Commence the Jigglin'

Not that any of you care all that much, but I'm in the process of migrating all content off of Blogger and onto my very own server. Now, because I'm cheap, I've decided that those $7.95 a month type plans are far too expensive. The alternative? Why, just a small matter of using a dynamic IP aliasing service to resolve my home computer's IP address to an easy-to-remember web address*, then downloading and configuring an application that allows me to turn my home computer into a server, meanwhile configuring my router to permit incoming web traffic so that all you fantastic (non-existent) readers won't be greeted with 404 errors when attempting to read my blog. Oh, and since I'm ditching the lovely, template-filled world of Blogger style sheets, I need to come up with a replacement service. And since the functionality of said template is dependent upon Perl, I also need to configure Windows to place nice with that as well. That's about where I am so far. Once that's done though, it's just, ya know, creating the website after that. And that's like, totally easy.

For extra fun I decided to download a Linux distribution this weekend. Yeah, 'cuz I wasn't busy or anything.

* Note: if the previous link is non-functioning, it's because my computer is offline.

Can't Touch This

You know who ate lunch at my work today? MC fucking Hammer! That's who! Isn't that crazy?! Why was MC Hammer eating lunch at my work?

The mind reels.

Letterman

I can't paint.
I can't sculpt.
I can't sing.
I can't play a musical instrument.
I don't excel at a sport.
I never finished my screenplay.
I could never write a novel.
I suck at programming.
I have a terrible poker face.
I can't finish a crossword puzzle.

But.

I can remember your name.
I can arrive on time.
I can name the year in which any number of movies were made.
I can beat most video games.
I can drive well.
I can make teriyaki sauce.
I can clean like a motherfucker.
I can solve a Rubik's cube.
I can compliment you without sounding sleazy.
I can open tough-to-open jars.

Gretzky, hah!

I hope y'all noticed the blog's new name and description. Somehow, "The Blog 1.0" didn't quite describe what this blog is. I mean, yes, it's still an initial effort, but it just didn't sit with me. Never did, but I never really felt a stronger connection to any of my other ideas until yesterday.

Stoner is a nickname I've had since elementary school. Back in Redding. At Shasta Elementary. We were the Miners. Given that I was only in 3rd grade at the time that kids first called me "stoner," I wasn't really aware of what it meant. For all I knew, these kids thought they were hot shit for adding an "r" to the end of my name. I was suitably confused.

Other than the relation to my surname, I didn't particularly earn my nickname through practice (as I said, I was 8 years old), but the name seems to have stuck. It's funny how that works. Even at my work people call me stoner. I'm sure it'll stick with me 'till the day I die. I'll be an old man shuffling down the street with a walker and someone I know'll call out to me, "Hey, Stoner!" I'm just sure of it.

Sex Panther

From Wikipedia:

Musk is the name originally given to a perfume obtained from the strong-smelling substance, secreted in a gland by musk deer, and hence applied to other animals, and also to plants, possessing a similar odor.

Maybe that is my problem.