Sitting at Boston Stoker right now, experimenting with the extremely awesome Last.fm and putting the finishing touches on a short story.

Last.fm is pretty damn cool. It’s an online music service which tracks what you’re listening to, based on that, recommends other music to you. So you search for a band you like, listen to a couple of their songs and create an online playlist, and then other similar bands are recommended to you. For instance, I was listening to some tracks by the Queers and clicked on a similar band, Teenage Bottlerocket. Like Ron Burgundy, they’re the balls (and I just discovered they’re made up of some former members of the the Lillingtons).

This shit is addicting. I wish I’d discovered it sooner. I’ve been really tired of all the music I’ve been listening to lately, and want new stuff to listen to. But it’s hard to just walk into a music emporium and find a new band to like. Last.fm actually seems like it might do the job.

Interesting. By signing up, you also create a public profile where others can see what bands you’re listening to your favorite tracks. If you wanna see what other swill I like, you can find out here.

JAB

As evidenced from the horrible title, I am in Gatlinburg for a few days’ holiday with the family. I’m having a lovely time so far, not least because I am not at work. I’ve read a book and a half so far, MARSBOUND by Joe Haldeman and the second book in the Dresden Files series. Am currently killing time before we go out to dinner.

One item of note: When we were wandering around Gatlinburg last night, I went into one of the many tiny shops selling touristy stuff. There was no shopkeeper at the counter, staring suspiciously at potential customers, which I found unusual. Most of the time that is all they do because it’s not like anyone is going to buy something. Then I went around the corner and nearly stepped on him. He was out cold on the floor, curled up behind a row of tacky t-shirts that bore clever lines like “I am a Princess (My father is the King of Kings).”

I’m not sure if he was dead but I didn’t stick around to find out. I wonder if someone beat him to death with his own shoe?

JAB

You may have noticed there is a new skin up. Things may consequently be glitchy for a little bit. If you discover any errors or have any suggestions, please point them out to me in the comments. I’m sure most of you will have no problem with this directive.

JAB

Tucking in your shirt does not hide your obesity. It in fact only makes it more noticeable. If you are required to do so for work, it is still unfortunate though at least understandable. But if you’re out and about socially . . . for my sake, and for your sake, do not tuck in your shirt.

Please cease this trend at once.

That is all.

I cleaned my bathroom today. Boy, was it in desperate need of it too. Funky doesn’t even do its former state justice. I should clean it more often, but it’s one of those household tasks I absolutely loathe. Usually I can’t even use force of will to make myself clean it. It’s like someone placed an “avoid semi-manual labor” block in my head, so that every time I prepare to clean, I instead become compelled to hop on the Internet, watch Boston Legal, or do any fucking thing else other than clean the bathroom.

So today I tried a new strategy: distract the brain.

First, I plied it with alcohol. A little vodka made everything hazy, at least enough so to make the thought of starting on the bathroom not completely unbearable. Then I put on music. The dulcet sounds of the Mortal Kombat soundtrack now thumping in my head like techno-y drum, I proceeded to start the cleaning process. Thirty or so minutes later, the bathroom was spotless, and I felt strangely satisifed having done it.

Interestingly, the cleaning chemicals coupled with the vodka did leave me a bit lightheaded. This is not a bad thing as it has resulted in me finally banging out the ending to my new short short story. I am now glowy inside.

Tomorrow is Friday. I only work three days next week. Fun events are in store in the near future.

All is well in the universe.

JAB

Brain feels like it’s being fucked by a robot with a spiked codpiece. Vicadin won’t kill the bastard. Neither will sleep.

Going to the bar in the hope that beer will. My last hope.

A few weeks back I visited the Creation Museum in northern Kentucky. For the uninitiated, here’s how the museum describes itself:

The Creation Museum presents a unique and unparalleled experience, a walk through time portraying significant, life-altering events of the past, illuminating the effects of biblical history on our present and future world.

Be prepared to experience history in a completely unprecedented way.

The state-of-the-art 70,000 square foot museum brings the pages of the Bible to life, casting its characters and animals in dynamic form and placing them in familiar settings. Adam and Eve live in the Garden of Eden. Children play and dinosaurs roam near Eden’s Rivers. The serpent coils cunningly in the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Majestic murals, great masterpieces brimming with pulsating colors and details, provide a backdrop for many of the settings.

