It's St. Patrick's day
Everyone down to the pub
We'll get these snakes yet
An Evening of Wine, Cheese and Beauty
14 years ago
3.17.2010
3.16.2010
3.15.2010
10.24.2009
10.23.2009
10.22.2009
10.21.2009
10.20.2009
10.19.2009
10.18.2009
10.17.2009
10.16.2009
10.15.2009
10.14.2009
10.13.2009
10.12.2009
10.11.2009
10.10.2009
10.09.2009
Of Zombies and All Hallowed Evenings...
So, Hallowe'een is by far my favorite holiday occurring during my favorite season. There's something about the earlier darkness setting in. The smell of the first wood fires smoldering in family hearths as the cold, still, foggy air wisps and curls around you trying to pierce your clothes. The smell of decaying leaves, shimmering in the sunlight as a bottle rocket whistles across the park, "Pop!" The smell of sulphur and cordite.
Autumn, or Fall, has always appealed to me. The macabre sense of nature as plants die and animals prepare to hibernate. Hallowe'en, it is said, is the one night of the year when the boundaries between the spirit world and the corporeal world are their thinnest. Of course this is complete bullshit, as there are no such things as ghosts, or ghouls, but it sure is fun to dress in our darkest (or sluttiest) and get wasted, and set off pound after pound of explosive fireworks.
In the spirit of the season, I have started a series of Zombie Portraits. My love (hate) of the Zombie is boundless and I search out Zombie film and literature almost religiously.
You can see an example at the top of the post, That's the lovely Violet Dear whose blog Madness and Beauty is just amazing. If you'd like to see more Zombies or other cool art click here to go to my website where you'll find a selection of the Undead just waiting for you.
* * *
I also do custom portraits, band pictures and posters, so if you need work done message me! I'm fast, professional, and inexpensive...
Cheers,
Willie
10.08.2009
10.07.2009
10.06.2009
10.05.2009
10.04.2009
10.03.2009
10.02.2009
10.01.2009
Chapter 7
Meanwhile...
Eyes steely grey, The Man peered out of The Bank at the ring of police cars that encircled the building.
“Wagons...” he sighed, “But who're the Injuns?”
Sun high in the sky appley-pie hopes.
Loud speaker blast. “You in there... No one needs to get hurt. Come on out and give yourself up.... We have you surrounded... Etcetera.... Etcetera...”
It was 1pm
* * *
Eyes steely grey, The Man peered out of The Bank at the ring of police cars that encircled the building.
“Wagons...” he sighed, “But who're the Injuns?”
Sun high in the sky appley-pie hopes.
Loud speaker blast. “You in there... No one needs to get hurt. Come on out and give yourself up.... We have you surrounded... Etcetera.... Etcetera...”
It was 1pm
* * *
Chapter 6
Lunch Break. A liturgy taught by the ringing bells of our youth. Cutting into pills with steak knives, slicing off slivers of speed and barbiturates that numb and drive the populace. All
you can eat 6 Martini Lunch Special neon bright bulimic projectile vomit spattered stalls.
Rank and file stumble out of fluorescent lit offices into the streets shading eyes with designer sunglasses and hands, it permanently overcast but the light is still to bright white and burns unprotected skin. Vendors sell hotdogs slathered with hallucinogenic oils and pills scooped on like fried onions. The bitter reek of chalky stimulants permeates the air mixing with diesel fumes as drunks swill wood alcohol, long blind their distended bellies straining at threadbare vomit covered shirts. Like above-ground moles they hug The City's walls and follow the scent of their kind.
Smell of retch and mouthwash
An Orca was spotted in the harbour and was immediately set upon by a trio of slant-eyed bloodthirsty men in crimson kimonos. The whale is harpooned and dragged ashore on the beach where with long blades and cleavers it is disassembled, The pink fatty flesh is processed into small cubes which still bloody were served on tight sticky rice packets to a throng of people eager to taste the destruction of something pure and beautiful.
The Whore was fast asleep but slow to dream.
It was 12pm
* * *
you can eat 6 Martini Lunch Special neon bright bulimic projectile vomit spattered stalls.
Rank and file stumble out of fluorescent lit offices into the streets shading eyes with designer sunglasses and hands, it permanently overcast but the light is still to bright white and burns unprotected skin. Vendors sell hotdogs slathered with hallucinogenic oils and pills scooped on like fried onions. The bitter reek of chalky stimulants permeates the air mixing with diesel fumes as drunks swill wood alcohol, long blind their distended bellies straining at threadbare vomit covered shirts. Like above-ground moles they hug The City's walls and follow the scent of their kind.
Smell of retch and mouthwash
An Orca was spotted in the harbour and was immediately set upon by a trio of slant-eyed bloodthirsty men in crimson kimonos. The whale is harpooned and dragged ashore on the beach where with long blades and cleavers it is disassembled, The pink fatty flesh is processed into small cubes which still bloody were served on tight sticky rice packets to a throng of people eager to taste the destruction of something pure and beautiful.
The Whore was fast asleep but slow to dream.
It was 12pm
* * *
Chapter 5
Here's how it was. The Man owes Another Man 10,000 dollars. The Other Man has given him until today to come up with the 10,000 dollars.
Here's how it is. The Man does not have 10,000 dollars.
Here's how it's gonna be.
Crack in the sky. Ashen grey clouds have rolled in pell-mell from the sea. The sun splits the crack open wedging in just wide enough, like when an axe fails to split a log but instead perforates just enough to let a slit of light through. Astringent metal smell mixes with salty ocean air diesel fumes. The clouds bunch up like revelers outside of a late-to-start concert hammering at stadium doors, foam and froth and the words “RIOT” sluicing from damp lips. The sky is a riot.
The Man pulls his collar up as the first stinging drops fall. They smell of failure and fear and ozone. A crack of lightning hangman-noose-neck-snaps across the sky, reminding The Man of the task at hand.
The Man approaches the Glass Building where the Coverall clad Workers chase off a group of pre-teen Boys and Girls pierced through with metal and glass wearing a sheen of leather and Vinyl. Chains and Filth. Spray cans and stencils jut out like cybernetic appendages from too small tiny fists and sharpies and pipes and straight razors are hidden amongst cracks folds and hair greased and glued and held tight by the same chemicals that leave their mark like dog urine on Glass Buildings and Concrete, Chemicals that are condensed into bags and inhaled until vomit and euphoria drive young minds to the edge of psychosis and into the abyss. The mean age of the Street Children is 16 and those that live to adulthood are either incarcerated or babbling insane degenerates writing Thompsonian novels and Burroughsesque poetry in the care of The State. They are instant bestsellers and their authors are lauded and talked about over cocktails and canapés at high end parties attended by Men in Charcoal Grey Suits and Women in Pencil Skirts and Artists in whatever the trend is that day.
