I've been hustling the internets for years now. Lapping up the YouTube like the rest of us. I distinctly remember first typing in the domain utube.com-- When it didn't work I dismissed it. I'd watch my friend Mark flying twenty feet high on a tube towed behind a jet boat on Lake Lillanoah later.
Then came the WonderHowTo.com era. I've watched zillions of video, promoted thousands. Only now am I finally distributing my own viral video(ehh I was the EP).
On day 3, it has 60k views, 653 favorites, 433 comments, 202 ratings.
Enjoy. Shane & Beyonce do yo thang.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Birds Don't Pee
That is why their poop is white!
I was just reading a detailed essay on poop and discovered this wonderful... ahem, nugget of info.
Ooo, what will I discover next?
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Hyper Editing by Lasse Gjertsen
This Norwegian guy makes great animated movies. And then sometimes he plays music. This is a hyper-editing technique that splices. It gets pretty phenomenal at 1:23 when he split screens it.
CollegeHumor's: I Hate Nature
Mocking the BBC/National Geographic authentic love for all lifeforms, this CollegeHumor video is a bit hysterical.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Self Promotion - An Amazon in the Amazon
I've been hustling. I'm plotting.
Thus, 2 articles in two months.
I'm exploiting myself. And the media...
Part for some time stamped and archived evidence that I exist. Part to make Mom smile.
Wholly manipulative.
Here goes: Brookfield Natives Paddle World's Largest River
Note: the local news that reels to the right of this article is ominous, to say the least.
There is not a single story besides ours that's not from the police blotter.
Friday, October 10, 2008
First of Many WTF videos... Midget + Clinton + Wrestling
Culturally relevant, yet fantastically surreal exit from today's new feed from hell.
Economy in the shitter? Oh well.... Let's go watch La Pequena in Hilary Clinton/Hulk drag as a Luchadora wrestler.
Economy in the shitter? Oh well.... Let's go watch La Pequena in Hilary Clinton/Hulk drag as a Luchadora wrestler.
Monday, October 6, 2008
From where I left off...
Day One:
I started blogging in '05. I thought I was late to the party then. Now, I've clearly neglected the night altogether; here I sit, face full of tailwind gloating about how right Richard Russell was 'back then' in 2006 when he brought attention to the $0.85 trillion that the US printed in a single year. Money ain't nothing but a fancy-print IOU. Go ahead, write the check for $700 billion. Why not make it $1 trillion and keep it metric!Great minds (Ron Paul, Duck Tales) guide us through the current strainer farm with this fine piece of YouTube: The Bailout Won't Work by DemocracyNow!
"20 April 2006
Sunday, October 5, 2008
The Archive from GenerationSplit
08 August 2006
SleepingInAirports.com
PARIS (CDG) (Contributed by Amie Coué)
02/06 (Air France Terminal - Main Lobby / Check-in Counters) - "CDG was given a hard report in the past reviews so I knew I might have a hellish night's sleep, but with an early flight, i was disinterested in another expensive evening in the world's most romantic city, alone. i was lucky and had a very restful night sleeping on a closed restaurant's leather cushioned booth, in a section of the Air France's international terminal. That terminal closes from 1630-530 everyday, but is constantly patrolled by security, armed military, and german shepards. the patrols were respectful and necessary in easing my mind as a young woman just off a month of traveller's nervosa. tips to sleep in such conditions are obvious: your own snacks and a water bottle as everything shuts down around 1am, sleeping bag or snag a blanket from your carrier, go early. i knew i was going to be out a bed so I started scouting the airport around 8pm. i was the first to discover the "beds" in the vacant restaurant, but within the hour it was full. it was the best night of sleep i could imagine. Suprisingly, when I made it through security/border into the gate area of terminal 2A I was not in envy of those caught on the opposite side. it was dirtier and had much less space and accomodation. my only complaint is not airport specific, but irritating for a slumber nonetheless: Paris Smokes. Smoking in the airport is open air and very common, withotu much penalty. In the end, i was fortunate to look on to the night with such fear that the pleasant experience was heightened with my surprise." Added 06 April 06
http://sleepinginairports.com/europe/paris.htm
02/06 (Air France Terminal - Main Lobby / Check-in Counters) - "CDG was given a hard report in the past reviews so I knew I might have a hellish night's sleep, but with an early flight, i was disinterested in another expensive evening in the world's most romantic city, alone. i was lucky and had a very restful night sleeping on a closed restaurant's leather cushioned booth, in a section of the Air France's international terminal. That terminal closes from 1630-530 everyday, but is constantly patrolled by security, armed military, and german shepards. the patrols were respectful and necessary in easing my mind as a young woman just off a month of traveller's nervosa. tips to sleep in such conditions are obvious: your own snacks and a water bottle as everything shuts down around 1am, sleeping bag or snag a blanket from your carrier, go early. i knew i was going to be out a bed so I started scouting the airport around 8pm. i was the first to discover the "beds" in the vacant restaurant, but within the hour it was full. it was the best night of sleep i could imagine. Suprisingly, when I made it through security/border into the gate area of terminal 2A I was not in envy of those caught on the opposite side. it was dirtier and had much less space and accomodation. my only complaint is not airport specific, but irritating for a slumber nonetheless: Paris Smokes. Smoking in the airport is open air and very common, withotu much penalty. In the end, i was fortunate to look on to the night with such fear that the pleasant experience was heightened with my surprise." Added 06 April 06
http://sleepinginairports.com/europe/paris.htm
posted by GenerationSplit at 12:57 PM 0 comments 
30 April 2006
Punched in the Face
The blood in my mouth, it ain’t mine
The hairs, yours too
And the seeds and the leaves,
The dirt and the skin
None of it came from me
The hairs, yours too
And the seeds and the leaves,
The dirt and the skin
None of it came from me
posted by GenerationSplit at 9:11 PM 0 comments
Seasons of LA
Fire
Pilot
Tourist
Flood
Summer
Ocean Too Dirty for Surf Cause it Rained
Pilot
Tourist
Flood
Summer
Ocean Too Dirty for Surf Cause it Rained
posted by GenerationSplit at 3:00 PM 0 comments
28 April 2006
Story of Beth
PDF#7
Years of avoiding the film industry flashed by. Why? There is money to be made, much more money. Evan searches for a virtuous retort, artistic preservation. His attempt cripples into an anxious excuse.
