okay, so. i drank the gmail kool-aid. i just set ziggurat.org as a hosted domain. we shall see if this frees me from the vast amount of spam that ziggurat.org receives on a daily basis, and makes it possible to use ‘viv’ again. i hope so. i always liked that address (which is why i registered the damn domain!).
also: this october will mark ten years of me polluting teh intarwebs with ziggurat.org. ziggurat.org has been hosted by four now-defunct (via acquisition) internet service providers (three of which were former employers), one site that i used because the hosting company was owned by a guy who wrote a software package i liked and rather than charging for it he suggested that if people liked the software they should use his web hosting service, one randomly-chosen web hosting provider, and one friend who let me mooch off his colo. here’s to ten more years of pollution!
# /bin/passwd root
New Password:
Re-enter new Password:
passwd: password successfully changed for root
y’all want to go download The Kleptones‘ new mashup album, a two-disc set, freely available from their web site, now.
i don’t know what my favorites are yet (although “1150 Closer to The Boxer” is pretty clever), but it’s very skillfully done and pretty swank. it has the niqui stamp of approval.
baby, don’t you drive around with Dr. Bernice.
she’s not a lady doctor at all,
she’s got hands like a man,
with hair on the back;
she’ll crush you with her embrace.
though the wind may whisper and moan sometimes,
we all need a kind place to live.
though the wind may whisper and howl at your door,
we all need the comfort of friends.
baby, don’t you drive around with Dr. Bernice;
that ain’t a real Cadillac:
it’s a Delta ’88 spray-painted black,
with fake leather seats from Juarez.
though the wind may whisper and moan sometimes,
on a hot desert night it is still.
though the world may whisper and howl at your door,
you’re not obliged to let them all in.
baby, don’t you ride in that faux Cadillac.
if you must, please ride in the back.
if you sing while you ride you’ll be a siren tonight;
spare this poor sailor’s life from the rocks.
though the wind may whisper a melody now,
we can’t find a tune of our own.
though the world may whisper and blow in your face,
and tangle the hair on your head—
on a hot desert night we can drive down the road,
and the stars will spell out your name.
on a hot desert night with the windows down wide,
the sirens will sing me their song.
and the ghosts of the sailors who died on the rocks
feel not a twinge of regret;
though the wind may tangle the hair on your head,
you sing like a siren to me.
on a hot desert night, the caravan stops
at the oasis next to your heart.
the soundtrack is played by some aged British queen
on BBC Radio One.
though the wind may whisper an epic sometimes,
the cast must include Karen Black.
though the symphony strings shift with the sands,
you sing like a siren to me.
you sing like a siren to me.
you sing like a siren,
…to me.