This building is a Bank. There may no longer be Summer, but there will always be Banks. And Bankers.
The Man is wearing his least dirty clothes – tight black jeans and a collared cowboy shirt with real mother of pearl buttons- and has slicked back his dark hair with a pomade that causes it to glisten like an otter pulled from Prince William Sound.
The Bank is a Hive.
Charcoal Grey suits and Pencil Skirts rush this way and that passing documents, filing files, authorizing, rejecting, investing capital, investing themselves in a System that fails to recognize them. A System that demands homogeneity and growth. And knives. Sharp sharp sharp sharp knives.
The Man has a gun. He doesn't know what kind of gun it is, only that it was cheap and it is noisy. It is the type of gun with a revolving chamber and a long long long barrel. The size of barrel excites The Man and he maintains an erection whenever he carries it. The Gun holds 8 bullets, brassy and rounded and blunt. The man often wondered how such a dull point could penetrate such dense masses as the walls in the alley behind his Apartment. Flesh will be no problem for the rabid bloodthirsty rounds.
His erection throbbed as he drew the gun from his coat. Of course no one noticed as he wore neither Ivory Prada Suit or Black Pencil Skirt. The roar of the blast however drew an audible silence. A sharp tableau was drawn across the stage of the bank. The aging security guard who was nodding off at his post, awoke with a start, suffered a massive heart attack and died on the floor.
“Well, would yah look at that,” chuckled The Man.
“This here... Is a robbery.” The Man drawled as he approached a tellers window. He placed a cracked and aged leather valise upon the counter ledge.
“Fill it,” he demanded, “and no one has to die.”
Being well insured and trained in how to deal with the demands of a variety of robbers, terrorists and ultra-violent individuals, the Black Pencil Skirted Teller took the valise and duly filled its contents with paper money slipping her slim well manicured thumb onto a small red button and depressing it. The colour of the button matched that of her nail polish and she cracked a wee smile at the thought of it.
“What the fuck are you smiling at!?” demanded The Man, sighing once again. He really did not want to fire the revolver again as he'd only been able to afford 1 bullet and was relying on the fear factor of the massive weapon to get him through this ordeal.
The Teller in the Black Pencil Skirt passed the valise to The Man.
“Have a nice day,” she caught herself intoning and cut her lips shut at the last second. The Man just stared
“You too...”
It was 11am
* * *
Here's how it is. The Man does not have 10,000 dollars.
Here's how it's gonna be.
Crack in the sky. Ashen grey clouds have rolled in pell-mell from the sea. The sun splits the crack open wedging in just wide enough, like when an axe fails to split a log but instead perforates just enough to let a slit of light through. Astringent metal smell mixes with salty ocean air diesel fumes. The clouds bunch up like revelers outside of a late-to-start concert hammering at stadium doors, foam and froth and the words “RIOT” sluicing from damp lips. The sky is a riot.
The Man pulls his collar up as the first stinging drops fall. They smell of failure and fear and ozone. A crack of lightning hangman-noose-neck-snaps across the sky, reminding The Man of the task at hand.
The Man approaches the Glass Building where the Coverall clad Workers chase off a group of pre-teen Boys and Girls pierced through with metal and glass wearing a sheen of leather and Vinyl. Chains and Filth. Spray cans and stencils jut out like cybernetic appendages from too small tiny fists and sharpies and pipes and straight razors are hidden amongst cracks folds and hair greased and glued and held tight by the same chemicals that leave their mark like dog urine on Glass Buildings and Concrete, Chemicals that are condensed into bags and inhaled until vomit and euphoria drive young minds to the edge of psychosis and into the abyss. The mean age of the Street Children is 16 and those that live to adulthood are either incarcerated or babbling insane degenerates writing Thompsonian novels and Burroughsesque poetry in the care of The State. They are instant bestsellers and their authors are lauded and talked about over cocktails and canapés at high end parties attended by Men in Charcoal Grey Suits and Women in Pencil Skirts and Artists in whatever the trend is that day.
This building is a Bank. There may no longer be Summer, but there will always be Banks. And Bankers.
The Man is wearing his least dirty clothes – tight black jeans and a collared cowboy shirt with real mother of pearl buttons- and has slicked back his dark hair with a pomade that causes it to glisten like an otter pulled from Prince William Sound.
The Bank is a Hive.
Charcoal Grey suits and Pencil Skirts rush this way and that passing documents, filing files, authorizing, rejecting, investing capital, investing themselves in a System that fails to recognize them. A System that demands homogeneity and growth. And knives. Sharp sharp sharp sharp knives.
The Man has a gun. He doesn't know what kind of gun it is, only that it was cheap and it is noisy. It is the type of gun with a revolving chamber and a long long long barrel. The size of barrel excites The Man and he maintains an erection whenever he carries it. The Gun holds 8 bullets, brassy and rounded and blunt. The man often wondered how such a dull point could penetrate such dense masses as the walls in the alley behind his Apartment. Flesh will be no problem for the rabid bloodthirsty rounds.
His erection throbbed as he drew the gun from his coat. Of course no one noticed as he wore neither Ivory Prada Suit or Black Pencil Skirt. The roar of the blast however drew an audible silence. A sharp tableau was drawn across the stage of the bank. The aging security guard who was nodding off at his post, awoke with a start, suffered a massive heart attack and died on the floor.
“Well, would yah look at that,” chuckled The Man.
“This here... Is a robbery.” The Man drawled as he approached a tellers window. He placed a cracked and aged leather valise upon the counter ledge.
“Fill it,” he demanded, “and no one has to die.”
Being well insured and trained in how to deal with the demands of a variety of robbers, terrorists and ultra-violent individuals, the Black Pencil Skirted Teller took the valise and duly filled its contents with paper money slipping her slim well manicured thumb onto a small red button and depressing it. The colour of the button matched that of her nail polish and she cracked a wee smile at the thought of it.
“What the fuck are you smiling at!?” demanded The Man, sighing once again. He really did not want to fire the revolver again as he'd only been able to afford 1 bullet and was relying on the fear factor of the massive weapon to get him through this ordeal.
