So how has my holiday been so far? Let me put it this way, I just woke up and noticed it snowed a little bit here in New York City. Last thing I remember was shouting "who are you to judge body types, Santa, you thyroid-forsaken, godless, Mason!" and then falling face-first into the glass door leading to my rooftop view. As my crushed left cheek squeegeed down the glass, I gave into sleep. A phone call from my Amex Obsidian rep woke me up to ask if I had tried to order any endangered species over the phone. Seems like that fell within the realm of holiday possibility, so I told her everything was fine.
That's when I realized the bright whiteness filling my vision wasn't the interrogation lamp of a rendition hideout, but snow. Finally gathered my wits enough to look out across the city and take in the snowfall that had covered the city like a down comforter. I'm sure something similar happens in other cities, but I'm still always shocked by how quiet and still New York becomes after a snowfall, as peaceful as standing in a tranquil wood. And for just those few days, every ding and dent in the city's topography gets covered with beauty.
I'm not sure why this always stuck with me, but one of my first memories as a kid involves a snowstorm here in the city. I'm with my father, brother, and sister sitting in a small restaurant or cafe in the West Village. It's dark outside and the snowfall has just begun. We brush what little stuck to our coats off as we sit. Being the youngest, I whine, insisting on the window seat and everyone capitulates just to quiet me down. My seat almost presses against the wall, and to my left is a bay window with a forced hot water radiator under it. On the window's sill sleeps the most contented cat I've ever seen, oblivious to the restaurant's bustle around it. As I contemplate petting the cat, I take a moment to look out the window and notice the evenly spaced cones of orange light pouring out from the sodium vapor street lamps. In those cones, I see large snow flakes falling at an alarming rate, but once I get to the hard edge of light, darkness like any other night. It's as if not even weather dare exist outside the scope of a New York street post.
Of course my Mother wasn't there. She called anyone who lived south of Central Park "them" or "they" like she was talking about how she wouldn't clean up the mess of a dog belonging to someone else. The only good people south of the park were those who actually lived uptown but had to travel to the financial district as an "occupational hazard." She would often make vague comparisons to Beirut. In fact, the whole reason I picked Soho was a cheap passive-aggressive shot at my mother. I figured she couldn't resist visiting her youngest offspring indefinitely, but we're still waiting to see who wins that game of chicken.
I think back to that little boy, contentedly watching that contented cat. Then I think about the man he became, blacking out face-first against a sliding glass door that luckily didn't break, sparing me from dying of exposure. Drunk-dialing Nigerian black marketers hoping to score some crazy endangered pet and probably shouting my credit card number at them... I don't think that's who that little boy in the West Village alcove would choose to be.
You know, I didn't expect to end up here when I poured my medicinal good-morning scotch and sat down to recount my holiday glory. I didn't expect to question myself the way I now am, and maybe that's the first real lesson I've learned about writing since I started this process. Maybe I should go all the way back and question the motivation for this entire journey. I started by saying I wanted to write in order to meet scores of women, but maybe the truth is I wanted to write in order to meet just that one.
A safe and happy 2011 to all.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Friday, December 24, 2010
A Holiday Thought...
Please pardon the typos, Ive had a couple seven drinks of my family's traditional holiday egg nog recipe. It goess something like this:
A good four fingers of scotch
Thats it.
Anything els goes in that glass and youre an animal. A splash of water "to activate the taste?" Why not just teabag the 25 year single malt, same thing.
But moving on...
As I sit here on the eve of the day a bunch of toga Roman dudes decided to celebrate Jesus' birth 1700 years ago, I can't help but wonder about what humanity has done in those 1700 years. That Roman empire that picked late December because it matched up nicely to sun worshipers and other pagan traditions fell, other empires took its place. They fell. The dark ages, Irish monk transcriptions saving ancient history, the plague, the Renaissance, stuff in China I assume, the Industrial Revolution, American independence and the start of American Exceptionalism that still totally exists so screw the haters, world wars, space, and now the internet. A marvel so wondrous that I can use it to both window shop escorts and watch NORAD track Santa.
Which leads me to this evening's thought. If NORAD's watching Santa... who's watching the Russians? Just try and have "and to all a good night" with that on your mind.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to try not to pass out so I can stand in front of my windows naked when the internet says Santa is over my apartment.
A good four fingers of scotch
Thats it.
Anything els goes in that glass and youre an animal. A splash of water "to activate the taste?" Why not just teabag the 25 year single malt, same thing.
But moving on...
As I sit here on the eve of the day a bunch of toga Roman dudes decided to celebrate Jesus' birth 1700 years ago, I can't help but wonder about what humanity has done in those 1700 years. That Roman empire that picked late December because it matched up nicely to sun worshipers and other pagan traditions fell, other empires took its place. They fell. The dark ages, Irish monk transcriptions saving ancient history, the plague, the Renaissance, stuff in China I assume, the Industrial Revolution, American independence and the start of American Exceptionalism that still totally exists so screw the haters, world wars, space, and now the internet. A marvel so wondrous that I can use it to both window shop escorts and watch NORAD track Santa.
