I Read The News Today Oh Boy

27 Oct
Ok so quit saying “no news is good news”. I’m sick and tired – really I just haven’t been feeling well I should probably lie down – sick and tired of hearing this expression. Here’s the deal people – no news means that the telegraph lines are down, the electricity is out and someone has cut the telephone lines. He’s calling from inside the house! Get out! Get out! Get out! No news is definitely not good news it’s only bad news that has yet to be reported. 
 

What? You need an example? Fine…sometimes you people try my very existence…

The warden is about the throw the switch and the governor’s cell phone is dead, he’s lost the prison’s telephone number, the lines have been cut. He’s calling from inside the house! Get out! Get out! Get out! No news is good news? Well, until one minute after midnight and then its bad news. Tell the angels with dirty faces that Rocky died a coward. “All right fellas…let’s go say a prayer for a boy that couldn’t run as fast as I could”.

 

No news means that up on Choctaw Ridge this morning Billy Joe MacAllister didn’t jump of the Tallahatchie Bridge and you aren’t getting that young, vibrant healthy heart to stick into your withered old chest. Well, Billy Joe never had a lick of sense, pass the biscuits, please. There’s five more acres in the lower forty I’ve got to plow.

And let’s face it nobody wants to hear good news. Would CNN be in business if they only reported good news? Boring!

Cynical? Probably. Maybe the time between the no news and the news is a period of grace. Where all possibilities in the universe are well, possible. A moment frozen between infinite realities. That breath of time never to be captured again when you are a young man who still believes that he is immortal. And maybe that’s not such a bad thing. If you don’t check your lottery ticket you’re still a winner and you can spend the day dreaming of how great your life is going to be when you pick up that six-foot long game show size cheque for a cool million. But sooner or later you have to get the news and that news is – TADA! – you’re just another loser like all the other losers who bought a ticket. By the way do you know the odds of winning a lottery? It’s a big number. A googolplex number. Pie squared times base 17 or something like that.

Don’t tell me you can’t win if you don’t buy a ticket. And please don’t tell me that somebody’s got to win. That’s just a marketing scheme. Ok it’s also a fact. You actually have to buy a ticket to win. Stupid rules.

Oh and another thing why are all the people in the lottery ads young and good-looking. Now it is certainly ok for young and good-looking people to buy lottery tickets and even win the lottery. But hey if you are young and good-looking you have already won the lottery. Don’t get greedy.

Same goes for liquor ads. A lot of incredibly attractive folks seem to be having a lot of parties that I’m not invited too. I know I know that’s the whole point. If I see that these people are having a good time buying lottery tickets and drinking distilled spirits then eventually I will be programmed to think that if I follow their example my life will be as wonderful as living in a beer commercial. But just once I like to see an advert featuring a guy with a bottle in a brown paper bag dancing for nickels at the bus stop. That’s a product that I could relate too. That’s my Saturday night.

Also there seem to be a great number of very good-looking single people signing up to meet other singles in my area. It’s free. It’s easy. It’s fun. It’s a 1-800 number. Are these extremely photogenic people really sitting at home talking on the telephone to other photogenic people? Is this why when I go out I never see them? It is three o’clock in the morning and Bambi is telling me she is only a phone call away but long distance charges may apply?

This poor sad lonely girl is sitting at home awaiting my call.

So no news is just that – no news. And why should you be wasting your time waiting for the news anyway? Go out and live your life. Remember today is the first day of the rest of your life – well unless you’re on death row.

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We Skipped The Light Fandango

22 Oct
   

for sale / wanted > musical instruments 
 
My accordion for your banjo (Toronto)

Date: 2010-10-03, 4:12PM EDT
Reply to:##################

I have a baritone accordion that I don’t play anymore. I would like to trade it for a 5 string banjo. Shall we?

Location: Toronto

it’s NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: ################

Copyright © 2010 craigslist, inc.

