The Basement Tour
Entertaining a nightly audience of 60,000 in your rumpus room.
Entertaining a nightly audience of 60,000 in your rumpus room.
"At the rager the chicks come and go<BR>Talking about art or something, I don’t know."
David Bragin sent these alternate meanings to existing words. I Googled them and found they're two years old—although they still seem fresh'n'tasty to me.
On the streets today, people seem so smart and full of Spring. Though the temperature has dropped ten degrees from its high, the sun is still shining. It's 32 degrees and sunny in New York City.
Mali's proto-bluesman dead at 66. I loved his guitar, true—but I <I>really</I> loved his phrasing as a singer. If you haven't heard his duet with kora-player Toumani Duabaté, you're missing one of the great records of <I>this</I> century.
I missed <I>Pharyngula</I>'s picture of planktonic octopus paralarva from last Friday. It's not cat-blogging, but it sure is pretty.
I'm not an economist, so I can't vouch for how accurate this is, but I loved the wild ride. First it teaches classic B-school pricing philosophy and then it tells you that everything you just learned is wrong. It <I>does</I> seem to explain a lot.
<I>Seed</I> rates 2005's science-based movies. It's a tough room.
If you answered "my consciousness," then what happens if you wake up one day and it's not the same? This is a strange and frightening essay.
The biggest problem with many consumer products these days is that the people who make 'em never figured out what they needed to be. That's why I have an all-in-one printer/scanner/fax machine I have never figured out how to send a fax with. I could read the manual I suppose, if I ever figure out which pile of papers it's under.