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Monday September 3, 2001
Do you ever have one of those months, when you just run out of things to say? August was like that for me, and September is promising to bring more of the same, icy cold silence. It's probably because I have almost stopped reading. I can't remember the last time I read a newspaper, but let me guess. Jean Chretien is still Prime Minister and the Liberals plan to be in power for the next millenium, Stockwell Day is still in politics, but has secretly submitted his resumé to H&R Block. Fighting continues somewhere in the Middle East, and political leaders are skeptical that a peace agreement can be reached. The stock market continues its slide into oblivion, taking the rest of the economy with it. Now I remember why I stopped reading newspapers.

But that's no excuse to give up reading altogether. I did go through a couple of mysteries that were so dry the words fell off the page and I had to vacuum them up from the rug. I read the latest Spenser novel, by Robert B. Parker. Those books now have such a formula, I feel like I'm reading the same one over again. Mr. Parker, if you're reading this, for gods sake, kill off Susan Silverman; she's so whiny, I half expect Spenser to shoot her himself. I read Stephen King for the first time, the book was On Writing: A memoir of the craft. It offered a lot of practical advice on becoming a writer, which all made perfect sense. He faltered somewhat, when he touched on the fact that he left his old publisher because of a dispute over money, and then went on to say how he writes just for the love of it, and money is never a consideration. Perhaps that's true, and selling the film rights to his books for seven figures is the dirty, seedy, money side of the business. That reminds me of a brief news story I heard about John Grisham; now that he has made about a trillion dollars selling the film rights to his novels, he has decided that he will no longer sell them, because he wants people to read the books, not go to the movies. That kind of morality can only come after years of soul searching. That, and having his and hers Ferraris parked in his garage. Nevertheless, King's book read like a casual conversation on creative writing, with a simple message, read a lot, write a lot. Okay, I'll give it a go.

Sunday August 26, 2001
Every Sunday night, I sit down at my computer and try to write something. It's beginning to feel like I'm writing a war journal.
"Tomorrow, they're shipping me back to the front. I've been on leave for two days in Kensington, sitting in the park, drinking iced moccachinos while, downtown, the battle has raged on unabated. I'm told that a group of programmers were called in over the weekend on a break fix, and are now trapped in the office, fighting for their lives, against a platoon of angry users. My mission is to go in, bring them out, and terminate end-user animosity toward the system. If I don't make it back, tell my wife I love her, and tell her not to bother with dinner. I'll be ordering pizza into the office for everyone."
If you haven't been lately, I added another stickman animation. And I just realized that if that guy looking through the keyhole, in the links link, has his eye right up against the keyhole, then the key that fits that hole must be about the size of a baseball bat.

Sunday August 19, 2001
I have been lying on my living room floor most of the weekend, the result of having pulled a muscle in my lower back, which has reduced my mobility to a kind of Quasimodo shuffle. I hurt my back not through hard work or athletic pursuit but by a lack of same, so my body has reminded me to get off my butt by putting me on my back. So, here's my idea, an insurance policy that protects against injury due to the claimant being a lazy, couch-bound bucket of mashed potatoes. In the IT industry alone, that should translate into a bizillion dollars a year.

Sunday August 12, 2001
I'm helping Hao do research for a paper that she's writing on the future of computing. I wanted her to write a paper on how to build a Star Trek holodeck, but it has to be a subject with references and I don't think that Star Trek: Next Generation, would qualify as a valid reference. On a related matter, I listened to an ad on the radio yesterday, for the latest useless cell phone feature. You can now scan photos of friends and family into your phone and synch them with the phone number, so that when one of these people phone you, their picture will appear on the display. I suppose this is the precursor to the Dick Tracy video wrist phone. Let's just skip to the final chapter, where the phone company will imbed a chip into our heads and we will all communicate directly via brain waves. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile.

Wednesday August 1, 2001
I am always able to rationalize my actions but I'm not always able to identify the motive for them. And my wife, who is wise in the ways of the world, can never quite bring herself to accept my rationalization, but is invariably able to assign motive to almost everything I do. It's uncanny. However, if I accept her definition of my motivation, then the awesome depth of my mad criminal genius makes those poor slobs that Spiderman and Batman go up against look like a troop of Boy Scouts out to earn their good neighbour badges. Maybe I should get a slick suit and give myself one of those fear inspiring monikers; The Analyst. The Hacker. Wait for it, it'll happen. Lock up your business processes, The Analyst is on the prowl. Oh man, I think my delivery needs a little work.

Monday July 30, 2001
Welcome to my home page. I had hoped to fill this spot with a variety of witticisms à la Mark Twain, a rather ambitious undertaking, since I am entirely lacking in both the depth of his wit and the volume of his hair, though why the hair is an issue we may never know. So, in the weeks and months to come, I will simply plague the web with whatever I happen to be thinking at the moment. Fortunately, for you, I don't happen to be thinking of anything just now, so it looks like you get off easy today. Anyway, enjoy the rest of the site; it's small but it was handmade from scratch, like your favorite cookies. So have a glass of milk, or bourbon, if you're so inclined and catch up on my life for a while. I still have to fill in a few blank spaces, everything in its time.