Instacast for Mac is without question the best way to listen to podcasts on OS X. And for anyone who’s been stuck using iTunes for the job, it’s something of a revelation. You can finally set Apple’s bloated media player aside — at least when it comes to podcasts — in favor of Vemedio’s sleek and efficient replacement. Most importantly, everything’s fast. Very, very fast. Adding your favorite shows is as simple as searching for them and hitting the subscribe button. Organization is equally simple; you can view all of your podcasts at once, or drag and drop individual episodes into custom lists (i.e. a collection of every podcast Zach Galifianakis has appeared on).
Windows/OS X: CupCloud makes it easy to save and stop your work on one computer and pick right up where you left off on another, or save your session so you can reboot your computer and get right back to work without opening a ton of tabs or applications again.
This music parody video from wekejay of Justin Timberlake’s “Suit and Tie” has a ton of good in it: a spot-on Tony Stark, an excellent merging of the set from the original Timberlake video and the Stark Expo from Iron Man 2, Rhodey’s guest rap…
Mac: If your Mac is feeling a bit sluggish on startup, one of the reasons might be because you have too many login items. DelayedLauncher is a tool that allows you to delay and stagger out those items so your Mac starts up faster.
The Chrome app store has seen a lot of improvements lately, but a lot of the apps that work inside Google Chrome still go under the radar. With that in mind, here are a few of our favorites you might not have seen yet.
Dave Bidini has a column in the National Post. I have no idea what he’s talking about. Google Translate isn’t helping a bit. Do you understand?
For years, I was a keener, but after my short-lived stint as reeve of Dildo, Nfld., in which I stumped for the still-unpopular Gouge and Screw Tax — dinged in the polls and my approval rating going downhill as fast as a runaway toboggan or a bus shagger — I put the kerfuffle behind me and tried to forget the fact that I’d been soundly turfed, even though Joey Smallwood’s buddy had cherry-picked me himself. I got off the chesterfield, threw on my old housecoat and thongs, hucked a forty pounder, half-sack of swish and mickey of goof in a Loblaws bag over my shoulder before leaving my bachelor apartment to head due west past fire halls and hydros and parkades and corner stores in the direction of Dead Rear, Oilberta looking for some kind of joe job — cleaning eavestroughs; stitching hockey sweaters; packing Smarties; anything! — although damned if I knew whether I would find work once I got there.