Another Frabjous Day

Twitter / Steve Rubel “PC Mag is another. I have a free sub but it goes in the trash.”

You don't have to wait long, in the ol' blogosphere, before another asshole fairly pleads, See me, I am fool. I like to promote such events, as they contribute to the democratization of happiness. That appearances shall be revealed to crumble like the shabby crap they are, and the meek shall inherit the earth.

Have I told this one before?

See, the correct reading of that line is not Shall in the sense of Someday in the future ... that's just one of those biblical Shall's. What was meant, what is meant, is that the meek—meaning your links are few because you are not an obnoxious expert-at-nothing but getting your name in front of the public—honey, the earth is already yours, your task but to see this.

I know, I know, link lust is a powerful thing, but nothing is without price. One would have never dreamt, just a few years ago—but has not this writing web become one of the wretched-most places on earth for sin and emptiness, displaying themselves most nakedly. Alongside enormous kindness and generosity, people pouring out what they know. Turns out the biggest humbling human need is, ha, To Share.

No I'm not going to link to the scene where Steve Rubel and the editor of PC Magazine suck and make up. Instead, maybe you want to meditate alongside me: does business have to be disgusting, to work?

Nobody Guesses Destiny

Materialism, a deepening shadow: “In California lore there is the story of a 1940s gang that operated profitably on the sun-blistered highway stretching between Lost Angeles and Las Vegas. The gang would steal orange cones from a street maintenance crew and distribute them in a gentle curve across the highway in the middle of the desert. Travelers driving to Las Vegas were detoured onto a dirt track that eventually petered out in dust and greasewood, and there they would be ambushed and robbed by four men with machine guns and sent reeling back to Los Angeles in their underwear.”

Cut Me A Major Slice

This is from Yahoo News, so really, forget about a link.

“Il Manifesto said the shooting was ‘as American as apple pie.’ ”

Heartwarming.

The end of the report (probably Reuters—yes, damn, it is) you could write in your sleep:

“More than 30,000 people die from gunshot wounds every year in the United States.”

This is what passes for public discussion of gun control. Squeezing in a few remarks—which happen to be true, of course—at the end of a horribly relevant tragedy.

See them lefty-liberal Reuters editors at work?

Well, babe, that's about all we can do. A few statements of appalling fact ...

“... there are more guns in private hands than in any other country.”

Prolly Commies at that—what the hell kinda name is Rooters, Royters anyway. Sounds like furriners to me.

And, always, this wistful, terrible truth:

“A powerful gun lobby and grass-roots support for gun ownership rights have largely thwarted attempts to tighten controls.”

And you thought this was a democracy. The more fool you.

Fly Me To The Mooooooon

With thanks to one of the more gentle souls among us, Stavros, who has so kindly, nay, selflessly donated his services in the interest of a safer, happier blogging experience for all. Fashioning with his own two hands (I think he has hands) a veritable plethora of badges from which to choose, of which I show but a few special favorites.

Ah'm here to kick ass and chew gum ... and Ah'm all outta gum.

I got yer code of conduct right here. No, really.

Snarky blogging permit. Step the fuck back.

Yes? Question? No, we Stavrosites (get it, har har) do not believe Stavros is duplicating previous efforts. See his remarks in the Book of EmptyBottle, chapter of April 11,

A lovely little badge has even been made for our use, to show what good blogistani citizens we are.

To which I fell compelled to say, in the nicest possible way, mark me, without trying to be mean, or scare anyone, or utter anything that could be construed as death threats: why don't you take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut? Why don't you take a flying fuck at the mooooooooooooon?

Amen.

Afternoon In America

April 12: See, I don't get up in the morning. I get up and it's morning for me ... but, alas, not for most. By this hour, everyone knows Kurt Vonnegut has died, and probably a good many of you have burst into the same somewhat surprising tears.



