The Last Missive From CrySpace

[editor's/writer's note: The precursor of this little web-log once lived at an obscure little site called Myspace.com. I blogged there for a while, until I realized it's tools and reliability left a bit to be desired (ie: none). So I moved it here and posted links to what has become known as:

ThatDudeWithTheStuffThatHappens

I didn't mean to provoke anyone, simply to provide a venue for my handful of readers whom I love dearly and owe roughly $43 apiece. Time passed, and I noticed that the benevolent douchebags at CrySpace didn't take kindly to my dissing their site while promoting my own. What follows is my last transmission from that awful place. I closed the account soon after. I can now be found on Facebook and Twitter, and although those are not actively hijacking or censoring me, are already walking a thin line.]



I'm closing my CrySpace account. If you haven't noticed, this place is a dead scene.

It was lame/irritating enough as it was, but now the jack-booted minions of Rupert's are blocking links I post in my "blog". Paranoid much, FoxCorp?

I've opened a new blog at: that dude with the stuff that happens dot blogspot dot com, if you care to look. When I post links to it here, a snarky, oh-so-funny Hijack page comes up with this missive. Prepare yourself for hilarity:

"The link you are trying to visit has been disabled.

You have reached a link that is no longer in service. That means the link was very naughty, and, much like head lice, had to be eliminated before it spread.

You may be asking yourself, 'Hey, what was it about that link that got it in trouble?' An excellent question! Usually, it's one of the following reasons:

- The link was spam! No one likes spammers, and we don't like their links.

- You almost got phished! There are people out there who want to steal your MySpace password. They want to log in as you and send spam, harass your friends, change your profile, and generally run amok. Phishing pages are usually designed to look like MySpace to trick you. Other sites may also ask for your MySpace login information to customize your profile, insert videos or slide shows, track visitors, or any number of other things.Don't make it easy for them. ONLY USE YOUR MYSPACE LOGIN INFO ON WWW.MYSPACE.COM!!

- Viruses are not fun! Neither is adware, spyware, or malware. We cut the links to places that are known sources of infection.

If you really did want to check out some spam, viruses, or phishing pages, we're really sorry to have interrupted. We're sure you can find it elsewhere. There's plenty on the Internet "

Oh you witty bastards! You saw right through my fool-proof plan! Thwarted! Damn it all to hell! Closing my ability to express myself in a free manner outside the confines of your corporate paradise was bad enough, but comparing me to a head louse? Ouch, Myspace. That really hurts.

So... I'm gonna leave this Orwellian nightmare up for another week or so, in case some of my actual friends might not have another way of getting hold of me. Send me an email, and I'll give you your own set of keys to reach me away from this crap-wad. I'll shoot an email to those I think might wanna find me after I cash out from this fascist advertisement masquerading as a hip place for the kiddies to play.

I hate to say it, but I encourage everyone to throw themselves under the Facebook juggernaut. Just for spite.



Filthy Rich. And a Douchebag.

How To Get Telemarketers To Stop Calling.

Back in the days before home phones became known as "land lines" there were certain types of "irritants" who made their living as "telemarketers". Man, those were great days! 5-disc CD changers were the height of cutting edge. VHS still reigned supreme, giddy with the heady rush of its momentous besting of Beta. The INTERNET was yet an Al Gore wank fantasy.

Fuck blogs! In those days we had Journals! (or Diaries, if you were 12 and a girl) And who read those journals? NO ONE! Those were secret thoughts! We hoarded and kept hidden our inner-most inklings. Our deepest desires, too illicit and dangerous to elaborate were kept wedged firmly between mattress and box spring. Or futon and frame... No one is here to judge.

Our mundane comings and goings were just that: mundane. When I was sitting in the dentist's waiting room, that's ALL I DID. I couldn't tweet that shit because I was not a fucking bird. Facebook was just a face in a book.

So our "land lines" were the only thing keeping us tethered to the outside world. Got an emergency? Call 911! Psycho killer after you? He already cut the phone line! Run away!

Along with the convenience of a designated hard line to tie you in to the rest of society as a whole came the inconvenience of someone calling you at inopportune moments, usually begging for money. So Caller ID was invented. A part of me wonders how much cold calling could have been avoided if the subscription cost of Caller ID could have been passed off to phone beggars, just to keep them from getting hold of me. Just a thought.