  
 
Ok so this is funny. This is a real posting on craigslist. When you think banjo you automatically think hillbilly and the spooky kid from Deliverance. You don’t think Bela Fleck. Or even Steve Martin. Or a hundred other examples. The banjo plays a big part in the history of American roots music and throughout the chronicles of rock n roll. Does banjo equals loser? No. Is it cooler than the accordion? Maybe.

Accordions? Lawrence Welk. Kids in talent shows playing Lady of Spain. And your Uncle Waldo and his annual Christmas medley of O Holy Night, Ava Maria and Jingle Bells. Weird Al became a star playing an accordion but were we laughing at him or with? Guess it doesn’t matter – he laughed all the way to the bank. Personally I don’t understand it but whatever. I think it was supposed to be ironic in someway.

Now what about a beret wearing street musician playing a French love song on a button accordion in an open air café on the Left Bank? Or Astor Piazzolla playing a South American tango? See the accordion can be sexy. Well, ok with the right lighting and props. Not to mention location and casting. Great now we’re over budget.

Note how the sleeve explains - "a study in HIGH FIDELITY sound"

Hey, I dig both instruments but maybe not at the same time. There is an old joke that musicians tell. A banjo player and an accordionist get a job playing a house party on New Year’s Eve. At the end of the night the host tells them that because everybody had such a good time he would like to book them for the following New Year’s. The musicians readily agree. Then the banjo player asks. “May we leave our instruments here?”

Primo Scala and his Banjo and Accordion Band

　　The coolness of the instrument is in direct coolness to the musician playing it. Simple math equation. Maybe if the Hammond B3 solo (actually it was a Hammond M-102 if you want to be specific) in Whiter Shade of Pale was played on the accordion things would have been different for the old squeeze box.

She goes in and out and in and out and in and out and in and out. Mama’s got a Squeeze Box. Daddy never sleeps at night.

 

If I may sidebar for a moment – Procol Harum released Whiter Shade in 1967 and it was a huge hit. It has been covered something like 900 times. Rolling Stone lists it at #57 of the Top 500 songs of all time. In 2005 Matthew Fisher who played organ on the track filed suit against Gary Brooker and his publisher claiming that he co-wrote the music for the song. And let’s face it or let’s hear it the organ solo really makes the song. Fisher wins the case and is awarded 40% of the composer’s royalty but not share of the music copyright and was not granted royalties prior to 2005. Ok, not great but not bad. 

Gary Brooker appeals but the judge upheld Fisher’s co-authorship – cool, well except that he also ruled that Fisher should receive no royalties as he had taken too long – thirty-eight years to bring his claim to litigation – so not so cool. Brooker gets back full royalty rights. Fisher who seems to be a man who knows how to hold a grudge gets permission to appeal this decision to the House of Lords. Which in England is a big deal. This is the first time the Law Lords have been asked to rule on a copyright dispute involving a song. I guess the Law Lords (which sounds like the name of a band) had been a bunch of stoner rockers at one time because they unanimously ruled in Fisher’s favour. From their point of view the delay in bringing the case had not caused any harm to Brooker. In fact he and his publisher had benefited financially from it. They had had thirty-eight years of not sharing which translates into a lot of sports cars in the driveway. Also turns out there is no time limit to copyright claims under English law so future royalties are returned to Fisher.

Now back to your regularly scheduled program…

You may have noticed there is no Banjo Hero video game. There was a rumour floating around that Jimi Hendrix preferred the banjo but played guitar in public because he didn’t want to set his banjos on fire. If only Jimi had played Little Wing on the banjo…

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Radar Love

21 Oct

The radio plays a forgotten song. Brenda Lee’s “Coming on Strong”.

Been on the road. Two lane black top. A ribbon of asphalt macadam tarmac spooling endlessly out in front of the bumper. Jacked up on gas station coffee. White line fever. Burning up tank after tank of high-test fossil fuel.

This ain’t no hybrid. It’s a Detroit museum piece rolling on all season radials. Big. Bad. Buick. Wildcat. That’s right. Outside in the distance a wildcat did growl…the wind began to howl. The setting sun is shredding the clouds into pieces of candy floss. Step on it. I have a sunset to catch.