I, on the other hand, would choose to describe it as phenomenally executed monument to illogic and fiction that panders to the ignorant and only the staunchest of Creationist advocates. Most sane people — including, I’d gather, your everyday Christian — would regard it with a raised eyebrow, and be astounded that such a loosely-labeled “theory” can be considered as equally plausible when compared to evolution.

But enough of my soapboxing — if you care to learn more of my visit, wander on over to the photographic essay.

JAB

From a CNN article on insomnia:

The condition is classified as primary or secondary. The latter means that a patient may be having trouble sleeping because of a health condition or medication.

Primary insomnia is not related to any side effects. It is considered its own disorder that can be broken down into two groups: sleep-onset insomnia and sleep-maintenance insomnia.

Like its name, the sleep-onset version occurs in the beginning of the night when someone tries to fall asleep and can’t.

“Sleep-maintenance insomnia is much less common,” Schulman said. “It occurs when somebody can go to sleep, but wakes up once or several times throughout the night and has difficulty resuming sleep.”

This “sleep-maintenance insomnia” so totally fucking describes me it’s not even funny.

Pretty much for the last six months, I’ve been waking up between 4:30 and 5:30 am every day and not being able to go back to sleep. My alarm is set for 6:30 am during the workweek, and like clockwork (heh) every morning I wake up, glance at the clock, and force myself suppress a murderous rage because it’s anywhere from one to two hours before my alarm is supposed to go off. And 95% of the time I never go back to sleep — I just toss and turn till the alarm goes off at 6:30 and then somehow drag my beleaguered carcass out of bed to prepare myself for work. It’s awful.

But this past week, I’ve been trying to trick my insomnia. The article mentions later that you can fool your body by getting up if you can’t fall back asleep after 20 or 30 minutes. The theory being if your body becomes used to being in bed for hours at a time, unable to fall asleep, it becomes “subconsciously ingrained.” So, that in mind, the last few days I’ve been up at 4:30, 5:45 and, today, 5:00. If I’m consciously aware that I’ve been awake for more than 25 minutes, I get up and get dressed. Today I was ready to roll at 5:30 so I went to Tim Horton’s with my laptop and did some writing. It was kind of peaceful, actually. And I got some stuff accomplished.

So, yeah. Insomnia. It fucking sucks, but at least it’s no longer completely fucking me.

JAB

Earlier this month Warren Ellis wrote a lengthy post in which he — somewhat haphazardly — discussed the lack of original content found on the Web today. That a goodly number of the blogs out there exist basically to collate links from the rest of the Web and share them with the world. Ellis then declared that a change in the equation has become necessary for the Web to continue to mutate and thrive:

The world does not need another linkblog. What is required, frankly, is what we’re supposed to call “content” these days. When I were a lad, back in the age of steam, we called this “original material.” Put another way: we like it when Cory and Xeni are the copy/paste editors for the internet, but we like it better when Cory writes a book and Xeni makes an episode of BoingBoingTV.

Let me say now that I think a blog dedicated to collecting cool links is certainly fine to do and can be damn fascinating. Nothing wrong with it. Indeed, it’s what I’ve done here quite a bit over the years. But I think Ellis has a point. As much as I enjoy poring over a myriad number of blogs for interesting little tidbits, it’s usually more engaging when someone is offering up some sort of original creation — be it a story, a piece of music, or a short movie (Joss Whedon’s “Doctor Horrible’s Sing-A-Long Blog” comes immediately to mind).

So I agree with Ellis. The Web would be a more interesting place to hang out if more people used it as the medium in which to inflict their original stuff on the rest of the teeming masses (those masses who, of course, can at least use a computer). That being so, I’ve decided to do my part as a Planeteer and resuscitate this here blog and start posting fiction.

I’m not exactly sure what this entails yet. Probably I’ll start with some older stories I wrote and still like, but for one reason or another wouldn’t be otherwise published. I’ve got a ton of ideas for short shorts which I might sort through and actually write. Excerpts from my longer project might find their way out here as well. Like I said, this is still an idea-in-progress. I’ll stew on it some more and in all likelihood start posting some older stuff to test the waters. However, it is time for this site to evolve.

And like its spawn, it’s high time for the Web to grow up, move onto the next phase of its life. Puberty happened back in the late nineties, when shitty personal sites were the norm and companies couldn’t wrap their corporate heads around having a “web site.” Adolescence has been going on for most of the last decade as far too many trends have popped up and then just as quickly vanished. Now it’s time for the Web to get a grown up job, move out of its parents’ house, and stop going to fetish clubs and find a nice girl or guy to settle down with.

