I updated my home page today (mainly to refine the self-aggrandation now that my three-pronged weblog is back to one) and rediscovered my home page archives. I have faithfully saved my index files dating back to 1999, archiving a page the last day before a change. Take a look:
Page 101 of 130
According to this report, Apple is wisely (and perhaps proudly) submitting iTunes sales data to SoundScan, giving an added burst of legitimacy to its numbers.
When I was younger I used to consider buying some of my CDs intentionally at larger stores where sales were being reported to SoundScan. Let my indie voice be heard! So I’m spending my $15 at Sam Goody—at least the world will know I’m buying the new Odds record. BBC Records will understand.
SoundScan has been tracking online music sales for a while, so this news isn’t a big stretch. But it is good news.
New York’s Hunk-O-Mania on West 52nd Street is not the same place as Hunkmania on West 14th Street.
The presenter is creating a work and sharing it free of charge—therefore it is not a for-profit situation. …
Sites that request donations expect their readerships to view their sites the way computer users regard shareware: If you like it, pay us a few bucks, which will encourage us to keep up the good work. But content isn’t the same as software; it is usually a diversion, not a utility, which alters its worth.
—When you make me pay, I’ll pay, May 23, 2002
In which the author tries in vain to brave the elements in waterproof pants.
The phone call came at 6:50 Sunday morning, which would have been horrific had I not arisen half an hour earlier in its anticipation. Yes, confirmed the far end of the call, the rain isn’t as bad there, and the drainage system is excellent, and the golf outing is a go, despite the heavy rains outside my apartment. Besides, we had made the forced error of paying for the day in advance, sealing our fate.
I left home shortly after, golf clubs on one side, umbrella on the other, trudging four wet minutes to my car, driving around the corner to an ATM, picking up a friend and heading for Colts Neck, N.J., home of sprawling estates and horse stables and the site of my apparently wet sporting event.
We arrived in light rain, which quickly became a heavy downfall as we signed in and hit practice balls on the range. Doubling back to the clubhouse before teeing off, we begged for towels and layered up clothes; I purchased all-weather pants to keep myself from catching cold.
I was in the third group of the day. By the time we got to the first hole, standing water had accumulated on the tee box, almost as high as the grass itself. I was in a threesome. The first man teed off and nearly lost the club out of his hand. I hit what happened to be a beautiful drive, but did so through rainfall so thick that my playing partners said I looked like I “hit out of a puddle.” Our third player refused to get out of his cart, told us we were fools if we stayed out, and headed for the clubhouse. After a moment of dejection, we did the same.
The starterâwho insisted the course was playableâagreed without much argument to give us a group rain check. A fast, greasy meal at the local Perkins ended the affair. We were back in Manhattan before noon, still soggy from the morning’s activities, but more than a bit relieved we didn’t put ourselves through 18 holes of misery on a rain forest of a golf course.
Golfers are a rather stupid lot, but even we have our limits.
Although he’s a male and he lifts his leg, Charley has the useful ability to pee once and be done, rather than feel compelled to wander the neighborhood marking all the tree stumps. Our trainer told us we got him to operate in this manner by encouraging the behavior. We just think he’s a good dog and leave it at that.
Tonight was a quick pee walk, where I am outside for all of 45 seconds while the dog does a three-quarter turn on the grate in front of the building, goes, and heads back home. Our neighbor and fellow dog owner was in the lobby, and often-shy Charley pulled me to her to say hello. I had him roll over—his latest trick—while Shiela grilled me about his habits and invited us to visit and have him play with her two Yorkies.
I went out without a jacket. A Fresh Direct truck was double-parked in the street. Shiela and a friend made themselves comfortable in lobby chairs. The rain was gone, and only the easy spring evening remained. Upstairs, business school homework awaited. I took my time getting upstairs.
“AOL is making progress, it says. Its spam software filter blocks 2 billion unsolicited commercial e-mails a day, or 80% of the messages aimed at subscribers.”
I’m not sure which of those numbers frightens me more.
I read this page and suddenly I want to live in Portland.
The rain had stopped, after days of continuous precipitation, making a blustery evening feel surprisingly pleasant. We took our usual route, hanging a left out the door of the building, pausing to pee on the grates, then meandering down the block and across the street into Union Square Park, where we do laps on the walkway fringe until the business occurs. A tall pile of remaindered excrement, left by another dog and a careless owner, resembled a pile of mousse to my dog, who had a bite (and a toothbrushing upon our return home).
In the aftermath of the rains, the park and the street were subdued. The newsstand and the corner entrance to the subway were closed for the holiday. Alone on the park benches in Union Square, a young Asian man sat practicing a speech, papers on his lap, staring at nothing as he recited, likely as glad as I was to have a rare quiet moment in the square.
Walking the dog on a beautiful spring afternoon not long ago, I crossed the street into Union Square Park as a pretty woman strolled past me toward the subway. About 20 feet beyond us, sitting on the walls along the park stairs, were half a dozen young men, around 20 years old, holding sheets of white paper.
As the woman passed between me and the stairs, the boys cheered good-naturedly and held up signs: 9! 8.5! 9.5! The women continued to the south with a look on her faceâsomewhere between amusement and disgustâas I approached the stairs.
Of course, I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.
“Is that for me?”
The boys laughed and made faces. “No, man, that was for your dog!” one of them said, petting the pup as we walked by.
Charley did his thing in Union Square (tip for locals: don’t sit on the lip surrounding the perimeter of the interior grass. Just don’t) and we headed for home. The boys were still there, looking for someone worth ranking.
“Hey!” I called out as I got close. “Where’s the love?”
Among the laughter, one of them pulled out a sign. “Yo, this is for your dog,” he said, waving the sign at Charley, who trotted by happily. “He gets an 8.5.”
Not bad, but I think he deserved at least a 9.