Fox Broadcasting can go pound sand

It's Blade Runner-slash-every
buddy-cop drama ever!
What's not to like? 

This is not a political rant. I don't give a split fig about Rupert Murdoch or Bill O'Reilly or what all the puffed-up bubble-headed self-important liberal college professors and community organizers refer to as "Faux News."

No, my beef is with the television executives who sit around in board meetings and decide to cancel my favorite TV shows.

It's been recently announced that the science fiction police procedural Almost Human, which aired last fall, won't be picked up for a second season.

This is the same depressing news that I got in 2012 when I heard that Terra Nova had been canceled, and the same monstrous injustice I and the other Firefly fans who came late to the game execrated when we learned that this fantastic show consisted of just 14 episodes.

Thank goodness Marvel's Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. is on ABC, and is therefore safe from Fox's meddling, or I might have a complete psychotic breakdown.

Seriously, what gives? This is becoming such a trend that "Screwed by the Network" and "The Firefly Effect" have become official tropes. To quote from that life-stealing wiki, "Incidentally, many of these [canceled] shows (including Trope Namer Firefly) were on Fox — basically because Fox was likely to give the sort of show that gets this effect an initial run, but tended to be too Nielsen-sensitive to be patient."

Let me repeat that for you:

Too Nielsen-sensitive to be patient.

That's gotta be it. The ladder-climbing, insecure little weasels (I'd say "network executives," but that would be redundant) over at the Fox Broadcasting Company are so obsessed with making themselves look competent and keeping their stock high — in more ways than one — that they'll cancel a brilliant show if the Nielsen ratings are anything less than stellar.

Now, I know what you might be thinking, particularly if you're like everybody else on the face of the freaking Earth and think Almost Human and Terra Nova were terrible shows. (If you do, then what are you doing here? You should be pounding sand, too.)

You're thinking, "Where's the injustice in that? Almost Human didn't have good ratings, so it was canceled. QED."

Ratings aren't that simple, buster. Evidence suggests that Almost Human's ratings were out of its control for half its run. Firefly's doom was spelled out when Fox aired its episodes out of order and inexplicably stuck it in the "Friday night death slot." Terra Nova had 10.8 million viewers and a 3.6 rating, but the execs were worried about the price tag, and they also (wrongly) believed that a mid-season addition called Touch would be the next big hit.

It's Lost with dinosaurs! What's not to like??

I'm not a critic. I'm not going to launch into a big long spiel about why these shows are lost treasures. I'm not going to tell you how Terra Nova was "unlike anything else on TV," and that it "found its creative legs late in the season" (the article I linked to previously does that quite eloquently). I won't mention how Almost Human was just what the doctor ordered, a by-the-book police procedural with a lighthearted, humorous undercurrent, with the added zest of its dystopian-but-somehow-still-gorgeous futuristic backdrop. I have no need to declare Joss Whedon's script-writing talents godlike, and that the cinematography, dialogue, acting and story of Firefly are second to none. That's been said before by irate fans and gushing magazine columnists the world over. 

It's cowboys/Civil War veterans IN SPACE! What's not to like???

Almost Human and Terra Nova have their shortcomings, I know. The special effects and the acting aren't perfect. Pacing, characterization and story are sometimes lackluster. Everyone I know at my workplace and on Facebook loves to point out how shoddy, unengaging, static, formulaic, boring, unbelievable or artificial they are, with flat characters, unsatisfying stories and flawed concepts. But as the Guardian's pithy Glaswegian Graeme Virtue points out, the first seasons of these shows are like "the early, rough-and-ready EPs of your favourite band." Yeah, sure, the lyrics are canned and superficial, the garage-band sound is fuzzy and inexpertly mixed, the guitarist's fingers are still bleeding and the drummer hasn't found his rhythm yet, but isn't that the fun of it? Getting in on the ground floor? Liking a band because of that raw, pristine concept, the fundamental sound down deep beneath those shaky riffs and uneasy vocals? Following them while they mature into the next KISS or Zeppelin or Floyd? Watching them find their cadence, their vibe, their niche, and fill it out like a piece of loose clothing they're growing into?

