Houston News Blog

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Ready to put your thinkin' cap on? 'Cause we're gonna need some crowd participation here. It's like a Choose Your Own Adventure, only with zero page-turning, and we're pretty much selecting the shenanigans for you. It's our blogpost, and we'll pull a Fidel Castro if we want to.

Okay, so, you're fairly familiar with our opening scenario already -- a few sideways glances, a few Shiners, and after wading through a few pools of strangers later, Girl and Boy finally meet. Inevitably, Girl and Boy hit it off. Girl and Boy exchange numbers. Girl and Boy stalk each other online, then become friends on Facebook. Girl and Boy hang out -- ahem, make out -- whenever and wherever they can. Girl and Boy hit the town, sometimes with his friends and sometimes with her friends. Girl's friends and Boy's friends interconnect in real and virtual life. Girl and Boy become an item.

All is well in the world, online and offline.

Girl and Boy are both friendly, social networkin'-lovin' types of folks. Girl especially likes everyone to be a chum of hers, and usually succeeds, except for a very few jilted ex-lovers sportin' teeny selections from the man-meat department.

So, in the same vein, Girl sends Boy's sister a message on Facebook -- in a measure of genuine friendship and not in a disguised attempt to unearth information -- to see how she is doing at grad school in Europe. Girl has met Boy's sister. Girl and Boy's sister got along smashingly.

Photo by Alexia Tsotsis

Click here for a slideshow of iPad photos

​Steve, Steve, Steve,

Sigh. Stevie - darling, sugar, baby! We hate to say it, but we've had this conversation with you before. Remember your pussy fetish and the resulting "Snow Leopard" fiasco? Cluck, cluck, cluck. So do we. And now you've pushed your perverted agenda with the female reproductive system a bit too far.

Not only did you trample on our reliable friends Always, Tampax, and Playtex, but you laid claim to the only territory they could've ever secured in Web 2.0 Land, calling your fancy schmancy new tech absorbent device an "iPad." If we were attorneys for the aforementioned feminine products, we'd sue you for breach of masculinity. Web-savvy crotches of ladies the world over are extending a middle finger in your direction. Who knew that was even possible? You've really done it now.

Why all the vagina-variety vitriol? Oh, you know why. Perhaps 'cause you developed this fantastic contraption that does, um, a whole lot of nothing the iPhone doesn't do? And you further humiliated it by christening it with the powers of a digitized sanitary napkin? Look, we're Jobs disciples as much as the next techie, but mark our words - we'll never buy an iPad. 'Cause we ain't tellin' no one that we own anything called "an iPad" unless it's catching shedded uterine lining between our legs.

Yikes. That was nasty.

​Your fantastic plastic Christmas tree has been lovingly packed away and stored in its original cardboard box from 1972. The holiday cheer has turned into New Year's rue in the face of long lines to exchange that UFC: Best of UFC 2009 DVD and re-gift a copy of Julie & Julia to your mother. Chilly, blustery weather no longer seems Rockwell-esque, it's just, well, cold.

And for some of you, with the resumption of college classes, overseas assignments, and other obligations that involve significant amounts of beef jerky, hotboxing, and Bob Dylan to get from Point A to Point B, the period following the dimming of the menorah signals the start of your winter of discontent.

'Tis the season to commence the ultimate test of fidelity, trust, and resistance to temptation. Tortured lovers, you may refer to this month as the runway to the flight of the long-distance relationship.

You met Mr. Right over mulled wine at 13 Celsius, but he went back to Princeton to finish his Ph.D. in Neuroscience? Don't let the mileage muckify your brain cells. Found out that Ms. Right Now from Seattle is actually going to be Ms. Mother of Your Child in Nine Months? Ain't no mountain high enough to put a pregnant pause on your budding, um, legal nightmares.

Anyone that's ever done the long-distance mambo will tell you that it rivals only amputated limbs in the painfulness department. You'll never find an advocate touting the positives of not being able to squeeze, paw, pounce upon, or nibble at the someone for whom you're feenin'. But we also know that technology has come a long way in shrinking the gap between virtual and reality. Just ask any blushin' boyfriend of a Real Doll to verify that this is, in fact, the honest-to-higher-power truth.

Wanna do a long-distance love right? 'Course you do. And if our better-than-nothin' approach doesn't convince you, the reunion sex in and of itself is worth the wait. And we would never, ever lie about that.

​In the City That Was Supposed to be Houston, famed for its throwback seaside kitsch and relentless resilience in the face of crippling natural disasters, the technology tide has turned. More accurately, the City Council transformed itself into progress-hatin' Dementors last night, entering your cars, shanghai-ing your cell phones, and generally tossing digital communication as you know it overboard.

