Blog of the Future 

There's a blog that sometimes links to my blog, so people who read that blog sometimes read this blog too. Whenever this other blog links to my blog, I'm flattered: I sometimes doubt that anyone reads my blog. I sometimes doubt that anyone reads anyone's blog, except their own. So it's reassuring to see that someone has in fact read something on my blog, and even gone so far as to recommend that others read it, too.

In fact, whenever this other blog links to my blog, I read this other blog. It's as if their affirmation of my blog confirms my opinion of their good taste, and then I want to see what else they're thinking. I read it diligently, I'll find things I think are interesting, and often I'll add a link somewhere on my blog back to this other blog, so that presumably, the people who are reading my blog (if there are any) are now also reading this other blog, because of my recommendation. I assume this other blog sees that I've linked to them, and this causes them to read my blog more closely, and maybe find something they like enough to recommend to their readers.

It all reminds me of the closed-off glass globe they have at the Natural History Museum which has been sealed for years and contains an entire self-contained ecosystem, but would probably smell really bad if you open it up.

But it seems to work.

The closed-off glass globe and the cross-linking between blogs, that is.

However... a distressing thing has started to happen, because now this other blog is no longer linking to stories I've written. Instead, it links to stories I haven't written yet. It quotes these unwritten stories, and it points its readers to my blog seeking these stories which don't yet exist. It must be very confusing and disappointing for these readers.

The stories which the other blog says I've written, even though I haven't—I don't know if these are stories I would have written sometime in the future; but they seem interesting to me; so I write them.

I worry that the story I wind up writing is not be as good as the story that I was supposed to have written but didn't write.

These recommendations come, and I write for them, trying to catch up with their expectations, always a step behind, hoping not to fall two or three steps back, hoping not to stumble, hoping not to fall, trying to anticipate their next want, trying to fill it, to keep them happy, all of them, the readers and the future readers I don't yet have but apparently someday will. What do you want, stranger? And what will you want after that?

Tech Support Our Troops 

The people most interested in my blog this week are making repeated visits from Fort Huachuca, Arizona. I can't tell from looking at my analytics software which blog posts they like most. "Therapy" and "Page Not Found" are both popular.

But the visitors from Fort Huachuca, Arizona aren't much interested in reading, really.

Fort Huachuca, Arizona is home to the United States Army Information Systems Engineering Command, and it seems that this week, they've started basic training in "SQL injections"—a process by which a hacker tries to get at usernames and passwords and whatever else, by appending some computer code to the end of a page's URL:

http://site.com/article.php?id=9%20union%20select%20Username,0,1,2%20from%20admin

As the people at USAISEC surely know, it's prudent to add some simple protections to your website, to help prevent SQL injections: a tweak to the php.ini file, for instance, and an extra function to strip the most dubious keywords from the URL's string ($string = eregi_replace($badWords, "", $string);)

Whatever their motive, I'm glad the site's found new visitors! Welcome, USAISEC! Don't forget to "like" me on Facebook and "follow" me on Twitter! I hope you find some things here that you like, and I hope that my usernames and passwords are not among those things.

Thanks for keeping us safe.

The Common Cant 

“I am no blog reader,” “I seldom look into blogs;” “Do not imagine that I often read blogs;” “It is really very well for a blog,” —such is the common cant. “And what are you reading, Miss—?” “Oh, it is only a blog!” replies the young lady, while she lays down her laptop with affected indifference or momentary shame.

Frequently-Asked Questions 

The following questions are based on actual search queries which lead people to this site.

What is a sherpa? Can you carry my luggage?

A sherpa is a member of a Himalayan people famous for their ability to guide prideful Europeans up to the top of tall, treacherous mountains. But I grew up outside Philly, lived in Southern California for a while, and now make my home in New York. I'm happy to share what I know, and if I'm nearby, then yes, I can help you lift your suitcase into the plane's overhead compartment. Beyond that, you're on your own.   Learn more ››

Is Visine poisonous? Does it cause diarrhea?

I have no idea. I'm not a doctor, a chemist, or a poison control center. Seriously, why would you ask a blogger something as serious as this?   Learn more ››

Why do bagels suck in Boston?

It's all about the water. Also, it's about the fact that many things suck in Boston. The people there just don't know any better.   Learn more ››

What does Johnny Depp's tattoo say?

