Go ⌘→ THAT WAY, Wookie men on ice skates, and suburb technopunk.

Good morning, Write.as!

Haven't talked to you in about a week. Been busy in my paradisiacal neck of the neon.

CJ's LFL mention reminds me of all the LFLs I've been the FIRST TO REVIEW ON my shared account on YELP (I write about the cool hidden stuff, my SO writes about the mundane). A badge of honor I cherish, because bringing more people to a little free library means more books for me to steal, annotate, and gingerly return.

It reminds me of a project I was doing for a dying friend, who's y2k blogs that have since gone offline really could have benefitted from an old school longform zine publication. A project I am still dedicated to doing (someday). Crazy wacky Neo Zen Buddhism, proto Tony Robbins (without the abusive screaming and philandering). Yup, its a whole roundup of text that, when implanted into sensitive young minds, can change the course of history. Or herstory, depending on which letter of the chromosome you're eyeballing earth from.

That's millennium charm for ya.

After being a Mac user for more than 20 years, I just now learned — by accident — that ⌘→ is the command for “end line”. And omg, that's not all. ALL the arrows have similar directional function! How could I have ever missed this? Ms “only ever summons spotlight with ⌘-spacebar” Paradise, Esquiretrix.

Reminds me of my fav album when I was 15. Literally can't find it now, not on discogs (edit: found on discogs.) and definitely absent from youtube. Except for one song. And it's stuck in my head right now. Hopefully soon, also stuck in yours.

77 suburb technopunk for ya.

If anyone wants to send ye olde gramma Paradise a mid-year 'smas present, it's that. That. That rekkid. Ah, life is busy.

A girlfriend of mine is leaving our Small Town Space Colony back to Santa Cruz, land of misty surf, to reunite with her lobster. Penguin. Any one of those monogamous-for-life animals. I plan on showering her with enough dorky pinback buttons of my creation so she has enough nerdy charm to wear as flair at her new job for every 52 weeks of the year. She'll be the taco the town.

The race for the Stanley Cup has me in tatters. So proud of the Blues for coming back from sheer terror and putting a dent in Zdeno Chara's face. How anyone can reach 7 feet into the air and do that is an amazement in itself, because Zdeno Chara is literally a Wookie on skates. He is terrifying. I would never want to even walk in the same timezone as Zdeno Chara, and fortunately I've only had to do that a handful of times in my life. (Honestly he's one of my fav players in hockey because of the brusk intensity and insanely intelligent playermanship. This guy should own a country or lead large technically blessed mecha-goliaths into an ice battle, because he's 100% the right man for the job)

But I still wanna see Braden Schenn hoist the Stanley for Laila Anderson in St. Louis. She's there every game. Tears.

Two more absolutely too long slogs of a game left to figure out who gets what. I think I'll barf. Or place bets on both sides so I come out on top, either way. I've been watching the moneyline run back and forth over 0 the past week, almost as frantically as both parties in the overtimes in Game 3. Back forth back forth back forth. Seriously, no one knows what the fuck is going to happen in this match. BOS is currently +100 (they were +170 last week). STL at -120, which is like, where they've been the whole series.

Idk man. 2019 icebrawls for ya.

Even though I've never bet on any sport in my entire life, I want to get into this, because we all know how much I like monetizing hobbies. I just wish I had some sort of avuncular figure who can casually demystify all this vocabulary so I can get to the cash-out part.

I'm the laughing stock of both my elders, who laugh at every iPhone notification, since I only have it flash/chime at either hockey or husband. And my kids, who make fun of me every time I rise out of a dead slumber to check the score after every “goal” noise. It rings for any of the teams I'm following.

Gonna be an excruciatingly lonely summer for me, bud.

In other brawls, I'm reading through Richard Morgan's Thirteen while on my daily looooong treadmill sojourns. I have a whole 'nother post to fill with the greatest, most juicy-with-gore, or painted with a sheen of diaphanous silver silk, text I've read in a bit!

But for now I will dream of little pixie goaltenders butterflying and rolling-glove-saves around my head while I try really really hard to pay attention to my work at hand.