Oh, hey guys — I just invented a new word.
toolbogged /ˈtulˌbɒgged/
(v. intr; past participle of toolbog)To become so consumed by the process of researching and selecting gear (often software) for a given task that one never actually completes the task itself
I’ve been completely toolbogged trying to automate fixing the date and time on hundreds of RAW files from vacation last fall… that I never even sorted the pics themselves!1
Ages ago, we thought we had a cure for cooties in the youth population: the cootie shot.
The disease itself could usually go untreated without ill effect; the real problem was the secondary social stigma that came with being a carrier. Once the other kids found out that you had cooties, your social life would be roasted, toasted… burnt to a crisp. Play dates? Canceled. Sleepovers? In your dreams. And, honestly, who would want to go to your birthday party?
Yes, it was that bad.
From this culture the cootie shot was born, and fear of cooties could make even the biggest wimp forget he was afraid of shots — this was a serious problem for which there was no other treatment. Even the children whose parents’ questionable scientific beliefs kept them far away from vaccinations could be found seeking treatment in the dark alleys of the schoolyard, because cooties — not chicken pox or whatever — was the one illness that could keep you up at night, worrying well past your bedtime.
The cootie shot was supposed to be a bulletproof defense against every known strain. It was supposed to offer a second chance at childhood.
Getting vaccinated worked like this: a typically unlicensed practitioner with questionable medical training would administer the shot by speaking the following incantation in a singsong voice, while using their finger to trace the noted shapes on your body.
Circle circle, dot dot
Now you’ve got the cootie shot
But that’s just the first stage of the vaccine cocktail. Perhaps your forearm would be protected, but what about every other part? If you didn’t continue the full course of treatment, cooties would likely gain a foothold and basically ruin your entire life.
Circle circle, square square
Now you’ve got it everywhere
At this point, you’d be safe until the shot wore off… which by the way, it would do almost instantly. Kids were still getting infected left and right, so the greatest medical minds on the playground came up with what seemed like a silver bullet for this public health crisis.
Circle circle, knife knife
Now you’ve got it for your life
Only now could you breathe easy — you were finally immune. Not even the yuckiest girl1 could cause you harm.
At least that’s how it used to work. Once a panacea, a hope for a better tomorrow, cootie shots have become scarce. This easily-preventable ailment joins measles, polio and whooping cough as again something we must once again worry about.
What happened? Make-believe medical professionals today — with their hands tied by a well-known enemy of healthy and happy population — can be heard all too often singing a very different song:
Circle circle, shame shame
Your HMO denied your claim
Slash: Not Just a Punctuation Mark Anymore
Two weeks ago, one student brought up the word slash as an example of new slang, and it quickly became clear to me that many students are using slash in ways unfamiliar to me.
(…)
6. I need to go home and write my essay slash take a nap.
(…)
12. JUST SAW ALEX! Slash I just chubbed on oatmeal raisin cookies at north quad and i miss you
via BoingBoing
Netflix has me trained pretty well — I know never to read the red envelopes that show up at my place. These days, the flip side is always a promo for some exclusive original series I don’t care about. House of Cards is amazing? That’s wonderful; let me know when I can actually stream some goddamn movies, okay?
That’s why I was surprised when tonight’s Netflix envelopes actually managed to catch my eye. On my way back from the mailbox I found both cleverly emblazoned with different life tips from movie moms. Tonight’s haul came wrapped in choice bits of Forrest Gump and Brave — timely for Mother’s Day and all that.
I wonder how many designs there actually are in the series — I’m guessing far fewer than the hundreds the numbering system seems to suggest. I’ll be looking for more in a few days.
That’s actually pretty sweet of them. I’ll… be sure to let Mom know.
Welcome to the first installment of This word doesn’t mean what you think it does. Go look it up.
Today’s word is verbiage. Go look it up.
The stupid fuckhead wasn’t just in the wrong lane — they were two lanes too far, with no way out of the exit lane before the exit.
But they made space and time for their SUV’s last-second exodus, rather presumptuously borrowing the space where my car should have been. And their turn signal must not have burned out — could there be any other explanation for such an irresponsible slight?
I congratulated them on a maneuver well-executed with my horn. They didn’t seem to notice. As our cars drifted further apart, I found that for some reason I just had to gaze upon this specimen of unadulterated Miami driverdom. I glanced over and saw just the silhouette of a profile. Only but a moment later, a lighter came into view and lit the cigarette between their lips.
Not surprised, not even a little.
It was dark and the car was pointed east — some expressway was behind it and some more was ahead, with the exact proportions rapidly changing. Its windows were down and its sunroof was too. Around here, la madre naturaleza usually cradles us close to her sticky and often gross bosom, but she had taken the night off.
In Miami, mid-60s is fairly cool for any time of year. I take what I can get.
I couldn’t hear what was playing because the engine and the wind were too loud, and I was determined not to be that guy. I probably had something on my mind too, but who can remember? For a stretch of road perhaps a half-mile long, however, the air and my thoughts were suddenly full of the unmistakable scent of freshly-baked… sourdough. I think it was sourdough.
This was pleasing to me. Then it went away. I kept driving.