself, and my Linux box Glamdring *would* have if I knew how to configure ntpd to properly read /etc/localtme, which I don't, but since there is no monitor attached to it anyway, I seldom use it to tell the time.

Where was I? Oh yes, so the microwave oven in our kitchen didn't update by itself, and despite the fact that I have a graduate degree in electrical engineering, I am utterly stymied by the time setting mechanism on a $49 microwave.

As you know, Constant Reader, our cat's name is Alex. (Now that Ally and I are married I can say "our cat," just like I can say "our blouses." Huge!) I love this animal with the white-hot fury of a thousand suns. We also have a Roomba vacuum, which we also call Alex just to avoid confusion. I love this vacuum with the red-hot fury of a thousand dwarf stars. So in metaphorical/astronomical terms the cat edges the robotic floor-cleaner, is what I'm saying, but not by so much that I'd pass up the opportunity for a polyamorous relationship with them both, emotionally speaking.

But neither Alex (feline) nor Alex (vacuum) are tryin' to hear that, see. Simply put, they hate each other. The cat's attitude toward the Roomba alternates between terror and rage. The vacuum, now that I think about it, is largely indifferent to the cat. This is because it is a machine and, so far as we know, incapable of emotion. But if we were to pretend that it was a robot or cyborg programmed by Cyberdyne Systems or North Central Positronics or a similar outfit, which needless to say I do, and often, it would reciprocate the cat's animosity. And not just because of its genocidal contempt for all organic lifeforms, mind you. It's a grudge match that all too frequently devolves into fisticuffs (pawsticuffs? suctionsticuffs?).

This happens all the time. Just today, there I was, happily bopping along to "How Bizarre" in a unitard with a maraschino cherry on my baby-oiled head (I've been mixing things up) and reading the instructions to my microwave on my Sony Reader while reminiscing fondly about Windows 98, when I hear Alex yowl and Alex rumble, and bam, I'm out of what I like to call "the Ken Zone." In part this was because the yowling Alex was the vacuum and the rumbling Alex was the cat, but it would have upset me either way. The stress is putting the "apart" in "apartment." (Before this conflict, I lived in a ment.)

Obviously, the ideal solution is to splice the cat and the Roomba into a cybernetic entity combining the best attributes of both--half-cat, half-vacuum, all cop, if you will. It could use the litterbox and then clean up the stray pieces of litter, use its own vibrations to comfort itself, apply gentle suction to my lap as it sleeps there. I would call this combined entity Axl rather than Alex, because I don't want to be predictable and because I love Side A of G'n'R Lies.

The other day I was painting my mom's toenails, and I started thinking about what a funny word "fuschia" is. It's pronounced "few-shya," like "few" as in "my wrestling coach had a few too many and, well..." and "shya" as in Wayne from Wayne's World saying "shya, right." But the spelling makes me think it should be pronounced "fuss-chia," like "fuss" as in "don't make a fuss, you don't want Coach to lose his job" and "chia" as in "ch-ch-ch-chia, the pottery that grows."

The interesting thing is that I was painting my mom's toenails blue at the time. But the point stands.

Ally and I have a fairly rigorous morning routine (rigorous as in
precise, not as in rigor mortis). After brushing our teeth (here I
mean our collective sets of teeth (obviously we don't share the same
set of teeth (yet))), we sit down for a nice breakfast and morning
chat. Over the past couple of months, the topic of conversation was
typically pertinent to wedding planning, but now that we are married
(woot!), we no longer have this topic to turn to. Inevitably, after
staring uncomfortably at our disheveled selves for a few minutes, we
turn to our mobile devices for comfort.

This particular morning we were eating breakfast, that is, I was
reading "Faust" on my eReader, while Ally was surfing the mobile web
for strategies on brokering peace between the Alexes (Alexi? Alexis?),
when we had this SMS exchange:

Ally: How's the eReader?

Me: Good. Although now I have to carry 3 devices (fortunately, 85% of
my pants are of the cargo variety), sync 3 devices (unfortunately, I
only have 2 USB ports o

Me: n my laptop (I'm getting a USB hub today, do you want anything?)),
and none of them talk to each other.

