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Below are the most recent 25 friends' journal entries.

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    Friday, April 25th, 2014
    marrael
    12:00p
    My tweets
    Thursday, April 24th, 2014
    joe_haldeman
    10:49p
    down Mexico way
    The other day Gay and I went to the airport and flew to Atlanta, but then changed our minds and turned around and flew to Mexico City.  Actually, we'd been invited to a convention, the Feria Internacional del Libro de Azcapotzalco.  Kind of rolls off the tongue, if you're an Aztec.

    We were picked up at the airport by José Ramó Calvo, who has been our guide for all of the considerable driving around we've required.

    We came early  to Mexico City, knowing it would take a day or two to get used to the altitude.  Good thing; after two days I'm still panting a bit and not feeling like the young 70 I was when I stepped on the plane.

    Mexico City is fascinating, though, and we do have friends here from science fiction.  Gay has two degrees in Spanish and speaks it well.  I personally can order a beer and maybe a taco.

    We had dinner out with old friend Paco Taibo II, but I was still too tired to do the Aztec soup justice.  We went up to Paco's place and admired his book collection, huge and gorgeous.

    This morning I started to feel somewhat normal.  We had breakfast out on the terrace of the hotel's sixth floor, in the shade of the Cathedral, on the Zócalo.  Bright and sunny, with a vast variety of food on offer.  I had bacon and eggs but also a fruit salad that had fresh mango and papaya; frijoles refritos (black beans cooked and refried), exotic fruit juices, and a strange pancake made with corn flour and a raisin-like red sweet fruit, with honey.  Lots of sweet strong black coffee.

    We had the company of hummingbirds and one fat black pigeon.   The view was both impressive and foreboding – even at the break of dawn, the pollution affects visibility.

    We rested for a bit and I worked some.  Then we met with a group of the Feria's organizers who had just brought another guest of honor from the airport, Luis Britto Garcia from Venezuela, and we all went off to the Restaurant Cardinal, to feast on their specialty . . . ant eggs (escamoles).  They look kind of like rice and are pretty good fried with maguey flowers, rolled up in a tortilla with lime juice and washed down with white wine.

    They do have a distinctive mild flavor not quite like anything else I've eaten.  Never catch on like chicken eggs, though.

    In the early evening José drove us out to Coyoacan, a sort of artsy area, very beautiful with a kind of GreenwichVillage intimacy, lots of young people hanging around doing young people things.  We peeked into an old church and, our appetite for culture assuaged, sat at a lovely outdoor café where they were roasting gorditas over a heavenly-smelling pine fire.  Good beer, but I think it may be hard to find bad beer in Mexico.

    Tomorrow I will explain why.

    Joe
    kproche
    11:26p
    Tonka 24 April 2014

    Strapped in a tin can
    Flying to a northern land
    I gain sympathy
    for plastic paratroopers
    tangled in neighborhood trees.

    paratroopers?Collapse )

    lsanderson
    9:50p
    NYT Critics' Pick
    Something’s Burning, and Comedy Isn’t Pretty
    ‘Ape,’ by Joel Potrykus, Follows a Tortured Loser
    NYT Critics' Pick
    papersky
    8:18p
    Thud: Sleeper
    Words: 3747

    To my surprise, I wrote a short story yesterday. It's called "Sleeper", it's about making history, and it's SF. Quite a lot of my short stories are SF. This one is even set in the future.

    And today I sold it to pnh for Tor.com where it will be appearing sometime. I'll let you know.

    I was counting -- this makes sixteen short stories. And in the same time, I have completed and sold twelve novels. Novels are easier and come more naturally.
    cmpriest
    5:40p
    I'll say I loved you years ago
    Not much to report today, except for three impending baby purple finches! Their parents wigged out at me when I (ever-so-carefully) watered the flower basket, so I'm not sure what I'll do once the wee ones arrive. Probably I'll just paparazzi the heck out of them and feel bad for my poor dying flowers.

    We'll see.



    Here's today's progress on my witchy art-deco horror novel about Lizzie Borden thirty years after her parents' deaths - now featuring ghosts and non-ghosts alike, anti-Catholic conspiracy nuts, supernatural political shenanigans, the mafia, and a Bonus! space-worshiping murder cult hiding behind the KKK:

      Project: Chapelwood
      Deadline: October 1, 2014
      New words written: 2769 (good)
      Present total word count: 76,841



      Things accomplished in fiction: Made it to the carnivorous storage vault, and figured out a killer - which was actually the smallest, most minor part of the mystery.