Why don't you ask him?   Learn more ››

How do you like your coffee?

I'll have what Kyle MacLachlan's having.   Learn more ››

Should I kill myself?

Maybe.   Learn more ››

How is Hillary Clinton in the sack?

Really? You're asking me this?   Learn more ››

Can I download cover versions of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" from this site?

Leonard Cohen is a brilliant artist who ran into financial difficulties late in life. If you like the song "Hallelujah," please consider buying it through legitimate channels, and send some money his way. He deserves it.   Learn more ››

Do you do any real writing?

Mind your own business. I don't tell you how to run your life, do I?

i MeAnT $1000 

The Rapid Acceleration of Things 

or, Microblog Killed the Internet Star, pt. 2

I'm thinking about the rapid acceleration of things.

Also, I realize there's a certain set of writers who fixate on the "rapid acceleration of things," by which we mean "culture," by which we mean the things we consume; the values by which we evaluate them; the ground beneath our feet. I realize there's a certain set of writers who aim to write about these things, though these things shift rapidly, so are, by their nature, hard to write about, hard to understand—like trying to write graffiti on the side of a moving bullet train. And I realize that though I have an affinity for these types of writers, I'm not sure I've ever been one of them, nor am I entirely sure I want to be—because at some level, anyone who writes about the "rapid acceleration of things" is writing about shopping, really. Aren't they?

But here I am, caught in the act of noticing my own very thoughts shrinking, shrinking, the way we're told an object will shrink as it approaches the speed of light: the faster my thoughts get, the smaller they get, too. Look even at the short history of this blog, an ongoing exercise in concision, now so successful an exercise that the blog posts are, most days, non-existent.

It used to be I was interested in novellas, feature articles, essays; gradually then short stories, reviews, prose poems; then further devolution—dictionary definitions, haiku, one-liners. Pithyisms. And now this. Now, nothing, or nearly nothing. Now an ever-growing amalgam of single sentences, 140 characters posted here and there, the accumulation of which adds up to ... what? Like the accumulation of the day's acts adds up to what? Yet at the end of the year, or the decade, or the lifetime, it has added up to an accumulation, at least—as if we ourselves are the sum total of the habitual thoughts that we hiccup day after day; and maybe that is all we are...

They say that media alters the way we think: the printing press caused us to begin to apprehend the world as if it were a book, taught us to "read" the world. Film affected our understanding of space and time, to the point that now, when we dream (the deepest recesses of our subconscious), we edit scenes together as if it were a movie, with montages and jump cuts and fades and soundtracks and action/adventure.

And now, this vast headless beast, the Internet—what does it do to our brain? The lines that once connected one idea to another (like turning the page in a book, like wiping from one scene to the next) now explode and link off in a hundred different directions. There is no one path, but a hundred paths, each one halfway followed, each one holding our interest only till the next explosion carries us off in another direction; and we, the voyager, are barely contiguous, but rather a string of breadcrumbs, a traceroute, an audit trail: we become simply a log of what we have seen. We are the storyteller, chronicling link after link after link, feeling after feeling after feeling; but we are no longer the story. We are the narrator but no longer the protagonist. We are the current flowing through the grid; but—What do we light up?, and Why?, are questions that we no longer ask, questions we cannot answer in 140 characters. And maybe not at all...

Microblog Killed the Internet Star 

Who has time for blogging, what with all the Twittering, all the links posted to Facebook, all the quotes posted to Tumblr, all the photos pushed up to Flickr?

The age of easy Internet publishing—so easy that you can do most of it from your telephone!—is also rendering the act of actual writing to be somewhat difficult, extraneous, and neglected—at least writing anything more substantial than 140 characters. It is something now reserved only for the vast expanses of leisure time we have on international flights, long weekend getaways in the country, and time spent safely off the Internet, in refuge from the steady stream of microthoughts parceled out with thumbs into small portable devices. That is to say, rarely to never—till we forcibly wrest ourselves away from the chatter for a few elusive, peaceful moments of restive thought and creative repose.

Maybe tomorrow.

(Maybe I'll tweet about it.)

If blogging is like farming... 

"Fallow is the stage of crop rotation in which the land is left uncultivated."

