I want you to realize that there are other opportunities out there, and that you shouldn't be depressed because I'm not interested in you.
And this is what we hear:
I don't think you're good enough for me, but surely there's someone out there with low enough standards that they will tolerate you.
Hopefully this will clear up some misunderstandings. Thank you.
The first and most obvious application will be pointless "friendster" site. But instead of finding your friends or other interesting people and "friending" them, you find people you particularly dislike, and add them as an enemy. The ever-present and rarely explained action (woo/poke/nudge) will be the "ignore", and you will be able to create events that you can tell people not to come to, and post photo albums with unflattering and incriminating pictures of people you dislike. (This last aspect is actually quite similar to regular social networking)
Next in line is "social bookmarking," the antisocial version of which I'll call "gravedigg". You post links to sites, and instead of voting for an item to get promoted to the front page, you "gravedigg" a link to show how much you hate it and think the poster is stupid.
Dating services follow similarly, with "OkStupid" allowing you to find people who have different interests and background than you do, make assumptions about their intelligence, and question their sexuality through short messages. A prototype of this system is currently in operation, called the "web-based forum".
Of course, antisocial blogs are a part of it, too, with the antisocial version of livejournal being deadjournal... Whoops, nevermind, that one already exists.
With the advent of this new design paradigm, it's even easier to tell our fellow net users to bugger off!
But perhaps the most disheartening part is that there is no lesson to be learned. The entire experience has been worthless. Even the tattered remains of a house can be burnt to provide warmth, but there is no house. No remains. Not even ashes.
I am a coward and a fool.
The point is, I figured other people might like something like this, so I polished it up a bit and released q.bytex64.net. No, it doesn't use AJAX, Ruby on Rails, or the Google Web Toolkit. There's no tagging, or social network effect, or use of the experimental <canvas> tag. And to be perfectly honest, it's pretty damned ugly. But it is fast and functional, two things at least some people care about these days. Oh, and it looks great on a cell phone. (For values of "great" close to "not worse than a desktop browser")
So try it out, it filled a need for me, maybe you'll find it handy, too.
Have you ever had fresh corn?
It's a little known fact that as soon as a cob of corn is picked from the plant, the kernels immediately begin converting sugar into starch. This process proceeds rapidly, and can substantially change the flavor of the corn in about a day. This means that if the "fresh" corn you've eaten wasn't picked that same day, what you tasted isn't what corn really tastes like.
Here in the midwest, you'll find people sitting by the roadside, lounging in lawn chairs next to a pickup full of sweetcorn and a sign proclaiming "Fresh sweetcorn!" The corn you see in that truck was picked that morning, and you can't get fresher unless you pick it yourself. (And if you have the opportunity, I'd suggest that you do)
When you go to the supermarket and pick out some frozen fish, it's not a stretch of the imagination to realize that here in the midwest, you're probably not getting the freshest fish. That fish got caught somewhere on the coast, was frozen, and shipped several days before it wound up at your local supermarket. But nobody considers the fact that sweetcorn only comes fresh from a cornfield, and declines just as rapidly. Most people have never had fresh corn, and they don't even know it.
There are hybrids created to combat this, though. So-called sugar enhanced hybrids ramp up the sugar content so that there's still some sugar left by the time you get it up to a week later. On the downside, the sugar overload also alters the natural taste of the corn. Other, "shrunken" hybrids, slow down the sugar to starch conversion rate, making the taste last a little longer.
But, I'll tell you, there's nothing like picking and shucking your own fresh sweetcorn to taste it at it's peak.
"Don't use the radio too much, we don't want to run the batteries down," Yan admonished before we left. He, of course, neglected his own warning and filled the radio waves with chatter until we stopped for gas in Gifford. Gassed up, we made way for the interstate and a very boring drive.
About an hour into the trip, Yan radioed in saying he was about to fall asleep, so I took over his post in the van while he slept. Also in the van was Yan's mom (hehe), who proceeded to talk my ear off, in an attempt to keep me from dozing off. I believe that at some point she was trying to give me advice on women, but I'll admit I wasn't really paying attention. Yan radioed.
"Mom! Stop talking to Chip so much!"
Surprised, she replied, "How did you know?"
"We can see you moving around from back here!" She had been gesticulating wildly during her entire oration.
