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September 22, 2009

Note to the Washington Post's Internet team: If you can't log on, doesn't matter how good your content is — you're going down


How is possible that I'm the only person on the planet who, after putting "Washington Post" into the Google search box, then clicking on the first result (below), ends up at the page up top?

Happens 100% of the time.


If I try to go directly to a Post article or section, no problem, things work the way they're supposed to.

I mean, I've subscribed faithfully to the dead tree iteration for over 26 years now, and recently have read all about publisher Katharine Weymouth and executive editor Marcus Brauchli's attempts to unify the hard copy and virtual versions, to the point where starting January 1, 2010 they'll have moved the Internet operation from its long-time headquarters across the river in Northern Virginia into the old hard copy headquarters on 15th Street in the District in an attempt to produce some sort of unified field of new-wave journalism.

But all that's meaningless if the front door's locked.

Yoo hoo, fancy programming team: time to pick up the clue phone and eat your own dog food.

In this case that means having TechnoDolt™ types like me visit the website while you watch through a one-way mirror as we bang our heads against the computers.


Otherwise you'll be walking the treadmill from your home office like me in no time flat.

Yo, Goli Sheikholeslami (he's the current head of washingtonpost.com, slated to become General Manager of Digital and Vice President of Digital Product Development at The Washington Post come January 1, 2010) — call your office.

I have never understood, and never will, how a big-time online operation like the Post or TypePad only finds out something's broken when fools like me start drowning, not waving, and do the equivalent of screaming for help as we prepare to go under for the count.

Sorry about all the mixed metaphors in this post but I'm a little distracted: Gray Cat is just so darn amusing as she tries to figure out how it is that a little lizard ran off in one direction while its now-amputated tail continues to wriggle all over the patio.

September 22, 2009 at 04:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBack

LEGO T-Shirt — 'Bring your apparel into the third dimension'


My sentiments precisely.


Note that you get a black T-shirt


with a black baseplate


on the front —


you supply the LEGOs.



September 22, 2009 at 03:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

bookofjoe's favorite thing


I spend more enjoyable waking hours on it than anywhere else on the planet.

Seven days a week, hours every day at 2.0 mph, striding along ever so happily.

It's my new Smooth Fitness 7.6HR Pro treadmill (above) and it's been heaven on earth for this committed treadmill workspace acolyte in the two months I've had it.

My trusty, long-since discontinued Smooth 5.15 gave up the ghost after four plus years of faithful, reliable and quiet service, far longer than it had any business lasting considering the hours of daily use year in and year out.

The 7.6 represents a big step up in terms of features, true, what with a bigger motor, wider and longer bed with better shock absorption and a heavier frame.

But that's not why I opted for it.

The nature of my workspace requires that my computer has to be somehow integrated with my treadmill, and that requires a console with a stabilizing lip near the lowest point of its upper face (below).

Pircture 2

The 5.15 had one but its successor, the 5.45, doesn't; the next one up the Smooth line that has that secure raised edge, preventing my whole shebang from crashing down to the floor, is the 7 series.

Pricey at $1,999, but worth it.

I'm looking for 7–10 years from this puppy.

Bonus: the wider and longer belt, along with the tricked-out bed, make running on it very feasible and comfortable.

Nice wide (six inches on each side) flat running boards to rest on when I want to step off from time to time.

And, the hallmark of Smooth, it's quiet as a library.

September 22, 2009 at 02:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack

Gladiator Claw


Think outside the bicycle space.

From websites:


Gladiator Claw™ Advanced Bike Storage


Gladiator Claw saves you space and is ultra-easy to use — simply push up with your bike tire to lock or unlock the arms.

The unique Push-Lock mechanism lets you hang or release your bike with one intuitive motion.

To store the bike, just press up with the bike tire, and the claw locks securely in place.

To release, press up with the tire again, and the claw unlocks.


Our bike storage claw frees up valuable floor space, and keeps your ride up off the floor so it won't be damaged.

The heavy-duty die cast aluminum claw installs easily on the the ceiling of your garage or basement.

Soft-touch rubber grips baby your back, helping protect your rims and spokes from scratches.

Each claw holds one bicycle weighing up to 50 pounds.

9.75"H x 6"W x 3.75"D.




September 22, 2009 at 01:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack

BehindTheMedspeak: Candy or Medicine?


[via CompuMiz, Woosk and The Daily What]

September 22, 2009 at 12:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Teeth Mug





[via LikeCool]

September 22, 2009 at 11:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Guy Trebay in the Boom Boom Room


New York City's most penetrating chronicler of all things hip and related recently visited a party for über-meister Takeshi Murakami at the Standard Hotel and brought back the following report from the frontier of the cool and fashionable; the piece appeared on the front page of this past Sunday's New York Times Styles section.


Amid the Bust, the Boom Boom

Should you ever happen to run into the Japanese ultra-genius pop star artist and handbag designer Takeshi Murakami at the Boom Boom Room of the Standard Hotel, on the eve of his latest art opening, it may help if you have a few questions prepared.