That's been one of the joys of watching Marvel's Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Yeah, sure: it was soulless early on. A lot of people tried watching it and quit in disgust. But if they'd had the patience (unlike your average Fox network executive) to stick with it, they'd have discovered a true wonder: a flower blooming, a vine twirling its way around a beanpole, a seaweed-strewn ship emerging from its watery grave where once only the rotting, sun-bleached mastheads were visible. Watching M.A.O.S. get into its stride, establish its characters and its world and then cut loose like a slipshod stallion kicking his way out of a barn has been...well, a real kick. It's probably true that you have to be a fan of the Marvel Universe (or at least Agent Phillip Coulson, or at the very least Clark Gregg) to like the show. And you have to sit through those awkward first few episodes wherein the groundwork is laid. But then the show gets its hooks into you. Firefly and Almost Human did it during their pilot episodes, and Terra Nova managed it in the season finale.

It's just a travesty that these three shows will never have the chance to revel in the worlds they worked so hard and long to build, thanks to the pusillanimous, apple-polishing, money-grubbing swine at Fox.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is called injustice. And it's also the reason that television sucks so hard in this day and age.

Rant over.

writing updates, 10/24/2013

Long story short: I have two novel manuscripts completed. One of them is 113,000 words, and the other (which I did for NaNoWriMo last year) is about 52,000. I wrote three or four new short stories over the summer and submitted them to places like 3LBE and Space Squid, but had no luck. Nothing's new on the nonfiction front.

Short story long: I've hit a snag. Specifically with Novel #3, the second book of my science fiction magnum opus.

It's just not fun anymore.

Don't get me wrong; writing itself is still fun. I'm not renouncing the path of the writer, nor the literary world and all the glory and wonder and pain that's in it. Nope; I just mean to say that writing this book isn't fun anymore. I feel more like I'm beating a dead horse than channeling Calliope or Clio. 

I don't know what happened. Maybe I ran out of steam. Perhaps this happens to all writers in the middle of longish works: you bang out a beginning and you know where the end is, but after all those hours of writing and tweaking and fiddling, things turn sour. You wind up becalmed right around Chapter 15.

It's just become a slog. The words don't come. When they do, they're sluggish, dull, drab, and uninspired. I've never felt more like a hack than I have this past month. There isn't a scrap of meaning (or the second best thing, humor) in my writing anywhere.

That's the crux of the matter, right there: I meant for this to be a serious and thrilling adventure tale filled with witty dialogue and sizzling prose, but the latter two haven't materialized. You'd think if I couldn't make the story harrowing and swashbuckling, I could at least make it amusing to read. Even that seems beyond me these days. Every day (well, every three or four days, whenever I'm able to bite back the ennui long enough to open up Microsoft Word) I turn on my computer and stare down what I've written. The reality of its uninventive heavy-handedness is impossible to escape. Rather like a runaway piano.

It's not writer's block. I know where I'm going and what I'm (supposed to be) doing. I just can't do it. The spark's not there. It's supposed to be fun, but it's not. And if it's not a kick for me, I can tell it won't be for the reader. I'm bored stiff by this crap.

So what I want to ask my fellow writers and bloggers is: how do you deal with this sort of thing? How do you escape the doldrums? Where do you find the cool, refreshing zephyr of inspiration to fill your sails and push you to the white shores and the fair green country beyond? How do you bully your brain cells into dancing a mazurka with the English language, instead of stepping all over its toes? How do you coerce one or two of the Muses into sashaying down from on high and cutting the rug on your writing-desk? How do you get those dang juices flowing again?

Creative juices, you pervert.

intermission

No, I'm not dead.

Yes, I've let this thing slide for a while.

Whenever I vanish for a while, you may assume that I am having oodles of fun in some obscene and irreverent way, and will have a host of scintillating tales to relate to you upon my return. In fact, you may anticipate it without doubt. I shall soon regale you with a master litany of my assorted doings during this lamentable lacuna, but for the nonce, content thyself with the knowledge that I've lapsed into Shakespearean English for no apparent reason.

...no, seriously, content yourself with the knowledge that I am still extant, and plan to update this blog thoroughly before the week is out. Just gimme a while, okay?

One more thing: it seems, judging by that Sheep Counter over there on the right, that almost 90,000 people have viewed my blog at some point. The number has been rising at a growing rate over the past few months; I anticipate breaking 100k before autumn comes.

Now if I could just find some way to make 90% of those visitors stay longer than 1.2 seconds...

from me to you

My valiant quest to win every award in the known Universe continues.


