Welcome Home

Every morning, I’d check in on Flickr to see Lucy Kate’s latest hat and just see how things are going. And in my own weird and totally dorky way, I’d think the closest thing to a prayer that I’m capable of that she’d get to go home and be with her family soon.

Anyhow, I saw this photo today, and I showed Mad, and I cried a little, and I thought about how happy everybody must be to finally hang those awesome little hats at home. What a swell kid.

Much love to everybody, Josh.

“Inspector Inspection,” a story about code

In other words, “Yes.” You can “Inspect Element” inside the “Web Inspector,” and it will pull up the corresponding code for what it’s showing you (via the Framework file?).

Then, you can inspect that as well (seen here).

Do it a couple more times, and you see what looks like the fetus of Heywood Floyd, floating over Steve Jobs’ compound.

And underneath that is a turtle, that is standing on the back of another turtle. And if you do it repeatedly for another six years, you get an honorary doctorate and a coupon for dinner at Applebee’s with a wise, dyslexic owl.

Professor Hoots, as you learn he likes to be called, nudges a rusty key alongside the typically unpalatable tequila popper platter, as he points one ancient wing toward a towering oak, upon which is hung a mossy handmade sign he’d dyslexically inscribed with: “Weeb Kti Serivced: Run Root, Run Depe, No Salseperson, No UPS.”

And, then you meet the little man who leases the tree from the owl — he’s a little taller than Michael J. Fox and wears an unflattering vest and tan pants. You wonder why he doesn’t wear an interesting hat, like most of the fictional people in your allegories. He has large-ish hands made of 2 Kensington mice and fingers crackling with what appear to be hand-carved wooden AppleTalk adapters. He serves you a bitter tea, then uses an assistive mouse-hands appliance to play you bits from his favorite records — he’s dancing a frantic reel to the first verse and chorus of each of his favorite tracks from Charlie Patton, Luther Vandross, and the earlier Raymond Scott. He refills your tea, and when you ask to use the toilet, he cackles and uses an assistive mouse-hands appliance to tug at an inconvenient-looking orange lever.

“<br />!” he cries, and you fall — somehow — up the trunk of the tree, past branches you’ve never seen and commitments you’ve never made — releases and features that have never even been run up a flagpole. There is no flagpole. Only a cool breeze and a “whoosh” as you are squeezed through the tiniest bud of the tallest branch. An acorn pops, and you find yourself hurtling through mid-air.

The Professor flies by lackadaisically, pretending not to notice you; he knows your journey is almost through, and only you can complete it. Plus, he’s already forgotten your name if he ever knew it in the first place. This is not because he is dyslexic; it is because you did not make much of an impression.

Finally, the warm, lush voice of a woman you know must be very beautiful and probably vegan and small-breasted in a way that’s really super-hot, whispers words that, while nearly inaudible, roar like the deepest stops of a pipe organ. Her hair smells like strawberries, cardamon, and the Getting Started guide of a mint-in-box 12” PowerBook. She seems very close to your right ear as she says:

Then, as she stops just short of brushing your cheek, the scent of strawberries fades; Prof. Hoots addresses you with what appears to be the awkward, dyslexic, flying-owl version of “the bird;” and the first ten-thousand turtles you met snap smartly back into place in their pile — faster, perhaps, than really seems advisable. You wonder why the rusty key was ever introduced in the second act, then never mentioned again until now. You move on.

The breeze is gone, the room is still, the Vandross is silent, and you find you’re staring at the web inspector for the web inspector for the web inspector. Again. And you think:

I’m still not convinced this is really Adam, but I SO love his photos.

I want to hang with this man.

“No, I agree, Peter. I would by no means say Friday was ‘great.’ But, you have to admit, that horrific torture thingee was delicious.

I wish I could discuss this with Umberto Eco for an hour or so.

jasonpermenter:

Hey guys, got you something. Nope, no reason in particular. Just ‘cause I was thinking about you. Love you.