      Next up: A confession, a search, and problem of space ghosts.

      Things accomplished in real life: Neighborhood jaunt with dog; chose a contractor for this hardscaping work in the back yard, yay!; took the pruners to HedgeHenge and got it under control before things get too wacky out there; weeded the bed where the roses grow along the sidewalk; gossiped with a neighbor.

      Other: Still need to schedule the work for the yard, but we'll sort that out over the next few days. Tomorrow, I'll go down to the historic zoning office and make sure I'm not stepping on any toes; I'm reasonably confident that everything we have planned falls well within guidelines, but I'd rather be safe than yelled at and fined.

      Bonus Other: It's less than a week until I fly out for the Gaslight Gathering in San Diego! I'm already mentally planning my packing and shenanigans - and wondering about the weather...

      Night of the Living Other: [:: does the "I'm gonna have a patio" dance of glee ::]

      Number of fiction words so far this year: 110,234
    johncwright
    1:36a
    Pale Realms of Shade

    1

    It was not the being dead that I minded, it was the hours.

    No one ever calls me up during the day, and most people decide to wait until after midnight, for some reason.  I am a morning person, or was, so meetings in the still, dark hours lost between midnight and the dawn make me crabby.

    This time, it was not some comfortable séance room or picturesque graveyard with moss-covered stone angels. I came to the surface of mortal time on a street corner of some American city, mid-Twentieth to early Twenty-First Century. You can tell from the height of the buildings that it is American, and from the fact that the road names are written on signs rather than walls. And Twenty-Second Century streets are not lit up at night, of course.

    The main road was called Saint Street. The small alley was called Peter Way. Great. I was crossed by Saint and Peter.

    I smelled her perfume before I saw her. I turned. There she was, outlined against the streetlamp beyond. I could not mistake her silhouette: slender, alluring, like a she-panther as she walked.

    “Matthias,” she breathed in her low whisper. Her voice was throbbing music to me, despite everything that had happened. “You look well — ah — considering.”

    “Lorelei,” I grunted. She was just wearing a blouse and skirt and a knee-length gray coat, but on her the outfit could have made the cover of a fashion magazine. Or a girly magazine. Her wild mass of gold-red hair was like a waterfall of bright fire tumbling past her shoulders to the small of her back. Atop, like a cherry on strawberry ice-cream, was perched brimless cap. My arms ached with the desire to take her and hold her. But I could never touch her, or, for that matter, anyone ever again.

    She sighed and rolled her enormous emerald-green eyes. “Sweetheart, this time, you have to tell me if you were murdered. You have to!”

    I took a puff of an imaginary cigarette, and watched the smoke, equally imaginary, drift off in a plume more solid than I was. “I ain’t saying.”

    “But you must! I cannot rest until I know!”

    Now I knew when and where I was. Because I died the day the Korean War ended. July 27. Mark the day on the calendar. That was the day I gave up smoking. This was only a a few months after, judging from the dry leaves scuttling across the sidewalk, the bare branches of the one tree, surrounded by concrete, across the street. Late October or early November.

    “My heart stopped,” I said. “I died of natural causes.”

    She pointed a slender finger at the holes in my trench coat. “You’re dripping!”

    I looked down. The rest of my body was black and white like an old talkie, a thing of sable mist and silvery moonlight. Only the blood was red, bright as Lorelei’s lipstick.

    It was not something I was deliberately imagining myself to look like. I guess it was part of my self-image, subconscious or something. That seemed unfair. I had had a tricky subconscious my whole life. It was one of the things I had thought I had gotten rid of, left behind.

    “That’s natural,” I said. “When bullets pass through the lung cavity, they naturally make a large holes. One of them went through my heart, and caused it to stop, like I said.”

    Read the rest of this entry »

    Originally published at John C. Wright's Journal. Please leave any comments there.

    Wednesday, August 26th, 2009
    johncwright
    7:30p
    She Who Must Be Obeyed has Commanded Friday Postings

    My beautiful and talented helpmeet, Mrs. John C. Wright, having noticed that I am overdue both for a fiction book and a non fiction book, has conspired with my Jesuit confessor, Father de Casuist that I limit my posting to Fridays.

    I react with umbrage! How dare my meek and unassuming wife give me, John C. Wright, absolute lord and master of my own house, an order!

    I will go talk with her this instant, and the matter will be drawn to a definite conclusion!