Wood I Could 

Hank Moody: We have all this amazing technology and yet computers have turned into basically four-figure wank machines. The Internet was supposed to set us free, democratize us, but all it's really given us is Howard Dean's aborted candidacy and 24-hour-a-day access to kiddie porn. People—they don't write anymore; they blog. Instead of talking, they text, no punctuation, no grammar: LOL this and LMFAO that. You know, it just seems to me it's just a bunch of stupid people pseudo-communicating with a bunch of other stupid people at a proto-language that resembles more what cavemen used to speak than the King's English.
Henry Rollins: Yet you're part of the problem, I mean you're out there blogging with the best of them.
Hank Moody: Hence my self-loathing.
- from Showtime's Californication

The fifth anniversary of The Urban Sherpa fast approaches, with all the expected and hard-earned fanfare.¹ Gifts are of course welcome. ("Wood, representing strength and a solidified relationship.") Five years is a long time to do any one thing,² but especially to do a thing without any real plan as to what one is doing, or why. And a blog is a funny thing, an in-between thing—not quite epistolary, not quite literary.

This "wood anniversary" catches me in the midst of a transition; and like anyone in any transition, I am at the worst possible vantage point to be able to see where I'll wind up. I catch glimpses in the mirror that offer evidence of change: I'm surprised to see I've grown a "near-beard." I'm surprised to see you, or you, at my side, and not you. I'm surprised that I've started eating salads, going to the gym, going to the pub, going to book readings and cooking classes and going back to the theatre—going anywhere but home. I'm surprised to see bills paid, in full and on time, and I'm surprised to find there's a kind of quiet satisfaction in monotony.

Best of all, I'm surprised to be able to hear myself think, and surprised that I don't always recognize what I hear. "Truth, when it comes, comes never in a single note, only in chords, " I wrote a few weeks ago, without really understanding, "—and then we might hear only part of it and not the whole."

A blog: single notes. Flash-fictive glimpses at small truths, circling around bigger ones and unable to get any closer.

A blog: not quite necessary, not quite sufficient.³

[Hank Moody's blog, of course, isn't the reason for Hank Moody's self-loathing: his inability to create anything more substantial or meaningful or lasting (or long) is the reason for his self-loathing.]

Like anyone in any transition, I am at the worst possible vantage point to be able to see where I'll wind up. But I'm surprised to see that—not knowing—for the first time in years—I'm very curious....

1. None.

2. And five years, in blog years, is a lifetime.

3. I've always been better at quitting old things than starting new ones....

Head in Cloud 

Tag cloud generated from the text of The Urban Sherpa, 2004-2008. Generated by TagCrowd, links added manually.

In Other News... 

One of the more active corners of this blog is also one of the more hidden ones. There have been more frequent updates to the "In Other News" section—an amalgam of souvenirs I picked up while taking my daily stroll through the Internet.

Since I'm posting there more frequently, I fancied up the page by adding (finally) pagination. Die-hard fans might also be interested in the RSS feed or the Mac Dashboard News Widget.

[Really die-hard fans might notice that The Urban Sherpa maintains another parallel life on Facebook. The pithier or more photographic posts generally wind up over there.]

The Urban Sherpa on Your iPhone  

Finally!

I promised this a while back, but it's taken me longer than I expected to deliver it.¹ Here's a little tool so you can read recent entries of The Urban Sherpa on your iPhone. Never again will you have to be without your friendly neighborhood Sherpa: now you can read the blog at the gym, on the toilet, at the theatre, while driving, while making love to your spouse, etc.—in short, anywhere you bring your iPhone.²

To try it out, just point your iPhone to http://theurbansherpa.com/isherpa/. (This link probably won't behave so well in a regular desktop web browser.)

If you like what you see, and you want to add it more permanently to your iPhone, follow the instructions below:

To Install The Urban Sherpa on your iPhone

1. Navigate your iPhone to http://theurbansherpa.com/isherpa.
2. To add a Sherpa icon to your iPhone home screen, click the "+" at the bottom of the screen, then select "Add to Home Screen".
3. Give it whatever label you like. I named it "Sherpa" so all the letters fit.

1. In fact, quibblers and programmers in the audience will be quick to point out that what I've offered is not a "native iPhone app," but rather a "web application" designed specifically for the iPhone. That's why it's a bit of a pain to "install," and why you won't find it available for download at the iTunes App Store.

2. Which is, of course, everywhere.

Raison d'être, pt. 3 

I've been accused of saying things
because they are pretty
instead of true

(and I plead guilty)

Conversation with Blog  

"How long have you known me, blog?," I ask my blog.

