I mean really.

Since escaping the Complex (which is a long story best saved for scotch and leather chairs) I've been on the move a lot. So I've dumped my custom blog-tool gizmo with its myriad of properties files, templates, 3rd party libraries, and duct tape, and returned to the simplicity and mobility of Blogger. Since its acquisition by Google, Blogger has dropped some its silliness (like restricting post titles to paying customers), and is now so easy to use a trained monkey would have little difficulty in sharing his deepest, stupidest thoughts with the blog-reading community. (For evidence, simply browse yourself to the Blogger Homepage and click the Random Blogs - Next Blog link. It's like a cynical sociologist's Disneyworld out there.)

So now what -- I can post my deepest, stupidest thoughts from anywhere with an internet connection. But moreover it's part of my strategy of OS liberation and Google-love. (It's the calendar that did it finally. That calendar is great. As in Rocky great.) Google now gives me my email, rss, news, weblog, calendar, bookmarks, weather, and search. And soon -- so soon I can almost smell it -- the GDrive. And won't those OS mongers be looking silly then. A-and then the Google Office suite. And then just go ahead, screw it already, march in the Google Hookers (GHos)! I'll just burn out a Linux live cd like SLAX, and then -- holy crap -- I'll keep my desktop computer in my wallet. I'm like Johnny Friggin Mnemonic over here!

Nice, a Battlestar Galactica spinoff. Hopefully it will be as good as its parent (trunk? spinner?), but prequels always seem to suck, don't they?

I knew lit publishing had fallen to a sorry state, but I never imagined it had gotten pop-star bad. There's an edge of cynicism to all this that I wouldn't have expected. It's almost as if the goal of "lit" fiction publishing -- and by that I mean the table of trade paperbacks somewhere on the entrance isle of Barnes and Noble all bursting with this "chick-lit" stuff swelling bubbly over the occassional Pynchon-DeLillo Wannabe -- is the television or film rights, that *conversion* into the big money (the rights typically denied new authors with two-book deals and temporary publicists). As for this one lit-chick, what's the difference? It's not exactly "from hell's heart I stab at thee" anyway. Ha! Melville had a hard enough time shopping his book back then; imagine him trying now.