Ally: Can you pass the syrup?

Oh no!

Just got back from my honeymoon and had a great time (I'll write about it later, after I finish catching up on my RSS feeds (Oh, how I miss instapundit). To tell you the truth, I was a little hesitant to go on the trip. Not because I don't like traveling the world, but because my friends, as you've probably ascertained from my blog, are both funny and jackasses.

This is certainly dangerous combination, and given that the last time Ben went on vacation he returned to an apartment filled with 1,800 post-it notes (http://www.alltooflat.com/pranks/postits/), there was a fairly good chance that he would reciprocate.

Tonight I was bragging to Ally about how I'm the superior Freecell player, and that my stats (which I've kept since my Freshman year in college) prove it. So I go to check out my stats on my Windows machine, and there it is: my Freecell stats had been cleared!

Blast! I've been pranked!

Hi everyone!

I actually got back from vacation a couple of days ago, but haven't updated yet since I was far too busy laughing at the posts that Sean and Ben put up. Honestly, I was crying laughing at one point. It was clear that it was a group effort, since Ben is just not capable of referencing Xanth marginalia, and Sean couldn't touch /etc/localtime with a ten-ft pole (also, Ben has a serious bug in his skirts about Daylight Savings Time).

The thing that upset me the most about the hijack was the fact that not only were they really funny, but they were way funnier than I usually am, in the exact same voice that I use. What's the point, really?

I do want to mention that the Freecell post strikes very close to home, since when I was in college, a girlfriend of mine actually did something very similar to me to get back at my being a jerk about something. Except instead of resetting my stats, she just sat there for an hour when I was at class, starting and resetting games, so instead of having no stats, I had horrible stats (which is considerably worse, since my options are having horrible stats, or having to make the decision to pull the trigger of resetting my stats myself, which is surprisingly painful [although I later learned that the stats are kept in the Windows Registry, which makes the entire process not so painful. {Except for the betrayal, of course, but as I'm just coming back from a honeymoon, I can hardly suggest it wasn't for the best}]).

In anycase - huge.

Update - I'm led to understand Ton had something to do with this outrage as well. I shan't forget this, Tickles!

Pictures from my honeymoon, with associated commentary, for those of you inclined to care about that sort of thing.

GMail has this cute little feature which allows you to mark an email with a star. The nice thing about it is that there is no meaning for that star which is defined by the interface. It's just like the old archive bit on files in MS-DOS (this was supposed to be used to denote that a given file has been backed up by some program, but in my experience was used as a temporary flag built in to each file to help when writing .bat files), so you can just use the star how ever you want. Does the star refer to things that need to be addressed (like a ToDo for your email), archived messages that you want to have quick access to, a collection of crazy emails from current and ex-girlfriends? Doesn't matter, you do with it whatever you want.

My answer to the use of the star is as follows: For any important email that requires follow up, but not immediate attention, I will click this star, and move onto the next email. In theory, this insures that when I get home from work (or finish watching The Office, or whatever) and next check my email, I will see this star and take whatever action is required. In actual practice, what clicking the star icon does is sink that particular email to a memory hole. The next interaction I will have with that message is that, a few weeks later when I remember to check my starred messages, it generates a huge amount of guilt that I haven't followed up with that topic, or added that person to my Facebook, or whatever. I then proceed to delete the message, no action having been taken.

Although I guess it does serve it's purpose. If the message were actually important, I would have taken action immediately. Since it was sunk for at least a few days and there were no negative repercussions, it clearly wasn't particularly important in the first place, and my initial assessment that this was something which required action was incorrect.

I got Guitar Hero III (Legends Of Rock) for the Wii.

I'm in love with this game way more than I've been in love with any video game since Super Mario Bros. I would say any game since Super Mario Bros, but we recently started playing Settlers of Catan, which is super awesome.

Probably the hardest part about starting Guitar Hero was choosing the name of my band. I decided on The Barkers, which I think is a really great band name. Probably the best ever since I used to play in the avant-guard imaginary-punk band God Is My Chao's Pilot (or, GodCow for short).

I cannot wait to go home, put on my leather pants, and start to rock out.