The Teller in the Black Pencil Skirt passed the valise to The Man.
“Have a nice day,” she caught herself intoning and cut her lips shut at the last second. The Man just stared
“You too...”
It was 11am
* * *
Chapter 4
As the stores on Boulevard C begin to open, the Masses began to teem rat like across its sidewalks and into its boutiques and apothecaries, dispensaries and emporiums. The masses, obese and ignorant needed satiation.
Behind thick plastic walls White Coated Pharmacists filled demands, slipping bottle after bag after vial of pill, lotions, tinctures and remedies into grasping hands of moaning come-down-withdrawal-addicts and nubile young post-human Forms. They needed their Breakfasts more than they needed their lovers. The pills were their lovers giving them the energy they needed to continue unabated and driving them to numbness that could only be pierced by the purchase of consumer goods piquing interests and pumping blood through veins weary of life and they had only just come to The City.
Women melded shoes to their feet in fetishistic body modifications as though reenacting Japanese body horror. Tokyo splatter-punk. Pins inserted laterally through their Jimmy Choos and Betsey Johnson's and vertically through the tops of their feet penetrating the soles of their Manolo Blahnick's like entomology pins affixing delicate butterflies to a board. Scalding sheets of molten lead and tin are sprayed, boiling flesh and cooking tender feminine meats. Smell of bacon and perfume, astringent metallic odours. The (a)scent of fashion. Fuck function.
Men gathered speed, smoked speed, popped pills, popped veins and then ran through the Parks, Through the barbed wire and spiked ditches and past dogs that gave chase to them tearing at calves and driving them to heart attacks and aneurysms until right at the point of death they plunged needles head long into hearts, into brains, that resuscitated them one last time (or not) and the rush gave them purpose and they stumbled spent from the parks into the arms of the Women that worshiped them in tin plated stumps and designer drug jackets and then they changed into Suits or Coveralls and dreamed of the next morning in which they could run once again through the park because in the park. They were all.
Equal.
It was 10 am.
Behind thick plastic walls White Coated Pharmacists filled demands, slipping bottle after bag after vial of pill, lotions, tinctures and remedies into grasping hands of moaning come-down-withdrawal-addicts and nubile young post-human Forms. They needed their Breakfasts more than they needed their lovers. The pills were their lovers giving them the energy they needed to continue unabated and driving them to numbness that could only be pierced by the purchase of consumer goods piquing interests and pumping blood through veins weary of life and they had only just come to The City.
Women melded shoes to their feet in fetishistic body modifications as though reenacting Japanese body horror. Tokyo splatter-punk. Pins inserted laterally through their Jimmy Choos and Betsey Johnson's and vertically through the tops of their feet penetrating the soles of their Manolo Blahnick's like entomology pins affixing delicate butterflies to a board. Scalding sheets of molten lead and tin are sprayed, boiling flesh and cooking tender feminine meats. Smell of bacon and perfume, astringent metallic odours. The (a)scent of fashion. Fuck function.
Men gathered speed, smoked speed, popped pills, popped veins and then ran through the Parks, Through the barbed wire and spiked ditches and past dogs that gave chase to them tearing at calves and driving them to heart attacks and aneurysms until right at the point of death they plunged needles head long into hearts, into brains, that resuscitated them one last time (or not) and the rush gave them purpose and they stumbled spent from the parks into the arms of the Women that worshiped them in tin plated stumps and designer drug jackets and then they changed into Suits or Coveralls and dreamed of the next morning in which they could run once again through the park because in the park. They were all.
Equal.
It was 10 am.
9.30.2009
9.29.2009
9.28.2009
9.27.2009
9.26.2009
9.24.2009
9.23.2009
9.22.2009
Oh, the times they are a changin'...
Apple II VS The iPhone.
I'm not a tech geek but the idea of progress intrigues me. I read what i can find and trust that mathematical proofs hold out and that whoever developed them double checked their formulas, carried the one and had a much better understanding of imaginary numbers. Or at least where they are useful, as i fail to see where anything imaginary can be useful in regards to reality outside of consciousness. And not to get to far off track, if something that is as paradoxical as the square of -1 can lead to mathematical proofs that apply to the real world then perhaps i need to start smoking weed again and contemplate the nature of reality, matter, and the role that consciousness plays in our perception of the universe.
Fuck that. Back to progress.
Let's go back. Way back.... It's 1977 and i'm merely a proverbial twinkle. Steve Something-or-Other has hand built the Apple I computer a few years back and its successor the Apple II is now available for purchase by the general public. The Apple II was the first mass produced microcomputer and its success led the way into the information age and as we shall see helped transform the entire world in regards to information sharing and development.
So, for a mere $2638 (A whopping $9370.88 in today"s dollars) the buyer would receive a heavy (7 to 8 lbs) greige coloured (yup. pale grey mixed with ivory equals greige, possibly the most bland colour in the visible spectrum) unit the size of a typewriter
with a a monitor the size of a 12inch TV on top of it and an audio cassette deck on the side about the size of a large walkman. This was replaced in 1978 by the floppy disk drive.
* * *
Fast forward to 2009...In only a little longer than i have been alive humanity has seen some of the most influential changes in every facet of socio-cultural, political and economic development and communication in history. Most of these changes are rooted in the invention of the microprocessor and the massive access to information that developed alongside of it.
Enter the iPhone,
weighing in at 4.8 ounces of sleek plastic and alloy. This much coveted electronic device is also demonstration of the progress of design in regards to its utilitarian ancestor, as well as the change in public perception regarding consumption. The focus on the Apple II was its capability not it's aesthetic value. "Hobbyists, so the arguments went, didn't care as much for appearance as they did for substance... Jobs wanted to model the case for the Apple after those Hewlett-Packard used for its calculators. He admired their sleek, fresh lines, their hardy finish, and the way they looked at home on a table or desk." The shift in the value placed on well designed and aesthetically pleasant consumer goods by the public demonstrable as thus. I would argue Jobs intention was to market a product that seamlessly integrated into a family dwelling thereby establishing a normality for an otherwise alien device while the iPhone is designed to allow its user efficient and easy use of the device while simultaneously demarcating and identifying her as part of a demographic that carries a number of complex presumptions driven by marketing and the specific socio-economic sphere in which she lives and works. This I feel is simply a result of the normalization of technological change upon the generations that followed the introduction of the Apple II.