Six days on the road and I’m gonna be home tonight. I’m driving like I just got out of jail and was being chased by Big Daddy Garlits down the quarter-mile. If it weren’t for physics and law enforcement I would be unstoppable. Next exit – vanishing point.

Listening to the hypnotic rhythmic thrum of the tires the mind starts to wander. Hypotheses form and dissolve in front of my eyes in an endless sea of possibilities. Simple ideas take root from the tiniest germ of a thought and blossom into complex and detailed blueprints for radical and unimagined ideas…

If the castaways had killed Gilligan they would have been rescued in days.

When did the football field become a unit of measurement?

Why do criminals pick Metropolis? Don’t they know Superman lives there?

Is the only way to get havoc – is to wreak havoc?

Maybe the cheque really is in the mail.

Good and food should rhyme.

Why do you spell “different” the same way every time?

If a tree falls in the forest and there is no one to hear it – does it make a sound? If you fall in the forest breaking your leg and there is no one to hear you scream – are you still eaten alive by wolves?

And then the slightest bounce in the road jolts me back to reality. Check the mirror. Did I hit something? How was I to ever know that only moments before a small brown rabbit on his way to meet a tortoise was contemplating the age-old question “why did the chicken cross the road?” and decide to field test his potential answer and was now meeting St. Peter Cottontail at the 24 carrot gold gates of the after life.

I have to say it…It’s 106 miles to Chicago, we got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it’s dark and we’re wearing sunglasses. Hit It.

If I drive all night I’ll see you when the sun rises.

Second to the right and then straight on till morning…

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Great Balls Of Fire

24 Sep

Not happy people. Got to be candid. After all with a least five views a day this is obviously a hot blog . We’re moving up the charts with a bullet. It is a big responsibility that I do not take lightly. So in total honesty and full disclosure I will tell you why I am not happy. It was like this…

I had a killer idea. Straight to the electric chair stone cold killer idea. A Jerry Lee Lewis. Then I started to write it down and it wasn’t so killer. But it still had big mauling potential. Oh yeah, you would know it if you rumbled with this bad boy. Better make sure you’ve had a recent tetanus shot because infection from an open wound is always possible. A couple of sentences later it wasn’t the street brawler I had hoped for. Sure it would still call you out. It could still do the dance but once it was done taunting you it didn’t have much game left. So I was left with Billy Joel not Jerry Lee.

THE KILLER

Nothing wrong with Billy Joel. Wrote some nice pop music. But he ain’t Jerry Lee. He plays piano but he doesn’t attack it. Jerry Lee once pushed a piano off the stage, out the door and right off a pier into the ocean. “Great Balls of Fire” wasn’t just a song on the nights he would actually torch the ol’88’s. One time he went to tell Elvis to stop hiding behind the gates of Graceland and start living. To start rockin’ again. Of course he did it at three o’clock in the morning while waving a loaded pistol and being pretty loaded himself. Yeah, sure Billy Joel smashed up a car. He went to rehab. He apologized. Blah, blah, blah. Rockers don’t apologize. Can you imagine Keith Richards apologizing? And Jerry Lee could sing anything. Country. Gospel. Even a pop tune. But he always made it his own. If Jerry Lee Lewis ever sang “Don’t Go Changing” he would have made it sound like a threat.

You don’t really know if what you have is a bad idea until it’s too late. Like getting married to your thirteen year old cousin – ok, ok first cousin once removed. Oh that Jerry Lee, what a cad! Sure there are warning signs. But probably you will ignore them. And it takes just as much time and work to produce bad art as good art. Sometimes you luck out with the “it’s so bad it’s good” thing. But be warned. Never set out on purpose with the so bad it’s good premise. People know the difference. You can’t make a cult film. You can’t predict what will go viral.