    Like all well-domesticated husbands, I tremble and obey. Last time I was uppity, she almost had me thrown into the pit of doom conveniently placed before her throne of absolute power.

    Read the rest of this entry »

    Originally published at John C. Wright's Journal. Please leave any comments there.

    Thursday, April 24th, 2014
    torquere_social
    [ mychael_black2 ]
    3:51p
    Howdy, folks!
    A bit late, but I'm here! LOL

    Hit the gym, then napped a bit longer than intended. Now I'm trying to play catch-up with school and writing. O.o

    Lately I've been trying to hammer out the basics for the next Shadowkings book, and while the opening scene is in my head, putting into actual words has been a bit more difficult. See, my brain works like a movie reel. All my stories, all the scenes, play out as movies in my head. Sometimes, putting those scenes into words is easy, and, in cases like this book, they are nearly impossible.

    Shadowkings 2: Harbinger will be just as fast-paced as book 1 (The Beginning), and just as full of loving. This time, though, the twins will be sharing the stage with Velian and his love interest. Dorian actually won't get his story until probably book 3 or 4. Vel gets his (finally) in this book, though, but it's not going to be easy.

    One issue I've run into is timeline-related. These guys are vamps, which means time seems to pass faster for them than for mortals. Book 2 starts after 200 years--in my head, anyway. The main villain of book 1, Victor, is simply a pawn--powerful but still a pawn--for a stronger force. That force begins to show its ugly head in Harbinger.

    I've wondered how readers will grapple with 200 years passing between The Beginning and Harbinger. Victor has had time to seethe and heal after the end of book 1, and the twins themselves have grown stronger--together and individually. But will it hurt the story to have such a large time jump?

    What are your thoughts, y'all?
    theinferior4
    [ ljgoldstein ]
    12:19p
    More Jewish Fantasy
    Michael Weingrad sends along this article, about the Czech chief rabbi writing a bestselling science fiction novel.  There's a book I'd like to read!
    johncwright
    1:36a
    Pale Realms of Shade

    1

    It was not the being dead that I minded, it was the hours.

    No one ever calls me up during the day, and most people decide to wait until after midnight, for some reason.  I am a morning person, or was, so meetings in the still, dark hours lost between midnight and the dawn make me crabby.

    This time, it was not some comfortable séance room or picturesque graveyard with moss-covered stone angels. I came to the surface of mortal time on a street corner of some American city, mid-Twentieth to early Twenty-First Century. You can tell from the height of the buildings that it is American, and from the fact that the road names are written on signs rather than walls. And Twenty-Second Century streets are not lit up at night, of course.

    The main road was called Saint Street. The small alley was called Peter Way. Great. I was crossed by Saint and Peter.

    I smelled her perfume before I saw her. I turned. There she was, outlined against the streetlamp beyond. I could not mistake her silhouette: slender, alluring, like a she-panther as she walked.

    “Matthias,” she breathed in her low whisper. Her voice was throbbing music to me, despite everything that had happened. “You look well — ah — considering.”

    “Lorelei,” I grunted. She was just wearing a blouse and skirt and a knee-length gray coat, but on her the outfit could have made the cover of a fashion magazine. Or a girly magazine. Her wild mass of gold-red hair was like a waterfall of bright fire tumbling past her shoulders to the small of her back. Atop, like a cherry on strawberry ice-cream, was perched brimless cap. My arms ached with the desire to take her and hold her. But I could never touch her, or, for that matter, anyone ever again.

    She sighed and rolled her enormous emerald-green eyes. “Sweetheart, this time, you have to tell me if you were murdered. You have to!”

    I took a puff of an imaginary cigarette, and watched the smoke, equally imaginary, drift off in a plume more solid than I was. “I ain’t saying.”

    “But you must! I cannot rest until I know!”

    Now I knew when and where I was. Because I died the day the Korean War ended. July 27. Mark the day on the calendar. That was the day I gave up smoking. This was only a a few months after, judging from the dry leaves scuttling across the sidewalk, the bare branches of the one tree, surrounded by concrete, across the street. Late October or early November.

    “My heart stopped,” I said. “I died of natural causes.”

    She pointed a slender finger at the holes in my trench coat. “You’re dripping!”

    I looked down. The rest of my body was black and white like an old talkie, a thing of sable mist and silvery moonlight. Only the blood was red, bright as Lorelei’s lipstick.