And now... The spec battle between the Apple II, the first mass produced microcomputer and the Apple iPhone, a multifunctional wireless communication device (smartphone)
Apple II
Size: Apple II: 15.4 x 17.9 x 4.6 inches w/o monitor. iPhone: 4.5 x 2.4 x 0.46 inches.
Weight: Apple II: 7 lbs w/o monitor. iPhone: 4.8 ounces
Processor speed: Apple II: 1.0 MHz. iPhone: 620 MHz
RAM: Apple II: 65K max. iPhone: 256 Mb with up to 64 GB storage on a flash drive
OS: Apple II: BASIC in ROM. iPhone: OS X
Display: Apple II: 6 colours. iPhone: 3.5-inch (diagonal) Widescreen Multi-Touch display. 10 trillion colours or something like that
Resolution: Apple II: 280 X 192, 40 X 24 text. iPhone: 480-by-320-pixel resolution at 163 ppi
Keyboard: Apple II: Not included. iPhone: Support for display of multiple languages and characters simultaneously through a touch screen interface.
Extra features: Apple II: composite video output port, one vertical expansion slot. iPhone: 3Mp Digital Camera, recording, VGA up to 30 fps with audio, Photo and video geotagging, Accelerometer, Proximity sensor, Ambient light sensor, Assisted GPS and digital compass, video playback supporting most formats.
Accessories:Apple II: Game Paddles. iPhone: Apple Earphones with Remote and Mic, Dock Connector to USB Cable USB Power Adapter (many other accessories available)
Number Produced: Apple II: 200 iPhone: 4.4 million sold as of 2009
* * *
The success of the iPhone is directly linked to the successful development of the Apple II and while the power of the iPhone outstrips desktop computers well into the 1990's it makes this writer wonder what the next 30 years will have in store for us. If we can get around Moore's law and keep up the Law of Accelerating returns then we are likely to see unsurpassed progress and tech development.
An analysis of the history of technology shows that technological change is exponential, contrary to the common-sense "intuitive linear" view. So we won't experience 100 years of progress in the 21st century -- it will be more like 20,000 years of progress (at today's rate). The "returns," such as chip speed and cost-effectiveness, also increase exponentially. There's even exponential growth in the rate of exponential growth. Within a few decades, machine intelligence will surpass human intelligence, leading to The Singularity -- technological change so rapid and profound it represents a rupture in the fabric of human history. The implications include the merger of biological and nonbiological intelligence, immortal software-based humans, and ultra-high levels of intelligence that expand outward in the universe at the speed of light.
Cool.
That is if we can keep from driving ourselves to extinction.
* * *
Joe Torzewski. was an early purchaser of an Apple I in 1977 and proving the maxim regarding the more things change.... soon after purchasing his computer he quickly received notice from Apple that the new Apple II was about to be released and as a result they were dropping support for his outdated model.
Fuckers.
Sources: http://apple2history.org/history/ah02.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apple_II_series#Data_storage
http://oldcomputers.net/appleii.html
http://www.engadget.com/2007/07/01/iphone-processor-found-620mhz-arm/
http://www.kurzweilai.net/articles/art0134.html?printable=1
I'm not a tech geek but the idea of progress intrigues me. I read what i can find and trust that mathematical proofs hold out and that whoever developed them double checked their formulas, carried the one and had a much better understanding of imaginary numbers. Or at least where they are useful, as i fail to see where anything imaginary can be useful in regards to reality outside of consciousness. And not to get to far off track, if something that is as paradoxical as the square of -1 can lead to mathematical proofs that apply to the real world then perhaps i need to start smoking weed again and contemplate the nature of reality, matter, and the role that consciousness plays in our perception of the universe.
Fuck that. Back to progress.
Let's go back. Way back.... It's 1977 and i'm merely a proverbial twinkle. Steve Something-or-Other has hand built the Apple I computer a few years back and its successor the Apple II is now available for purchase by the general public. The Apple II was the first mass produced microcomputer and its success led the way into the information age and as we shall see helped transform the entire world in regards to information sharing and development.
So, for a mere $2638 (A whopping $9370.88 in today"s dollars) the buyer would receive a heavy (7 to 8 lbs) greige coloured (yup. pale grey mixed with ivory equals greige, possibly the most bland colour in the visible spectrum) unit the size of a typewriter
with a a monitor the size of a 12inch TV on top of it and an audio cassette deck on the side about the size of a large walkman. This was replaced in 1978 by the floppy disk drive.* * *
Fast forward to 2009...In only a little longer than i have been alive humanity has seen some of the most influential changes in every facet of socio-cultural, political and economic development and communication in history. Most of these changes are rooted in the invention of the microprocessor and the massive access to information that developed alongside of it.
Enter the iPhone,
weighing in at 4.8 ounces of sleek plastic and alloy. This much coveted electronic device is also demonstration of the progress of design in regards to its utilitarian ancestor, as well as the change in public perception regarding consumption. The focus on the Apple II was its capability not it's aesthetic value. "Hobbyists, so the arguments went, didn't care as much for appearance as they did for substance... Jobs wanted to model the case for the Apple after those Hewlett-Packard used for its calculators. He admired their sleek, fresh lines, their hardy finish, and the way they looked at home on a table or desk." The shift in the value placed on well designed and aesthetically pleasant consumer goods by the public demonstrable as thus. I would argue Jobs intention was to market a product that seamlessly integrated into a family dwelling thereby establishing a normality for an otherwise alien device while the iPhone is designed to allow its user efficient and easy use of the device while simultaneously demarcating and identifying her as part of a demographic that carries a number of complex presumptions driven by marketing and the specific socio-economic sphere in which she lives and works. This I feel is simply a result of the normalization of technological change upon the generations that followed the introduction of the Apple II. And now... The spec battle between the Apple II, the first mass produced microcomputer and the Apple iPhone, a multifunctional wireless communication device (smartphone)
Apple II
Size: Apple II: 15.4 x 17.9 x 4.6 inches w/o monitor. iPhone: 4.5 x 2.4 x 0.46 inches.
Weight: Apple II: 7 lbs w/o monitor. iPhone: 4.8 ounces
Processor speed: Apple II: 1.0 MHz. iPhone: 620 MHz
RAM: Apple II: 65K max. iPhone: 256 Mb with up to 64 GB storage on a flash drive
OS: Apple II: BASIC in ROM. iPhone: OS X
Display: Apple II: 6 colours. iPhone: 3.5-inch (diagonal) Widescreen Multi-Touch display. 10 trillion colours or something like that
Resolution: Apple II: 280 X 192, 40 X 24 text. iPhone: 480-by-320-pixel resolution at 163 ppi
Keyboard: Apple II: Not included. iPhone: Support for display of multiple languages and characters simultaneously through a touch screen interface.
