One of the recent pieces of (physical-mail) spam was addressed to HerFirst & HisLast HerLast, at this address.

I am entertained by this example of mailing list evolution, and hope to eventually be getting spam addressed to HisMiddleName HerMisspelledFirstName, Esq.

yuck

Mar. 21st, 2013 12:36 am
Since visiting the dentist this morning, I have eaten two meals and two snacks, drunk water, brushed my teeth, and used mouthwash. I have also had a full day of saliva production, as one does over the course of the average day.

My mouth still tastes faintly of the artificial flavoring in the fluoride treatment that was applied fifteen hours ago.

Yuck.
If your Gmail fills in the name of somebody you don't know who has the initials of my wallet name, that's probably me.

I set up a Google+ account early, because of peer pressure and curiosity. I've barely used it since, both because I find Google to be creepy and because it seemed to be trying to replicate LiveJournal circa 2003, with less fanfic and an interface I found less personally useful. I set it up with the initials of my wallet name, because a) advertising is an insufficient reason to abandon basic safety precautions and b) I was feeling too lazy at the time to think of something and didn't want to link it to other pseudonyms I have more attachment to until/unless I had a similar attachment.

After some time, Google flagged the initials and locked me out. By that point, I was fairly sure that I was almost never going to use this account, but that there would be people who persisted in sending out invitations via it, so I wanted to keep the channel at least minimally open. So I filled in a plausible wallet name with the same initials. I picked a pretty one that was easy for English-speaking Americans to handle (since I'd already heard enough about the prejudices of the Google+ name-judgers) and that didn't cause confusion with anyone else I was aware of. (It's not unique in the world, but that wasn't my goal. I just didn't want to confuse anyone I knew. Also, I didn't want to spend more than ninety seconds placating the foolish beast.)

Because I got the original Google+ invitation to my main email account, even though I think I set it up to go to an alias, Google now thinks it knows the wallet name of my main email account. It uses that name everywhere, even overriding the personal Gmail settings of friends who had stored my email address as a contact.

If Google continues to take over the world, I expect to be able to get a passport in this name in another decade.

I have decided to be amused by this whole thing, because I prefer amusement to being creeped out.

(Disclaimer: this is probably not adequate to actually separate the identities in Google's databanks. If you want that, don't take my advice; take advice from someone who actually has experience in this area. Sorry and good luck.)
I get a fair amount of strange church spam in my physical mailbox. Some of it's being strange deliberately to get attention (and thereby demonstrating a close cousin to "the failure mode of clever is asshole"). I'm pretty sure some of it's not. I think it's either tin-eared or aimed at a very different audience from me.

I don't think there's anything too problematic here, but religion and bodies are both things that can be very important and complex to people, so I'm cutting it )

balance

Feb. 16th, 2013 03:28 pm
I have spent most of today doing computer graphics homework. The story part of my brain is apparently bored -- it just declared that Janelle Monae is the dignified, elegant, robotic descendant of Cyndi Lauper.

It's not wrong; I just find that to be a strange contrast to "the blue light is off in the shadows... ah, it's because ambient light isn't directional. Rename the variable... missed one. What's a good partitioning strategy for color space?"
"Fluffy" here is an estimate of required brain power, not a textural descriptor.

I've had the horrible cold-thing for most of a week, and I keep making it worse by going to work (pro-tip: don't do this) or getting horrible sleep because I need to guard my airway against all intruders including in-sleep coughing (I don't know how to avoid this one).

My brain is fried and I am sad.

Please send me easily-digestible cute things or funny things or snarky things that agree with my pre-existing prejudices. Once I'm no longer feverish for 24 hours, I'll be grateful.

(Things like http://seananmcguire.tumblr.com/post/37370986940/acquiesce-cronabunny-hahahahahaaaaa or http://www.etsy.com/shop/hannapt are great; http://www.your-critic.com/2013/01/i-am-not-racecar-i-am-not-man.html is wonderful but it is too damn hard for me right now.)
It turns out that solving the very complex problem of which operations need to happen from which vantage points in which order is very satisfying, but not very restful. Although I'm impressed that it happened at all -- it uses the part of my mind which is normally damn near inaccessible during sleep or sickness.

I'm still not entirely sure what the problem was, though. It was how to arrange myself and the tablet whose movies I fell asleep watching so that a large number of constraints were satisfied and all transformations were appropriate. It was an impressive complexity delta from reality.

