Category: Linkage

  • Ken, the swinging single

    From Frenzied Daddy… or more accurately his daughter:

    Ken’s hot tub party

    Is it just me or does one of the Barbies look like she’s thinking, “How the hell did I end up here?”

  • Not the sort of things your Xtian boss wants to hear.

    Via TPRS

    things not to say to the televangelist who’s invested quite a bit of money in this operation and doesn’t find you funny at all, young lady

  • We can agree on Sparky and Ange, right?

    via Bears Cave

    I Remember All My Life

    Featuring the Witch-King of Angmar, a spunky superhero teen, and Barry Manilow. No, really.

  • World of Ends: World Without End.

    Not that everybody and their brother isn’t already going to link to this after a few hundred thousand Slashdot readers have already seen it, but you know what? I’m going to link to it anyway. It’s damned good reading for anyone who ever thinks about the Internet and what it means to, well, everybody.
    World of Ends

  • Holy Crap, Lions!

    Only available in Kenya. Act now while supplies last.

    (Thanks, Jaymi-BoB. Thanks a lot. *grin*)

  • Blogging As Punk

    Via that canny state-of-the-blogosphere watcher Snappy the Clam, a rant you simply must read if you maintain a website that could fall under the category of “blog.”

    It was, for a while, as if we were all fans of the punk, you see, together out there on the floor, drenched in sweat, pogoing, hurling beer cans, singing along, not really caring which band was up on the stage, just loving the hum and the throb and the tribal feeling of it all. Now it feels as if many of us have become fans of various specific bands, or have started our own and are struggling to gather our own crowds, or have decided to just keep it in the garage where it belongs, and damn having an audience. We don’t have time to go to each others’ gigs anymore. When everyone is in a band, there’s no one left to watch the shows.

    That almost inevitably leads to irrelevance, though. Survey says. You sell yourself to the record company to try and get a distribution deal, you start to watch what you say, you suck up to the Big Boys, and try to be seen in the right places with the right powder dusting your nostrils. You lose the holy fire, you start thinking in terms of ‘product’, you tell yourself you’re going to ‘change it from the inside,’ but you’re part of the machine now, and it’s too late for you.

    It’s some gonzo writing, mate. Never Mind The Bollocks, Here’s The Wonderchicken