Ah, but the heart remembers. I have always maintained, it has a memory like a horse. A writer whose worked you have loved, whose sayings became part of your sayings ... regrettably, time has its way. But those tears? That pain at realizing he is gone? The body remembers. busy busy busy. A flesh diary. So it goes.



So much more steadfast than the mind of daily life.



Oh, my dear Mr. Rosewater, bless , keep.

        

Ten Questions For Tim O'Reilly

I read where Tim O'Reilly is drafting a call for a Bloggers Code of Conduct, and I, being a writer, find myself with some questions:

1. I use the word fuck a lot. Am I flaming myself?

2. Is this Objectionable Content?

3. Does freedom of speech mean only nice people?

4. How many narcissists can dance on the head of a pin?

5. Did Mark Twain say anything funny about a pig?

6. I am not connected to the business side of the internet in any way. Should I just shut up?

7. Online Journals. When did that die. Maybe '03. Writers, photographers. Artists. One brief, shining moment. Jeez. The web in all its dark enormity seemed born for art.

My question is: doesn't that sound fucking ridiculous?

8. I believe the free web still exists. I know it does, I know it serves bloggers in Iraq, just as it will serve in the struggle for democracy wherever people can access the tools. I also know that this sorry little flap in what is called the (heave) blogosphere is as ingrown and self-absorbed as it gets ... that all our problems don't amount to a hill of beans .. oops, sorry, wrong speech. There's a question in here, too. Are you man enough to discern it?

9. How does anyone know who their friends are, when money changes hands?

10. After the widespread behavior of blogging web professionals during the recent Big Stink, can you imagine how anxious a person like myself is to ever hear the word Marketing again. Ever.

Whatever Seems Reasonable To You

It's April 6. How long they going to leave that thing up? Just plain cruel. Especially the second page, where the smiling Gmail Delivery Person hands you all your email, all printed out and neatly boxed up.

Plus I like their attitude:

“You can make us print one, one thousand, or one hundred thousand ... It’s whatever seems reasonable to you.”

And the customer testimonials. Especially the Web 2.0-looking guy who confesses,

“I've always felt uneasy about the whole internet thing ...”

You know he ain't alone.

Lastly, a satisfied Bill K. says,

“I sometimes find myself wondering: what will Google think of next? Cardboard?”

And in this strange place, so subjective, so dependent on our own Hegelian appeareance in the world, plausibility takes wing.

I wish. I dream of WebVan, and the way well-mannered hunks in shorts would bring my groceries to my kitchen, help unpack, flowers gratis at Easter ... sigh. I could strangle that CEO for over-expanding. First rule of business: get it right (which he did—what an incredible setup, like a big clockworks) and let it run for a while in one fuckin city. Gimme his address. I got a few things to say to him.


postscript: Sorry, no links for WebVan cuz I hated them all. On grounds of stupid or made me weepy. Geez, those were some times. My old boyfriend was in Dot Com in San Francisco, and every Friday, along about three p.m., WebVan showed up with imported beers and trays of damn fine snacks. Then one day the BF came home and said, Dot Com is over. I said, No. And then I said, WTF?

And that's the way it was, folks, ca. 2000.

Our Keef, v.2

So Keith Richards says he snorted up a bit of his Dad, in an interview in the guardian.uk, one nicely Brit upon Brit ...

Why is it so reassuring these days to see people of foreign lands get along perfectly well without us. Yawn, how tiring to think of the way these eight years will clog histories for eons to come, when in fact the living of it—unless Neil Young releases a war album (so cool) or there's a really ghastly oversight revealed, or an astonishing truth comes out (like, Condi Rice may actually be accomplishing something?) —is so tedious, exactly the sort of exhausting banality about in the land one would expect from absurd High Crimes. Where was I.

Keith says he ground up a bit of bone himself; the resulting high was neither here nor there, but what a wonderfully atavistic act. He liked his old man. Which I think we knew; those indefatigable wacky good spirits.

I love the way he says to the interviewer, “ ... shit, Keith Richards has got to do everything once.”

A model boy. As we know.