    It was not something I was deliberately imagining myself to look like. I guess it was part of my self-image, subconscious or something. That seemed unfair. I had had a tricky subconscious my whole life. It was one of the things I had thought I had gotten rid of, left behind.

    “That’s natural,” I said. “When bullets pass through the lung cavity, they naturally make a large holes. One of them went through my heart, and caused it to stop, like I said.”

    Read the rest of this entry »

    Originally published at John C. Wright's Journal. Please leave any comments there.

    james_nicoll
    3:00p
    William H. Patterson Jr. (1951-2014)

    William H. “Bill” Patterson Jr., author of the Hugo-nominated Robert A. Heinlein: In Dialogue With His Century, Vol. 1 (1907-1948): Learning Curve, died April 22, only a month before the second and final volume of the biography will be released.

    Also posted at Dreamwidth, where there are comment count unavailable comment(s); comment here or there.
    kevin_standlee
    10:27a
    Ideological Purity Testing
    To anyone, left-wing, right-wing, or whatever, who would impose ideological purity tests to anyone who participates in the Hugo Awards: Beware of rules that can turn on you. They're like a gun that randomly shoots bullets toward you as well as away from you. You cannot enforce such rules fairly.

    You all have freedom of speech. Freedom of speech does not mean freedom of consequences. If you say unpopular things, expect to be criticized for it. Freedom of speech also does not mean "I have an unlimited right to come into your house and start screaming at you, and if you kick me out, you're oppressing me!"

    I address this to everyone. I'm seeing it happen from both the "left" and "right" (for lack of a better term). Nobody is clean in this. And try and remember that you're not the only real human being in the world. Treating everyone else as a non-player character is a sign of being a sociopath.

    Current Mood: grumpy
    someposifeed 5:16p
    davidlevine
    10:04a
    "Brave New Sci-Fi" (4 short SF plays) TONIGHT (Thursday 4/24)
    Tonight marks the WORLD PREMIERE of the theatrical adaptation of my Hugo-winning short story "Tk'Tk'Tk" and three other short SF plays!

    Brave New Sci Fi

    Thursday, April 24th, 7:30pm
    JACK LONDON BAR

    Basement of The Rialto Pool Room
    529 SW 4th Ave., Portland, OR 97204
    $10.00 cash at the door
    ($7.00 for students and seniors)
    Or just $5.00 when ordered online!
    https://www.boxofficetickets.com/bot/wa/event?id=270485
    Online orders end at 4:30 today!

    Starring:

    Allison Anderson
    David Bellis-Squires
    Racheal Joy Erickson
    Kristen Fleming
    Micheal Streeter
    Featuring:
    WHY I LEFT HARRY'S ALL NIGHT HAMBURGERS by Lawrence Watt-Evans*
    “I told you I get some strange customers, boy.”

    DEB & JOAN by Isaac Rathbone
    “You sounded so... melancholy. That’s very advanced.”

    MY HEART IS A QUADRATIC EQUATION by Shane Halbach*
    “If you could do that with your tools, why couldn’t you just construct a boyfriend?”

    TK'TK'TK by David D. Levine*
    “I had spent almost five days on Bug Planet and all I had to show for it so far was one customer.”

    * Adapted by Matt Haynes.

    Brave New Sci Fi runs 2 hours, including intermission, and is for audiences 21 and over.

    Hope to see you there!

    3168286

    You can hear an interview with director Matt Haynes, and excerpts from "Why I Left Harry's All Night Hamburgers" and "Tk'Tk'Tk," on the Geek in the City podcast, issue 254 beginning at 22:35.

    lsanderson
    12:00p
    My tweets
    Read more...Collapse )
    arhyalon
    11:36a
    New Easter Short Story from John

    John often writes a short story for the holidays. This one is based on an opening that he wrote at a writing seminar once. I thought it was a great opening!

     

    It was not the being dead that I minded, it was the hours.

    No one ever calls me up during the day, and most people decide to wait until after midnight, for some reason.  I am a morning person, or was, so meetings in the still, dark hours lost between midnight and the dawn make me crabby.

    Read more: http://www.scifiwright.com/2014/04/pale-realms-of-shade/

     

    Originally posted to Welcome to Arhyalon. (link)
    nihilistic_kid
    8:13a
    Three Events This Weekend
    "Flytrap" Magazine Re-Debut Event with editors Tim Pratt & Heather Shaw and contributors Megan
    Arkenberg, Aislinn Quicksilver Harvey, Jessica May Lin, Nick Mamatas, Dominica Phetteplace, and Sarah Smith, Saturday, April 26th at 3:00 pm, at Borderlands Books.