What did I do next? I couldn’t abandon the idea just because it didn’t grow up the way I imagined it would. The need to live vicariously through my idea wasn’t fair to either of us. I toyed with the idea of a re-write. Just maybe I could patch it up. You know throw in some obscure sub-references and oblique sub-text. Maybe go all existentialist on it‘s behind. But I knew I was trying to jam a Hemi into a Vespa. No, there was nothing I could do. I had done my Pete best.

So I did the humane thing. I finished it. I wrote it up real nice. Even ran it through the spell checker. And then I filed it away. I’ll give it a day or two and then well put it down.

I know the whole writing about having nothing to write about is rather clichéd. A hackneyed ruse. But I thought I had something. Really, I did. I was Sam Phillips and I was cutting a gold record. Solid gold. Or at least I thought it was pure Au. Turned out to be iron pyrite.

So there you have it.

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Stormy Weather

22 Sep

Have you ever noticed that weather is around us all the time? You can’t get away from it. It’s everywhere. Except at the mall. Ok, the mall has weather. It’s a constant comfortable 68 degrees and the wind chill is barely negotiable. They say there are two certainties of life – death and taxes but they never mention the weather. There will be weather going on while you are being taxed to death. And weather is always doing something. Always busy. Always working up new patterns and trying them out on people to see how it will go. Weather even has focus groups. Noah’s Ark? Focus group.  

  

I have decided after many years of study that weather’s whole purpose in life is to make people query – “Do I need a jacket?” Weather gets a huge kick out it. To quote John Burroughs – “I was born with a chronic anxiety about the weather” or “Do I need a jacket?” We go through life asking the eternal questions “Why am I here? What does it all mean? Do we need milk?” And if you think about it “Do I need a jacket” is just as significant. If you were to venture out on a seek the meaning of life journey that included scaling a mountain top to reach the summit were upon you will meet the all-seeing-all-knowing-all-request-dance-party-Saturdays-swinging-guru well, before you take one small step for mankind out the front door there is only one important question that must be answered first – “Do I need a jacket?”  

Yes, I was born with a chronic anxiety about the weather and let’s face it all humans are. What is the number one topic of all daily conversations? Weather. What do you talk about at a funeral after the condolences? Weather. What does cocktail party/first date/office function Plan B chit-chat revolve around? Weather. Can‘t help it. It’s coded in our DNA.  

Mr Bob DNA fingerprint - one of a kind.

Humans spend an inordinate time trying to govern the life around them. You know walk don’t walk type things. However no matter how hard we try we cannot legislate the weather. We can try but Mr. Weather has skipped town after failing to appear on the charge of raining on our parade and he has forfeited his bail. Sure he will drift back to town like a cool summer breeze in a Tennessee Williams script to tease us and caress us like a young lover. And we will forgive and forget as he tussles our hair with gentle gusts of playfulness. And we will think we have tamed this untamable condition but our hearts will be broken yet again. For that summer breeze changes direction and from the north it blows hard and cold. And then we are out on the front lawn with our neighbour King Lear raging at the elements. “Blow, winds and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!” Sorry Pete Townsend but we got fooled again.  

  

Ok, so listen to this it was written by William Bradford… “And for the season it was winter and they that know the winters of that country know them to be sharp and violent and subject to cruel and fierce storms dangerous to travel”…it goes on ….“weather beaten face…..full of woods and thickets… a wild and savage hue.”  I would guess that when Mr. Bradford wrote this about the New World or as we know it, Canada back in 1620 something or other it’s obvious he wasn’t working for a travel agency. Not something you want to re-print in a hospitality industry newsletter.  

My family has a journal written by my great, great-grandfather that describes his early days in Canada. It goes on and on about how tough it was to get here and how poor they were and how everything little thing was so difficult. How hard it was to clear the land. How cold the first winter was. Blah, blah, blah. The only thing I learned about my ancestors was that they were a whiny bunch of sucks. Anyway things got so bad that first winter they had to eat their shoes. Or that might have been a Chaplin movie I saw as a kid but things were tough. So when spring came did they pack up and head south? No. They stayed and the next winter they had to eat the horse’s shoes.  

