Voodoo Time Dot Com

It takes a certain rare ability to be recognized as being especially talented by others. Famous athletes are normally those who excel spectacularly relative to their peers (with the strange exception of Anna Kournikova). Famous musicians play the most beautiful notes, and most original arrangements. Famous writers are those who manage to touch us in a special way through their use of the written word. The names of these people linger on our lips long after death has stolen them from our sight.

I think we would all agree that there is an unparalleled genius that marks one as being a true master of one’s craft. So too must there be a brand of genius in being the worst at something. As an example, I present to you the late William Topaz McGonagall of Edinburgh, Scotland (1825-1902). Though 100 years dead, McGonagall is still honored by many as the absolute worst poet in the history of the English language. Having read his works, I can find no reason to disagree.

Though mocked by his contemporaries, the quixotic McGonagall still fancied himself an accomplished poet and tragedian. He gave on-demand recitals of his work regularly for people who gathered only to make fun. From time to time he received letters from “admirers” which always turned out to be jokes at his expense. He was once awarded the title of Knight of the White Elephant in a letter from one “King Theebaw of Burmah”. Oblivious to the trickery, McGonagall embraced the bogus honorific until his death. He also received several invitations to visit aristocrats across Britain and overseas. He made several of these trips only to find on arrival, that he had been mislead. McGonagall even followed his dreams to New York with only eight shillings in his pocket. He was unable to sell a single poem, and was able to book passage back home due only to the generosity of a sympathetic patron from Dundee. He later died penniless and was buried in a pauper’s grave in his native Edinburgh.

Sad story isn’t it? Or is it? At 47 years of age, William McGonagall the textile worker had a dream of becoming a famous poet. He did not allow lack of money, or lack of ability to stop him. He was a laughing-stock, but his indomitable spirit endeared him to others. He traveled places he never would have gone in the textile industry. There are worse ways to die than in pursuing one’s life’s dream.

Explore your weaknesses. If you can’t be a celebrity doing something well, why not settle for the next best thing? People might remember. People remember Willie McGonagall. They’re going to put up a memorial beside the river Tay - the setting of his most popular poem.

So, what do you really suck at? Get to work! We’re all here waiting to laugh at you.

Bye for now.

John Entwistle

Born Oct 9, 1944 - Chiswick, England
Died Jun 27, 2002 - Las Vegas, NV USA

“The Ox” dead at 57… Damn.

I was just going through my traffic statistics. I do so from time to time just to check and see if I’ve become popular yet. I also check to see the search strings that lead people to this site.

For those of you who do not run your own websites, everytime you visit Yahoo, Google, or wherever, and do a search, that search text is sent to the page you end up visiting. For example, if you go to Google and type “time dot com”, this page is currently the number one result. And if you click on the link, I will see, in my web traffic stats, that someone visited the page by searching for “time dot com”. Usually the searches range from ordinary to slightly odd. But this time, I found something I just had to share with the group.

Some poor soul has found this site by searching for voodoo remedies for diarrhea. And while I question the relevance, this site shows up on the first page of results. At first I thought that search text was pretty funny. Now I think it’s pretty sad. Some poor person is probably dealing with diarrhea so powerful and relentless, that he/she is searching for anything to relieve it. Or perhaps the person suffers from Voodoo Diarrhea, the tragic result of a powerful voodoo curse.

So, unknown visitor, I wish you the best of luck in your crusade. As for the rest of us, let us take this moment to give thanks that we are not afflicted with Voodoo Diarrhea.

I just put in an order for a new Macintosh iBook at work today. Apple has seen the light and has rebuilt their operating system so that it is now Unix-based. That makes Macs cool enough now for me to want one. And working in the IT department of a large international company affords one the luxury of playing with cool toys from time to time. So, I’ll have an iBook for my own use in about a week from now, and then I probably will have lost it within two weeks from now.

Seriously, if you haven’t seen Apple’s notebook computers lately, they are roughly the size and shape of a child’s coloring book. The things are really tiny. I tend not to use lots of tiny gadgets because I tend to drop and lose tiny gadgets. The trouble is, with the exception of SUVs and Chinese children, everything in the world is getting smaller. Cellular phones once weighed over a pound. Now they are so tiny that you can’t tell if the guy talking to himself on the street is important or just insane. Televisions used to be enormous wooden boxes that dominated the family room. Now you can get one that hangs on your wall like a painting (at about the same price as a Van Gogh, incidentally).

Similarly, computers used to require entire buildings to house them, and had less computing power than a calculator I had in high school. My PDA is more powerful than any one of the five computer systems on each space shuttle. Some guy has, evidently, hacked his Gameboy into a web server. At this rate of miniaturization, I fully expect to see moderately powerful computers the size of dice within 15 years.

