About Devon DeLapp

Devon DeLapp is an aspiring screenwriter. He has a BFA in Visual Communication Design which took a lot of work but he'll be hard pressed to find a good use for it now. Though technically born in Los Angeles, his earliest formative memories were in the suburbs of Sacramento. Puberty followed in Spokane, college in Seattle, and then, like a salmon to its spawning ground, he now lives in the colorful LA borough of Mid City. Unlike a salmon, his girlfriend has expressed reservations about spawning at this point in their relationship.

 

Though he has written only a few scripts, Devon's work has already appeared in several of the industry's most prominent garbage bins and return envelopes. The novelty of SoCal's sunny weather hasn't worn off on Devon, and he enjoys it whenever the glare isn't too bad on his laptop's screen. As of August 2005, he is 24 years-old, and though he's tried for years to grow a full beard, he never, ever will, no matter how much he wants it.

About this site, or, The Colophon

This site originally launched in May of 2004 as my online design portfolio. In February 2006, it was re-launched, the portfolio now archived and replaced with more up-to-date content. The online journal I've kept since September 2001. You can read the first post here, but a disclaimer: those early posts were made in a more innocent time, when the Internet was still a playground for the naive, and I didn't yet understand the relevance of a "spell check" or "coherent statements". Since then, I've used it as a place to air-out my thoughts and little stories, although I still occasionally lapse into my older, "hey d00dz!" ways. Also, I use it to keep track of things I've done, lest I forget them later on.

 

Technology-wise, this site is a bit of a Frankenstein creation, though I've worked to polish out the more visible seams.

 

Literally, the site is a PHP-based front end which uses cURL to fetch dynamic content from LiveJournal's servers, output under a custom S2 style, then pairs with local static content such as the menu -- then the whole mess is formatted for the screen with CSS. Everything is XHTML 1.0 Transitional compliant, and designed to be navigable on every possible browser, from a supercomputer to a wrist watch.

 

Allegorically, the Site of Devon DeLapp had long been feared by the village people. Loud noises and inexplicable smells had long spouted from the ancient castle nestled in the misty crags of Dreamhost Mountain. One day, a valiant band, calling themselves the Clients, braved the crumbling, jagged path that led to its walls. Clubs and pitchforks in hand, they collected beneath the impenetrable fortress, and sent forth one man to knock. Ned was his name. Shivering slightly, though it was warm out, he pounded on the thick wooden door.

 

Almost immediately, a small window in the gate opened, and the pale face of an albino peered out. His pink eyes focused on Ned, and in an even voice, like one would speak to an excited dog with, he asked, "How may I help you?"

 

"Oi!" said Ned, surprised by the confidence of his own voice. "We're sick and tired of all the ruckus coming out of here, and not knowing what's happening. Who are you? Who's this Devon person? We demand to know what's going on!"

 

The albino studied Ned for a moment, then the rest of the unwashed group.

 

"I am just a servant here, and do not possess the knowledge you demand. Wait a moment, please, and I will fetch it for you." And with that, he slapped the tiny window shut. Ned looked back to the rest of the group. "He said to wait," he called. They shrugged, and set down their weapons.

 

Inside, the castle was a cacophony of noise and motion. The albino swept about the grand hall, shouting out commands. He jabbed a finger at the identical triplets, snoozing by the banister.

 

"Pea, Haysh, and Pee! Rouse yourselves! You must travel to El Jay Pass and return with the latest news of our master. Take Kurl, for he is our swiftest steed." The three scrambled out.

 

"Apache! Cecil!" A dark-skinned man and a well-groomed German glanced up from their debate. "Prepare a scroll for presentation, based on the default template. Here," and he handed them several scraps of paper pulled from his cloak. "Begin with these. You will have the rest of your content shortly. And use the nice paper, for a change."

 

Meanwhile, the triplets were already galloping back along the treacherous road from El Jay Pass. Tucked safely in their riding pack was the requested information. The server at El Jay had been friendly enough, though it was only with their translation manual that they were able to understand his foam-flecked blather. Like their own albino server, the triplets sensed there was more to El Jay's front man than he let on. Their attention was snapped back into the present when Kurl narrowly missed a steep drop into an inky-black chasm. "The task at hand, boys," they reminded each other. Moments later, they were back in the Site of Devon DeLapp.

 

Ned still waited by the door. He yawned. Others in his party leaned on their clubs, talked idly, or smoked cigarettes.

 

"Splendid!" cried the albino, and he snatched the still-warm documents from the triplets, who returned to their banister and promptly fell asleep. The albino handed the information to Apache, who, guided by Cecil's careful eye, hurriedly copied it onto their own scroll. The albino nervously watched the time tick by on the massive clock suspended above their heads.

 

His eyes glazed over, Ned stared into the distance. The tiny window popped open, shocking Ned awake, and the finished scroll was shoved at him. Ned took it, then looked to at the albino as though for confirmation.

 

"It should be everything you requested, sir," said the albino. "Thank you for stopping by." Then, with a crack, the window was shut.

 

Back with his group, Ned unfurled the exotic sheet. They glanced over it, occasionally pointing out to one another interesting tidbits.

 

"Oi, it says here Devon went to the land of Vegas," said Herbert, a short, sour-smelling cabbage farmer. "I'd sure like to know more about that, eh boys?" The men nodded lecherously at one another, then stared at Ned with their yellowed eyes.

 

"Go on, Ned. Ask 'im about Vegas," they said, and then they shoved him towards the gate. A little braver this time, Ned trotted up to the door, and knocked again.

 

THE END

 

The moral of this story:

Taking longer to explain something won't necessarily make it clearer.

 

OR

 

Explaining web technologies with an extended metaphor involving feudal lords and indentured servitude can lead to many practical inaccuracies.

 

OR

 

Cashing in on the stereotypes of albinos, Native Americans, cabbage farmers, Germans, and lazy triplets is always funny.