After a half hour Yan Rapid Recharge, he was able to take over van-driving duties, and I switched to driving the rental to give Jen a rest. As we proceeded westward, the corn and bean fields faded away to denser and denser forest, and gently rolling hills replaced the linear monotony of Illinois. The final leg of the journey took us through twisty, hilly country filled with Amish folk. A Dodge Stratus isn't the best car for this, mainly because of it's completely dead steering feel. I was going 65MPH over a hill while turning, and got nothing even vaguely intimating where my traction limits were. I was driving on pure leemer. (Leemer is apparently a term used by fighter pilots to describe the feeling when something is about to go terribly wrong. It's described as "a shot of ice cold urine to the heart.")
Safely arrived at Yan's parents' new house, we looked around and took some pictures, then headed inside for dinner. For those of you who have not had the pleasure of dinner from an actual Chinese mother, it goes something like this:
Mother: Here, have some food!
Victim: Mmm!
Mother: Here, have some more food!
Victim: Oh, I'm kinda full...
Mother: Here, have some more food!
Victim: Urghhh... no more.
Mother: Here, have some more food!
Victim: *explodes*
Thankfully, we were able to escape the exploding part and Yan taught us how to play Hearts. I got very good at taking the queen of spades. (Hint: taking the queen of spades is a bad thing) Exhausted after a full day, we went to bed.
Continued in part 3...
Thanks, Nancy, I appreciate that you tried. :-/
I have a car now. I'm currently borrowing my brother's 1989 Toyota MR2, which is a different kind of car than I'm used to. No, not a front wheel drive econobox. MR2 is short for Mid-engine, Rear wheel drive, Two seater. It really has a lot more in common with a go-kart than your average automobile. The engine is behind the seats and ahead of the rear wheels, giving it excellent handling characteristics... and an unforgiving tendency to throw you into the weeds if you push it too far. You see, there are some cars, like the AE86 Corolla, or the RX-7, which are said to "train the driver." The MR2 does no such thing. If you make a mistake, it boots you in the ass, and throws you into the weeds.
This particular car tries very hard to find new and interesting ways to leak. The clutch pedal, since it actuates the clutch some distance rearward of your buttocks, is hydraulic. And it leaks. I backed the car out of the driveway today, only to find that once I got it out in the street, I couldn't shift. I struggled to push it back into the driveway (it weighs a little over a metric ton), but couldn't get it up the incline by myself. A nice lady stopped and helped me push it. Woman in the gray Corolla, you're awesome. Thank you.
Once I got it back in the driveway, filled up the clutch fluid (which is, in fact, DOT3 brake fluid), I went out for a drive only to be caught in a downpour. Guess what else leaks? That's right, the sunroof. *drip drip*
But mostly, I'm happy with it. It does handle really well, and gets me places I need to be. Ok, I don't need to be anywhere, but it's nice to drive around recreationally.
Zoom Zo... Can I even say that with a Toyota? What the hell. Zoom Zoom bitches.
If you do not understand, then you are not ready.
[MEMORY ERROR]
... picked up the rental car ...
[MEMORY ERROR]
... arrived at Yan's house to pick up some things. Yan's place is an interesting little one-story house in the middle of nowhere. To give you an idea of the sparsity of abodes in the countryside, Yan lives eight miles away from my parents' house, and we consider ourselves "neighbors." This isn't strictly true; the closest house from my parents' house is only half a mile away.
Of course, we were enlisted to help load and Yan's mom asked us to take away a number of things, like the forty small packets of soup mix that Jen got, or the gallon tub of Crisco that I wound up burning. We actually wound up burning a lot of things, including a number of things you shouldn't really burn, like foam mattress pads. Hungry from unexpected work, Jen, Yan, and I headed down to the local greasy spoon, the Oasis.
The Oasis is literally the only place to eat for ten miles. That's not to say they slouch with either their service or their food -- both are quite good. Yan and I ordered patty melts. Jen got a cheeseburger. The waitress was actually someone we went to school with. I couldn't remember who she was, but Yan remembered her. We chatted over the welcome meal.
"I've got all those packets," Jen said at one point, "and I don't even cook."
"Yeah, well whose fault is that?" Yan shot back.
"Your mom."
I couldn't help but laugh out loud at the unintentional "your mom" joke. Jen didn't even understand what was so funny for about ten seconds. Yan just sat with a conflicted look on his face, wanting to laugh but not wanting to admit defeat. We finished the meal and headed back out to Yan's place before finally hitting the road.