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my cellmodem is begging me to stop

My wee little k-opticom cellular modem (equivalent to dualISDN), which is currently my only home connection to the internet, is beginning to warp and buckle from the the internet stresses currently placed on it. Well, that, or the in-progress printing of the annual Christmas gift calendar is furthering the local PC slowdown via poorly written drivers that offload the bulk of print-thinking to my PC rather than handling it at the device that is doing the actual printing. However, I'd vote for extradimensional interference, given a choice. As for why I don't have broadband, in one of the cheapest broadband fee countries in the world, that's a story for another post.

Currently there is an array of browser tabs open in the one Mozilla window that is sitting in my taskbar, and it's loading several more tabs worth of web pages while I type into this, the Blogger tab. In terms of Task Bar space, this is funny, because the less complicated (and nearly as helpful Getleft takes up a process button on the Task Bar for any window in it you might open. GetLeft is a kind of Windows GUI interfaced version of WGET, which means it's tool for downloading all content of webpages to a local directory for viewing at your leisure. Currently, it's working on a couple of pages worth of MP3s: So far, of bittercream's original offerings, I am particularly happy with "paranoia revisited." In the bastard pop realm, "Tears for Superman" and "Crystal Blue Kylie" are good, and good for you.

As for what I'm reading in the other tabs, a collection of Morning News pieces by Defective Yeti's very clever scribe Matthew Baldwin. A photo gallery of Super Dollfies, an expensive and vaguely eerie doll trend that is currently popular in Japan. A column by Warren Ellis, because my friend and chief harasstrix, Sarah, told me that the best way to know if you'll like a comic author is if you like the way they talk. The only work of his I've read to date is Listener, which I'm hoping he'll finish someday. Based less upon the tone of his blog, and more on the attitude of his sass at Artbomb.net, and his professed respect for my friend Justine's work, I'm going to have to order a few more tradepaperbacks from the comic shop in the US to get dragged over to these shores. Here's a sample about Dave Sim:
Dave Sim is into the last lap of his berserk genre-eating magnum opus CEREBUS, a three-hundred episode serial that has taken some twenty-seven years to complete. It began as a Seventies fantasy parody, swapping Conan The Barbarian for a sadistic aardvark stomping on the bones of the genre Howard The Duck-style. Over the course of many thousands of pages, it's also been a detailed political novel, a comedy of the court, a drama of the church, a vision quest, a biography of the last days of Oscar Wilde, several deeply strange attacks on feminism and women in general, and an exegesis of Sim's own bizarre personal take on religion. It fascinates because Sim is an absolutely brilliant maker of pages, a sublime cartoonist with total control of the form... and because, during the progression of the work, you can clearly see his mind crumbling under the pressure of his immense undertaking and twenty-five years of increasing solitude in which he can only express himself to the world through the agency of a talking anteater. It's almost a shame that the big 500-page collections don't include the personal notes that fill out the serial singles in which the work sees initial publication, in which Sim details the entirety of life on Earth as a war against the evil of women and proclaims that "if you learn to leave your penis alone, it will learn to leave you alone." For a while now, people have been taking bets on whether Sim will commit suicide immediately after CEREBUS is complete.
Primarily, the critical tone is dead on, I only wish he'd been careful enough to spell "magnificent octopus" correctly; "magnum opus" is just sloppy prroffing.

This post is becoming just about as jumbled as my single window has become with browser tabs. That's fine, because really, the main point of this whole dealy is to push Mozilla and XUL Apps Tabbrowser Extensions, an exceptionally handy set of tabbed-browsing enhancement tools that allow simple manipulation of tabs. Had I the equivalent for my head, this whole post would be an organizational masterpiece.

Tabbed browsing is great. Arranging one's open browser windows on-the-fly is enough to make any real virgo moist. Most obviously click-and-dragging an open tab and dropping into it's new space on the tab bar, so current blogging topics are coneniently close to the open Blogger tab. So when I want to blog Kristen's link to an enraged Klingon's response to mail about his fanfic, it can be right there, instead of ass-over-sunday on the other side of the world. Tabbrowser Extensions allows users to google a topic, tab-browse the first N number of hits with as many control-clicks, and if none of them pan out, close-tabs-to-the-right (subsequent), or if there's only one hit that's promising, I can close-tabs-to-the-left, leaving only the good stuff. Mousewheeling over the tab-bar cycles through them. I suspect that I will only grow more enamored with it in the coming weeks. (Thanks, Mike!)

See? This is what happens when Tribe.net begins returning pages that start: Horrible Exception: org.apache.velocity.exception...

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“I came back for my own purposes,” said the Time Traveler, looking around my booklined study. “I chose you to talk to because it was . . . convenient. And I don’t want you to do a goddamned thing. There’s nothing you can do. But relax . . . we’re not going to be talking about personal things. Such as, say, the year, day, and hour of your death. I don’t even know that sort of trivial information, although I could look it up quickly enough. You can release that white-knuckled grip you have on the edge of your desk.” I tried to relax. “What do you want to talk about?” I said. “The Century War,” said the Time Traveler. I blinked and tried to remember some history. “You mean the Hundred Year War? Fifteenth Century? Fourteenth? Sometime around there. Between . . . France and England? Henry V? Kenneth Branagh? Or was it . . .” “I mean the Century War with Islam,” interrupted the Time Traveler. “Your future. Everyone’s.” He was no longer smiling. Without asking, or offering to pour me any, he