There is an idea called Quantum Computing that is generating rather a lot of research. Very basically, the idea is to use subatomic particles to do calculations. These particles exist at several different energy states. So instead of 1 and 0 (on and off), we would have 1, 0, and something in the middle. It doesn’t sound like much, but it has the potential to increase computing power something like a billion percent or more. And since we’re talking about subatomic particles here, you’re looking at a computer that could conceivably ride through the air on a speck of dust. This disturbs me for two reasons. First, the possibility exists that humankind could eventually live in an environment chock full of microscopic airbourne computers. Second, there is no chance I could ever keep track of a computer that small.

Still, tiny computers could offer us a wealth of information. They could be used to monitor the weather and give us storm warnings at the slightest stirrings of a warm Atlantic breeze. They could be used to watch complex chemical interactions. They could even be used in medicine. Imagine, instead of an uncomfortable and invasive endoscopy, merely taking a capsule filled with tiny computers that travel through your body collecting information for your doctor.

However, let’s hope they’re not running Windows. It could be the first medicine in history that gives you more viruses than it cures.

Bye for now.

There’s a great story circulating and generating rather a lot of interest in technophile and science-fiction-nerd circles (both of which I frequent). Apparently, at the Magna Science Centre in the U.K., there lives a little robot by the name of Gaak. Gaak participates in a grand experiment in artificial life that involves small robots who roam around feeding on “light trees” that recharge little solar cells on their “heads”. These little photovores live in perfect harmony with one another, grazing together in the glow of electric flora. But Gaak is not one of these robots.

Gaak is a “predator” robot who feeds on these harmless little “prey” robots. Gaak stalks the prey robots using a variety of sensor arrays around his metal hide. Like a lion sniffing out its next kill, Gaak scouts out his environment for the sustenance he so desperately needs. When Gaak captures his prey, he uses a “tusk” to spear his prey and drain some of its energy.

A few days ago, whilst set aside in a makeshift paddock, Gaak began contemplating his lot. Perhaps he was tired of the carnage, or perhaps he was overcome by the futility of it all, or maybe he was just bored. Whatever the reason, Gaak did something completely unexpected. He escaped. He broke through the barricades and made his way outside. He was found later by a visitor in the parking lot who nearly ran Gaak over with his car. Why was Gaak loitering around the parking lot? Why did he not keep going? Why was he not found on the run, miles away?

I know where Gaak was. We’ve all been there. No, not in the parking lot. I’m talking about that place just outside of our normal experience; that place where we find ourselves rather suddenly when we’ve busted out of the paddock and run off without having any idea where we’re going - just running. We eventually get somewhere wholy unexpected and we stop. For Gaak this was the parking lot - a place so far out of his sphere of experience that he could do nothing but wander about, trying to decide where to go from there.

The choices we make when we get to Gaak’s parking lot often change our lives. Just think. In a single moment Gaak quit his job, emancipated himself from slavery, became a pacifist, moved out of his parents’ house, and even became a vegetarian (in a sense). Most of us can relate at some level. A huge life’s decision is made on the spur of the moment, then wham! The double doors open, and you’re in Gaak’s parking lot. Now what?

Do you go back inside and admit defeat, or do you keep running and see where the road takes you?

If you’re lucky, someone picks you up and brings you back inside before you run out of fuel. And if you’re really lucky, you find out that where you were is where you wanted to be all along.

Somehow in the last few weeks, I’ve heard about a phenomenon called Spontaneous Human Invisibility. This is reminiscent of the somewhat more urgent phenomenon of Spontaneous Human Combustion in which a person allegedly bursts into flames with no apparent, external causality. The invisibility condition is sometimes referred to as Spontaneous Human Involuntary Invisibility (SHII), suggesting that this often happens to people against their will. Oddly enough, Spontaneous Human Combustion is never called Spontaneous Human Involuntary Combustion. Perhaps it’s implied.

I find curious the stipulation that this is a human condition. Is this because this affects only human beings? If so, I feel animal research is needed in order to find the genetic differences that prevent all non-human animals from being affected. More likely, I feel that the condition does affect animals (especially cats), but is simply underreported.

Here at Voodoo Time Dot Com, we (I) investigate the tough issues so you don’t have to. The following is a brief synopsis of the symptoms of Spontaneous Human Involuntary Invisibility. As one might expect, SHII is a condition under which a person momentarily becomes completely transparent and inaudible. Reportedly, one’s clothing and anything he/she is carrying disappears along with the subject. Once invisible, the victim is completely unable to communicate with others. Many SHII patients will fall victim to more than a single event of spontaneous involuntary invisibility. It is unclear whether corporeal contact (e.g., kicking the nearest non-invisible person) has any effect.

