Team Murder No Brain No Headache.


Some Other Things

I'm pretty excited to be typing this from my kitchen table. I just migrated here from my couch which allowed a little too much slouching for a ragged old man on a school night. The wireless router arrived today and despite some painful realizations while setting it up -- devices that use embedded Linux often require a Windows box to properly configure them -- I'm pleased to be cordless. That doesn't include the power cable that I have to drag around because my newly acquired Acer has absolute shit battery life worsened by the use of the integrated wireless. But, still, I'm more free, I guess and I could possibly go outside or something (horrible, horrible sunlight) and that is 'better' than the other options.

The Windows install that I did on a dusty old 40G that formerly occupied a bookshelf was a study in misery. I'm more than willing to give most Linux distributions a patient sigh when things work imperfectly because most of the people who work on that software are unpaid joy-drones doing their best to create things that they and we need. MSFT, on the other hand, delivers turd after stinking turd. I spent more time digging up driver CDs that had never even left the sanctuary of their plastic envelopes than doing anything useful. For having Ur-market saturation you'd think that the big-goddamn-crazy-dollars installer might be able to detect a fairly generic NIC, eh? Again, I'm baffled by the length of time that it takes to install an operating system, some card games, and a web browser. So, you wanna play some games instead of actually using your computer? It's all yours. Even if I were to live to be three hundred years old I'd feel like that time wasted was utterly irretrievable. I think I've earned a little piss and moan time since I eat your dog food five days a week.

I also got a used copy of what I think is Sonic Youth's best album, Bad Moon Rising, and was blown away by how weird and wonderful it still is. This edition was some kind of weird reissue with commentary by that asshole Cosloy that makes sure to let you know in fifty different ways how behind the curve your ass is and a bunch of photos. All of the goodies and baddies aside, the desolate space most of the songs on that record contain is still haunting despite the recent glut in Scandinavian soundscape hacks that have seemingly taken over this shelf space while simultaneously being incredibly boring and sounding astoundingly uninspired. Some songs feel like you could roll a Winnebago in there and still have room to maybe assemble a ping pong table out front. Lydia Lunch still sounds like a dog whistle wearing too much lipstick but I can forgive that for a single song. Aging that well is admirable for an album that will old enough to drink next year.

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