Thursday evening, Galveston's City Council convened around the fire, and made a pact that would follow the mobile-to-mobile lead of 19 other states, the District of Columbia, and Guam. The city's powers that be agreed to augment its traffic code, which now completely nixes electronic messaging while driving within the city limits.

"The public may no longer use wireless communication devices to view, send, or compose an electronic message while operating a motor vehicle." Phew. Yes, feel free to emit a sigh of relief at this point in our story. 'Cause the attorney buried deep inside us believes that Facebook status updates are safe from the exodus. At least that's the angle we'd argue to the judge. We reckon we'd win our case.

Lest you take our approach and treat this ordinance as a complete joke, a violation'll register on your record as a nice little misdemeanor offense. And yes, a pretty fine that taps out at $500 will accompany it as well. Doesn't look like we're in Kansas anymore, Toto.

In truth, we ain't skeerda no weenie beach town's attempt at preachin' and legislatin'. Badass urban techies like us are certainly not intimidated by some silly, piddly little rule. And besides, what fun are laws and order if you can't shake shit up from time to time?

So, on those days that you journey south to get a whiff of the rancor that is the Gulf of Mexico, push the envelope the way the city slickers do, and buck the standard. 'Cause if you read the letter of the law, our legal holding is that you're not prohibited from any of the following whilst behind the wheel:

​Pardon us, but we're about to impart some useful, seasoned knowledge on you. Don't get too accustomed to it, however. We'll return to our regularly scheduled programming of a wee bit of technology talk with a whole lot of intertwined innuendo in no time.

Unless you're one of these ladies, we probably don't care about your bra color.

​Black. Beige. Nude. Purple. Fuchsia. What do these colors have in common? Perhaps they resemble the spectrum of brilliance you projectile puked after a particularly steep, single-handed tab at Shot Bar. Good guess. But we're actually referring to the unexpected vomit of hues that splattered Facebook status updates yesterday afternoon (and have, unfortunately, spilled over into the present as well).

For those of you that didn't do a Twitter search immediately upon detecting the pattern, like, um, we did, it seems that women were invited to participate in a public service meme of sorts, in the pseudoheroic name of breast cancer awareness. It was the following call to action that had the females excitedly peering down their shirt collars and reporting back to Facebook with their findings:

"Some fun is going on.... just write the color of your bra in your status. Just the color, nothing else. It will be neat to see if this will spread the wings of breast cancer awareness. It will be fun to see how long it takes before men wonder why all the girls have a color in their status... Haha ."

Compelling argument, counselor. Basically, these guerrilla campaigners were hoping to get dudes focused on tits? Wow. Tough objective.

While there's only speculation that this nonsense originated in The Motor City, the majority of sources agree that this was an impromptu effort to shed a viral light upon breast cancer. Except, well, those of us with brains that realize this was a feeble attempt at enlightenment at best.

Bra color as a status update on Facebook? Pffft. Yawn, drool, eye water, head hitting pillow. We are not impressed. If you really want the world to take note while ladies sit up straight and stick out their mammaries in the name of "awareness" of a deadly disease, well, here are a few more actionable ideas for your Facebook updating pleasure:

​Oh, honey. Did you blearily roll over at 2:30 a.m. this morning, only to catch a glimpse of your paramour's illuminated face? Not from any post-orgasmic glow, mind you, but from the intense spotlight emitted from her iPhone's screen? Well, before you go slinging obscenities in her direction and referring to the area between her legs as a 24-hour Kwik-E-Mart, we may have eleventh-hour information that could save your relationship or your convenience arrangement, whatever it may be.

Nay, dear reader, the love of your life or firestarter of your loins may not, indeed, be fervently texting her intentions to leave your arms for those of her illicit lover. The Other Man may be as simple as Words With Friends.

Yes, Words With Friends. Glorified, socialized, mobile app-lified Scrabble, if you will.

Sure, this may all sound anti-climactic to those of you living in the Stone Age and still mashing your fat little fingers into teensy weensy BlackBerry keys. For the Enlightened Ones, however, Words With Friends is so much more than Hasbro lawsuit fodder. Words With Friends is a virtual party. In your pants, in your purse, on your couch, in the waiting room, at lunch, in your bed, in the dark, while you're drunk, in a meeting, under the covers, in your underwear. It's the kind of cerebral fun you only looked forward to before you realized your protruding body parts fit together with those internal cavities of the opposite sex so well.