Regardless. I found myself the owner of a phone bill. I'd get calls, usually in the evening, after business hours. You could usually tell the nature of the call from the lag between when you said "hello" to the callers response:

"..... [clack, pause, shuffle] Hello, may I speak to Mr. Sullivan?"

You got 'em pal. I'd listen politely, decline politely, and get on with my day as quickly as possible. This did not discourage their ilk.

Eventually, I couldn't take it.



I don't want a subscription. I can't donate. How did the local Socialist party HQ get my number? True story.

One evening, I fielded a call:

"Hello?"

"May I speak with... Mr... Sutherland?"

"Who is calling?"

I listened once again to the pitch. Drastic measures had to be taken:

Me: "[sighs heavily] Oooh. Yeah, see... here's the thing. Brandon died this past weekend in a car crash. I'm here taking care of his effects. I'm sure wherever he is now he doesn't need your service(s). No offense, you might want to take him off your list."

Sometimes I could actually hear the caller cringing on the other side of the line. Eventually I learned to relish that tiny sound.

What I Learned:

Tell enough people you're dead for a long enough time, and soon enough they start to believe it. I'm getting ready to deploy this technique on my stalker.

I didn't mention I have a stalker? Well, it's true. I'm being stalked. It's the strangest thing though, because all she wants to talk about is my student loans. Weird, huh?

Ode to Tank Top

From January a few years ago:

Ode to a Tank Top

Bless you, half yard of cotton
You should be cocooned in wintry slumber
Yet this unseasonable warmth
Has brought you forth
Dazed and blinking.

What prestidigitator revealed so much
While hiding so much more?
Copperfield has got nothing on you.

What tempest has stirred so violently
So much chaos in my pants?

Bless you, early springtime.
Bless you, spaghetti strap.
Bless you, pale and tender flesh.

A whisper of better things,
So many months ahead.

I have but to sit and wait
For your timely flowering
And savor this vision
Which will carry me through.

(originally published 10/19/2006)

Evaluating My Creepiness

First off: I need a roommate. Not right away, but May 1st shall see a new chapter in my living situation. If you know anyone who would like to live in a fairly large, no-frills apartment in JP, steer them my way. Oh, and it's the cheapest place in Boston, hands down.

My current roommate Adrienne is great. We get along quite well. She's an arts educator, and when we are able to hang out in the apartment together we have no shortage of conversation. But she's met someone, they've fallen in love, and are moving in together. I'm happy for them, but wish I didn't have to go through the stress and annoyance of finding a new person to share my place.

When I was interviewing Adrienne for the room, an interesting bit of conversation occurred. I informed her that I've never had a lease on the apartment, and that she wouldn't need to sign one, a bit of information which she was very enthusiastic about. Her enthusiasm raised red-flags for me and I asked her about it.

"Well," she explained, "It's good in case this doesn't work out, if we don't get along... if you're creepy..."

I assured her I was not, in fact, creepy. I try to be a decent guy, abide by the rules, all that. But it got me thinking.

What if I am creepy?



They say that people who have body-odor issues don't realize it, because they are around it all the time and can't distinguish their stink from fresh air. When I was a freshman in college a fellow dorm-dweller earned the unfortunate nickname Stinky Elvis, due to his BO and prodigious sideburns. I tried once to be friends with him, but he stank up my dorm room. He didn't realize he smelled bad.

I've known creepy people, too. Bad News Gary was one of the creepiest dudes I've ever met. He was the genesis for me leaving a job, he was that creepy. But I'm sure he had no clue about the fact that he made people's skin crawl. Even now, years later, I'm skeeved out by him. To Bad News Gary, though, each day was like any other. He left in his wake a sea of people with the sudden, strong urge to take a shower, and he had no clue.

So it stands to reason that I could be creepy. I could be a weirdo, and not even know it. That is scary as hell.

I've never had the urge to kill anyone and dress myself in their skin. My sexual piques and proclivities tend to be somewhat vanilla and definitely self-contained. I've never stalked anyone. (Does Twitter count?) So I think it's safe to say that no, I do not stink, and no, I am not creepy.

I am, however, paranoid about both.