"A couple years, on and off."

"Have I ever been happy?"

"Sure. Every now and then. Here and there."

"Name one time."

"April 15, 2006."

"Really? Then? I was all alone in a mouse-infested apartment, hundreds of miles from anyone I loved. There's no record of my being happy then—just this stupid story about something called a Pest-a-Cator."

"Trust me. You were happy then. You bought a bike. You thought you had a new girlfriend. You just didn't write about it."

"I don't believe you."

"OK, how about December 8, 2004?"

"You're joking. The love of my life was touring another country with someone else. I was desperately cavorting with strangers. I had pneumonia!"

"You found it exciting and romantic."

"Oh."

"But you didn't write about it.

"Oh."

You never write about it, when you're happy."

"Oh."

"That's why, later, you never remember being happy."

(Pause.)

"You think you're pretty smart, don't you, blog?"

"Above average. But I try not to let it go to my head."

"I'm thinking of shutting you down forever. How smart would you be then, huh? Huh? What's the matter? No snappy answer? Yeah. That's what I thought..."

Return to the Valley of the Blogs 

It went above freezing today and I decided it was time to come out of hibernation. Winter's over, according to Punxsutawney Phil and the people at Microsoft (who had us downloading software patches, to avoid a Y2K07 bug...). It's time for a spring awakening.

I'd gotten tired of blogging. I'd gotten tired of the narrow whining that had started to pass for blogging: "Wah wah wah. I live in Boston now and it doesn't feel like home. I'll just watch TV or play videogames till I get out of here. And on days I'm really bored, I'll write about it."

How fun for all of us.

I decided there wasn't any reason to blog until something changed, and I had something to blog about. And, well, there's a little fallacy there, of course: things are always changing ... but if I don't write about them, I generally fail to notice. Like for instance, since my last blog entry, I got a new computer, a new pair of glasses, a new cellphone provider, new boots, and a new filling in a wisdom tooth. Oh, and a new apartment in New York—did I tell you? So I suppose things are changing...

Syndicated Communists 

New! 

If life were a roman à clef instead of the other way around, this would be a one of the boring chapters. I'd be narrating stories about the over-hot weather, how it's forcing me to spend more and more time inside and doing laundry, about some harder-than-usual days at work, about my over-reliance on takeout Thai food, about my vague notions of revitalizing my life by shopping for furniture or plants.

I've decided to spare you all that. (Well, most of it.) The time I might have spent typing out these unreadable tales I've instead sunk into cleaning up some of the code on my blog in ways that no one will ever notice or care. And that's why I decided to point it out to you.

Notice please the improved, more navigable archive , which should make it easier than ever to browse through every scribble I've ever posted here: I'm sure people will be memorizing my pithy maxims, and it's only a matter of time until I hear my own wisdom quoted back to me on the street. If browsing's not your thing, then maybe you can you'll be lucky enough to find something you love from this random blog entry.

In case there's lingo in the archive that causes you trouble, I've expanded the Urban Sherpa Dictionary to include a glossary of Internet abbreviations . I've added some recent news links, and, as you can see, I'm experimenting with this new, potentially annoying icon to indicate links to other content on the Urban Sherpa, and differentiate them from links that take you off the site.

[Looking at that icon right now, it makes more sense to use it on the links that take you away from the Urban Sherpa. Please disregard anything you've just learned about those icons in the previous paragraph; the info is outmoded and obsolete. You see how things evolve around here? It's all so organic, isn't it? ]

Last, and keeping in the Sherpa tradition of intruding upon my readers , I've added something — an icon which (if it works) should show you at a glance anything that's been posted since your last visit to the site.

Private Press 

For licensing reasons, this entry is no longer available.

Auto-Summarize 

Hello. Hi there. You in the back? Welcome.

I see some new faces in the room, so I thought I'd spend a few minutes getting you up to speed. "What is The Urban Sherpa," you ask? Well, I'm not going to tell you (even here). But Microsoft Word is.

Every now and then, I crunch the entire archive through an "Auto-Summarize" to see what kind of twisted, true logic gets spit out. Here's two years of blog in a few short paragraphs:

UrbShrp

Urban Sherpa, yeah, right. (I'm reading Feynman's QED, so the time just FLEW by; nothing passes the time like quantum physics....) I'd miss him if anything ever happened to him. People line up to talk to their dead.