What's different and purchase-worthy (yes, there's a free version, but it has ads. Don't be a cheapskate; fork out the $1.99 for unadulterated fun) about Newtoy's game-y little iPhone app, you ask?

 

​It's the end of 2009, and, ipso facto, Top-X-Number-slash-Best-Of lists are suddenly what's for dinner. Everyone's eager to take you on a trippy DeLorean ride back through the sands of the first decade of the century (or the last year of the decade, take your pick). Because, you know, the 2000s were, like, a 365-day bender times ten. In a strangely tattooed, memory-scraped, fond remembrance kind of way. After the psychotic scare of Y2K fizzled out, that is.

In the spirit of the season, we'd like to quantify, objectify, and drool over a few things, too. And in this era of white hot technology, where being a techie geek is a badge of honor, well, there are a few juicy gigayums that deserve special mention.

Yeah, we're talking about a celebration of man meat here. But it ain't only for the flesh-eaters out there. Pescetarians and wannabe vegetarians? Pull up a flip 'n fuck and make yourself at home at this party, too.

Beware: The following demeans and trivializes men for your viewing and reading pleasure. We didn't think you'd mind too much.

​In the age of Brightkite, transparency and TMI, anyone can wrangle and fulfill his or her aspirations of becoming a stalker. Just showing up in the right uniform to the game of life can freak plenty of people out, depending on what's hanging out or strapped onto your person.

But everybody knows that the real brass ring of the stalkership circle lies in cyberstalking. Scaring the unborn children out of someone from behind the protective gaze of an inanimate object that responds to your every whim? That'll getcha a fast pass into the Psychotic Hall of Fame, ladies and gentlemen.

'Course, like the skillful honing of any craft, you must truly commit yourself to prowling and pouncing online, and doing it, doing it, and doing it well. With Social Distortion being so fluent in the language of the interwebs, you ought to grab a pen and a pad of paper to take some notes here, folks. We'll take the guesswork outta being creeptastic, so you can get right to terrorizing your victims.

​He was the sun in your sky, the cream in your coffee, the spring in your step. When you awoke, your first thought was of his embrace, whether you were tangled in it or not. Every evening before you slumbered, he was the last image to cross your weary mind, even if his body wasn't suctioned to yours in bed. If anyone was more in love than you two were, they would've been teenage vampires. Visions of your unborn offspring danced in both of your heads (and it wasn't even creepy). He was your only. He was The One.

'Til it was over.

He said he needed space. He said he needed time. Pretty soon, you no longer saw him nightly. Or even daily. The next thing you knew, he was on the phone, telling you that it would never work out for you two. It was over. You're too different. You want different things outta life. You're on different wavelengths. And if there'd ever been a time that you'd lobby to strike the word "different" from the English language, well, that would've been in it.

You got dumped, sister. Poor you. It's one thing to extract yourself from his physical reality, whether it's voluntary or not. Now there's a whole other realm to concern yourself with post-breakup: the virtual world. Hell, your online life is so intertwined with his that it's as if he's still the center of your universe. And as much as you probably don't wanna, you gotta give your ex the ax.

​One of the most universally frustrating and equally liberating characteristics about Twitter is that it's wholly unstructured and undefined. No rules, no guidelines, no instructions.

When you sign up, you get suggestions at best, and vast white space at worst. You know, it's kinda like college - it is what you make of it. Read any handbook; the campus is your oyster! Join a big ol' fraternity, set the university animal testing laboratories ablaze, protest the addition of a new cafeteria to the honors dormitories! You are a free radical! Now look yearningly into the camera while clutching your rucksack to your bosoms.

But, like college, while there aren't any detailed specs or codes of conduct (that anyone actually follows, anyway), there are activities in which you are simply encouraged not to engage. Dos and don'ts, shoulds and shouldn'ts, if you will. Such as, you know, no hot tub fellatio at the Theta Chi social while your sorority sisters are present. Or a Power Hour with Jaeger shots is never a good move. You shouldn't subsist on ramen noodles and Goldfish alone. And there's no nutritional value in ejaculate, no matter what he says.

The same sort of logic applies to Twitter. There are subjects on which you should never converse, in any way, shape, or form, barring a natural disaster or life-threatening emergency. And if you're going to be a contributing member of the Twitterverse, you need to be aware of them:

​She's no good, he's no good, you're no good, baby, you and your fizzled-out flame ain't no good. Face the music, friend. He tells you he wants you, yet he actually repositioned his nether regions away from your eager mouth when you tried to go bobbing for apples last evening. She says you're her one and only, but why does she appear in Facebook photos with every douchebag in Midtown, and yet, there are none of the two of you?