Now, I could offer you the usual excuses, self-deprecations, pleas of ignorance, but that'd be tedious. You've heard 'em all before.
"My gosh, I just don't know why I get all these awards."

"Who'd have suspected I would garner all this attention just for shamelessly pontificating?"

"Beats me where all this attention comes from. I just blog here, man."

Let's just skip that part. Suffice it to say, I am once again humbled, honored, and red-faced to receive this accolade. I believe it's called the "From Me To You" Award (didn't see that coming, did you?). Two exemplary bloggers bestowed it upon me: Jon Paul from Where Sky Meets Ground and Mia from My Literary Jam and Toast. I call these bloggers "exemplary" because they epitomize principles every blogger should aspire to:

If you're going to say something, say it well. And make yourself useful while you're at it.

Mia and JP not only write well (and humorously). They habitually promulgate tips and hints to help us poor benighted folk with the agonizing and soul-shaking process known as "writing." (Speaking of which, I need to get cracking. I should find out what that publisher back in Georgia is doing with my first three chapters, and keep editing my MS in the meantime. I might have found an alpha reader I can give it to when I finish the second edit, though. Even so, I'm falling into a stagnant, apathetic rut again. I hate myself sometimes. Come on, my conscience is niggling at me, do you want to be a writer or not? Roni over at Fiction Groupie just won an award with her novel manuscript, and the publication process has started! She's on the road to success! That could be you, chump. Thanks, brain, I needed that.)

Anyway, let's see about the rules of the FMTY Award: seven facts, seven bloggers. Or perhaps we should say "seven truths" because, as Indiana Jones will tell you, fact is not truth. Relate seven truths about yourself, and send the award on to seven worthy bloggers. That's not too shabby. I was hoping I'd get to do another award ceremony again, and mollify my enormous ego by deluging you with ceaseless talk about my favorite subject.

1. I could count the number of lies I've told in my lifetime on one hand. That's if I could remember how old I was when told the last one.
2. I hate asparagus. It is my absolute least favorite vegetable on this benighted green Earth. If every single spear of asparagus suddenly vanished out of existence, or was whisked away into another dimension, or was scorched and fried into oblivion...I wouldn't so much as blink.
3. Speaking of hating things, I once despised alcohol. Couldn't stand it. Liquor, cordials, even beer. The taste was abhorrent. Thank goodness I stuck to my guns and kept tasting it. Eventually it began to taste better. And now look!
4. Sneezing is one of the more under-appreciated bodily functions. It's so enjoyable! Scratches every itch in the nasal tract.
5. It's endlessly annoying when folks say "Here, here" instead of "hear, hear"; "without further adieu" instead of "without further ado"; and "hanger" instead of "hangar." ("Here" is an adverb, "hear" is a verb; and you are telling bystanders to "hear" what the speaker is saying when you proclaim "hear, hear." Adieu is French for "goodbye." "Ado" is bustle or fuss. And a "hanger" is either something you use to put up clothes or a short sword worn by British soldiers and sailors. A "hangar" is where you put your airplane. Are we clear?)
6. I love it when people refer to chimpanzees and other great apes as "monkeys," though. It makes me laugh.
7. I have an irrational fear of fiberglass.

Splendid. And now onto the nominees who have earned this prestigious award!

• Points of Claire-ification
• Writing in the Wilderness
• That Rebel with a Blog
• Murrmurrs
• Sometimes I Think...
• Views of a Star Child
• Sharp Pen/Dull Sword

From me to you, my pretties. Keep the quality coming, the juices flowing, and the Muses grinning. You're lucky I'm rather tired this evening. I was going to spin this post into a huge didactic tale of drone-spotting and novel-editing. But I ain't gonna do it now. I'll have to save it for later. I, my friend, am going to flop down and vegetate for a while. You have yourself a good evening.

