I don’t know, once all the construction on I-30 is done, will it be a better thing that I can get to work earlier in the morning?
I’m a big David Bowie fan, but not because I got into David Bowie. The first song of his that I liked was the collaboration with Queen “Under Pressure,” and even then (early to mid-80s) I associated that song more with the supergroup than I did with just Bowie. Radio hits of the 80s that followed (“Let’s Dance,” “Blue Jean”) were a welcome splash to the otherwise repetitive string of pop put out at the time.
Because pre-internet times demanded to do so, I was a member of the Columbia Records and Tapes Club, and one fine day, after failing to reject the album of the month, I received a copy of “Nirvana Unplugged in New York,” which I diligently listened to, it being the 90s and surely anything by Nirvana was worth listening to. The truth is, only one song stuck in my head, and that was “The Man Who Sold the World.” I couldn’t quite understand who Kurt Cobain credited the song to, although I was able to figure it out in not-too-long a spell (I actually had several conversations with friends and co-workers — pre-internet days, remember?).
It was during those times that I also frequented driving to the big Metropolis (Houston) to visit the big stores (Barnes & Noble) and I was able to secure my own CD copy of Bowie’s The Man Who Sold the World, and suddenly, maybe 20 years too late, I became a big Bowie fan. I don’t know that I can easily rattle off the names or melodies of the rest of the songs in the album, but “The Man Who Sold the World” is enough to fill a library of memories, hopes and doubts that were otherwise filled with synthesized chords and other regrets.
After my initial approach to “The Man Who Sold the World,” slowly I absorbed the rest of the Bowie library, which lives with me even without the help of Spotify or any other recorded medium.
Nirvana’s cover was a faithful rendition of the song, and I guess that any artist that attempts to do so will triumph in his or her or their own way, which is why that accidental CD delivery made up my mind once and for all that performing a cover song is indeed the most sincere form of flattery. If I had any talent at all, I would pick up an instrument and record R.E.M.’s “Find the River” and call it a life.
This morning I had an issue creating a new content folder using the Blackboard software we use at the college when suddenly it stopped dead on its tracks and warned me of an unidentified error. I tried to copy an existing folder to see if I could coax the system into cooperating, but still — no love.
I asked a colleague about whom I should call to clear up the problem, and after a couple of tippy-taps on the keyboard, and navigating through a maze of vaguely worded headers on the Interweb, we came upon a sole PDF file proudly displaying a phone number for faculty to use in case there were some kind of problem with the system (DON’T SHARE THIS NUMBER WITH STUDENTS, a legend blazened below the digits).
I returned to my office and sat to follow the same rigamarole path that led us to the PDF, but before doing so, I decided not to call the IT desk number provided, but rather called myself to see if I had any answers. I extended my thumb and pinky finger on my right hand and cradled a make-believe phone on my chin and dialed my number. I already knew what I was going to ask myself, so I quickly told myself that yes, I had already logged off the system and logged in again, I had quit the browser and restarted it and yes, I had even turned the computer off and then back on again.
What I did not expect was my next question: “What browser are you using?”
“I use only Chrome,” I answered, with such disdain that surely I would quit answering the phone when people called for IT advice. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
My response sent chills down my spine, because not once during the 20 to 30 minutes of having this issue had I even considered what I recommended: “Have you tried opening the page using Internet Explorer?”
No. Not at all. Not for a second.
I sat and clicked the Start button to find IE, since I don’t even have the shortcut embedded in my taskbar anymore, and upon pasting the offending URL and requesting a new folder, a shiny icon popped to inform me of the successful build on the system.
“I hate you,” I spoke into my my hand, and quickly air-slammed the receiver above my desk. “I hate all of you.”
With only about a month left between now and the final day of classes, I hope my students are getting visits from that misunderstood muse, Panic. She might be the last hope for some people. Taken from imgur.
Just some guy at the chicken farm rounding up a herd.
Actually, just a creative guy with some free time that saw the opportunity to have some fun with Photoshop and created a scene out of a Saturday morning cartoon (remember those? ever hear of a Saturday morning cartoon?). It’s small, projects like this that allow graphic artists to experiment and flex some creative muscles. Taked from imgur.