It's over. And you know it. But you don't wanna deal with the fiery end. You're a chicken. You're a coward. And you are simply too much of a humanitarian to go breakin' any hearts. Okay, that last one was a lie.

So, you've already decided that you're gonna be an asshole about it. You're going to ditch your jilted Juliet without a lick of real-time contact. We say, if you're gonna do it up, you might as well do it up right. Why be a Peter when you can be a Dick?

Breaking up with someone in real life is overrated, anyway. Seriously. Why do it in person when you can exercise the art of digital avoidance? Follow this four-pronged approach to getting outta those shackles neatly, cleanly, and without any teary, time-wasting confrontations:

​If you drag your lovely slacker self from bed on the daily with your eyes at least partially open and your brain at least marginally alert (assuming a lot here, we know), then even the groggiest version of you can identify one of what techie legionnaires call an "online community."

But, seriously, a "community"? Social Distortion's gonna call bullshit on that. Yup. Suck it, Mashable. Facebook, Twitter, Flickr, and the like are indisputably online, but they are most certainly not communities. And that's a bona fide fact based on our opinion, which pretty much holds the sway the Encyclopædia Britannica did in 1985. So there.

Why aren't they communities? Because. Members of communities collectively garden together, and sow the seeds of growth lovingly and hum merrily while they toil. Community folk assist the withered elderly when jaywalking through busy intersections. They bring the homeless bags of warm McDonald's Value Meals instead of merely dropping errant Canadian pennies into a dilapidated styrofoam cup. They shelve books at local libraries for zero remuneration whatsoever because public libraries put sunshine in their hearts. Their Mayor kisses babies and doesn't sleep with your wives. The people build shit. They paint shit. And the shit they do doesn't involve defecation in the least.

Nope, communities these online sites are not. Your contacts let their dogs shit in your Facebook yard all the time, leaving you to step in and clean up the dookie, don't they? You know they do. They reverse their land barges into your trash cans on Flickr, and don't bother cleaning up the garbage spew that results. They cackle when your children fall off their bikes via comments on your blog. Hell, they even kick a dog when it's down on Twitter. You know they do. You probably do it, too. Jerk.

Tap, tap, tippety tap (excuse us, that's you, signing into your email; 'twasn't an activity in which you were engaged in your dreams last night). "Yippee skippy, an Evite! For a holiday potluck with my triathlon training team! Next Thursday? 'Course I'll be there with bells on!" You're so, so there; you couldn't get the radio button to Yes fast enough if you controlled the mouse with your brain.

​Tap, tap, tappety tip (yes, that's you again, logging into Facebook, not the sound of your neighbor's squeaking headboard stirring the pot of envy, yet again). "Word, Miriam's annual Hanukkah Menorah Viewing Party! Yo, I love those shindigs at her sweet pad!" And you click Attending before you have even the faintest clue when it's taking place, 'cause hell, you know you'll be there. It's a no-miss event. Why wouldn't you be among the party patrons? She's Miriam, after all.

The week snows and blows by, and you've finally slipped and slid into next Thursday. Your triathlon teammates are making Facebook quake with chatter about the potluck, and..um, wait a second. Your friend Miriam is posting mobile photos of the brilliantly glowing Hanukkah lights from her strangely tidy and sparkling living room. She gushes endlessly about how she can't wait to show off her constructs of dreidel-rrific cheer to all the guests...tonight. TONIGHT?! What? Tonight?!

Oh shit. Did you - gasp! - double-book yourself, Ms. Popularity?

Yes, Sherlock, you sure as hell did. And if you don't watch your ass, you're gonna do it over and over and over again 'til you ain't got nobody left, sister. You think we're in a recession now? Just wait 'til you're spending the season gulping down tequila-spiked eggnog alone. In your Scooby-Doo knickers. With It's a Wonderful Life on repeat. Merry Christmas to you. And Happy Kwanzaa, while we're at it.

​Every modern metropolis needs one. An urban playground within weekend driving distance, that is. Where what happens within the city limits stays within the city limits for all eternity. Well, except for the gift that keeps on giving. But it's not a jaunt of any consequence if you don't return with some sort of souvenir, right?

Errr, anyways.

Los Angeles has Las Vegas. Detroit has Windsor. San Diego has Tijuana. Seattle has Vancouver. New York City has Atlantic City. And we Houstonians have New Orleans.