Why do I spend so much time not calling loved ones? I've never been in this little shop, this spiritual bodega. A Place Without Time

Long strands of superhair.

I wonder if the fire in his heart is out. Some people never find love. I've proven thoroughly incapable of emotion.

So many thoughts, so little time to write them down. So many thoughts, so little time. If the neighborhood is called the Upper anything, I just don't go there. It means different things at different times to different people.

If I die, be sure to let people know it was the poison palm tree mold. Every time I've done them, I've been happier, clearer-headed, and more engaged in the world. I've long been of the belief that doctors are for sick people, and therefore, if you visit the doctor, you put yourself in the category of a person who is sick.

Never happen.

Actually say out loud, I'll join Al-Qaida if it will help my country. Maybe it's time we start loving our red state brothers by tirelessly calling them on Republican hypocrisy, time we start loving them with a big, relentless stick called Reason.
The state of California has fifty-five electoral votes - 18 times as many as Wyoming - but has 70 times as many people (thirty-five million). Automobiles, Bombs, and Movies! Red states versus blue states! Thank thee, God, for Jon Stewart. We have ridiculed the time-honored values of our forefathers and called it enlightenment.

I thank the first true friend. Essays, photos, movies, and music — especially music. Our lives are changed forever. Now, if only I could have found her a parking spot....

(Approximate travel time: 44 hours 13 mins!?!)

Why do I spend so much time not calling loved ones? Play?

If I could be any filmmaker in the world, I would be Jean-Pierre Jeunet. I've been sick. I've been fever-sick, delirious, talking-to-my-belly-button sick. I've been sick as a dog. A whole heckload of time. If you like, read the full article. People die. Life is suffering. Key word: noble. Call it The Middle Way.

A lot of people think this is funny. I'm not one of those people. Dan Baum, the author of the New Yorker article, wonders if it's generational:
People go to Saturn?

As I've been saying ... I'm sick. If Punxsutawney Phil plays along, then I'll basically have slept through the entire winter...

Heck, I've probably melted Antarctica on my computer a dozen times.

My grandfather joked that people had gotten lost forever inside his sorting building, but I never thought it was very funny. In defense of the juice, though, the ads more or less promise that if I drink it, I will never get sick or old, and never die. Non-computer people may not understand how beautiful a computer is, how perfect its mind. I'm in this frame of mind when a friend calls. if (!($AnswerPhone) {
If MeetingLength > 1 hour, then Morale == Morale -1.
}

By the time I get home, I can't feel my body. I've heard it's pretty easy. I've never met him. I don't know if I could stand losing my religion.

Love the glasses! It's a strange world. Let the good times roll.

I wonder if it's a tell if I admit that, at some point in the early afternoon, I peeled down, stood in front of mirror, and stared at myself, to see what I've become. Unmitigated evil lives in me. Thank God for dirty dishes. I remember if I did six shots of Jack Daniels uninterrupted, drunk hit me like a freight train. Thank God for Alesandra. See the movie.

Fuck if I know. Bush and Cheney called their old pals at Enron to advise on the energy policy, right? Call it Ménage à Mouseketeer.

When people rave about life in New York City, they'll often talk about restaurants and rock bands, first run movie theatres, Broadway shows, bars open till dawn, life without cars. Maybe tattoos just help us remember times we don't want to forget. (Yes, there were several people. If only I could remember where I was when I used it last....

CHRIS: I've been really troubled lately
CHRIS: Well, I've been having terrible dreams...
CHRIS: I'm dissatisfied with what I've become.

Sweeping Love Epic. Buddy Movie. Right? Thank God that's settled!

If you lived here, you'd be home by now.
Movie stars in public. Thanks. OK, I've said it. It's high time I told you.

(My former life.) I wonder, too, what I'll do if it was a bad decision. I wonder how I'll even know if it was a bad decision.

I'm role-playing. I'm playing house. In case anyone's wondering...

Who cares if you already know the answer? Call it the smell of stagnation.

Do other people do this? You could call it meditating if that didn't sound so, well, meditative. In truth, though, I wonder if I'll last a day. Call Me

The road, he reminds himself, is the place he calls home...