  

Did you know who discovered Canada first? Vikings. Yes, Vikings. But they didn’t stay. They crossed the North Atlantic in open row boats – open row boats people, took one look around and said nope. If it was too tough for the Vikings what are we doing here? When I hear someone complain about the weather in Canada I have one thing to say to them. Move. Move to Vikingland. Which is what I plan to do as soon as I can afford it. Have you seen the Viking women?  

The future Mrs. Mr Bob Radio

Reminds me of a joke. Baby Polar Bear is crossing the ice with his father. He asks his father if he is a polar bear. Yes is the reply. A moment later he asks if he is a full-blooded polar bear. Again the reply is yes. After a time he pipes up again questioning the possibility that contained within his veins flow the blood of a bear who hails from a more southern clime. At this Father Polar Bear becomes angry and demands why is his son making these ridiculous queries. And Baby Polar Bear says, “ I’m freezing.”  

  

So what are we to do? Well we don’t have much choice. The weather has us surrounded and is taking hostages. You can’t live at the mall. Ok you can but only during zombie attacks. No, the only solution is get used to it. Quit complaining. Deal. And get a jacket.

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“I like it, Larry!”

21 Sep

So nothing has happened. I thought that when I launched my blog assault on the human race sponsorship deals, endorsements and TV appearances would come flooding in like the mighty Red River in springtime. Why do people who live on a flood plain get surprised when they get flooded out? When the hot young reporter interviewed the toothless man she had sought out in an attempt to find a local with “character” he explained that the river had flooded every year “cept back in ‘67” and each and every time he had rebuilt. “What happened in 1967?” she queried. “Flooded twice!” he said with great pride.

But so far nothing. Nada. Zip. Zero.

But then I haven’t actually told anyone about it. Sent out a couple of emails. I did put up a notice on the coming events bulletin board at the laundry mat – got a good spot between a “kittens free to a good home” and a “parts for an ‘87 Chevy van”.

But I have yet to harness the power of the social networks or stoke up the coal fires of the search engines. Nor have I enlisted the help of McMann and Tate to build a publicity campaign. And I haven’t bothered to build links into the blog so it doesn’t matter if it’s Larry Tate or Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce that I am referencing because well I haven’t connected my blog to the outside world. In short I have not pandered to the public in any way.

Of course I not sure what I was expecting. There are millions and millions of pages of disinformation out here on the web. So it might take more than a couple of days for the masses to discover my beautiful mind in this mad, mad, mad, mad world. Remember look under the big W.

The big what is what you are thinking. Don’t worry I’ll circle back and pick you up on the way back. 

Am I disappointed? Well no. Is it a case of not wanting to belong to a club that would want you to be a member? Maybe. My feelings on this subject run amok. One moment I am as giddy as Scarlett before the ball. “Oh Mammy, let’s check our blog stats!” And the next? The next I have the reflexes of induced coma patient. 

How can I describe it? Ok let’s try this…

Imagine your birthday is coming up but you don’t tell anybody at work about it and then on the day nobody says anything and you are kinda ticked off. I mean couldn’t have someone in HR noticed on your file that today was your birth date? So what’s the deal? You don’t need a big party just somebody saying “Hey happy birthday” But no.

On the other hand you are somewhat relieved because it is somewhat depressing to be another year older and still be a somewhat mid-level associate marketing manager. Yes, it is true that you are one of the few people on your floor whose cubicle is a double wide but real success has eluded you. You don’t need any reminders of your failures. That’s what in-laws are for. No, maybe its better that nobody at work remembered the date of your entry onto this mortal coil.

That thought holds you until about 10:30 maybe 10:45 but as it gets closer to lunch you start to think “Hey maybe the gang are going to surprise me at lunch”. You don’t dare leave your double wide cubicle. You busy yourself with the minutiae of the day-to-day routine of an office drone. Noon comes. Noon goes. By 1:30 you are still playing it cool but inside you are getting pretty steamed up. I mean it’s not like you thought they might shut down the office for the afternoon or hire a sky writer to send their message. “Hey Jones look out the window! Ha! Ha!”