Gone are the days when we once left town and hit I-10 armed with itineraries, must-sees, hotel reservations, Lonely Planets and Rand McNallys. 'Cause who needs paper when you've got technology at your fingertips? Not Social Distortion, that's who. All you need is an iPhone and a full tank of gas to speedily get your boobs to those plastic beads. And everywhere in between. So to speak.

​Hark, singing herald angels! Do you hear what we hear? Could it be the carols of pure bliss lyrically carousing through the annals of our fair city this fine Black Friday? Yes, indeed, 'tis the season for joy to our world!

It's the sound of freedom, we reckon. Freedom from familial dining obligations for a few weeks, freedom from unreasonable expectations for your waistline until at least 2010, and most of all, freedom to return to what recession-resistant Houstonians do best - indulging those visions of capitalism, dancing through their heads.

O, glorious day! It's finally the biggest, grandest, most gluttonous shopping day of the year, and you get to spend if you want to, spend if you want to, spend if you want to! It's certainly true; there's nothing like an empty bank account that chortles, "Happy Holidays!"

But you tech stallions are entirely too brilliant to subject yourself to discount department store stampedes all in the name of a bargain. Nay, you're already well aware that your open sleigh is maximized by the one horse of an illuminated computer monitor. Giddy up, jingle horse! All we want for Christmas is you, online deals.

Shall we show you where to find them, pa rum pum pum pum? Make like Mary and nod.

​As evidenced by both the Art Crawl and Via Colori this weekend, there's a teeny, Joe Francis-penis-sized attention whore that lurks shamelessly inside almost each and every one of you, whether you care to acknowledge its loving inhabitation of your soul or not.

But wine/cheese/warehouse-enabled extroversion and sidewalk chalk shenanigans aren't for everyone, and they don't have to be. Conversely, some of you prefer to peer out from behind the digital veil for your glory, and you seek to harness your celebrity ambitions in the digital world. And in the great, vast domain of the Internet, there's a fine line that separates the inferior from the illustrious.

Cyberspace superiority, incidentally, is so much more than fifteen minutes of fame, don't you see? It's notoriety and adoration that's indexed by Google for all eternity! It's like Dune, only funner! 'Cept there's no one with designs on your spice production. You's bringin' all the heat, yo.

The truly magical thing about the Internet is that everyone has a chance to be a virtual superstar. That's right, even you, shaggy homegirl in dire need of a bikini wax. But you'd better make damn sure you do it right the first time. If you zig instead of zag, you may end up ridden hard and put away wet - LAN-ed, bam-ed, and thank you ma'am-ed.

How do you become internet famous? Follow these five easy steps!

​It happens to the best of us. One minute, you're singing its praises, zealously licking some of its naughty bits not otherwise visible to the sun, offering up your most personal information like free fellatio, and spreading your virtual legs, letting it have its way with you. And sickeningly, to both your horror and your fascination, you liked it. Every. Last. Oozing. Dripping. Sticky. Ounce of it.

And then? You came. To your senses, that is. And you terrifyingly realized that the Internet may not be getting you off any longer. So to speak.

But you're not entirely certain. Could it be? Something that once gave you hours of quivering, shivering pleasure suddenly fell limp between your thighs? Maybe all you need is one more animalistic romp to figure out whether it's only the rain making you wet.

So how do you feel out a case of Internet overstimulation? Well, if any of the following apply to you, consider yourself dry, dry, dry as a bone:

​In a press release clearly launched from the Stone Age, the Bayou City's Metropolitan Transit Authority (that's Metro, if you're nasty) puffed up its chest and triumphantly declared today that it is "expanding the conversation by adding social media tools Facebook and Twitter to its communication portfolio."

Oh goody gumdrops! Yes, folks, that's a bona fide quote, straight from the horse's mouth. We know you're trying to decide whether to yawn or vomit. Just remove your finger from your throat before you injure yourself, will you? Besides, everyone knows that you add tools to a toolbox, not to a portfolio. Except the tools themselves, perhaps. But hey, we digress.

All joshin' aside, thank both goodness and the guy in the sky that Metro is on Facebook and Twitter now. Seriously. What would you do without Metro's tweets and status updates? You'd shrivel up and perish, that's what. We're also counting our lucky stars that said momentous occasion is aptly commemorated by a Flash banner on their website. Metro's really gone big time now, eh? It's like, 2002 all up in this place!

​It's raining, it's pouring, it's really Monday morning. Wait, did you blink? Then you certainly missed the brief appearance of the sun, radiating invisible rainbows over our fair city. Is that a pleasant breeze whipping your tailfeathers 'round? Well, it's about to turn arctic; give it a second. Oh, say, giant glowing orb, you're back? Probably not for long. It is November, after all. While you won't hear any true complaints about this mild Texas fall, you probably will hear audible groans of another sort today.