Sample question: Do you find that conducting the whirlwind jet-setting life of an ultra-genius pop star artist and handbag designer leaves you time for quiet consultation with your muse?

Or: What role does fate play in fame and global recognition? Do some ultra-genius pop star artist handbag designers just get lucky, while others wind up making Hendrick’s martinis behind a bar?

Or: Who styles your topknot? It’s kind of cute.

The one thing you should probably never inquire of a person of Mr. Murakami’s stature, on the eve of his exhibition at the Larry Gagosian Gallery, on the final night of Fashion Week, in the Boom Boom Room of the Standard Hotel, locus of all things flossy and urgent and cosmopolitan for the last seven days (and, looking forward, one might predict for the following 90), is what he thinks makes a party fun.

If you present such a banal query, well, be prepared for a look of smoldering incomprehension, a coldly evidenced distaste for breaches in the protocols of global celebrity. You must be ready to experience a displeasure that could atomize you, reduce you to an integer of laboring-class nothingness, a mote of dust.

“Do you know who you are talking to?” a Murakami acolyte will ask you in a tone that is equal parts astonishment and horror.

“Why, yes.”

“Do you know who this person is?” the acolyte will repeat.


And then Mr. Murakami himself will give you a slow burn and mutter, “I don’t like bars,” and then another acolyte will soothingly murmur, “Let’s sit down,” and then the Murakami coterie will commence to fan the pop star artist and handbag designer with flattery, much as drones in a hive do a queen bee, so his core does not melt.

And you?

Well, perhaps you will mooch a mini-truffled grilled cheese sandwich or a caponata crostini with basil from one of the trays being passed by a waitress [top] hired equally for her comeliness and her ability to glide coolly through mobs of important people, carrying a drinks tray and wearing a uniform comprising a virginal white Rubin Chapelle dress and Capezio salsa dancing shoes.

Does it matter whether this young woman, drawn from the ranks of women no less lovely and who arrive here daily in waves, cannot yet distinguish the small and taut-fleshed, tightly tailored, and faintly Tang-colored fashion eminence and art collector Giancarlo Giammetti from Stavros Niarchos, the Homerically handsome young scion of a fabled shipping fortune?

It does not.

The Boom Boom Room has only just opened. There will be plenty of time for her to figure that stuff out.

And when she does, the designer Cynthia Rowley remarked on Thursday night, as she perched on a suede marshmallow chair in a nook by a window that gave out on a panorama encompassing what looked like all the lights of New Jersey, much else will come clear.

“When you come in and see her, at first she’s like a beautiful nurse in white, bringing you your cocktail,” Ms. Rowley said, indicating one of the waitresses as she moved with gymnastic ease through the crowd. When once she has dispensed her curative potions, Ms. Rowley added, the nurse-waitress magically “becomes an angel.”

And, after a certain amount of time on the job at the Boom Boom Room, the nurse angel waitress, Ms. Rowley said, may well “become a bride” to one of the monied denizens of this very world.

And thus she will have completed a circuit that places like the Boom Boom Room exist to facilitate.

New York is always, in every instance, a city of transaction. No depression or recession or downturn or terrorist attack can alter that fact. Solid reminders of this truth are visible from any of the many windows at the Boom Boom Room.

Look west and the Hudson, its night-dark surface like shirred bombazine, summons the image of the shipping trade. Look down at the trucks still parked by the West Side Highway and recall the frenzy of manufacturing that followed World War II. Look north at the High Line park and remember the rail lines that hauled New York goods to the rest of the country and brought others back to be traded with the world.

Look south from the 18th floor of the Standard Hotel, the level of the Boom Boom Room, and the prospect is of a crystalline sky with a hole in the middle. Two towers once stood in a place the eye still refuses to register as a void. On the 106th and 107th floors of the north tower was a restaurant with a view that people who dined there rarely troubled to note.

That same restaurant provided the inspiration for the interiors of the Boom Boom Room, circular nooks by windows and sunken bars and the sense that the glass walls, only functionally concerned with enclosure and safety, are more saliently symbols of an illusion central to the mythology of this city, that the scope of possibility here is limitless.

It is here that an artist of middling talents can fully experience his magical transformation into an ultra genius pop star, and enjoy a lavish dinner party tribute surrounded by 120 of the wealthiest people around. And he can take his place on the cultural cusp as the weeklong extravaganza of novelties in fashion gives way to the next important event on the seasonal calendar, the period when the city’s art dealers bring out their fall lines.

The room and party around him will exert a mystical force, magnetizing that permanent stratum of privileged New Yorkers never more fully themselves than when reflected in the eyes of their own kind, and also those of us who gaze at them.

September 22, 2009 at 10:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

Meringue Rings


Created by German designer Tanja Hartmann.

Industrial grade silicone; three sizes.


Apply within.

[via Pulp]

September 22, 2009 at 09:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack

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