Hey kids, how’s tricks? Yah, I’m still here, trudging away. The time spent on crap masterpieces dwindling in favor of frivolous nonsensical enterprises that produce nothing of notorious value nor shit of miserable epithetical disarrayed scraps, merely leech the coffers while frying the mind, making one ponder what the 83 brigade means by "ego" and "subterfuge" and "honor" and other such terms that went out with the lion jumping through the t-shirt (a year earlier). Sigh, I know, you don’t understand. It’s ok. Neither do I. But fear not, there will be a reckoning. I have no idea what it will involve, or who it will help or hinder, but it's coming, I’d put long beach on it, and you know how much that shit means to me. Oh yeah, just about nothing. Except the airport is close by and I wouldn’t want to risk that shit getting shut down for too long. Fuck, I have no clue what any of this, that, the other, is supposed to mean. I can’t even swat a fly with a broomstick without feeling both sorry for the insect and the witch, it’s my nature to care while paradoxically rambling through the forest of the trees of sensitivity with a chainsaw and a 2x4, taunting mercilessly and tossing out tissues of consolation.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Yadda yadda yadda, yeah, new york magazine had (has?) some gigantic story
all about bloggers, ohmygod, it’s soooo famous, can’t believe it’s not butter, and yeah, I was on the list, in my mind, yes, I was on that list in an alternate universe where big media celebrates weekly (if that) mentions of the jurk storr from 2 years ago, so, I mean, you can’t fault their taste, absolutely fuckin’ eh yeah, all the way. Congrats to the crew that what did that gawk boing kottke insta and then pundited it into the ground until everyone had heard of them. They’re rich! Ah yes, that’s rich, so rich. And where’s richie sambora? Up your ass, or the outer environs of Turkish Uzbekistan, yep, it’s a small corner of the town fair, next to the waffle maker store. Don’t ask.