“I’m afraid of destroying the story. Besides, doesn’t anyone read anymore?”
“Only when I can’t afford the movie.”
A jubilant beast of a man, Mike, tosses his hand through the swivel door and into the kitchen.
“There you are!” His salutation is met with mutual confusion, Beth and Evan straighten their slouches in attention. In unison, they both automate an uncertain “yeah”.
Mike catches his breath, only barely, before turning to Evan, “Hey buddy, where the hell you been? You know Renee’s been searching!” Evan again without a solid reply lifts his bottle and shrugs.
Mike moves erratically trying to think of the next issue of business, the search having obviously been quite taxing. “OH! Evan, I want you to meet my date.” Mike gestures at Beth proudly as if he unveiled original art.
The confusion again returns to Beth and Evan, who play along for their befuddled friend, shaking hands with shaky smirks.
Years of avoiding the film industry flashed by. Why? There is money to be made, much more money. Evan searches for a virtuous retort, artistic preservation. His attempt cripples into an anxious excuse.
“I’m afraid of destroying the story. Besides, doesn’t anyone read anymore?”
“Only when I can’t afford the movie.”
A jubilant beast of a man, Mike, tosses his hand through the swivel door and into the kitchen.
“There you are!” His salutation is met with mutual confusion, Beth and Evan straighten their slouches in attention. In unison, they both automate an uncertain “yeah”.
Mike catches his breath, only barely, before turning to Evan, “Hey buddy, where the hell you been? You know Renee’s been searching!” Evan again without a solid reply lifts his bottle and shrugs.
Mike moves erratically trying to think of the next issue of business, the search having obviously been quite taxing. “OH! Evan, I want you to meet my date.” Mike gestures at Beth proudly as if he unveiled original art.
The confusion again returns to Beth and Evan, who play along for their befuddled friend, shaking hands with shaky smirks.
posted by GenerationSplit at 8:02 PM 0 comments
Interactive 2000, Las Vegas
In January 1998, I took a flight back to Las Vegas. Another convention. These deals were drab; they involved nametags and seminars, and the crux that never relented was you got to spend your smoke breaks twitching from the glare of florescent lights and stale coffee. Hellish boredom brewed, perched with a taunting vantage and partitioned from the women and hot card tables. Circumstance left most minds in frustrated fever or at least a serotonin hyperflux. This trip was going to be work, no matter the drink or dance a city of such excess could present. It was all business.
From the backseat of a lux-cab I cursed the windows and everything they framed. There was little in this town I cared to tempt with thought. I stared out from the car with a drone’s mind. Nothing registered with any variance, but the rows of chapels. I took to counting them; a slippery headache required anything to pass the time. You wouldn’t build your house next to a 76 Station and freeway ramp, but there stood “Little Chapel of Love”.
My eyes slammed shut. I still needed the protection. It was an hour from the airport, with traffic and such. The heat is something to dodge, and after the first class walk across the tarmac, I was determined to stay out of heat’s grip for the rest of the day. The destination was subterranean of the Monte Carlo, a brand new attraction on the Disneyfied section of the strip. Underground, valet just slots you right up to the showers and sheets. Darkness and spits of CNN lulled me to an early night.
Day one, always like the first day of school, or orientation, meet the parents, grovel at a glitz-wristed chairman, clap unnecessarily long and with frequency. I sauntered through the carpeted tube of appointed doors and mirrors to the elevator. Naturally, conventions were executed with every accommodation to encourage immersion and complete focus from all in attendance. We were a microcosm, a conglomerate of mauve and navy suited tweebs on a corporate retreat. Bunking up at the same casino meant we would be a community. We would grow.