Sigh. Get your head outta the gutter, pervert. It's just that it's, well, Monday, you know? It's most definitely a dreary Monday, and a moody one at that. And even though The Bangles were semi-successful in making Mondays sexy, there's a reason the '80s are dead and buried (unless you shop at American Apparel, that is). Coming off the heels of the loveliest weekend - weather-wise, mind you - in recent memory, a dragging start to the work week is certainly fitting. And try as you might, you can't possibly stay in bed with the blankets pulled up to your chin. Your boss is already keen to your inclement weather hijinks.

We know you weren't wasting your precious free days plopped in front of your computer monitor. At least, we really hope you weren't. 'Cause then we'd have to berate you, World of Warcraft whore that you are. And we're too exhausted (read: insanely hungover) to poke fun at you so soon in the day. If our vision is blurry, then yo, it's still early.

​For those of you still in the Facebook Is Utterly Useless camp, we're gonna attempt to pooh-pooh you now. That's right. Pooh-pooh with a capital P. 'Cause there ain't no arguing that Facebook is apparently good enough these days to bust you outta the slammer and clear your good name.

When police threw 19-year-old Rodney Bradford in the big house for mugging two men at gunpoint in Brooklyn on Saturday, October 17, 2009 - a crime carrying a 25-year sentence, mind you - his daddy-o turned to Facebook. He hoped to show that Bradford was actually chillin' at Dad's pad in Harlem, making fun of his pregnant, non-pancake wielding girlfriend, via his Facebook status.

Daddy-o hired the heavy hitters, who then presented the Facebook goods to the District Attorney. District Attorney Dude rang the Zuckerbergeoisie at Facebook for the documented proof that Bradford updated his account from his pop's in Harlem. Somehow that happened, and presto change-o, freedom in five steps or less!

"It all corroborated our alibis," explained attorney Robert Reuland. "The Facebook thing was really the icing on the cake. I think, ultimately, it's what prompted the DA to dismiss." Hmmm. Icing certainly is sweet, isn't it? But it's not always good for you.

​The hefty bovine heartily clearing the moon had nothin' on you when you located your closest chum from elementary school on Facebook. The only glee rivaling yours was that of the dish skippin' town with the spoon when your hometown sports hero followed you back on Twitter.

But months later, a Captain Planet episode -- featuring the lusty Planeteer Linka the Russian that you and Closest Chum salivated over after school -- jarred your brain back to that friend request. A friend request that Closest Chum seemingly never accepted, verified by the fact that his profile remains inaccessible to you. And then, following a victorious play that crowned your team league champions, you attempted to direct message your congratulations to Hometown Hero on Twitter...only to find that he had unfollowed you at a date and time unbeknownst to you.

Say what? Who the fug...? How could they effing...? Why, you oughta...!

Yup, brah. Color you cyberdismissed.

A recent CNN article explored the idea of defriending and unfollowing, concluding that "our 'digital egos' can bruise as easily as we do in person. In fact, rejection online may have the potential to sting even more." What? Why? 'Cause "people tend to think that these relationships are trivial and not very deep, but this is what we're moving towards, having a lot of our communications play out over the Internet," Purdue University social psychologist Kip Williams said. "That's the way it's becoming; this is how we interpret our worth. People care how many [online] friends they have."

Obsessives of Twitter follower numbers, fear thee not - you are not alone (although yes, we will still use you as fodder for jokes about pathetic Internet behaviors, oh yes, we will). So what happens if you've been wearing your digiheart on your digisleeve, and all of the sudden, someone comes along and cyberslices and cyberdices it to cybershreds? How do you pick up the virtual pieces and move on?

​Look. We couldn't miss the collective whoop of joyous philanderers worldwide when Al Gore sat down and decided to invent the Internet. Clandestine, illicit communication via password-protected inboxes on web platforms? On what dotted line can you sign your penis away, and how fast? Salacious messages sent straight to your cellular device under everyone's noses? Phone conversations be damned! Break out the condoms so you don't give your significant others venereal diseases, and go horizontally mambo already!

The wide world of the web has plenty of advice for checkin' up on your cheatin' cholo or chola. Hell, we even gave you some pointers on bustin' your fuckin'-'round fool a few moons ago. But what about "trust"? Is it possible to actually - gasp! - not worry your swollen lil' head off 'bout the twatcopters of your lover's loins in a land dominated by the isolation of text messaging, email, Facebook, and the like?