fireside chat

I was reading something on Jon Paul's blog Where Sky Meets Ground about how this one blogger has surpassed 100 followers after blogging for just two months. Why? Because her content is amazing, he says. I've run across several blogs which other folks label "amazing," and I'm still not sure exactly what the common factor might be. As near as I can figure out, though, these "amazing" blogs are popular because they speak the truth. They resonate. They tell stories everyone can relate to. They showcase the human condition in some evocative way. They're simply written, intimately personal, refreshingly honest, and often eerily familiar. Jon Paul has declared his intention to begin publishing stories about the lessons he's learned during his eighteen-plus years in the military, specifically in regards to writing. That should resonate with any male between the ages of 13 and 99; plus a vast cross-section of the population who are interested in writing, or need help with some of the particularly trying aspects of it. Now, I'm not saying that I blog just to garner followers. No worthwhile blogger does. That's not the point. Having a zillion followers is good in some ways; feedback, community-building, and (for writers) literary criticism. But it's an added bonus, not the ends of the means. That being said, I wouldn't object to appealing to a wider audience. Right now, I suppose, this blog is pretty esoteric: booze, literature, aviation, travel. If you're an earthbound, jingoistic, illiterate teetotaller, the Sententious Vaunter will hold no interest for you. What am I missing? Those stories. Those relatable, resonant, intriguing vignettes. Those intimate, whimsical glimpses into people's lives that I (and many others) love to read. Dumb dogs. Vanishing passports. People who forget their gender after a few drinks. After all, people don't live on book reviews alone. Unfortunately for me, I don't get drunk often enough to tell war stories about myself and Wild Turkey. I'm not living in a foreign country, unless you consider my room the home ground and the rest of Mom and Dad's house alien territory. Nothing much ever happens in this town besides murders, rapes, gang fights, drug deals, and sexual predation. Most of the stuff I do with my friends is pretty typical: we watch movies, go to dinner parties, drink beer, go off-roading, etc. (Actually, THAT might be worth blogging about...something really interesting happened. We were driving back down Pilot Rock Road after failing to reach Fawnskin the back way due to heavy slush when a dirtbiker flagged us down, and...) But fear not! I may have failed to judiciously post current events and thus keep my blog timely, but I shall not fail in this. I hereby resolve to devote a few more posts to personal stories. I bloviate a lot, but I don't reminisce enough. So I'm going to tell you some of the funny, interesting, whimsical, didactic, touching, enlightening, enrapturing and hilarious things that have happened to me. If nothing funny, interesting, whimsical, didactic (etc.) has happened recently, I'll draw on something from previous years, college life or childhood. We'll have ourselves a little fireside chat every now and again. Should be a good time. Stay tuned. And if you like what you see, follow along. It'll probably get better.

to blog or not to blog

That is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune...or to take up a keyboard, and by so opposing, divulge them. I've been casting around other people's blogs for a while now, and I've seen some pretty heavy stuff. And by "heavy" I mean very weighty, very personal matters. Stuff that you'd ordinarily think somebody would want to keep quiet. I stumbled upon this one blog once that dealt with nothing but the writer's sex life. The post I read was a meticulous 2,000-word treatise on the events leading up to her and her boyfriend's first attempt at anal sex. I'm not sure what good that kind of post does anybody, but that's not what I'm here to talk about. Being a blogger is kind of like being the editor of the coolest, wackiest newspaper ever written. It's all about YOU. It's anything you want. You, and you alone, decide what gets put onto the front page. Complete control over the whole process, that's what you've got: topic, writing, tone, voice, stance, revision, publishing, the works. The final slash-and-burn is the kicker. That's where you sit back, look at what you've written, and think to yourself, "Okay, is this worth putting up?" A few bloggers are shallow and uninteresting, writing without depth or merit. A large number of bloggers, on the other hand, are honest. They pour out their hearts and souls onto the web page. They speak on highly personal issues, things near and dear to their hearts, private matters that they perhaps would never have dared to bare in person. Sometimes this writing is brutally honest and gruesomely detailed. Oftentimes, even if the subject matter is not something a reader would ordinarily find interesting, the way in which its presented can win an audience over...if the blogger tells the truth and write from the heart. Quite often, however, the subject matter is both relevant and truthful. The result is something incredible: something deep, something resonant, something emotionally powerful. Reading these blog posts (about a dear friend who passed away, or a violent crime that the writer was a victim of, or even a beloved place or time) is cathartic. We feel transported to that place, introduced to that person, victimized by that crime. We feel like a bridge has been built between our soul and the writer's. Reading becomes a joining of hands, a meeting of minds. I have experienced this amazing sensation several times on the blogsphere, and never expected to. That, friends, is perhaps what this whole blogging gig is about. But I'll skip the commercial. This is not the point of this post. The point is this: there's a difference between being honest and truthful when writing, and using some...discretion. Not everything one does is newsworthy, no matter how exciting one's life may be. At some point, a blogger must draw the line at even the most brutal or hilarious details of his or her existence. But where should that line be drawn? At what point does a blogger cease being honest and truthful and is instead merely airing his dirty laundry in public? Being honest, truthful, open, or gut-wrenchingly detailed in your writing (or just writing about personal matters) is one thing. Using the blogsphere as a confessional is another. This is the crux of my argument. Be honest, sure. Be truthful, yes. Be gritty, even. But don't write about things that happened to you because you feel as if you'd be hiding the truth otherwise. Don't bare your soul just because you feel you need to be totally, unreservedly honest. Don't include all the gory details just for the audience's information. If you are doing it, make sure you're doing it for YOU. You're the editor, remember? There's two things that very recently happened to me that I was going to blog about. I was going to blog about them enthusiastically, in fact. But I'm not going to now. I can't write about the first thing because I might get somebody else in trouble. I can't write about the second because...well, it's a highly embarrassing, personal matter, and I think I'd rather keep it private. I'm entitled to a little privacy, after all. Be wary that you don't fall into the same trap. Write about what you want to write about, but don't compromise your privacy. Goodness knows it's hard enough to hold on to any privacy in this day and age anyway. Write by all means, just ensure that you're not doing it to assuage your insecurities. Do it to give yourself wings.