And hey you’re not like Debbie in accounting who makes such a big deal out of her birthday you would think she was six. Not your style. But to be honest it would be nice if someone noticed you. Or appreciated you. Some small token of acknowledgement. Aren’t these people your friends? Haven’t you bought cookies and magazine subscriptions from their kids? Sponsored their disease of the month walk-a-thons? Went to their spouse’s funeral? By the time you leave work that day you have secretly renounced any degree of friendship you may have once held dear. And to prove your point you rip up your organ donor card.

Ok, a few weeks go by, maybe a month and then one day at lunch someone is talking about birth signs and you casually mention yours. “Oh hey we missed your birthday. We’ll catch you next time, big guy!” they all chorus like trained seals. You furtively make a bet with yourself that they won’t remember. They never do. Why would next year be any different? The wager? Another droplet of bile on that ever escalating acidic mound of burning all season radial tires in the pit of your stomach. You also promise yourself that under no circumstances or pain of torture will you reveal your birth information in the presence of any of your work mates for the next year. Maybe they will remember? No. You know all too well they won’t. And only when you die will they realize what fools they have been. Just like your family. Just like everybody. Just like that guy at the parking garage. And that other guy at that other place. They will be sorry. So sorry. You wait one day I’ll be dead and…

Oops kinda took a detour off the main highway and ended up in Unresolved Issuestown. Maybe you’ve been there? It’s just down the road from A Cry For Helpville.

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Roll Over Beethoven

17 Sep

So why are there no indie orchestras? No underground, alternative, grungy, plaid shirt long hair movement? Sixty unemployed classically trained musicians getting together in a garage to jam it out. Disenfranchised, ticked off and ready to play. They have burned their tux. Threw away the rosin. Playing traditional repertoire at crazy and wild tempos. They don’t care if the score is marked adagio cause they are kicking it out allegro and always fortissimo. Furioso even.

Conductor? What is this a train? Who died and left Salieri in charge? Nobodies in charge. We’re all in charge. It’s synchronized chaos and it’s loud. A440? Close enough for chromatic harmony, baby. A cacophony of counterpoint. Polyrhythmic discord. And yes, the drummer gets a solo. That’s not a fanfare it’s a battle cry. It’s an overture to malevolence. Sweater vest wearing virtuosos that got beat up on their way to violin lessons are now greasy haired Doc wearing storm troopers of diatonic discordance all jacked up on fugues and sonatas. Don’t wanna get bitch slapped by an arpeggio wielding oboe player? Then duck.

 If you can’t stand the heat then stay outta the orchestra pit. And baby it’s a pit. A philharmonic polyphonic mosh pit. It’s a hemi demi semi quaver world and we’re grinding out compositions of contrapuntal complexities with chromatic cadenzas.

If it’s baroque fix it. Suck on that semi-tone.

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A man playing a saxophone walks into a bar…

16 Sep

True story. Recently while working on a project I said in an email to the rest of the production crew something about bringing in a sax player. Someone responded in a somewhat LOL vibe that I could put my sax in my ass. At first I was not exactly sure how to respond to this. Surely it was a jest. But what if it was a serious request?

I thought the best way to deal with the situation was to discuss the mechanics of placing a “sax in the ass”. Now I am going to go out on a limb here and presuppose that I have personally experienced more decadence, degradation and debauchery then most of my peers so let me state emphatically that in my experience – a “sax in the ass” is not an easy feat.

The saxophone was invented by Adolphe Sax who created many different types of instruments (for example the saxhorn played in concert bands) but is most famous for his saxophone. The saxophone is the marriage of a brass instrument and a woodwind or reed instrument. The saxophone while not being a standard orchestral instrument is played in every idiom of music today. Ok so there is the quickie all-you-need-to-know-to-answer-Alex-Trebeck-in-the-form-of-a-question in the category – history of sax.

