Geeking about Greeking.

I have altered this blog so the default font is now Hoefler Text. Why? Mostly due to my ligature fetish. Also, the italics just class the joint up.

Hold your friends close...

From thismeik on flickr.
I woke up this morning with the following quote in my head and no idea where it came from:

I held the devil's warm hand in the cold moonlight...
It must be time to start a new painting...

Just looking in...

My future self can't tell my past self anything he won't find out on his own...
I liked it better when my friends had blogs instead of Facebook. I liked being able to stop by once a week and see a medley of events and thoughts and pictures so I could see what they'd been up too. It was like getting a short message with doodles on the envelope or small package of random items in the mail.

Now all I get is one line and a notification about some lost cow or which celebrity housewife cooking show they most resemble.

I tried an experiment last year to keep in contact via plain old regular mail. It was an utter failure, I'd forget to write, or people I'd remember to write would drop me a one line email to say they'd gotten my letter. My current mailbox is a huge monstrosity from Sears Roebuck, back when they were to the biggest, most important company in the world, and their catalog was a de facto overview of Americana. This mailbox was a testament to their dominance and can hold a small child, if someone tried to ship you one via the post office. Now it sits empty most days, except for the occasional advertising flyer.

Is 160 characters enough to stay in touch?

*sigh*

Every job, no matter how great, eventually gets to the point
where you're just dragging your sorry butt in
for one more day on the clock.

Why are there so many blog posts about rainbows?

Well, here's one more:

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via

Political discourse is dead.

Watching last evening's news and seeing a member of the boomer generation refer to the "creeping evil" of socialism followed by a ten minute gladhanding piece on the 40th anniversary of Woodstock reminded me of an old joke:

Q: What's the difference between a locust horde and the baby boomers?
A: The horde doesn't look back.

Let me go on, like a dog in the sun.

How hot was it this weekend? I was panting too.

Look. Just look.

"Life moves pretty fast. You don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it..." - RIP John Hughes.

Advance the spark, we've a hun on our tail!

There are days when I question the issues of owning/maintaining a vintage bike (and this isn't even seriously vintage, it's younger then me!), or at least the questionable decision to use said bike for daily commuting.

This morning was a bit rough start after having been left alone for a rainy week, but I managed to get it to run, albeit with a bit of a limp. Halfway to work, it began revving all over the place and exuding the twin fumes of rich exhaust and leaking gasoline. Never a good sign. I had a distinctly Snoopy v/s the Red Baron feel. Especially with the bright red BMW that was following way too closely.


I get to work to note gas dripping out of the carb holders and hissing off the still ticking exhaust. Disgusted, I put it up on the center-stand and came into my office (the one bright spot of this story is that there is now a motorcycle parking lot within a stone's throw of my building, so I don't have to walk several blocks anymore).

After absorbing some coffee and reading up online I think I can do a curbside fix to get me home, but another round of tests and tweaks will be required. In one way I'm wondering if this bike will ever be finished, and on the other I'm glad I've got something to take my mind of the current madness at work.