Futile Horn

01.25.2003 - 6:01 pm (one thousand something something)

I took a two hour nap after I came home from class last night (which I suppose was about 9:30) but I haven't slept since. For reasons I don't quite understand I downloaded the newest version of Netscape Navigator and then a JavaScript debugging tool called in a very g33kish fashion "Venkman". I assumed that after using tools such as Visual Studio learning to use this software would be relatively simple, but I must confess I have no idea what to do. I can make my code appear in the window, but that's all. Oh, and I found that the page I wrote for my web scripting class does not respond when you hit "Submit" in Netscape Navigator. I have no idea why. The debugging tool has been conspicuously ineffective in this respect.

Actually while I was downloading all that nonsense I was in the diner studying. The drunks were three-quarters dead face down in their eggs and blood pudding, but no one was being particularly obnoxious. You'd think I'd feel like a nerd reading in a diner on Friday night, but I oddly felt like the lucky one.

Someone I think might have been my sister left a message on my machine about 11:30 last night. I don't know why, but I feel it's pretty weird for my sister to call at that hour just to say hi. We might have called each other twice socially while we were in college in different states, and she currently lives two floors up.

I checked my email the other day and a girl I used to take classes with asked me if I could tutor her in C++. Of course, the email was sent to my school account which I had opened only once after it had been created, and the message was dated from the end of September. It took me a while, but I've decided it is best to ignore it, remaining a prick, instead of becoming an ass who has not opened has email in four months. Anyway, I'm sure I would have been a kick ass C++ tutor. This is as upsetting to me as the time I went home for the weekend and missed the email that might have gotten me a job as a Greek tutor. Too bad. I could have been like a Santa with a big ol' sack of Hesiod.

Perhaps due to a lack of sleep, I've been thinking of saving DNS servers the trouble and learning the IP addresses of my most commonly used web sites. Already I know that cnn.com is 64.236.24.4. Look at me, I'm a fuckin' HOSTS file. I did in fact type that from memory, but I'm sure it is only good for another seven or eight minutes.

I have to go back to school in a few minutes. I'd post this now, but diaryland doesn't seem to be giving me any response.

It's later now, but this time I can't even connect to my ISP. I called them up and the machine told me they are having technical difficulties why don't I try again later. I'll do that. Bitches.

I saw ice skaters today. On the Bronx River. Fucking crazy man.

Since I drive that stretch several times a week, I forget how pretty some of it is. There's geese and waterfalls and stone working and handmade log bridges.

Going to class on Saturday morning is kinda terrible, but I confess I really enjoy the radio driving up. It's some old guy speaking to me a combination of Irish and English. Oh, and I've come to the conclusion that only heathens call the language Gaelic. Actually, I think it is allowed to slip out so long as you don't use it more than 10% of the time. Listening to Irish songs is somehow spiritual for me (although an unaccompanied vocal that doesn't fail might be spiritual by default), despite the fact the only word I ever understand is failte. Whenever I hear it I feel like I almost know the language, me and my one word lexicon. Actually I think I could go pretty far. I don't actually know the opposite of it but I suppose if I can say "Failte!" and "Failte? Pft!" I more or less can cover all my bases.

When I lived in Philadelphia I stayed in a 24 story building on top of which a giant room with three floor-to-ceiling windows opened up to both the commercial and residential lights of the city. I used to let my breath stain the glass at three a.m. after everyone had gone to bed. It inspired a kind of divine melancholy. That feeling is another one of those memories if I am not careful I find myself aching for. These days I live in the basement and I sit at my desk about eye level with the pavement outside. Surely some St. Michael of housing has cast me out.

At least I didn't wake up next to Beelzebub today. How many Saturday morning risers do you suppose wish they could say that?

Oh, look here's another Irish word:

Born to play the funky céilí,
Futile Horn