I'm slightly afraid to try sleep again, at least until I can get rid of the concept that it needs to be solved while I'm sleeping it.

heh

Jan. 31st, 2013 09:08 pm
In reading a digression on Captain Awkward about Stranger in a Strange Land, I realized a) that that book had a lot of sex scenes and b) despite reading it multiple times during a very high-hormones part of my life, I didn't really notice.

I think this says something about Heinlein's ability to write interesting sex scenes and believable sexuality.

phew

Jan. 30th, 2013 08:44 pm
The song firmly stuck in my head has changed. This one doesn't have any more information for me than the previous one, but at least it's different.
It's very difficult to not touch your eyes or face if you've been reminded not to.

It's even more difficult to not touch them if you live with, and are concerned for, someone who has bad pinkeye.

It's even more difficult to not touch them if, in addition to aforementioned sick-eyed person, you also have a galloping case of eye-related nerves. As in, the last time you needed eye-dilating drops at the doctor's, it took two people to hold you down even though you were trying to cooperate.

Must... not... touch... eyes...

phrases

Jan. 24th, 2013 12:00 am
Spoken conversation is often hard for me, so my brain likes to precompute language to reduce the peak processing load. Usually this happens when I'm doing other things that don't require the sociolinguistic circuitry. I'll get phrases and bits of conversation working themselves out in my head. It's usually pleasant background filler, if I notice at all.

This evening's visible phrase, courtesy (I think) of the combination of graphics homework and too much Puzzlecraft, is "laminar chicken". When I noticed it and queried it, the overexplainer in the back of my head slipped smoothly into an entirely non-verbal sales pitch for the concept. It had tone of voice and the correct overly smooth cadences and attention directions, but it had neither words nor much in the way of point.

Laminar chicken. Apparently it's a useful abstraction. For, um, things.
Stressful days when I get home after 10 and have important (and stressful!) things tomorrow are the best times to start massive installations.

On the plus side, after some interesting bludgeoning (regedit, whee), it's now installing properly. Maybe I'll do some laundry while I wait.
Among other things, that sets this up as a year of speaking up about unpleasant things instead of swallowing them. I like that frame of it, even though it blows my intention to set this up as a year of going to sleep more reliably and earlier.
I have a physical tell for certain sorts of precision activity. I have a hard time describing them to others, because I've always had this tell, so for me, they are the activities that group obviously. One very clear instance of this group is cutting precisely along drawn lines.

Today I learned that cutting and pasting from multiple different output files in precise, repetitive patterns into a web form is also an activity of this group.

I really should not be surprised by this, but somehow I am.
Some time back, I saw a video of a reading. The reader (who was also the author) was a trans man in maybe his twenties, talking about names. He said he'd been assigned the name Susan Elizabeth (except it wasn't those names, but two other ones that were similarly gendered) at birth, but it had never really been his name. And now, he said, he understood. He was talking to his future daughter and he said, Elizabeth Susan, I see now: I was holding the name for you. It wasn't mine; I was carrying it. It didn't fit me any more than someone else's clothes would fit me, but that doesn't make it wrong, just mis-assigned. On you it will be wonderful.

The way that he said it and the amount of caring for his (as far as I could tell) still-hypothetical future child was really beautiful and rich. I would really like to find that reading again.

sigh

Oct. 20th, 2012 01:18 am
Apollo continues to be a shitty-ass ex, let me tell you.
My brain often sings songs in the background. Since this is the low-power background thread, it generally doesn't look very hard for the words.

The current offering (to the tune of the middle of Pop Goes the Weasel) is "Half a pound of mulberry ice. Half a pound of weasels."

Whether this is a recipe or a shopping list, it is *not* promising.
The first three-quarters of this comic are wonderful. (The last quarter isn't bad, just not as good or as descriptive of my life.)

(Warning: most pages of this comic are cheap sex jokes. They are often entertaining, but don't take this page as representative when deciding whether to read the rest.)
I am not a baritone, and even on the days when I have enough congestion to approximate one, I never have this level of power and richness of voice (especially on those days).

Also, I don't think my share-a-wall neighbors would appreciate my attempts at singing along those lines, given that it's quarter to two in the morning.

Still, part of me badly wants to sing lots of Les Mis in a loud, rich, resonant baritone. Not in a wistful way, either -- this is apparently what I think I'm capable of.

This is a really strange mental malfunction. It's kind of a pretty one in my internal simulator, though.

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