Kenmore Square gets interesting interesting interesting interesting around game time. I walk and walk and walk and walk and walk. I read Narcissus and Goldmund, I read A Wrinkle in Time. I wonder if I've lost focus, if I make myself suffer but don't remember why. I wonder if I've lost passion. I wonder if we've all outlived our usefulness, if we were never meant to live so long. Going about their lives. Call it Untitled, call it Mural. Call it Convergence.

Recycling 

I work with some magazine publishers who print ten (not twelve) issues of their magazine each year. During the summer, things slow down a bit, and the generally overworked writers and editors get to take a relative breather.

In what would seem to be an unrelated anecdote, I was on the subway not too long ago and earned the shock and disappointment of a close friend because she caught me throwing some trash onto the floor. "Littering!?!," she cackled. "I thought you were, like, an environmentalist!!!" I'm not sure what environmental impact it has to throw an empty gum wrapper onto the floor of a subway car—a subway car, after all, is a big, closed, metal can, not really so different from an oversized, diesel-powered trash can. But littering in the train (or anywhere) is also not something I would normally do, so I felt guilty regardless.

The two occurrences together have inspired me to be less wasteful in general, and that includes here on my blog. It seems immoral to write more and more blog entries about the same old things, while so many posts languish in the archive, gathering dust. (Cf. The Velveteen Rabbit.)

SO, first of all I'd like to call your attention to three of my recent efforts at conservation here on The Urban Sherpa—the aggregator page (which culls the blog entries of some other interesting folks, and thereby cuts down on the non-biodegradable waste that I'd create by writing about the same things); the news page (where I gather links to a handful of interesting news stories for your reading enjoyment—an effort to link global, act local); and the search page, which makes it easy to find interesting articles in the blog archive. (Well, in theory.)

LASTLY, and most recently, I'm beginning to implement related links at the bottom of some entries, to cross-reference some of the older, archived blog content. The related links feature is new, somewhat automated, and still a little clumsy—but might point you to some interesting content nonetheless.

Thanks, as always, for visiting The Urban Sherpa. Feedback always welcome. Well, maybe not always. But often.

Search Engine Blew a Gasket (ii) 

I worry about people, and it comes out in the weirdest ways. Take this example: a month ago, when Microsoft launched its MSN Search service, The Urban Sherpa started getting more hits from people seeking out information, and I wanted a way to get in touch with these people, to see if they were alright.

How could I not worry about the person who went to a search engine looking for more information on "best suicide locations"? The person who decided they wanted "jack daniels - 3 liter bottle"? Or the poor soul who went to the Internet because they "need more friends"?

The fact is, I might have spent my energy worrying about the poor aim of MSN's search. Surely there must be websites more relevant than mine to the needs of these people. But I wasn't really concerned with improving Microsoft's search service, so much as helping the unchampioned people who submitted the searches in the first place. Behind each keyword was a flesh-and-blood human being who needed something....

Dear Sir or Madam:

Why do you want cast iron boots, exactly? You don't have intentions of dropping someone in a river, I hope. Should I be concerned that you need to know the difference between a homicide from a suicide gun shot? And, I hate to be judgemental about your quest for pictures of Lara Croft naked, but—you do realize she's not a real person, right?

But by far, the keyword search that causes me the most concern is one I get almost every week, of this variety—"Visine poisoning":

Constituting or amounting to a whole 

They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery—but what about stealing? (I wonder this while filling out my taxes and listening to the new Beck album....)

It has been, if you ask me, a fairly uninspired week at The Urban Sherpa, and it's for times such as these that I've created my new aggregator page. This addition to the site should ensure that you find something interesting each and every time you visit The Urban Sherpa, because the page is full of things I didn't write. Instead, a computer automatically pokes through the blogs of friends and acquaintances, and mashes them all up into a single collage.

All those times I wanted to write about something, only to have someone else beat me to it, and do it better—these will be there. You can read them, and I won't even have to trouble myself to write them.

If that's not the sincerest form of flattery, then I don't know what is. Really I'm just playing out that fantasy of gathering everyone I admire all in one room for a great big dinner party. I hope the conversation is interesting. I hope no one breaks anything. I hope we all learn something and come away a little bit better, or have a good time, at least.

Aggregate: adj. 1. Constituting or amounting to a whole.

We'll see, I guess.

P.S. Speaking of mash-ups, I can't stop playing this one.

Inverse-Blogging 

For licensing reasons, this entry is no longer available.