. . . anyone can do any amount of work, provided it isn't the work he is supposed to be doing at that moment.

Or as the following essay Structured Procrastination by John Parry puts it "However, the procrastinator can be motivated to do difficult, timely and important tasks, as long as these tasks are a way of not doing something more important." Personally I've always liked the term Procrastination Jujitsu.

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I don't know when the trick will get old but I love doing online birthday greetings by having ChatGPT make up a "custom" birthday day illustration... this was one of my recent favs

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FoSO suggested we have a day trip to the Harvard Art Museums You're not going to believe this but the skin tone of these two faces are the EXACT same color.

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Playing Jr. Graphic Designer for my band's business cards...

Most folks really seem to want a single company to do things for them. I feel the way people are overwhelmed now, AOL would've beat the internet.

Interesting point about "Web 2.0" overall. I still prefer Indie Web for stuff though, like https://kirk.is is still my blog, even though I crosspost everything, and it's great to have it as a permanent record of things that I control.

However, it's the ratio of ingredients that makes a hot toddy the perfect relaxation refresher, and we like MyUSImmigrantLife's approach: nine ounces of water, in honor of the front nine where Buck teaches Bobby about life; half a lemon, signifying the sourness of Buck's better half; and whiskey, honey and cinnamon to the drinker's best taste, since Buck always plays fast and loose with the sweet, the spicy and the boozy parts of life.

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Reading this sci-fi book, autobiography of a murderous robot artist, and it has this passage on a martian dialect

Before we tackled videos of the actual Martians talking about their lives, we first had to learn their language. It was an American dialect, spoken with a North Iowa accent, but the vocabulary had undergone deep changes: Mars or Martian was now Marty, a man was a brudda or a Marty-brudda; a woman was a snap. Food was spew; dinner was grabbin the barf-bag; a car was a goodwheel or a can; whiskey was Budapest; gin was goose; beer was parthenogenesis; all amphetamine-related drugs were monkey bread; antidepressants were furze; tranquillizers were Circassian chicken; sleeping pills were weenies; cola drinks of any type were jissom; poison capsules (sold openly and quite legally in the colony) were Sylvesters; a hand-scrubbed floor was a murph; wages were greengage; racing imaginary horses was purplesnow; a message from Earth was a plywooder. Knuckle keys, for some reasons, were called wurpy.

Anyone know what the "knuckle keys" are? (ironically ChatGPT is trying to tell me they're low brass instrument parts (but seems confused if they're closer to valves or spit keys))

UPDATE: friend Matt McIrvin thinks probably something like brass knuckles, which would make sense.

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VR Humor:

via

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I played musical lead for the pro-choice Boston Clown March, a lively counter-protest to the "Men's March". Here is a quick clip from the bandstand... us colorful clowns look to be having more fun than those drab ones.

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I don't like talking about my past as much as you guys do.

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"What type of legacy would you like to leave behind when it's all said and done?"

"Well, I don't know, I don't believe in the word 'legacy'. I just think that's another word for ego.That's just some word everybody grabbed onto. Now it's used every five seconds, it means absolutely nothing to me. I'm just passing through, Imma die, and it's going to be over. Who cares about legacy after that? What a big eg--so Imma die? 'I want people to think I'm this', 'I'm great'...no, we're nothing. We are dead. We're dust. We're absolutely nothing. Our legacy is nothing."

"Well thank you so much for sharing that. That is something that I have not heard before - someone say that as an answer."

"Can you really imagine somebody say I want my legacy to be this when way when I - you're dead. You think someone really wants to think about you? 'I want people to think about me when I'm gone' Who the fuck cares about me when I'm gone."

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gearing up the Boston Clown March (along side "The Men's March" anti-choice activists. ) join in tomorrow late morning! we'll have kazoos and some spare noses and wigs!

I dig, you dig, we dig, he digs, she digs, they dig.
It's not a beautiful poem, but it's very deep.

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