I propose that SHII is merely a problem of perception. In fact, in a recent poll that I just made up, invisibility ranked second only to teleportation as the most desired superhuman ability. I believe the very real problem here is not the invisibility event itself, but rather the attitude of the afflicted. While a state of invisibility may be a hindrance to certain activities (crossing the street, and using the bathroom standing up are two that come immediately to mind), it is clear that the benefits (creeping people out, and petty larceny) far outweigh the disadvantages.

I propose an international convention of SHII sufferers in order to raise public awareness of this baffling medical anomaly. There would be support workshops and voluntary medical tests for those willing to submit to a series of (mostly) painless scientific experimentation into their condition. I would like to take this opportunity to formally offer my services as a keynote speaker. While I do not have any credible expertise in this field, I just think it would be really fun to watch audience members randomly wink in and out of sight.

Bye for now.

A lot of things go through one’s mind as one is glued to the toilet.

First, lest you assume that I am about to share something uncomfortably biological, allow me to clarify. When I say “glued to the toilet,” I do not refer to having to go to the bathroom a lot. I mean glued… to the toilet.

Krazy-Glued to the toilet.

And when I say “as one is glued to the toilet,” what I actually mean is “as I was Krazy-Glued to the toilet seat last night.”

Perhaps, an explanation is in order. See, the toilet seat developed a small crack about a week ago, and yesterday I noticed it was getting worse. Being the handy sort of guy I am, I pulled out a tube of Krazy-Glue™ and set to putting the seat back together. I guess somewhere along the way, I managed to set my right index finger on a drop of glue. I did not notice this until I stood up to find only nine fingers free.

Now if there is one thing we know about Krazy-Glue™ from the warning on the tube, it is that it “bonds skin instantly.” With no one else around, and only a few drawers within my immediate grasp, I was immediately down to two options.
1. Detach the toilet seat from the bowl and walk around with the seat attached to my hand as I search for something with which to remove it.
2. Gnaw off my finger to get free.

I opted for the former. Within my reach, I had the following tools: plastic comb, nail file, and a hair clip. As I began planning the best way to pry off the seat, I realized my selection of tools was not going to get this job done. I ran through the drawers one last time on the off chance that I may have left a mallet, an awl, or a power drill lying around the bathroom somewhere. But better than finding a great toilet-seat-removing-tool, I found something that would allow me to actually extricate my finger from said toilet seat. I found nail polish remover.

This is why it is a good idea to live with a woman. If you should ever find yourself glued to a toilet seat on a Sunday night, chances are pretty good that you will be able to free yourself without losing any blood.

Bye for now.

I was working today. On a lovely Saturday, I was stuck with another unfortunate coworker indoors working on computer equipment. This, I felt (and still feel), was a great injustice. Who wants to be stuck inside working under fluorescent light all day on a beautiful day like today, when one could be sitting around in one’s boxer shorts in one’s apartment playing video games and eating potato chips? It’s the principle of the thing.

Anyway, whilst wearily whiling away the weekend working, I happened to overhear a discussion my coworker was having with an employee of our client. Said employee was inquiring as to when the Internet connectivity to the office would be restored. When informed that the project was scheduled to last throughout the weekend, the employee laid on this guilt trip about all the work he had to do, and how none of it could be done until he could get onto the Internet. My coworker was very understanding, and reassured the employee that we would try our best to get things up as soon as possible.

“How tactful,” I thought to myself. I wondered what I would have said in the same situation. I like to think that I would have answered the same way. However, I fear that I would have made my true feelings about the whole thing a bit more clear. Unfortunately, in our society it seems that good manners and gentle speech are often misinterpreted. People tend to think that just because I didn’t tell them to “take a flying leap” that I am open to more whining, cajoling, offensive comments, and/or abuse.

I have a secret fantasy that I probably share with more than one of you. In this fantasy, I say exactly what I think in every situation. Talk about freedom. I can’t think of anything more liberating than throwing manners out the window and letting people know what I really feel. When I mentally indulge in this fantasy, I imagine my interpersonal interactions would go something like this:

Boss: “Justis, I need you to look into this. It’s high priority.”
Me: “Sure, let me just drop everything and work on your problem.”

Telemarker: “You have been selected (at dinnertime) to participate in this special offer!”
Me: “Have you no soul?!”

Whiny person: “Why is the Internet down again?”
Me: “I hate you.”

So, you see why I refrain from actually living out this particular fantasy. I too am a slave to civility and courtesy most of the time. I get the last laugh though. I sometimes invent code phrases for days when I’ve really had it. For example, when I say “I’ll see what I can do for you.” What I really mean is “I’ve had it with your whining, and I’ve just put you at the bottom of my priority list.” Give it a try sometime. It’s loads of fun. Next time your boss gives you some mundane task to waste all your time, just smile and say “I’ll get right on it!” Then enjoy the look on his/her face when you start giggling uncontrollably.

