Well, well, well . . .
Hey Blog. What's shakin', blog. Sorry I haven't been around much, blog, but school and learning and books think they're pretty important these days. I don't know if I really agree, but seeing as I'm here . . .
If you haven't noticed, that playlist up top (that has had the same music for years) is all changed up now. It's nothing but cover songs. Look through it. You'll find something you like.
I wrote an article that got published. It's for an academic journal so it's not all that exciting. Here's the first part of it (including the nifty illustration I did for them):
And All You Wanted Were Flying Cars.
We were supposed to have flying cars by now. That's what I was told as a smallish* boy running around my childhood backyard making laser noises with my mouth and double fisting plastic X-wing fighters into imaginary dogfights. We were going to live in the City of Tomorrow with motorized treadmill sidewalks, robot terriers and a lot of glass domes. Instead we got the Internet.
You may not know this, but the Internet features a whole assortment of material besides porn and eBay. It's what lingo-savvy people like to call a Social Media. From the agoraphobic comfort of your own home you can socialize in complete solitude. From a historic perspective this may not qualify as "being social," but that's only because our hand-shaking forefathers had to ride a horse into the town square to read and sign their declarations in person. If George Washington had a wooden keyboard to match his teeth the first presidency would have required a lot less saddle burn.
In March 2003 Friendster went live as the first online social network and was quickly embraced by three million users within the . . . blah,blah, blah. It gets pretty dry from there (although that asterisk leads to: "*Alright. I was fat.").
Here's the original photo of the "flying car" for anyone who's interested in that sort of thing.
I was going for the whole retro-way-you-remembered-things-when-you-remembered-them-a-long-time-ago feel.
Back to my illustrious spring break of writing a research paper and not doing anything fun.
Bye Blog.
If you haven't noticed, that playlist up top (that has had the same music for years) is all changed up now. It's nothing but cover songs. Look through it. You'll find something you like.
I wrote an article that got published. It's for an academic journal so it's not all that exciting. Here's the first part of it (including the nifty illustration I did for them):
And All You Wanted Were Flying Cars.
We were supposed to have flying cars by now. That's what I was told as a smallish* boy running around my childhood backyard making laser noises with my mouth and double fisting plastic X-wing fighters into imaginary dogfights. We were going to live in the City of Tomorrow with motorized treadmill sidewalks, robot terriers and a lot of glass domes. Instead we got the Internet.
You may not know this, but the Internet features a whole assortment of material besides porn and eBay. It's what lingo-savvy people like to call a Social Media. From the agoraphobic comfort of your own home you can socialize in complete solitude. From a historic perspective this may not qualify as "being social," but that's only because our hand-shaking forefathers had to ride a horse into the town square to read and sign their declarations in person. If George Washington had a wooden keyboard to match his teeth the first presidency would have required a lot less saddle burn.
In March 2003 Friendster went live as the first online social network and was quickly embraced by three million users within the . . . blah,blah, blah. It gets pretty dry from there (although that asterisk leads to: "*Alright. I was fat.").
Here's the original photo of the "flying car" for anyone who's interested in that sort of thing.
I was going for the whole retro-way-you-remembered-things-when-you-remembered-them-a-long-time-ago feel.
Back to my illustrious spring break of writing a research paper and not doing anything fun.
Bye Blog.
posted by Matthew Pazzol at 6:46 PM
1 comments