blogshot

My personal motto is "I'll try anything twice." That's because I rarely enjoy something the first time I do, try, eat, or experience it. I was utterly terrified when, at the age of 15, my dad told me to get into the driver's seat of the car. Now I jump at the chance to go into town, just for an excuse to rip up and down the dirt roads in my new Jeep. I only like one or two songs when I first buy an album; after a week or so of listening, I gradually come to love the rest. I only appreciate new cocktails the second or third time I try them. It's the same with many foods, too (except for asparagus—that I do and always will hate). Even so I was startled to discover, here on this cool, cloudy October afternoon in the Mojave Desert, that something similar has happened to me with blogging. There was a time when I wouldn't even have considered keeping a blog, and would've scorned the suggestion. Blogs, from what I'd heard of them (I didn't have the open-mindedness to actually seek any out and read them), were merely wasted Web pages where pretentious know-nothings spouted off about their feelings and political opinions. (Gee...that sounds familiar, actually, he said with a guilty grin.) Any bug-wit high school student could start up a blog and opine about whatever mattered to him or her, which, as I believed, would be uninteresting, self-centered, fatuous, poorly-written tripe. Boy, was I ever barking up the wrong tree. Then I started coming around. With arrogance resembling a god complex, I mused thus: "Hmmm, well, if a pack of louts can do it, why can't an intelligent, sophisticated, literate man like myself give it a try and show them all up?" So I started a video blog to cover my Korean sojourn. That didn't last long. I'm sure there are more streamlined ways to do it than I did, and much better equipment and Web sites and editing programs, too, but vlogging was a pain. I used a $20 USB video camera, Windows Movie Maker, and YouTube. That will likely tell you everything you need to know about just how difficult, time-consuming and vexing the process was. Needless to say, I didn't do it often. When I did, I always had so much to speak about that (because of YouTube's asinine 10-minute video length limit) my vlogs turned into "serials" consisting of five or six videos. Filming, editing and uploading a serial vlog could and did routinely turn into an all-day nightmare. So I quit on the business. Then, a few months later, I was discussing my literary career goals with my Geordie coworkers Adam and Elaine. Adam suggested something that struck me as odd at the time. "You should start a blog, man," he said. This would, he argued, give any prospective editors or employers something to review in regards to my writing skill. It might also be fun. I'll admit that I was first inclined to laugh. Me, a blogger? I'd sooner blind myself with a hot needle. Blogging, to me, represented everything about the Internet (and society in general) that I detested. The uninformed and downright stupid should not be given free rein to voice their useless thoughts. Blogging's deplorable lack of grammar and spelling, the laziness in style (or complete lack thereof), and the disastrous miscarriage of proper word usage were all anathema to me. I could, of course, avoid such things myself, but by even consenting to blog, I'd be stepping into a world where such things were permitted, even overlooked. I'd sully my literary endeavors in so doing. By becoming a blogger, I was convinced, I'd soil myself. But Adam's suggestion stayed in my mind. I didn't know it at the time, but my omnipotent urge to write was ready to boil over. I was making slow, piecemeal progress with the novel, and my journalistic pursuits were limited to two articles I'd submitted to free e-zines. My creative juices had nowhere to flow. Moreover, I'd always known that I loved to opine. In the end, that selfish need won out. So I decided to start a blog. And now, seven months later, I have gone from dubious to joyous, guilt-ridden to