Ah, what a nerve-wracking day. I resigned from my job, at a company that is down to ten --- well, nine, now --- after a recent max of around 16. I'll elaborate on the situation later on. Sorry. I meant to put something substantial up here, but I'm just plum worn out.

Blog musings:

• Where do the Employed find time to keep these things up? Sheesh.
  
• I'm not sure which I like better, big long once-a-day entries or lots of stream-of-consciousness blurbs in a day. Which I'd rather read, that is. Writing the second style is easier by far.
  
• Does the blogging software do any sort of censoring? Or are there some really raunchy, X-rated weblogs out there?
  
• How do girls manage to walk in those thi--- no, wait, sorry. That was one of my clog musings.
  
• Will this weekend's hotel have an internet port? And would the Wife tolerate my e-natterings while we're on vacation? Does anyone even read this over the weekend?
  

An old friend was telling me her horror story of an impromptu weekend wedding for her sister coming up, and I got to thinking about my various wedding experiences. I'm sure most of you would agree that weddings are best enjoyed free and clear of responsibility; that as a rule, the less well you know the happy couple, the more you can eat, drink and dance like a pig.

But those events where I've actually had something to do have all been tinged with some level of disaster. If I may:

• Late 1970's or early 1980's: I am wracked with uncontrollable coughing fits at the rehearsal (my part being the ringbearer¹ for the wedding of my mom's cousin Peggy. I was too embarrassed (sitting there up front in a church, a little monkey among adults) to just get up and go to the bathroom for a drink, so I practically strangled myself trying to hold the coughs in. Thankfully, no coughing occurred in the actual ceremony.
  
• October 1997: I had now graduated to the part of Best Man. The wedding itself was some 20 miles from the reception (held at the bride's father's yacht club), so the entire wedding party took a champagne-stocked limo to the club. We arrived with a half hour or so of time left on the limo, and at the impaired urging of the rest of the group, the Wife and I took the limo to our hotel (2 or 3 miles away) to check in and drop off our gear. However. There was a traffic jam on the way, and when we got to the hotel, there were none minutes left on the limo. I don't remember how we figured out the phone number of the yacht club, or what miracle caused someone there to actually answer the phone, but a neighbor of the bride's parents came tearing out to pick us up and bring us back. We raced in, out of breath and stone sober, leaving me several sweaty seconds to collect my thoughts before offering the toast.
  
• April 1999: Taking a cue from the groom, who insisted it was not important, the Wife and I skipped the rehearsal where I would have learned my ushering duties so we could see the aquarium at Scripps. Then when the time came to show folks to their seats, it was like leading Lewis and Clark through the Cascades. Also of note, I wore blue suede shoes which I don't think sat well with the groom's stylish parents.
  
• May 2001: I accidentally (Deliberately? Who said that?) misunderstood another set of ushering instructions and failed to purchase the prescribed brand of suit. (The facts that I had just bought a new $400 suit of my own and that my suits tend to sit in the closet about 363 days a year had nothing to do with it.) The omission caused a fair amount of consternation with the groom's family and their military background² --- maybe it was a uniform thing. I managed to atone by running mop-up errands and being generally useful in the frantic half-hour scramble before the ceremony.
  

The lesson to be learned from this: Don't ask me to do anything at your wedding.

¹ As the "Monsieur" suggested (but did not necessarily prove), I am in fact of the male persuasion, and will hereafter refer to the Spouse as the Wife.

² I still haven't heard how the family reacted to the pictures we took with the disposable cameras left on the reception tables, where I and a military academy friend of the groom enacted a series of photos that included hurling into the toilet at the same time and a fist/oar-fight on the rowboat dock of the resort.

Thursday
My brain: Why don't you ask Sarah if you can fill in while she's gone? We have a lot to say!
Me: Good idea! Hey, Sarah, can I cover for you?
Sarah: Well, OK.

Following Tuesday
My brain: Sorry. That's it. I got nothin'.
Me: Um....

I'm too sleepy. Go read this. They're one of the last great free-content providers. Good column on the increasing number of TV shows coming out on DVD. So far I think our household has only fallen prey to the first season DVD set of Twin Peaks. But I fear, in a weak moment, seeing Sanford and Son on sale....

Netscape is really starting to chafe my ass.

I've been a loyal Netscape user for something like seven years now. I've trumpeted the virtues of websites designed to work on all browsers. I've touted the user friendliness of Navigator vs. the "don't worry your pretty little head" condescencion of Explorer. And, after the three dozenth page this week either reloading multiple times before displaying or just flat out not loading at all, I've had enough.

It's not that I'm surprised that a company owned by --- who is it now, AOL? Ted Turner? Halliburton? --- would offer a shitty product, especially one that's free. But Netscape has gotten so lousy that I find myself questioning why I'm bothering to use it at all anymore. Five years ago it may have legitimately represented that same ornery side of me that refuses to see movies just because they're popular. But now it seems to be the equivalent of drinking Pepsi to rebel against Coke. I'm feeling like a schmuck for holding on to this romantic idea of Navigator as the Rebel's Browser (and that's really what was at the root of it, no?).

What's more important, diversity or usability? Do I Fight the Power, or help the market choose the best product? (And, if you ask me, at this point in time IE is the better browser of the two, except for trying to cover up one's traces when surfing anarchist or goat porn sites.) How much attention do I have to pay to keep from getting suckered in by slick packaging that appeals to my ornery side? It's a struggle to find that comfortable compromise point where you feel like you've done all you can without living in a cave.

Anyhow, my point being, Up Yours Netscape. I don't even think anyone cares what browser I use anymore, but you've coasted long enough on my goodwill. Get with the program, or get out.

(OK, monsieur, that's enough of the grenache for you tonight.)

If you don't listen to much blues or folk music, then the death of Alan Lomax last week probably passed you by as an overlooked blurb on NPR, if you heard about it at all. But it seems to me hard to overstate his influence on the entirety of popular music. (Short of Kraftwerk, I can't think of a style or group that doesn't trace back to either folk, cowboy or blues in some way.) His books on folk music lyrics are unbelievably comprehensive.

Anyhow, let me suggest that sometime this weekend, you put on a Leadbelly or Howlin' Wolf album, or sing that old cowboy song stuck in your brain from grade school, or even give the "O Brother Where Art Thou" CD a listen. And say so long to Mr. Alan Lomax.