“Interactive 2000” the announcement tickered across the glowing LED’s of the Monte Carlo’s street side mega-marquee. Interactive catered to businesses in the 900 number and cyber porn rackets. It was niche specific. The new angle meets its antecedent, an experiment. 2000 was either a quick attachment to the future a la Clarke/Kubrick or an industry membership tally. There is always the possibility that the number 2000 was entirely arbitrary; in any act of sale, the concept of arbitrary is entirely clandestine.
Putting away the new sunglasses I’d already scratched, I kicked the last of a few morning cigs into the bed of glowing orange flowers. “Never been used, already broke. Oh God, another IT conference.”
I was vulnerable--out here without a preoccupation. There were men milling with their papers and I couldn’t bear to mix in any bland reviews of the hotel, at least not before the coffee struck a vein. I could fortify and smoke again. It might help in making it through the upcoming drone, but the pack was killed. Lighter still on tenterhooks, I sucked at the air, eyes closed, hoping that my deep breathing would deter the conventioneers from trying to set up a buddy pact for the rest of our shared eternity. Some suits strolled by, and my hyperventilation increased naturally from a growing actual nervosa. This functioned well enough to deflect almost all the meet and greet attention. It wasn’t a genuine issue of misanthropy, but I couldn’t stand any hasty leaps in patronage so early in the week.
From the backseat of a lux-cab I cursed the windows and everything they framed. There was little in this town I cared to tempt with thought. I stared out from the car with a drone’s mind. Nothing registered with any variance, but the rows of chapels. I took to counting them; a slippery headache required anything to pass the time. You wouldn’t build your house next to a 76 Station and freeway ramp, but there stood “Little Chapel of Love”.
My eyes slammed shut. I still needed the protection. It was an hour from the airport, with traffic and such. The heat is something to dodge, and after the first class walk across the tarmac, I was determined to stay out of heat’s grip for the rest of the day. The destination was subterranean of the Monte Carlo, a brand new attraction on the Disneyfied section of the strip. Underground, valet just slots you right up to the showers and sheets. Darkness and spits of CNN lulled me to an early night.
Day one, always like the first day of school, or orientation, meet the parents, grovel at a glitz-wristed chairman, clap unnecessarily long and with frequency. I sauntered through the carpeted tube of appointed doors and mirrors to the elevator. Naturally, conventions were executed with every accommodation to encourage immersion and complete focus from all in attendance. We were a microcosm, a conglomerate of mauve and navy suited tweebs on a corporate retreat. Bunking up at the same casino meant we would be a community. We would grow.
“Interactive 2000” the announcement tickered across the glowing LED’s of the Monte Carlo’s street side mega-marquee. Interactive catered to businesses in the 900 number and cyber porn rackets. It was niche specific. The new angle meets its antecedent, an experiment. 2000 was either a quick attachment to the future a la Clarke/Kubrick or an industry membership tally. There is always the possibility that the number 2000 was entirely arbitrary; in any act of sale, the concept of arbitrary is entirely clandestine.
Putting away the new sunglasses I’d already scratched, I kicked the last of a few morning cigs into the bed of glowing orange flowers. “Never been used, already broke. Oh God, another IT conference.”
I was vulnerable--out here without a preoccupation. There were men milling with their papers and I couldn’t bear to mix in any bland reviews of the hotel, at least not before the coffee struck a vein. I could fortify and smoke again. It might help in making it through the upcoming drone, but the pack was killed. Lighter still on tenterhooks, I sucked at the air, eyes closed, hoping that my deep breathing would deter the conventioneers from trying to set up a buddy pact for the rest of our shared eternity. Some suits strolled by, and my hyperventilation increased naturally from a growing actual nervosa. This functioned well enough to deflect almost all the meet and greet attention. It wasn’t a genuine issue of misanthropy, but I couldn’t stand any hasty leaps in patronage so early in the week.
posted by GenerationSplit at 8:00 PM 0 comments
27 April 2006
Antiguan Processian
Antigua, Guatemala
December 2005
We sat in the truck, between rocks and a hard place. It was approaching about a half hour since anything moved. Forty since our wheels even rolled. If Liz angled it right, we may have an out through the rubble beside the passenger door. We couldn’t just tear through and around the bus that blocked the road. The rubble was Holy, well sacred, then converted Holy. The rocks belonged to the treasured Mayan ruins scattered about Antigua. No tourists made our sight a destination. It was dysmorphic and poorly lit, unfit for remembrance of any time.
December 2005
We sat in the truck, between rocks and a hard place. It was approaching about a half hour since anything moved. Forty since our wheels even rolled. If Liz angled it right, we may have an out through the rubble beside the passenger door. We couldn’t just tear through and around the bus that blocked the road. The rubble was Holy, well sacred, then converted Holy. The rocks belonged to the treasured Mayan ruins scattered about Antigua. No tourists made our sight a destination. It was dysmorphic and poorly lit, unfit for remembrance of any time.
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