content, blogshy to blogshot. I have happily found that, thus far, none of my superstitions about blogging or bloggers have rung true. I have discovered political opinions being voiced aplenty, but backed by conscious thought instead of ignorance. None of the bloggers I have talked to, and none of the few blogs I have read in any detail, have exhibited any kind of stupidity or silliness—quite the opposite, in fact. I have found little of the bad grammar and deplorable spelling which I had so feared. The blogsphere, for the most part, seems to be a veritable latter-day Roman forum, where ideas, concepts, instincts, beliefs, and philosophies are exchanged in a healthy, accessible environment. (It probably isn't; but I'm feeling effusive at the moment.) In the beginning it was lonely—I had no followers, and (I believed) no audience. I got no feedback on my posts. I couldn't be sure whether what I wrote was reaching anyone, or I was just whistling Dixie. But now I have people who read my own blog regularly (I'm blushing as I write this) and who leave some of the most helpful and interesting comments behind. What began as a solo foray has now truly transformed into the best thing possible—a community experience. But something else has happened, too—something I never, ever would have believed, even after I began blogging back in March. I have come to honestly enjoy reading other people's blogs. At the outset, I was (and on some level, probably still am) a selfish blogger: Nah, I don't care about anybody else's scribblings. I just want people to read my stuff, and be correctly awed by it. That was my philosophy, sad to say. But little by little, the magic seeped in. I started clicking around, sometimes in Blogs of Note, more often on the people who left me comments. Gradually, I found a few works that struck me as perusal-worthy. I began to read them, slowly and fitfully, then more thoroughly, then more routinely. I just consciously noticed today, for the first time ever, that my eyes always dart down to the Reading List at the bottom of my homepage whenever I log in. I'm actually, intentionally, checking for other people's latest posts. And when they come up, I gleefully click on them and go to read them, satisfied that these authors, whose styles I have come to know and adore, have got something else new and wonderful in store for me. Take smithyblogs, for example. It's run by an Englishman I happen to know personally from my Korea days. A native of the Manchester area, he's got the lot—a sanguine drawl and a fanatical devotion to Manchester United. He's a really entertaining guy to be around. His bone-dry wit is omnipresent, both in conversation and his blog posts. His incisive observations about work, play, food, travel and people are always dead-on and good for a chuckle. The Whole Blooming World, nourished by the Pollinatrix in the American Southwest, contains beautiful, intelligent insights and poetic verbal imagery. She covers everything from the stately gourd bees that pollinate pumpkins to reflections on the lives of Catholic saints, with never a dull moment in between. Much has already been written about Ramblings of the Bearded One, but I will reiterate that his blog ("he" being a married-with-children gent living in Scotland and working in photography and visual media) is a winning blend of humor, fatherhood, family, love, photography, dreams, ups, downs, life, and...ramblings. I'm not saying this to suck up to these people (sorry, Smithy). When I like something, I get effusive—even florid. I'm saying this because, heh heh, I, heh heh, have been corrupted, heh heh, by the intoxicating atmosphere of the blogsphere, heh heh, and I want you...TO THINK ABOUT IT. (Picture Peter Lorre rubbing his hands and chuckling evilly as he says this.) Maybe, if you were skeptical before, this will give you the impetus to start up a blog of your own. It's really quite something in here. As e.e. cummings said, "Listen; there's a hell of a good universe next door: let's go."

who needs Twitter?