Nah. Scratch that last one. The Web wouldn’t be the Web without its infinitely diverse array of bizarre fetish porn.

JAB

(Updated 8/4/2008: Yeah . . . so I’m not exactly hanging up the spurs as advertised. If you read the next post, you’ll find out my reasons why. What can I say — I’m a hypocrite.)

Yep, that title up there means exactly what you might think it means:

I, Joshua Bales, Esquire, am retiring from the blogging world. What started six and a half, happy-go-lucky years ago, back when the process was more known as “writing in your journal” rather than “blogging,” is now coming to a close.

The reasons are few and relatively simple:

1). Time. I have way less of it now than I did a few years ago. Back when it was just college and part-timin’ at Wal-Mart, I had no cares and all the time in the goddamn world to write about my boring-ass life. It was only when I started at my current employer and joined the poor bastards in the “eight-to-five” hell that my free time began to dwindle. Certainly in the last year and a half, my blogging has dropped off significantly. I’m sure any of you who’ve been keeping up with me over the years have noticed the decline in quantity (but not quality, which has stayed steady as a hand playing Operation). Which ties in with the second reason:

2). A Life. I sort of have one now. Indeed, my social life has more or less normalized in the past two years or so. I have a regular group of friends whom I hang out with quite often, which is sweet. The downside has been that this leaves much less time to blog about the shit I’m doing. (Yes, I am aware of the irony. It’s almost like a temporal recursive loop. Or something.) And when I have free time, I’m not really inspired to write about the shit I’m doing. Which doesn’t really lead into my third point, but what the hell, a shitty transition is better than none.

3.) Writing. I’m trying to do more of it. Yes, I realize that sort of belies the point I’ve been so ineloquently trying to make. However, I’m not talking about autobiographical writing — I’m talking about fiction writing. I’ve been wanting to be a novelist for about as long as I can remember, and I’ve made several not insignificant inroads over the past few years. But not enough to suit me. I’ve been realizing more and more lately that I am not getting any younger. When you’re in your early twenties, it’s fine and dandy to tell one’s self that, “Oh yeah, you’ll definitely be published by the time you’re thirty.” But I’m 26 now. Thirty rapidly approaches like the Huns. (Or the Deadites. Take your pick.) And I am fucking serious about being published by the time I am thirty. Whiling away my time writing in a blog might be fun, but it takes away valuable time I could be spending writing fiction. I’m apparently not talented enough to manage to keep up both like others, or at least at a level I’m happy with. It’s one or the other. And sadly, Books don’t write themselves. (Unless you’re John Fucking Scalzi, an evil warlock if ever I saw one, who goes to sleep at night while his enchanted computers come to life and perform his creative writerly duties for him. Think “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice” in Fantasia, but with a bald guy and dancing devilboxes spitting out pages of prose.) Bottom line: I’d rather be making up stories than making up shit for my blog. And this sort of translates into my next and final point . . .

4.) Fun; or, A Lack Of. I’m sad to say, but writing at JBdN no longer invigorates and intrigues me as it once did. Sure, I still get moments of enjoyment out of it, but for a while I’ve been feeling obligated to write something in here. Certainly not by any of you, but because I felt I should write something. And then, it seemed as though I’d be forcing myself to churn out a post. And that right there is a good enough reason to quit: when something that started out as a fun hobby becomes work, a chore — it’s time to pack it in. If I’m boring myself by writing something, then my reader is certainly going to pick up on it.

So . . . that’s it. I’ve disabled comments on the previous entries, so as to eliminate spam, but left them open on this post. I won’t rule out a return to blogging sometime in the future; who knows, I may suddenly become inspired to start chronicling my exciting life again at some point. Also, JBdN will be up for the indefinite future. This bitch ain’t going nowhere. I may even occasionally post with a life update or if something important happens to me. If you’d care to be notified of such an event, feel free to leave a comment. I can take your email address from that and send out an email if ever I make a new post. This will save you from having to periodically check in here. And you can always drop me an email at josh-at-joshbales-dot-net.

It’s been a fun ride, everyone. I hope none of you die.

JAB

(Updated: I just want it to be noted that this whole post was written in the nude. Because I am a badass.)