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sprinkles on top

The universe is drained of links. Cold and icy and empty.
Well, maybe it’s just the “Internet”.

Speaking of cold and icy and empty, if in the book you’re reading the hero get to kiss the heroine for the first time, and the day you read that, you find yourself kissing someone for the first time, should you be worried if the next thing that happens to the heroine is being kidnapped through a dimensional portal by Cthulhu-worshipping nazi occultists from a dead and demon-haunted universe?

One wonders about these things.

Linkage, linkage… Firefox 1.0 got released, umm, yesterday. It’s my browser, and everyone should use it, so that when I ever have to come over to use their computer I can have tabs and stuff, and no annoying pop-ups.

Didi notes that, and also points to the collection of StrongBad answering his email flash animations, of which the only one I saw was the one about Trogdor the dragon.

Sigh. If I was I would have a neat segue to posting a link to the song in my head, River Deep, Mountain High (it’s all Warren Ellis‘ fault for putting it there).

Updated 11/11/2004: Ellis elaborates about River Deep, Mountain High in his next column:

Spector’s Wall Of Sound. An immense presence of information. His early experiments failed because he was a few years ahead of his time — the primitive studios of the Fifties couldn’t handle the tidal wave of information he was throwing at the microphones. But when the technology developed, he was ready, even if the rest of the world wasn’t. Probably his greatest achievement, “River Deep Mountain High,” just dumbfounded people, and was a commercial failure. Its label said it was by Ike and Tina Turner, but Ike had nothing to do with it — Spector came to him wanting Tina to sing it, and the deal was that Ike could have his name on it but would actually have nothing to do with it. Ike, desperate for a hit, agreed — though he recanted this version in later years. Probably because he didn’t get the hit.

It’s an instructive listen. I mean, it’s a dumb little song, like almost everything Spector produced. Spector was all about the epic elevation of manipulative pap. But there’s no slack in it at all. It is, if you’ll forgive the phrase, “widescreen”. Every second of its four minutes contains sonic information. Starts with an earthquake and builds to a climax.