All scottobear.com emails will now come to me.

so, now Newton has his own email address…newton @ scottobear . com, and spam @ scottobear . com is my “registration email” that gets autodeleted.

via the masked blogger –

Here’s an interesting pool of information provided by the merging of census data through the efforts of the Modern Language Association. Find out how many people speak a language in the zip code of your choice. So far MLA has mapped the top 30 languages in the U.S.

scottobear.com should propagate to my new address shortly…. within the next 48 hours, I imagine. If it causes anyone email weirdness, just fire stuff to me via the LJ or yahoo address, if you have it in the meantime.

Hmm.. audioblogger no-likey the lj linking. I can can get the sound file, but the image no longer transmits over lj.. .same goes for direct linking to my photoblog images… the best I can do is link to the blogspot entry, now.

Reservoir Dogs, made from Balloons? Big download, but impressive.

Brother is hanging with Mark. (One of the people he swore on a stack of bibles he’d never talk to again… he claims it was for a jump start for his truck… I don’t care if he had two broken legs.) Brother is an Idiot. Brother will end up in jail or worse. I knew that, dear journal, but it sucks to get confirmation. Dumbass. I discussed it coolly with him, and he says that he doesn’t want to talk to anyone that doesn’t trust him. That’s fine, I can use a break of a day or two.

Father’s day coming up… I don’t know many pops these days, but the ones I do know are pretty keen.

I’m in the mood to watch some old Ray Harryhausen movies this weekend.

Overqualified is an ugly term. I’m ready to retire.

http://www.straightdope.com/mailbag/mzombiepower.html

When the zombies take over, how long until the electricity fails?

quick answer: scattered blackouts within 4-6 hours, complete failure in 24 hours

Continue reading 6719- Thanks for the info, Straight dope! →

Today, Bloomsday is honored with a special Google logo.

The celebration originates in Ulysses by James Joyce, a novel which “recounts the hour-by-hour events of one day in Dublin–June 16, 1904–as an ordinary Dubliner, Leopold Bloom, wends his way through the urban landscape, the odyssey of a modern-day Ulysses.”

It was very vivid in parts, others I don’t remember nearly as well.

I was in a car with Pam M., being driven (I thought) to GP & Katt’s place for gaming, like we did in the early 90’s. We were gabbing it up like old times, talking about an old episode of “Doctor, Doctor” on TV… the one with the insanely funny dancing doll. It turned out we were going to her place first (her old-old place, back when she was still living with her mother and Paul) to pick up some stuff she had forgotten for the get-together.

I assumed it was brownies or some such, but then she came out with western costumes… she handed me a white long-sleeved, collared shirt, dark pants, and soft, well-worn boots. In my dream-state, this all seemed perfectly normal, so I went into the restroom to put on the gear. It all fit and looked good, though I thought it was a little bland for a “costume”. I wish that I could remember what Pam was wearing, but if I knew at all, detail faded upon awakening. I don’t even remember if she looked good or not, just that her clothes fit, too. (They had been shipped to her, and she was concerned about tailoring.)

We took a walk around back and there was a series of rocks set in a circle, with a recliner placed directly in the middle. Pam walked over to it, sat down, and a black square of space opened beneath her, allowing her and the chair to vanish silently into the ground. She was gone in a blink, with the ground and chair returned as if they’re never moved. I walked over to the launch-site, and there was no sign of any disturbance at all. I felt myself shrug, and took a seat.

I was surrounded by a palpable black fog, and was pushed out into the light again almost as fast it had faded. No longer sitting, I was standing on a dirt path leading up to a ranch house, surrounded by rough hewn tree fencing and a number horses tied to posts. I explored the area a bit, and it was as real as the place I’d been before. I checked my pockets; my palmtop was still there, as was my money and keys. (For some reason I thought that they might not have made it… weird time-travel rules echo-thing, maybe.)

After exploring the grounds for a bit, I went inside, where Danny and GP were sitting at a table, sharing a beer. Danny was dressed up as a typical goofy cowboy, leather vest and chaps – big white ten-gallon hat and a string tie. I wondered idly if that was what he wore to Davie Junction when he takes his wife dancing, even though I know that it’s not. GP was in black, with a day’s growth of beard or so, looking like he was about to win “ranch hand most likely to start a bar fight” though he was in good spirits, smiling and gabbing with Dan. I ordered a beer, and my sweetie came over and sat in my lap – greeting me with a huge hug & kiss. She had the whole saloon girl thing going in red satin and ostrich feathers, and told me that she was scheduled to do a few torch songs and guitar work later on, which I found to be fantastic. Katt showed up shortly afterward, and was doing the ranch-hand/Audra Barkley thing. (Jeans and a collared shirt, not to mention a goofily small black cowboy hat.) She pulled up a chair and got some sort of hard liquor… whiskey, probably, considering the place. I asked Katt where Pam went off to, and was told “She’s off doing some solo stuff… she’ll be back soon.”

GP made a comment about having to get us all together at a tavern, even though outside it was just sort of a house. He then asked if I’d played darts yet, and I told him “Nope!”

He handed me a brass cigarette case with three darts inside, and told me to go throw ’em at the board – and that what score they hit would give back my characteristics. I was reluctant to release the prey I had nabbed on my lap, but she got up of her own accord, and walked me to the area behind a billiard table where I was to throw.

A lot of generic folks lined the edges of where I was to throw, like it was a major event. I tossed three times, and a cheer followed each strike to the board. I remember being happy that I didn’t hit the wire score dividers, as I often did on the rec-room board at home as a child.

I was given a choice – to play the on the side of the “syndicate” a group of wealthy families that run a cattle business, the “Sours” sort of where anti-heroes, bandits and fallen good guys end up because of booze or some other temptation, or “The Law”, which is self-explanatory… I was happy to see that each side had room to be good or evil in their own way. I arbitrarily went with “Sours”, just because it seemed the most fun at the moment. I was handed a sheet of paper, which had my name on it, and underneath, a short breakdown of my skills and mannerisms.

Apparently I was to play “Stinkin’ Stan” (Stinkin’? Bah.) An ex pearl diver from back east until I got some sort of ailment called “transfer disorder”, so I’m working at a syndicate ranch until I can afford some sort of local snake-oil cure. The “disorder” is some sort of poltergeist has followed me from the deeps… sometimes useful, but generally problematic as well. It’s sort of like 1d each of luck and unluck, I guess. I was also handy with a knife, and given a spring-loaded bowie knife, easily concealed – a la James West, I guess. Why would a pearl diver have a gadget? Who knows, but it was nifty.

Vague elements were other “dimension hops” where you could travel to other regions quickly, and there were strangely placed cameras everywhere, akin to The Prisoner. I don’t know if we were on some reality LARP TV show, were being recorded for our own viewing later, or if it was something more sinister afoot. I’m not sure if the extras were actual people or WestWorld automatons, for that matter. Apparently I was too poor to purchase a gun, but took a rifle off of a dead Indian. I only hoped that it doesn’t belong to someone that’d going to come looking for it.