We think so. And don't worry; we've never been wrong before. We don't think. Besides, we'd never ever lead you astray. We side with Alanis; this is something you oughta know.

So whaddya need in order to award complete and utter trust to your mate?

​You groan as you hit snooze on your iPhone or BlackBerry's alarm, then you resume the ritual of checking your text messages, Gmail, and Twitter with bleary orbs. You drag yourself outta bed, hastily shower, pull anything that's unwrinkled and clean onto your limbs, and scurry to your car to arrive at work before the witching hour.

But the freeways are slammed, as per usual, so you post a tweet lamenting the fact that your car can't fly. To brighten your mood, you tool around on your Facebook application and giggle at your friends' Monday morning status updates while keeping one eye (or perhaps half an eye?) on the road.

In the nick of time, you roll into your place of employment, and sit down in front of your computer, where you are barraged with instant messages inquiring about your weekend activities, scads of email from co-workers and clients, and research assignments that necessitate substantial hours of internet perusal. Not to mention you've got to read the Houston Press and the Chron with that piping hot cuppa joe you've procured before any real work begins, natch.

You receive texts as the hours drag on about your plans for that evening ("Do you have plans tonight?" "What sounds good?" "Does dinner sound like a plan?" "Maybe a run 'round Memorial then Berryhill?"). And, no doubt, you surreptitiously check Gmail, Twitter, and Facebook almost as much as Outlook throughout the course of your eight-ish-hour workday.

It's all too much, isn't it?

Yes, actually, it is. Or it can be. Or it's becoming to be.

Famed cartoonist and creativity poster child Hugh MacLeod recently took it upon himself to turn his own cyber volume down by chucking his BlackBerry and leaving his laptop at the office. He said, "The 'Always-On Cul­ture' had been fee­ling oppres­sive for a while now," and deci­ded to do something about it. "Basta," Hugh says. "Badass," we say.

Does the siren song of the interwebs sing a bit too loudly for you? Well, here are a few ways you can take a shredder to its vocal chords and silence the noise for awhile:

Friday, October 30th. The day before Halloween. Not that we think this fact has escaped you, dear, dear reader. But we know exactly what predicament you're in. It's clear by the panic on your face. You don't have a Halloween costume, do you? Shame shame. But we figured.

Although it's usually par for the course that women acceptably transform themselves into raging sluts and men throw on their fathers' old suits and deem themselves golfers, Rod Stewart, or '70s pimps, you can't pull off any of that nonsense this year. We feel you. So what on earth are your options?

Well, what we geeks lack in brawn, beauty, or, ahem, body benefits, we make up for in brains, right? When all else fails, let your inner geek burn bright on Halloween night for all the world to see. After all, Belle did turn Gaston down for the Beast, didn't she? Then you've got a shot in hell, too.

The Huffington Post has been challenging its readers all week to flaunt their costumed inner techie nerds. You want to be on the cutting edge of technogeekery even on Halloween, don't you? Well, we picked out our favorite get-ups for your imitation pleasure. 'Cause we know you're flatter-tastic like that.

​By now, you gotta be pretty burned out on hearing, "There's an app for that." But sugar plum, get used to it already. 'Cause it's usually the answer to every inquiry to which your little heart desires a response these days, whether you embrace it or shun it. The latest question to be answered by said cliche? "Do you, dear sir or madam, really, truly know how to do the nasty?"

Yup. No fooling.

Obviously we're all stallions in bed, and any of us are ridin'-dirty-worthy. Of course. So there is clearly no need for such juvenility, right? Well, after you've pound-pound-pounded away at your lover (or were pounded away at, whatever you prefer) and sent shards of headboard clear into the Jetsons generation, you wonder. We've all, at one point or another, whether it was real or fake, wondered whether or not those titillating shrieks of ecstasy or those uncontrollable quakes of limbs cut the mustard. Admit it. You wanna know whether that O-face was legit.

In a move to either boost or shatter your boom-boom room confidence, there's an, uh, app for that. The Love Vibes iPhone app claims to "listen to vibrations, using three separate movement receptors to analyze your lovemaking in real-time." So, while you're bumpin' uglies, the app "analyzes pattern changes, range of movement, duration, stamina, and peak progression." And following the conclusion, you're awarded a score based on duration, passion, and variety, on a scale of 1 to 10.

​If you don't have eyes, ears, or a television set with that nonsensical converter box, you may not be aware that today kicks off early voting for stuff that's pretty crucial to the Houston political agenda. Not only can you stick your ballot in the box for City Council, City Controller, community college and public school boards and the like, but you can also plant your seed for change in the fertile soils of the Bayou City's mayoral race. So to speak.