    Here's an online event, which is done via Google+ hangout:

    THE “LOVECRAFT EZINE” LIVE WEB SERIES

    Do you wish you had other Lovecraft fans to talk with, face to face? Now you do! The Lovecraft eZine hosts a LIVE video show several times a week. You can join us, or you can simply watch LIVE.


    SUNDAY April 27th, 6:00pm Eastern time (5pm Central, 3pm Pacific): Special guest: Nick Mamatas, author.


    Then a complex event, in the flesh, that evening:
    We’re celebrating the launch of Mike E. G.’s new novel + album, The Mysticist, with a night of book readings and live music on April 27, 2014 at Brick & Mortar Music Hall in San Francisco, CA.

    We’ll have delicious food by Fiddlehead Supper Club and book readings with live score by Dominica Phetteplace, Nick Mamatas, Vylar Kaftan, Tim Pratt, Mike E. G., Mark Pantoja, and more! RSVP on Facebook.

    The reading part is free, but they're asking a donation of $5. Also, the eating part is $25. I'm actually not sure when people are supposed to show up for what bit, but the Facebook link should have the details.
    scottynola
    9:52a
    Over My Head
    Happy Thursday morning, Constant Reader!

    It is absolutely amazing what a difference a good night's sleep makes in one Gregalicious. I have really felt like I was sleepwalking through the last couple of days, which means I don't get as much done as I would like. Oh, all right--I don't get anything done. But this morning, I woke up and feel fantastic--which gives me high hopes for getting a shit ton of work done today. I am behind (quelle surprise) on Murder in the Arts District, and am hoping to be able to get caught up this weekend. And then on Wednesday I am off to New York for the next installment of My Fabulous Life, in which I attend the Edgar Awards and also lunch at the Algonquin with my own vicious circle.

    Hip-hip-hurray!

    Alas, I also got a summons for jury duty in the mail yesterday; it's not that I mind jury dury, mind you--the last time I served I got a great idea for a book, which eventually became Murder in the Irish Channel--it's just an annoyance given my job and so forth; which means since I do a lot of counseling and testing--I can't just pull off the schedule at the last minute. So I have to be removed from the schedule for two weeks, which so totally sucks I can't even begin to tell you. So, if I don't get to be on a jury, I'll have to work like 8-4:30 every day to free up my office so others can use it for testing.

    BASTARDS!

    I have managed to almost finish a short essay I was asked to write; I'll be editing that sucker today preparatory to sending it in.

    Okay, sorry to be so dull today, but back to the spice mines.

    Current Mood: bouncy
    johncwright
    1:36a
    Pale Realms of Shade

    1

    It was not the being dead that I minded, it was the hours.

    No one ever calls me up during the day, and most people decide to wait until after midnight, for some reason.  I am a morning person, or was, so meetings in the still, dark hours lost between midnight and the dawn make me crabby.

    This time, it was not some comfortable séance room or picturesque graveyard with moss-covered stone angels. I came to the surface of mortal time on a street corner of some American city, mid-Twentieth to early Twenty-First Century. You can tell from the height of the buildings that it is American, and from the fact that the road names are written on signs rather than walls. And Twenty-Second Century streets are not lit up at night, of course.

    The main road was called Saint Street. The small alley was called Peter Way. Great. I was crossed by Saint and Peter.

    I smelled her perfume before I saw her. I turned. There she was, outlined against the streetlamp beyond. I could not mistake her silhouette: slender, alluring, like a she-panther as she walked.

    “Matthias,” she breathed in her low whisper. Her voice was throbbing music to me, despite everything that had happened. “You look well — ah — considering.”

    “Lorelei,” I grunted. She was just wearing a blouse and skirt and a knee-length gray coat, but on her the outfit could have made the cover of a fashion magazine. Or a girly magazine. Her wild mass of gold-red hair was like a waterfall of bright fire tumbling past her shoulders to the small of her back. Atop, like a cherry on strawberry ice-cream, was perched brimless cap. My arms ached with the desire to take her and hold her. But I could never touch her, or, for that matter, anyone ever again.

    She sighed and rolled her enormous emerald-green eyes. “Sweetheart, this time, you have to tell me if you were murdered. You have to!”

    I took a puff of an imaginary cigarette, and watched the smoke, equally imaginary, drift off in a plume more solid than I was. “I ain’t saying.”

