Everybody’s acting all weird. Still hot, though.

Piss Sayid:

Piss Christ:

I’m never going to get this ominous melody out of my head, am I?

And surprise! It’s a maddening cliffhanger ending!

Logitech has not provided, and I assume, will not be providing Windows 7 drivers for the oldish QuickCam Pro 4000 (which is still a perfectly fine piece of hardware, so why should I have to buy another one?)

It doesn’t matter. Do this: download the most recent Vista software, and run it. In the final step, the camera will fail to show an image, but ignore that. The software should be installed just fine, the only thing you’ll be missing is the driver.

Some people have had success getting that driver working by simply going through the normal install process, and then unplugging their camera and moving it to another USB port. Windows then detects the device and locates the driver on its own. But in case this doesn’t work for you (it didn’t work for me):

Go into your Control Panel, open “Hardware and Sound”, and then select “Device Manager” under “Devices and Printers” (or just “Device Manager”, if your Control Panel shows all items). You will see an “unknown device” marked by a yellow warning symbol. Double-click on that sucker, then select “Update driver”, choose “Browse my computer for driver software”, and navigate to (or cut and paste) the folder C:\Program Files\Logitech\QuickCamWebInstall\Drivers — make sure the “Include subfolders” box is checked. Hit “Next”, and Windows should install your device. This probably works for other webcam models as well.

You’re welcome. And Logitech, you’re lazy jerks!

One of my favourite applications of troll non-feeding is from The Simpsons episode “Treehouse of Horror VI”, where the characters are sold on the idea that “if people stop paying attention to [advertising], pretty soon, it goes away” by a jingle, performed by Paul Anka. Of course, “advertising” here refers to monstrous commercial mascots brought to life by an ionic disturbance, but if you take the word “monsters” metaphorically, this little song provides excellent instructions for handling bullshit (and it’s currently stuck in my head):

Paul Anka: To stop those monsters 1-2-3,
Here’s a fresh new way that’s trouble-free,
It’s got Paul Anka’s guarantee…
Lisa: Guarantee void in Tennessee.
All: Just don’t look! Just don’t look!
Just don’t look! Just don’t look!
Just don’t look! Just don’t look!

It’s hard to remain passive when confronted by painful levels of stupid (I’ve been struggling all day), but together, we can do it!

I’d tell you who inspired me to post this, but they’re egosurfers, and I don’t want to feed them. If you get information from the same sources as me, and know anything about me (both semi-likely, if you’re reading this), you might be able to guess. But don’t. Because then they will have won.

I thought I’d lost that Graf It sketch pad tonight. Which is where I keep my most embarrassing scribbles (it’s the one I keep in my purse, so it’s the one that gets attention in bars). Losing data of any sort is terrible and traumatic as far as I’m concerned. I’ve never lost a notebook before. My head would probably explode worrying about it, if I did, even though my handwriting is totally illegible. And even though it’s damned unlikely that the contents would ever become associated with my name.

Above are all of the notebooks and sketch pads I use regularly at present. I have seventeen zillion that are filled or completed (not the same thing). As much as I blither blather about anything online, basically unfiltered, there’s a whole lot (whole lot) of other drivel that never makes it to the web. If anything, that stuff would at least make me look like a major spaz, and that’s just as good as being awesome when it comes to the internet.

If I was the sort of person who made resolutions, I’d resolve to share more of the contents of these books. But I’m not. So we’ll see. Phobia. Phobia. It terrifies me to think that if I died… ack. Somebody could eventually sift through any one of them. Just thinking of a particular green steno pad from high school makes me cringe. Every depressed kid in high school thinks they can write poetry… Pain! Why don’t I burn it!? You guys gotta promise me that when I die, every piece of paper I own will be burnt unread. It clashes with my whole concept of life and death, since I’m confident I won’t care one bit about anything that happens after I die (as I’ll be rotting in the ground, and all). Even so.

I wonder how intoxicated I’d need to be to post anything I’ve written that’s fictional.