Extra features: Apple II: composite video output port, one vertical expansion slot. iPhone: 3Mp Digital Camera, recording, VGA up to 30 fps with audio, Photo and video geotagging, Accelerometer, Proximity sensor, Ambient light sensor, Assisted GPS and digital compass, video playback supporting most formats.
Accessories:Apple II: Game Paddles. iPhone: Apple Earphones with Remote and Mic, Dock Connector to USB Cable USB Power Adapter (many other accessories available)
Number Produced: Apple II: 200 iPhone: 4.4 million sold as of 2009
* * *
The success of the iPhone is directly linked to the successful development of the Apple II and while the power of the iPhone outstrips desktop computers well into the 1990's it makes this writer wonder what the next 30 years will have in store for us. If we can get around Moore's law and keep up the Law of Accelerating returns then we are likely to see unsurpassed progress and tech development.
An analysis of the history of technology shows that technological change is exponential, contrary to the common-sense "intuitive linear" view. So we won't experience 100 years of progress in the 21st century -- it will be more like 20,000 years of progress (at today's rate). The "returns," such as chip speed and cost-effectiveness, also increase exponentially. There's even exponential growth in the rate of exponential growth. Within a few decades, machine intelligence will surpass human intelligence, leading to The Singularity -- technological change so rapid and profound it represents a rupture in the fabric of human history. The implications include the merger of biological and nonbiological intelligence, immortal software-based humans, and ultra-high levels of intelligence that expand outward in the universe at the speed of light.
Cool.
That is if we can keep from driving ourselves to extinction.
* * *
Joe Torzewski. was an early purchaser of an Apple I in 1977 and proving the maxim regarding the more things change.... soon after purchasing his computer he quickly received notice from Apple that the new Apple II was about to be released and as a result they were dropping support for his outdated model.
Fuckers.
Sources: http://apple2history.org/history/ah02.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apple_II_series#Data_storage
http://oldcomputers.net/appleii.html
http://www.engadget.com/2007/07/01/iphone-processor-found-620mhz-arm/
http://www.kurzweilai.net/articles/art0134.html?printable=1
New Reasons to Hate Golf
There has been a long running tie for this writer between tennis and golf as to which was the more banal, boring and generally detested spectator sport; with bowling running a close race. Now before you get all huffy let me explain. I've played a few... um... rounds? of tennis. Matches? That sounds right.. And it's just not for me. For those of you that play tennis, have at 'er. For those who watch I can't imagine a more boring event to endure.
Both golf and tennis also suffer from an elitest nature with a great deal of money being spent on greens fees, club memberships, stupid looking outfits, all this besides the price of a set of clubs or a good racket.
Bowling is enjoyable when drunk, but again, watching a bowling match is about exciting as watching the grass on a fairway grow. Speaking of grass I have never played golf on a course that didn't feature a windmill or giant plastic gorilla, and probably never will. At least any poor schlub can go bowling for 10 bucks plus the cost of beer.
Golf can now claim the top spot in my most hated leisure activity for not only is it a waste of time and money to play, but Golf courses are major contributers to the depletion of scarce water resources and the pollution of fresh water sources due to fertilizer and pesticide run off.
The average American golf course drinks up some 50 million gallons of water a year — comparable to the yearly usage of 1,400 people. In the West, the figures are higher.
Excessive water use in Southern California, much of which is attributed to golf courses has actually caused a physical drop in the landscape and groundwater resevoirs are depleted.
Lake Lanier, Atlanta’s main source of water, has also dropped to record low levels, exposing muddy bottom not seen in half a century.
Mark Esoda, superintendent of the Atlanta Country Club in suburban Marietta, where initiation fees are $85,000, acknowledges that practices among the nation’s courses range from indifferent to conscientious. Of course. If your rich you can pay to not give a fuck.
Maybe i'm just jealous i can't fork over 85 grand to go for an extended walk. Either way. Golf's massive impact on water resources kicks it into the number one spot for my most hated sports...
Fuck you Golf.
* * *
For more info on the problematics of Golf Corse Water conservation:
Click Here
sources: http://www.encyclopedia.com/doc/1A1-D8TKO3780.html
http://ucrturf.ucr.edu/topics/trends_in_golf_course_water_use.pdf
Both golf and tennis also suffer from an elitest nature with a great deal of money being spent on greens fees, club memberships, stupid looking outfits, all this besides the price of a set of clubs or a good racket.
Bowling is enjoyable when drunk, but again, watching a bowling match is about exciting as watching the grass on a fairway grow. Speaking of grass I have never played golf on a course that didn't feature a windmill or giant plastic gorilla, and probably never will. At least any poor schlub can go bowling for 10 bucks plus the cost of beer.
Golf can now claim the top spot in my most hated leisure activity for not only is it a waste of time and money to play, but Golf courses are major contributers to the depletion of scarce water resources and the pollution of fresh water sources due to fertilizer and pesticide run off.
The average American golf course drinks up some 50 million gallons of water a year — comparable to the yearly usage of 1,400 people. In the West, the figures are higher.
Excessive water use in Southern California, much of which is attributed to golf courses has actually caused a physical drop in the landscape and groundwater resevoirs are depleted.
Lake Lanier, Atlanta’s main source of water, has also dropped to record low levels, exposing muddy bottom not seen in half a century.
Mark Esoda, superintendent of the Atlanta Country Club in suburban Marietta, where initiation fees are $85,000, acknowledges that practices among the nation’s courses range from indifferent to conscientious. Of course. If your rich you can pay to not give a fuck.
Maybe i'm just jealous i can't fork over 85 grand to go for an extended walk. Either way. Golf's massive impact on water resources kicks it into the number one spot for my most hated sports...
Fuck you Golf.
* * *
For more info on the problematics of Golf Corse Water conservation:
Click Here
sources: http://www.encyclopedia.com/doc/1A1-D8TKO3780.html
http://ucrturf.ucr.edu/topics/trends_in_golf_course_water_use.pdf
9.21.2009
9.20.2009
9.19.2009
9.18.2009
Sorority Row Review
Sorority Row – 09.18.09 – One Eyed Willie
Princess Leia with a motherfucking SHOTGUN!! That's what they should have put as the tagline on the posters for this fiery mediocre co-ed slaughter fest. I love that ornery old bitch and she stole the show in the few small scenes she has in this revenge-vengeance-slasher-titty-crime flick. Or the revenslashtitcrime flick as I like to call the genre.
