My Apple Store

11.3.2k9

As an early adopter of Apple's .mac service (now MobileMe), I was able to choose and receive a simple three-letter account name that served as my email address, iDisk name, etc. No extra numbers or letters, just three letter, a dot, "mac," a dot and "com." Simple. Easy.

Too easy.

It seems that Apple's showroom-stores have display Macs that have live internet connections and an email account, because I have been receiving images from those Macs' cameras for many months now. The cute "Photo Booth" software snaps a pic -often with a COOL EFFECT applied - and the shopper ... uh ... mashes the keyboard with their whole hand and it magically types my email address. Then it sends me the image. Enjoy ... I sure do.
















Tonight - Specs' 12 Adler Museum Cafe.



bye-ee!

whrr ... clik!

H1 N1 C30 Go!

11.2.2k9

I hear the swine flu vaccine is grown in hen's eggs. That's cool. I like to grow swine-related things in hen's eggs: BREAKFAST.

Just this morn I chucked some swine fat in a pan, then some onions once the fat melted. Then I heaved in about two cups of chopped pulled swine that had been on ice since I grilled it and smoked it a couple Sundays ago (when it was still light out at 5p, goddamn it). When the oniony swine began to sizzle and pop, I beat up some hen's eggs in the Tupperware® dish the swine had been in and let them join the snappycracklypoppy oinony swine.

I mixed that mess about with a wooden spoon, then hit it with some shredded chee - three-yr-ol Tillamook™ Anniversary Edition Extra-sharp Cheddar chee.

Then I chowed down. It was food fit for a bad hangover, but I was without. Yay.

Tonight - Club Deluxe.

Not to be confused with the John Peel Show, it's Little Minsky's Peel Show.

bye-ee!

whrr ... clik!

Why we fight.

11.1.2k9

Alluded to in a past Venue Announcement was my little family's trip to the Pacific Northwest this past summer. Oh but some fun did we have, driving here, parking there, sleeping, eating, cooking, etc. We had a few mini-trips, a couple birthdays, requisite trips to hotdog stands and searches for fringe and baby beers. God but our dance cards were full.

But somehow amid the whirlwind I was able to attend and matriculate from a fake medical school that exists only in my head. I did it so I could prescribe myself fake Zoloft™ and I needed fake Zoloft™ so I could deal with the increasing dysfunction at the place I work. Suffice it to say that nothing worked quite right and very few things worked at all. Sure, there are great people that I work with, and I'm impressed by and proud of each one of the people in my department. But some other folks don't really cut it. Some of the technology is constantly fucked. The management, let's just say, moves in mysterious ways. A guy needed a fake mood-altering drug to wad it all up and chuck it over his shoulder, bear down and meet his professional responsibilities.

The goddang fake Zoloft™ worked great! Things that would whip me into a frenzy didn't anymore. "Fuck it," became my refrain. It was liberating. It was so effective that I took it for other things: The misery of the Cubs' 2009 season. The constant bad news about the wars and the economy. And even, gasp, my tendency to be a spelling/grammar and punctuation nazi. I still reel when a grown adult misuses they're, their & there, but ... "Fuck it." I choke when people assign an apostrophe to pluralize a word. "Fuck it." Moot. Mute. Fuck. It.

But I have to draw the line. I watch a lot of cooking shows and I've seen pro chef after pro chef say restauranteur. I don't give a shit if some people think it's all right to say it, but it's not a word. Fuck you. The word is restaurateur.

Tonight - Orbit Room.

Moss? Will ya come out?

bye-ee!

whrr ... clik!