Sunday, November 30, 2003

Every once in awhile I find myself drawn into an elaborate network of design related sites. I'm talking about the sites on which the Pixel rules all. The sites on which an exhausting, uber-trendy, you're-a-consumer-just-by-looking feel pervades; on which active forums, reviews, and shoutouts are constantly being absorbed into new relationships, like water drops running down a window; and links. Usually many links. In text format, banner/button format, chase-the-vectorbased-ironic-character-around-the-screen format. Links. And this is where I get sucked into their world. Their, them. 'Them' being the talented bit-herders of the 'web. I can't fathom how these people going about all of this. I mean, of course I can imagine the path of curiosity and discovery that an individual might have taken in order to get to a high level of design, and authoring competency, but the entire...organism/structure/network that results when thousands of creative minds have access to eachother so directly astounds me. I've been online since '95, I should be getting at least accustomed to all the choice, all the potential. But I'm not. Not at all. It really does tire me out sometimes. I wonder if, a generation from now, kids will grow up with drastically different neural connections and behaviours because of their from-birth experience with the web and its connectedness. Anyway, here are some of the sites that caught my eye this evening*:



* Tonight, or all of today, rather, was supposed to be devoted to writing my Edu.Pych term paper (Kyra, aren't term papers supposed to be worked on throughout the term? Not a couple of days in advance of the due date? Shut it, Rhetorical Question Poser. I don't want to hear from you). However, said paper just wasn't happening. So, as the content of the few ClinicalPych classes I've attended has alerted me, I rationalized my way out of handing in the paper, and I am currently intellectualizing the unpleasant outcome that will surely result. Hooohhh. I really make myself sick sometimes. Thank god I can boost my average next term (because between now and then, my self-motivation and study ethic will have become so much stronger...). I'm like some sort of Taoist nightmare. Jesuschrist.

Thursday, November 27, 2003

Hoooo...

French: Je suis vraiment fatigue.
Pig Latin: Ay-i m-ay ired-tay.
Cracked-Out Fake Spanish: Ariba! Soy mucho fatiguerro! (every sentence in Cracked-Out Fake Spanish either starts or ends in an exclamation point, didn't you know?)
Yiddish: Oi. (The word is exceptionally versatile.)
English: Hit me with a lamb chop and call me Sue, boy am I tired.

But yeah yeah yeah...what would a blog entry be without some hyperlink action? Well, very similar to many of my posts here at aotp, actually. But tonight we're ("we're" - what the hell am I saying??) going to give the people some links. And nobody can cast a cynical glance at me and sneer "the people? oh please. there are no people who read this page. Only bots and crawlers. Get real, Kyra." "Oh ho!" I retort. (My wit is quick, and my retorting skills strong, you see.) So, yeah. "Oh ho! But there are people who look at this page. A couple of them. Like some of my friends," before this imaginary opponant of mine can say something similar to "Friends?? What friends? Kyra, aloe vera plants listen to you complain about burning couscous onto your nice pot only because they have no choice in the matter." I keep on: "and some random people who click on blogger's 'recently updated' links.." I peter out, remembering that the whole point of this post was to state that I'm feeling in need of sleep, and then to give The People some links. Not to go about proving the existence of said People, or to cast myself as an eccentric who talks to succulents and can't even make a pot of couscous without culinary disater.
...
...
Here you go, you person, you. Linkage. (No deadends at aotp tonight, yo!)
IndiePages - for music reviews, zines, and a generally feel-good vibe.
"Greetings. I am a time travler from the year 2036."
Communication, Cultural and Media Studies. Have an info-base . Have an info-base! Like the blowpop commercials... Am I the only person on the planet that remembers the Blowpop commercials from the late 80s?? I bet you don't remember SunJammers either.. "People"! Pah. What good are People.

Thursday, November 20, 2003

A call for UWO to Get Out!

That The University of Western Ontario does little to nurture (or acknowledge) the sexual diversity of its student population is no shocker if you've spent any time on the campus. Looking for the Thelma to your Louise? The Sigfreid to your Roy? The rabbit hole that exits the massive closet that is the UWO campus? Finding them could prove tough. QWO Pridewestern, Western's queer club, is essentially invisible and voiceless during most of the year, registering an ever so faint ping on the popular radar during Pride Week before vanishing again. Lectures and public discussions on queer theory and related topics are few and far between. Women's Studies isn't for everyone. Fortunately for UWO students, and the rest of the London community, there is one extensive, well advertised, and permanent resource available -- The Pride Library. Established in 1997 by Western Professor James Miller, the Library is a unique phenomenon. In an interview with Young Gay America, Miller explained, "This is actually the ONLY official established Research Center for Gay and Lesbian students in a Canadian University. The fact that it should be at THIS University is nothing short of a miracle."

later that night...


Get In(on it)!
Continuing along with the London PSA wave that I seem to be riding tonight, listen up:
Hot Hot Heat, The Unicorns, and The French Kicks (never heard of 'em, but this review isn't great) will be playing at Call The Office on December 5th, 2003. Live in London? Want to witness the awkward, socially inept whirl of somethingorother that is me? Come to the show! Music is good for you and your community.

Wednesday, November 19, 2003

One Great City!

A fifty second bike ride east from the downtown core and I’m leaning on my handle bars, eyeing a pile of rubble. Nearby, a CNR freight procession rattles its way west. I dismount the bicycle and high step over some rusting ductwork that's laying across the grassy way between demolished and functional squalor. Just now a guy in his twenties walks past. This isn’t a place where I had expected to encounter strollers. But then, I’m here, aren’t I? Strolling, in a way.
His back is to me, now, so I call out. He looks back just before the path gets narrower and the young maples on either side start to reach for him. I ask if he knows what this used to be. He seems a little aggravated by the question. That I ask. Or that I am. Here.
“Don’t know,” is the answer. A look around. Then, “But sometimes the guys in that building,” he points to a recessed door in a squat building opposite the rubble, “sometimes they let their dog out. They don’t know anybody’s back here. They don't check. You know.” I thank him for the warning and watch him walk away with a bit of story he’d rather keep for himself.