    “But you must! I cannot rest until I know!”

    Now I knew when and where I was. Because I died the day the Korean War ended. July 27. Mark the day on the calendar. That was the day I gave up smoking. This was only a a few months after, judging from the dry leaves scuttling across the sidewalk, the bare branches of the one tree, surrounded by concrete, across the street. Late October or early November.

    “My heart stopped,” I said. “I died of natural causes.”

    She pointed a slender finger at the holes in my trench coat. “You’re dripping!”

    I looked down. The rest of my body was black and white like an old talkie, a thing of black mist and silvery moonlight. Only the blood was red, bright as Lorelei’s lipstick.

    It was not something I was deliberately imagining myself to look like. I guess it was part of my self-image, subconscious or something. That seemed unfair. I had had a tricky subconscious my whole life. It was one of the things I had thought I had gotten rid of, left behind.

    “That’s natural,” I said. “When bullets pass through the lung cavity, they naturally make a large holes. One of them went through my heart, and caused it to stop, like I said.”

    Read the rest of this entry »

    Originally published at John C. Wright's Journal. Please leave any comments there.

    lsanderson
    9:25a
    Shocked! I'm just shocked!
    That NY Time's reporter Adam Nagourney would not check when Cliven Bundy's family bought the ranch... Land deeds? Too tedious! Dusty! Irrelevant!
    Mr. Bundy, whose family has grazed cattle here since they homesteaded in the 1870s, owes the government more than $1 million in grazing fees. He stopped paying after the bureau ordered him to restrict the periods when his herd roamed the 600,000-acre Gold Butte area as part of an effort to protect the endangered desert tortoise.

    Would you believe "bought in 1948"?
    Wednesday, April 23rd, 2014
    johncwright
    12:00a
    Wright’s Writing Corner: Heroines and Monsters

    Today’s guest blog is an excerpt from an academic paper by a YA author
    who, amazingly, quotes–of all people–me. ;-)

    Are Kick-Ass Heroines Always Also Monsters?

    by Margo Bond Collins

    One of the things that I’ve always loved about the use of the term “kick-ass” is that it indicates approval of heroines’ tendency to move from more traditionally feminine roles into behaviors more usually associated with the male heroes of action movies and literature; these women carry weapons and aren’t afraid to use them.

    But the shift of heroines’ roles in urban fantasy from passive recipient of romantic love to active participants in violence and killing also carries a certain amount of anxiety in our culture. L. Jagi Lamplighter (my fabulous host today!) notes that “today’s audiences have welcomed this golden age of butt-kicking heroines with great relish,” but also claims that these heroines face a “fundamental conflict between modern culture and drama”:

    read more:
    http://www.ljagilamplighter.com/2014/04/23/wrights-writing-corner-guest-post-author-margo-bond-collin

    Originally published at John C. Wright's Journal. Please leave any comments there.

    Thursday, April 24th, 2014
    lsanderson
    7:57a
    las
    8:00a
    My tweets
    sbisson
    12:00p
    My tweets
    • Wed, 13:19: Another hummingbird, doing an impression of a '70s desk toy: Ducking Bird https://t.co/i7poovG1UD
    • Wed, 13:44: Even a stopped clock is right twice a day, and the usually vile Sun has come up with an amusing take on Shakespeare: http://t.co/cAXRHXZD4H
    • Wed, 13:56: RT @marypcbuk: 3.1% of users had Windows Phone 8.1 the first week it was available http://t.co/STczerTwM4
    • Wed, 14:41: It's, it's... A cross between Flappy Bird and 2048? I don't even: http://t.co/vUdgWut5GS (via @andrewducker)
    • Wed, 17:47: Tweaked colours for my Twitter profile to coordinate with the new hummingbird image header.
    • Wed, 18:48: Updating office server straight from Server 2012 to 2012 R2 Update. What could go wrong? :-)
    • Wed, 19:16: Thing I just found on the Surface touch keyboard: swipe up on a symbol to get its shifted state. Nifty.
    • Wed, 19:25: OK, that's my server back. Just a couple of minor permissions tweaks to handle.
    • Wed, 20:24: Microsoft missed a trick not calling WP8.1's new social features the Social Extensibility Library Framework Internet Enhancement Service.
    • Thu, 10:59: Updating a pen from a tablet. Oh, this living in the future gets so topsy-turvy at times.
    Read more...Collapse )
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