Jeez, I can do everything that site can and more. Just watch: Postman I'm sitting in my easy chair writing on my blog. 1 minute ago Postman I'm beginning to think the U.S. would be greatly improved if we excised both Hollywood and the District of Columbia and shoved them out to sea. 3 minutes ago Postman Just wandered past where my dad is watching baseball, wishing I knew a little more about professional sports. 10 minutes ago Postman Wandering around outside when it's pitch-dark out with no moon, nothing but the stars and the faint streak of the Milky Way above your head, and the occasional outburst of barking dogs way off in the darkness, is a surreal experience. 23 minutes ago Postman Sipping a martini with the folks while watching Deadly Women. 51 minutes ago Postman Well, I suppose I'd better get off this thing (and quit taking such fatuous Facebook quizzes as What Super Smash Bros. character are you?). 1 hour ago Postman Hmmm, Henry David Thoreau had some interesting things to say about fish in the sky, didn't he? 5 years ago Postman Doo doo ga ga boo boo? 22 years ago P'shaw. I've said it before and I'll say it again: Twitter's for twits. Micro-blogging strikes me as the stupidest thing to come out since...since...well, macro-blogging, actually. Who the hell cares what everybody else is doing or thinking on a minute-by-minute basis? For a long time now I've suspected that nobody on Blogger actually reads anybody else's blogs. Not really. They just sort of pop in from time to time, skim the first article that catches their eye, leave a superficial comment and scram. On the other hand, they pour hour after agonizing hour into crafting their own blog, in the vain hope that somebody's going to look at it. (That's what I do, anyway.) I'll bet that problem is only accentuated on Twitter. I'll just bet you everybody on there pours insane amounts of energy into posting updates (known as "Tweeting," as if the name "Twitter" wasn't damning enough) and none into actually reading anybody else's. I should bloody well hope that's what people do, anyway. What kind of craven, suppressed, inanimate sort of person would actively follow somebody's Tweets? What kind of nut are you to actually care what complete strangers are doing (unless, like me, they're reading good books, drinking strange cocktails, traveling to far-flung places and flying high-performance airplanes)? I think I should point out that I'm not bitter about the age I was born into. Okay, maybe a little. I really couldn't give a crap whether everybody in the world was texting on their cell phones, gaming on their Nintendo DS's, or Tweeting on their computers. I just wish that, for once, the telecommunications industry would stop innovating (if that's what it's called). Progress for the sake of progress is not progress. Just because everybody is doing something does not make it cool (ask the nearest lemming). All this electronic whiz-bang might make our lives a little more convenient, but not if we become slaves to it. Where's the mystery of life gone to? If we sat through every concert, every awards ceremony, every fireworks show, every lovemaking session and constantly Tweeted it all, there'd be no surprises left for anybody. And what more is there to life than surprises? Mystery? New things? Or at the very least, good old-fashioned mano a mano face-to-face person-to-person communication? Twitter is a bad idea. Blogging itself might potentially be as well (although it does allow me to say this). E-mail is abhorrent: I'll bet you in another twenty years nobody will even know what the phrase "snail mail" even means. The Internet is great at connecting people; nobody stopped to consider the people who didn't want to be connected. You know, let's just cut right to the chase. I don't even think we should've come down out of the trees. Our feet were on the ground, but our heads shot straight into the clouds...the thunderheads instead of those nice feathery cirrus formations at the edge of the stratosphere. Call me old-fashioned if you want. All I have to do is switch off this computer and you can't touch me. At least this world still has that much going for it.

should vs. shouldn't

While we're on the subject of what I should or shouldn't be doing in writing this blog, I must confess at this point that I have absolutely no clue what I'm doing. Honestly. I don't know how to be a blogger, or even if there's any right way to do it. I definitely think that I should avoid exclusively writing down how I feel about things, like so many other bubble-headed know-nothings out there in the blogsphere. I also feel like I have to be able to put down what I want to put down; otherwise it won't be personal, nor fun to keep. But I still am unsure whether I am actually, successfully carrying off a blog. I've gotten a few comments thus far, but nowhere near the numerical amount requisite to successfully audit or assess the success or efficaciousness of my work. Simply put, I have no idea whether I'm (a) being totally brilliant at putting a wide variety of interesting information and thought-provoking musings on here; or (b) merely spouting platitudes, dry anecdotes, and uninteresting drivel. I suspect the truth lies somewhere between the two. So, to that end, I seek your aid and succor. I crave your assistance. Give me some feedback. Anything. Tell me if the design stinks. Tell me if this blog is suitably informative or just so much bleating. Let me know if it's inane or provocative, dull or engaging, insipid or variegated, hackneyed or refreshing. Anything that occurs to you to put down, put down, and you'll have my heartfelt thanks. The real confirmation lies in the fact that I'm writing a post like this and I have, to date, only two followers on Blogger. Insert weak laugh here.