If you believe the Chron, Houston's vote to cement our city's next mayor is not one to be missed. "At the forefront of the Houston election is the choice of a new mayor to replace term-limited Bill White in one of the nation's most powerful municipal offices." City Controller Annise Parker, Councilman Peter Brown, Former City Attorney Gene Locke, Harris County Department of Education trustee Roy Morales, and three candidates that didn't quite score front row seats on the Homecoming court's 50-yard line bleachers -- Dan Cupp, Amanda Ulman and Ralph Ullrich -- will battle it out for the title of Houston Head Cheese.

But if you're anyone who's anyone on Facebook or Twitter (read: if your network is listed as "Houston, Texas") you've probably been bombarded with friend requests from the persistent and stubborn campaign teams of the candidates. Even after you've done everything short of donating your entire paycheck to the supporter-collecting candidate's main competitor. And even after you've rejected these requests once, twice, three times more than Lionel Richie ever thought you needed to prove your worth. In short, the Houston mayoral candidates and their bumbling teams are online. With a vengeance. Everywhere. We got it.

Evidently, however, this social media usage is a groundbreaking development to KUHF.

​One day, someone ridiculously wise (or someone that was obviously getting ripped a new asshole by the media) once said, "No press is bad press." Unfortunately, that old adage probably isn't applicable to Pepsi, and won't be in this lifetime.

We suppose we shouldn't be too surprised that Pepsi developed an iPhone app to market its new AMP energy drink. Big corporate conglomerates always whip out their appendages in order to piss all over the fun technology left and right, don't they? Granted, this is nothing new for AMP, which obviously throws most of its advertising dollars at the penis-bearing segment of the population anyway. Nah, we aren't too miffed that AMP blowhards chose to bypass women altogether yet again. What does ruffle our feathers is the way they've done it.

We're biting our tongue. See the commercial for yourself below.

​

"Looks like there's gonna be an engagement party for you after all!"

"There is? Not that Nate or I know of."

"Was it supposed to be a surprise?"

"I have no idea. I don't know what you're talking about."

"Well, I got a Facebook invite from Cynthia, your co-worker."

"I honestly don't know anything about that."

"I figure if there's a Facebook invite, you'd figure it out soon enough."

"I haven't seen a Facebook invite."

"Hang on, let me check."

::pause::

"Uh. Um. Yeah. It actually says it's a surprise. And you're blocked from seeing it."

"Oh. Uh, yeah. Cool. Well, so...yeah. We'll be there then."

"Oh, wow. Oh my gosh. I'm so sorry. Do you think you can act surprised anyway?"

"Sure, yeah, definitely. Thanks for, um, telling me. See you then."

No. That's right. Just no. No, this scenario will not happen to you. No, no, no.

Why? Because Social Distortion understands that social media isn't just for online weirdos to meet offline and share an awkward cup of coffee at an out-of-the-way java house in a remote area of the city, where they will then journey to one or the other's car in the adjacent parking lot and attempt to consummate their forced reality-based relationship by initiating uncomfortable physical contact in some way, shape, or form, following which neither will ever mention it to friends, family, or even in his or her online diary.

Ahem, that never happened.

​Whether you helped rip Zilker Park to shreds or you simply groaned inwardly (and rolled your eyes outwardly) every time someone gushed about Them Crooked Vultures, everyone's got their own brand of ACL war story to propagate. But since we know that you suckers actually ruined your Ferragamos just to get a glimpse of Eddie Vedder without a cell tower to tweet of, it's about time you return to the 21st century and find out what you missed on the internets. 'Cause no amount of Torchy's or Hut's can make up for the fact that rollin' back into work today is hurtin' real bad.

• Are you blogging for tricks? 'Fess up or pay up. The Federal Trade Commission, in yet another unprecedented move to stir the pot amongst bloggers, decreed that writing blogposts or reviews for money or free shit will getcha slapped with an $11,000 fine if you don't say so. Although seemingly targeting celebrities that abuse their endorsements, mommybloggers feelin' the sting top the ranks. Wait, wait - could that lead to less mommyblogging?! That would be a damn shame. A damn shame indeed.
• Surf's up, and if you're lucky, you've caught the Wave. The first round of Google Wave invites went out with the tide, and man, you don't have one, do you? Too bad. But never you fear. The Chosen Ones are willing and able to throw in your face that you're missing the most awesome technological advancement since ribbed condoms.