So, if I have this straight, a prank gone horribly wrong (or perhaps right depending on your view of sorority girls) leads to the death and cover up of a buxom co-ed with her entire life of affluence, binge drinking and generally being a bitchy cunt, being destroyed in the process. Cue end credits. I clap. And leave. OK OK I'm being too vicious here. The film is fun and definitely plays with some of the horror cliches we are all so used to. But really ever since Scream bought it out of the closet audiences everywhere are all ken to the game. No less than 4 suspects all with potential motive to rampage around killing drunken frat boys and girls with get this... A fucking tire iron modified with different blades and piercing tips. I'M NOT FUCKING KIDDING...
There's really no one worth mentioning in this sad sad film. There's a female character nick-named “Chugs,” (how endearing..) Chugs was played by Margo Harshman star of such winners as “Jenny's got a boob job,” and a bunch of shite TV roles. Carrie Fisher was in some low budget sci-fi film back in the 70's that is no longer relevant. Oh! I almost forgot... Rumer Willis was in this, Bruce and Demi's fucked up uber-masculine offspring has like 10 lines and plays the quiet shy geeky girl. At least she kept her top on.
Alright, while laughable in itself at least they aren't suspicious of the person running around in robes on grad day as the hot tub overflows with bubbles and the girls all decide they need to shower before the party. So, the girls keep quiet regarding their mishap under the rules of the sisterhood. Rules which seem to be, fuck everything, if its fermented or distilled guzzle it and generally be total twats to everyone in their lives including each other. Does anyone cheer for these bitches to live?
I think that's the point we are at in horror cinema. No one cheers for the kids to live anymore, we don't yell, “No! Don't go downstairs/into the woods/down that well/into that abandoned house/take a shower... We tell them too because we just wanna see some fucked up asshole get his due in the most creative bloody gratuitous way possible (see: Final Destinaton 1-4 and all the Saw movies). Yup. I'm game! So on that level Sorority Row wins out. The story is filled with more holes than the co-ed can fill with cock, and the ending is kinda predictable but also kinda fucking odd and confusing. But hey. Bitches take their tops off, blood spurts, Princess Leia has a huge motherfucking shotgun that never runs out of ammo and all is right in the horror world.
Story: 4/10
Acting: A surprising 6/10
Violence/Gore: 5/10
For a whopping total: 5/10
Princess Leia with a motherfucking SHOTGUN!! That's what they should have put as the tagline on the posters for this fiery mediocre co-ed slaughter fest. I love that ornery old bitch and she stole the show in the few small scenes she has in this revenge-vengeance-slasher-titty-crime flick. Or the revenslashtitcrime flick as I like to call the genre.
So, if I have this straight, a prank gone horribly wrong (or perhaps right depending on your view of sorority girls) leads to the death and cover up of a buxom co-ed with her entire life of affluence, binge drinking and generally being a bitchy cunt, being destroyed in the process. Cue end credits. I clap. And leave. OK OK I'm being too vicious here. The film is fun and definitely plays with some of the horror cliches we are all so used to. But really ever since Scream bought it out of the closet audiences everywhere are all ken to the game. No less than 4 suspects all with potential motive to rampage around killing drunken frat boys and girls with get this... A fucking tire iron modified with different blades and piercing tips. I'M NOT FUCKING KIDDING...
There's really no one worth mentioning in this sad sad film. There's a female character nick-named “Chugs,” (how endearing..) Chugs was played by Margo Harshman star of such winners as “Jenny's got a boob job,” and a bunch of shite TV roles. Carrie Fisher was in some low budget sci-fi film back in the 70's that is no longer relevant. Oh! I almost forgot... Rumer Willis was in this, Bruce and Demi's fucked up uber-masculine offspring has like 10 lines and plays the quiet shy geeky girl. At least she kept her top on.
Alright, while laughable in itself at least they aren't suspicious of the person running around in robes on grad day as the hot tub overflows with bubbles and the girls all decide they need to shower before the party. So, the girls keep quiet regarding their mishap under the rules of the sisterhood. Rules which seem to be, fuck everything, if its fermented or distilled guzzle it and generally be total twats to everyone in their lives including each other. Does anyone cheer for these bitches to live?
I think that's the point we are at in horror cinema. No one cheers for the kids to live anymore, we don't yell, “No! Don't go downstairs/into the woods/down that well/into that abandoned house/take a shower... We tell them too because we just wanna see some fucked up asshole get his due in the most creative bloody gratuitous way possible (see: Final Destinaton 1-4 and all the Saw movies). Yup. I'm game! So on that level Sorority Row wins out. The story is filled with more holes than the co-ed can fill with cock, and the ending is kinda predictable but also kinda fucking odd and confusing. But hey. Bitches take their tops off, blood spurts, Princess Leia has a huge motherfucking shotgun that never runs out of ammo and all is right in the horror world.
Story: 4/10
Acting: A surprising 6/10
Violence/Gore: 5/10
For a whopping total: 5/10
9.17.2009
9.16.2009
9.15.2009
9.14.2009
9.13.2009
9.12.2009
9.11.2009
9.10.2009
9.09.2009
9.08.2009
9.07.2009
9.06.2009
9.05.2009
9.04.2009
9.03.2009
9.02.2009
9.01.2009
8.31.2009
8.30.2009
8.29.2009
8.28.2009
8.27.2009
8.26.2009
Chapter 3
As The Man sipped his coffee in his Grey Tenement Apartment he heard the door open behind him. The Whore walked in and dropped herself down onto the extended hide-a-bed. With one corner of the bed supported by an empty plastic milk crate it threatened to collapse under her tiny frame as the long-shot springs squealed in protest.
“Take it easy,” The Man grumbled, placing his now empty mug on the counter that jut unceremoniously from the wall beside him. Their dwelling is a shared room, 12 feet by 10 furnished by only the hide-a-bed, and 2 more inverted milk crates. One supports a nearly antique television scavenged from behind their building, the other serving as a makeshift coffee table, littered with liquor bottles, drug residue and discarded food packaging. A sink with only a cold water tap is filled with cracked dishware and a multitude of stains, rust blood vomit oil nicotine wash down its inside like a rainbow of failure and entropy. The Man and The Whore are not lovers and to call them friends would be a gross misuse of the term. They are closer to symbiotes, in mutual reliance upon each other for survival. They fuck on occasion but neither gets much out of it.