Now for us to truly understand the “sax in the ass” quandary we must look at the shape of the saxophone. For those of you with less musical knowledge then myself there are a number of different Saxes in the saxophone family. As mentioned before the sax is a reed instrument and is quite narrow at the mouthpiece but widens down the length of the horn until it curves at the bottom and flares open at the bell. The sax also has a complicated series of keypads and connecting rods that open the various valves to create the notes of the scale.

The alto sax (Charley “Bird” Parker’s instrument of choice) has a slightly curved neck at the top of the horn and than curves again at the bell. At first, insertion looks easy but once you are past the neck you run into problems. Even at the most narrow part – the mouthpiece there is a little do-hickey called the ligature that holds the reed in place. There is also the possibility that one could get slivers from the reed.

The tenor sax (Lester Young, Clarence Clemmons) has almost an S – shaped neck and only with a great deal of twisting (and earlier insertion of the alto) can any depth be achieved. The baritone (Gerry Mulligan, Lisa Simpson) is one big bad horn. Its neck has a complete 360 degree curlicue before it joins the body. Sadly insertion is impossible.

There are lesser known saxophones such as the C Melody and the popular but less played soprano. The soprano (Kenny G) is shaped straight like a clarinet and and therefore complete insertion is indeed possible…wait a minute…

Tomorrow the sousaphone.

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The day after that…

15 Sep

Ok I’ve got nothing. I’m done. Just gotta find my keys…“Hey honey I’m going to take the blog out for a drive. Maybe run some errands. Back soon. Luv ya”

I love a joke that takes two days to tell

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The day after…

14 Sep

So congratulate me. Second posting. Oh yeah. Why the fanfare? Several studies (don’t ask me where I got my facts this is a blog for Pete’s sake. If you want to believe everything you read on the net then go over to Wikipedia) several studies indicate that most blogs (60 to 80% – depending on the math you use) are abandoned soon after creation. A research company who had already found the cure for cancer and were bored one day did a survey of blogs. Wonder if they got a government grant for surfing? Cause everyone’s gone surfing, surfing U.S.A. Their report stated that 66% of blogs surveyed had not been updated in two months.

Over a million blogs are one-day wonders with no postings after that first burst of creative energy. There are something like 2.3 million blogs that have been either permanently or temporarily driven out to the country on a Sunday afternoon and then left by the side of the road under the false belief that some farmer will find them and give them a good home. They just die people. They starve death. Or are eaten by wolves. Look me in the eye and tell me you haven’t abandoned a blog. People like you make me sick. I told you before we went to the blog store – you had to feed it and walk it and update it. Don’t you dare and even think to ask me to get you a fish.

But on a serious note I’m a little worried about this. Are we not creating some sort of virtual cyber pollution? Web warming? World wide web shrinkage? I was researching polar bear websites and most of them are disappearing. The ones that are left are only a few pages and the polar bears have no where to go.

This is the 25th year of the dot com. A company named Symbolics.com was the first dot com in existence. I don’t know if they still exist. I mean I’m not that interested in this to do any real research. The Pentagon tech research agency, DARPA let six companies join them for shared research and that was the start of the WWW as we know it. Today there are now about 120,000 dot coms and do you know why you can can’t get your own name as a dot com? Because there are over 85 million registered dot com names. They have cleaned out the O.E.D. They have pillaged the phone book. Every word has been clear cut in a dot com frenzy. The word forest has nothing left but a few conjunctions and some Gaelic words that no one can spell or pronounce. We will now have to concoct new words just to get by. Or start using Esperanto.

So remember every email, text or twit – I know it’s only 140 characters but every key stroke adds to your binary carbon footprint with . I just hope the hippies don’t find out. I don’t want to be attacked by some dread locked virtual tree huggers in a Zodiac while I blog at my local wireless café.

So congratulate me. That’s it. Oh that feels good. Let the accolades pour over me like lemmings going over a cliff. I have nailed this blog thing cold. Now I just have to come up with something for everyday for the rest of my life.

Blast.

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