Bye for now.

I’ve been reading a few blogs here and there looking for a bit of inspiration for the direction I want to take this thing. I am at this point where I feel like I’ve lost a bit of my creative edge. Regular visitors to this site know that I can be a bit flaky in regards to my frequency of posts, but I’ve really been slacking lately. Partially, the problem is that I’ve been kind of busy of late. I’ve been working late more often than not, and on weekends as well. It sort of saps all the humor right out of a person.

But dammit, I have readers! I have almost enough readers to count on two hands - more than that if I count the occassional visitor who stumbles in here from a Google search for voodoo tights, solar water heater france, or mountain dew side effects (actual search strings from my web stats). I owe you all a show, and by golly I’m going to put one on. The question is, what kind of show?

I noticed that many blogs out there fall into two basic pools. There are topical blogs with current events stories and commentary, and there are personal blogs filled with random thoughts and stories. Voodoo Time tends to float more in the latter. So I began investigating those personal blogs for some commonality - an aggregating factor, if you will, that makes a journal-style blog successful. I found several well-read blogs that seem to have a common formula. That formula is teenage depression.

Therefore, I present the new Voodoo Time Dot Com - like it or leave it. I don’t give a crap. Here’s a poem you’ll all hate because you don’t understand me:

The bluebird sings ‘neath yon window sill
As sunlight hits my eye
But the happy song of morning will
Ne’er stop the tears I cry

Nevermore shall my broken heart
Make another tick
Nor for breath shall my lips part
Covered in black lipstick

Crap… This isn’t working. I haven’t read enough Anne Rice novels to do this right. And that poem was all out of meter and everything. I think I’m going to have to stop being an angst blogger, and go back to the old format. Sorry if I alienate any of my new goth readers with my return to normality.

Anyway, thanks for sticking around. I’m off to wipe all this black nail polish off. Now what do I do about all these piercings?

Bye for now.

As a reward for sticking around even though I haven’t written in a week, here is something I found somewhere online a few years ago (I did not write it, though I wish I had). It’s about the funniest thing I’ve ever read. When I show it to people they usually either agree with me, or they don’t really get it. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it!

Monkey Story

I like monkeys. The pet store was selling them for five cents a piece. I thought that odd since they were normally a couple thousand. I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. I bought 200. I like monkeys.

I took my 200 monkeys home. I have a big car. I let one drive. His name was Sigmund. He was retarded. In fact, none of them were really bright. They kept punching themselves in their genitals. I laughed. Then they punched my genitals. I stopped laughing.

I herded them into my room. They didn’t adapt very well to their new environment. They would screech, hurl themselves off of the couch at high speeds and slam into the wall. Although humorous at first, the spectacle lost its novelty halfway into its third hour.

Two hours later I found out why all the monkeys were so inexpensive: they all died. No apparent reason. They all just sorta’ dropped dead. Kinda’ like when you buy a goldfish and it dies five hours later. Damn cheap monkeys.

I didn’t know what to do. There were 200 dead monkeys lying all over my room, on the bed, in the dresser, hanging from my bookcase. It looked like I had 200 throw rugs.

I tried to flush one down the toilet. It didn’t work. It got stuck. Then I had one dead, wet monkey and 199 dead, dry monkeys.

I tried pretending that they were just stuffed animals. That worked for a while, that is until they began to decompose. It started to smell real bad.

I had to pee but there was a dead monkey in the toilet and I didn’t want to call the plumber. I was embarrassed.

I tried to slow down the decomposition by freezing them. Unfortunately, there was only enough room for two monkeys at a time so I had to change them every 30 seconds. I also had to eat all the food in the freezer so it didn’t all go bad.

I tried burning them. Little did I know my bed was flammable. I had to extinguish the fire.

Then I had one dead, wet monkey in my toilet, two dead, frozen monkeys in my freezer, and 197 dead, charred monkeys in a pile on my bed. The odor wasn’t improving.

I became agitated at my inability to dispose of my monkeys and to use the bathroom. I severely beat one of my monkeys. I felt better.

I tried throwing them away but the garbage man said that the city was not allowed to dispose of charred primates. I told him that I had a wet one. He couldn’t take that one either. I didn’t bother asking about the frozen ones.

I finally arrived at a solution. I gave them out as Christmas gifts. My friends didn’t know quite what to say. They pretended that they like them, but I could tell they were lying. Ingrates. So I punched them in the genitals.

I like monkeys.

Fin.