The Whore turned on the television, ignoring The Man.
Lee Marvin's zombified corpse played poker with Charles Bronson's while Clint Eastwood groaned and creaked like an old staircase. Eastwood looked worse off than either of the other players but neither of them mentioned that he wasn't dead yet. Clint refused to ante up.
The Men drank raw crude oil from chipped highball glasses and smoked cigars packed with black powder with abandon. Marvin spat a gristly gob of blackened tar into a spittoon and a drizzle of high octane gasoline trickled down his chin from wind chapped and whiskey stained lips from whence it had been processed. Eastwood drew his Colt and shot the Zombie Lee Marvin whose gasoline filled filled mouth exploded, bone shrapnel piercing the eyes of Bronsan who continued to bet silently. As the fire spread Chuck grabbed onto Clint's face with his partially destroyed mouth and tore his cheek off. Eastwood still refuse to ante up.
3 nude white women ground their bodies against a Black Man sitting in a park wearing an Armani suit. He was spitting rhymes about the genocides in East Europe while all around him men and women in military garb appeared to blow themselves up. The blood and viscera rained down on The Black Man, bespeckling the ivory skin of The White Women and filling the bejeweld Pimp Cup that sat erect upon the picnic blanket that served as the centrepoint of this Dejeuner.
Sham-what?
“I'm off to work, I'll be back around 6,” grumbled the Man swinging the rickety door closed behind him. He walked down the hall stepping over drunks and inhaling noxious smells of urine, paint thinner and the residue of burnt crack cocaine.
“Dill pickle chips and burnt plastic,” he thought to himself, His stomach grumbled, empty but for 6 cups of coffee.
He greeted the manager on his way out but was unheard behind 3 inches of lexan that separated the managers office from the main lobby.
Exiting onto the street The Man was greeted by the sun poking up above the tenemant housing across the street and he averted his eyes from its accusing stare. He spat a widget of phlegm onto the cracked pavement disturbing an oily puddle of filth, turned to his right and headed to work.
It was 9am.
“Take it easy,” The Man grumbled, placing his now empty mug on the counter that jut unceremoniously from the wall beside him. Their dwelling is a shared room, 12 feet by 10 furnished by only the hide-a-bed, and 2 more inverted milk crates. One supports a nearly antique television scavenged from behind their building, the other serving as a makeshift coffee table, littered with liquor bottles, drug residue and discarded food packaging. A sink with only a cold water tap is filled with cracked dishware and a multitude of stains, rust blood vomit oil nicotine wash down its inside like a rainbow of failure and entropy. The Man and The Whore are not lovers and to call them friends would be a gross misuse of the term. They are closer to symbiotes, in mutual reliance upon each other for survival. They fuck on occasion but neither gets much out of it.
The Whore turned on the television, ignoring The Man.
Lee Marvin's zombified corpse played poker with Charles Bronson's while Clint Eastwood groaned and creaked like an old staircase. Eastwood looked worse off than either of the other players but neither of them mentioned that he wasn't dead yet. Clint refused to ante up.
The Men drank raw crude oil from chipped highball glasses and smoked cigars packed with black powder with abandon. Marvin spat a gristly gob of blackened tar into a spittoon and a drizzle of high octane gasoline trickled down his chin from wind chapped and whiskey stained lips from whence it had been processed. Eastwood drew his Colt and shot the Zombie Lee Marvin whose gasoline filled filled mouth exploded, bone shrapnel piercing the eyes of Bronsan who continued to bet silently. As the fire spread Chuck grabbed onto Clint's face with his partially destroyed mouth and tore his cheek off. Eastwood still refuse to ante up.
3 nude white women ground their bodies against a Black Man sitting in a park wearing an Armani suit. He was spitting rhymes about the genocides in East Europe while all around him men and women in military garb appeared to blow themselves up. The blood and viscera rained down on The Black Man, bespeckling the ivory skin of The White Women and filling the bejeweld Pimp Cup that sat erect upon the picnic blanket that served as the centrepoint of this Dejeuner.
Sham-what?
“I'm off to work, I'll be back around 6,” grumbled the Man swinging the rickety door closed behind him. He walked down the hall stepping over drunks and inhaling noxious smells of urine, paint thinner and the residue of burnt crack cocaine.
“Dill pickle chips and burnt plastic,” he thought to himself, His stomach grumbled, empty but for 6 cups of coffee.
He greeted the manager on his way out but was unheard behind 3 inches of lexan that separated the managers office from the main lobby.
Exiting onto the street The Man was greeted by the sun poking up above the tenemant housing across the street and he averted his eyes from its accusing stare. He spat a widget of phlegm onto the cracked pavement disturbing an oily puddle of filth, turned to his right and headed to work.
It was 9am.
Chapter 2
Two Men walk towards each other on the street, they are dressed in identical Brooks Brothers suits in Charcoal Grey and share the same smooth features, fresh shaven and close cut, well trimmed hair.
Smell of Hugo Boss and Testosterone
They are neither brothers nor clones yet they might as well be. They nod simultaneously to each other as they pass, each feeling the weight of the large knife that is sheathed within the uncreased depths of their suit jackets. This scene repeats itself all across The City as everywhere the 454 small-block engine of The City Economy roars to life.
The first Man enters into a glass building where an army of Men in identical Blue Coveralls scrub and shine and buff and rinse off the graffiti that has accumulated over the past evening, but by the time they encircle the building they must begin anew for paint and marker and acid have already sprung up in a cancer like malignancy of names and tags and slogans. Cause and effect. Clean and deface. These Men are lucky. They will always be employed as long as there is a system of have and have-not, affected and disaffected. Asocial, anti-social, deviant, miscreant, Youth versus Everyone Else.
The second Man entered a brick building, walking through the lobby he saw a man in a Beige Brooks Brother's suit. Knives out. They fought quietly to the death in the middle of the lobby. No one noticed until a Secretary in a Black Pencil Skirt slipped in the congealing puddle of blood and fell ballerina-delicate landing on a firm gym-sculpted ass. At this point she was helped up by Five (5) Men dressed in Charcoal Grey who then set upon the corpse in Beige tearing it apart growling and screeching like baboons. The Secretary tore off her Black Pencil Skirt and High Collared Blouse and joined the Men who proceeded to fuck and bite and tear at her and each other violating and penetrating. Ripping and rendering until all that was left was a semensalivabloodshiturine soaked mess. The mess was cleaned up soon after by a team of Blue Coverall clad Men. They whistled while they worked.
It was 8am.
Smell of Hugo Boss and Testosterone
They are neither brothers nor clones yet they might as well be. They nod simultaneously to each other as they pass, each feeling the weight of the large knife that is sheathed within the uncreased depths of their suit jackets. This scene repeats itself all across The City as everywhere the 454 small-block engine of The City Economy roars to life.
The first Man enters into a glass building where an army of Men in identical Blue Coveralls scrub and shine and buff and rinse off the graffiti that has accumulated over the past evening, but by the time they encircle the building they must begin anew for paint and marker and acid have already sprung up in a cancer like malignancy of names and tags and slogans. Cause and effect. Clean and deface. These Men are lucky. They will always be employed as long as there is a system of have and have-not, affected and disaffected. Asocial, anti-social, deviant, miscreant, Youth versus Everyone Else.
The second Man entered a brick building, walking through the lobby he saw a man in a Beige Brooks Brother's suit. Knives out. They fought quietly to the death in the middle of the lobby. No one noticed until a Secretary in a Black Pencil Skirt slipped in the congealing puddle of blood and fell ballerina-delicate landing on a firm gym-sculpted ass. At this point she was helped up by Five (5) Men dressed in Charcoal Grey who then set upon the corpse in Beige tearing it apart growling and screeching like baboons. The Secretary tore off her Black Pencil Skirt and High Collared Blouse and joined the Men who proceeded to fuck and bite and tear at her and each other violating and penetrating. Ripping and rendering until all that was left was a semensalivabloodshiturine soaked mess. The mess was cleaned up soon after by a team of Blue Coverall clad Men. They whistled while they worked.
It was 8am.
8.25.2009
Chapter 1
An Urbane tale in 24 parts
Picture in your head if you will... No, you must. A city. The City. Viewed from afar. Viewed from space. Viewed from Space like you're Buzz-Fucking-Aldrin falling headlong towards it. You sped uncontrollably downwards each blink a snapshot of the pavement 700 feet closer to your teary drunken bloodshot eyes. You saw an island, and a coastline, and a dense urban grouping of buildings. Buildings cloistered together like high school students smoking beside the English Wing tight with excitement and rebellion. Your final sight was a weather-beaten tenement, - old, grey and coming up fast. 6 stories you passed before, exploding onto the street, your melon flesh splashing, worthy of Uncle Bob's bellyflops into the pool over summer vacation. Back when there was Summer vacation
Back when there was Summer.
PAN UP to the 5th floor, a grimy pollution and bird shit stained window obfuscates the movement of a figure inside.
CLOSE UP: of a Mans hand, It is hairy and pitted, Browned by the sun. A Workman's hand.. It's gnarled fingers hold a French Press of tar black coffee whose plunger has just been thrust downward.
The Man begins to pour the coffee into a chipped white mug stained with the specks of past drips of java, The dishwasher abraded text on it reads “Insert witty comment regarding coffee here.” As the hot beverage cascades into the mug it makes a sound akin to pissing into a shallow pot and this causes The Man's bladder to contract ever so slightly.
The Man sighed. He knew he had a long day ahead of him and the sun was only just cracking at the horizon, thin trickles of light dancing through the open window illuminating the small single room apartment in which he resides.
Smells like piss and fresh dew.
Across the street a trio of hookers shy away from the coming day, their night just ending as a low rumble of commuter cars begins to fill the air like the uneasy groans of a drunk's stomach as she rolls out of bed. The neon lights that filled the street begin to wink out as the morning light drowns them in golden swaths. One of the whores lights a cigarette, bringing it to chapped lips that look like 20 miles of bloodstained asphalt. Chipped and rugged they have seen to(o) much traffic in to short a period of time. She bids farewell to her compatriots and crosses the still still street, entering her apartment block and climbing the Five (5) flights of stairs to the room she shares with The Man.
It is 7am.
Picture in your head if you will... No, you must. A city. The City. Viewed from afar. Viewed from space. Viewed from Space like you're Buzz-Fucking-Aldrin falling headlong towards it. You sped uncontrollably downwards each blink a snapshot of the pavement 700 feet closer to your teary drunken bloodshot eyes. You saw an island, and a coastline, and a dense urban grouping of buildings. Buildings cloistered together like high school students smoking beside the English Wing tight with excitement and rebellion. Your final sight was a weather-beaten tenement, - old, grey and coming up fast. 6 stories you passed before, exploding onto the street, your melon flesh splashing, worthy of Uncle Bob's bellyflops into the pool over summer vacation. Back when there was Summer vacation
Back when there was Summer.
PAN UP to the 5th floor, a grimy pollution and bird shit stained window obfuscates the movement of a figure inside.
CLOSE UP: of a Mans hand, It is hairy and pitted, Browned by the sun. A Workman's hand.. It's gnarled fingers hold a French Press of tar black coffee whose plunger has just been thrust downward.
The Man begins to pour the coffee into a chipped white mug stained with the specks of past drips of java, The dishwasher abraded text on it reads “Insert witty comment regarding coffee here.” As the hot beverage cascades into the mug it makes a sound akin to pissing into a shallow pot and this causes The Man's bladder to contract ever so slightly.
The Man sighed. He knew he had a long day ahead of him and the sun was only just cracking at the horizon, thin trickles of light dancing through the open window illuminating the small single room apartment in which he resides.
Smells like piss and fresh dew.
Across the street a trio of hookers shy away from the coming day, their night just ending as a low rumble of commuter cars begins to fill the air like the uneasy groans of a drunk's stomach as she rolls out of bed. The neon lights that filled the street begin to wink out as the morning light drowns them in golden swaths. One of the whores lights a cigarette, bringing it to chapped lips that look like 20 miles of bloodstained asphalt. Chipped and rugged they have seen to(o) much traffic in to short a period of time. She bids farewell to her compatriots and crosses the still still street, entering her apartment block and climbing the Five (5) flights of stairs to the room she shares with The Man.
It is 7am.
8.24.2009
8.23.2009
8.22.2009
8.21.2009
8.20.2009
8.19.2009
8.18.2009
8.17.2009
8.16.2009
8.15.2009
8.14.2009
8.13.2009
8.12.2009
8.11.2009
8.10.2009
8.09.2009
8.08.2009
8.07.2009
8.06.2009
8.05.2009
8.04.2009
8.03.2009
8.02.2009
8.01.2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