Which leads me to this evening's thought. If NORAD's watching Santa... who's watching the Russians? Just try and have "and to all a good night" with that on your mind.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to try not to pass out so I can stand in front of my windows naked when the internet says Santa is over my apartment.
Monday, December 20, 2010
The Lost Weekend
I knew the invite would land on my doorstep soon since it is called "The Annual Christmas Masquerade Sex Orgy," but I was shocked to learn that I'd have to be traveling to an undisclosed location around Morristown, NJ. When I decide to throw on my 15th century goblin inspired mask and run around tripping and naked while engaging in sex acts with over twenty-eight different partners while Christmas carols ironically play of over the PA system, I don't want to do it at some rural Pennsylvania barn party.
The worst part was of my own making, though. I stupidly showed Christmas compassion to my driver, Tomas, or Susan, or whatever his/her name is, and released him/her early. Forgot that the holiday crush would tie up every car service in the city. So I found myself on a train... with other people. Shortly after I took my seat, two other people tried to cram next to me. I didn't even know they made seats that sat three across. So there I am, in my assless chaps, my full hood and gown, and my goblin mask, riding the NJ Transit local to Morristown, NJ, where I assumed some Amish guy in a horse drawn carriage would think I'm a god when I used my cell phone as he took me to the party. Well, apparently they have cars in Morristown, so I eventually got there.
The party was what you'd expect from a masquerade Christmas sex orgy, so I won't go into that too much, but I need to take a moment to cover the trip back. Same costume as the trip out, but with a touch of vomit (and apparently a prophylactic taped to my cape's back as a joke). But this time, my train gets canceled. Next train on the weekend schedule is roughly an hour later. So I try to pass that time in a number of shops that refuse me service, then head back to the station only to see that this next train is now 40 minutes late. Perfect, more standing around in the winter breeze in my cape and assless chaps.
The train finally arrives and it's standing room only, three words that I never knew could go together. The heat's blasting, everyone's sweating, especially those in the aforementioned latex rear-free pants. Then we get the final blow... all train service into Penn Station New York has to be redirected to Hoboken. Why not just redirect the train right into Hell's anus?
I finally get home, shower, delouse, bleach, and shower again, and then decide to do a little research to see why I had to spend so much time amongst the poor. Turns out there was another tunnel scheduled to be built that would have solved most of these problems, but someone hiding behind the cartoon name Chris Christie canceled it, wielding that power like concussed god. As soon as someone finds out the real name behind that catastrophe, I promise to get in touch with my lawyer armies and a water cannon firing hand sanitizer.
I guess the real lesson here is don't host your Christmas masquerade sex orgy in New Jersey like common vermin.
The worst part was of my own making, though. I stupidly showed Christmas compassion to my driver, Tomas, or Susan, or whatever his/her name is, and released him/her early. Forgot that the holiday crush would tie up every car service in the city. So I found myself on a train... with other people. Shortly after I took my seat, two other people tried to cram next to me. I didn't even know they made seats that sat three across. So there I am, in my assless chaps, my full hood and gown, and my goblin mask, riding the NJ Transit local to Morristown, NJ, where I assumed some Amish guy in a horse drawn carriage would think I'm a god when I used my cell phone as he took me to the party. Well, apparently they have cars in Morristown, so I eventually got there.
The party was what you'd expect from a masquerade Christmas sex orgy, so I won't go into that too much, but I need to take a moment to cover the trip back. Same costume as the trip out, but with a touch of vomit (and apparently a prophylactic taped to my cape's back as a joke). But this time, my train gets canceled. Next train on the weekend schedule is roughly an hour later. So I try to pass that time in a number of shops that refuse me service, then head back to the station only to see that this next train is now 40 minutes late. Perfect, more standing around in the winter breeze in my cape and assless chaps.
The train finally arrives and it's standing room only, three words that I never knew could go together. The heat's blasting, everyone's sweating, especially those in the aforementioned latex rear-free pants. Then we get the final blow... all train service into Penn Station New York has to be redirected to Hoboken. Why not just redirect the train right into Hell's anus?
I finally get home, shower, delouse, bleach, and shower again, and then decide to do a little research to see why I had to spend so much time amongst the poor. Turns out there was another tunnel scheduled to be built that would have solved most of these problems, but someone hiding behind the cartoon name Chris Christie canceled it, wielding that power like concussed god. As soon as someone finds out the real name behind that catastrophe, I promise to get in touch with my lawyer armies and a water cannon firing hand sanitizer.
I guess the real lesson here is don't host your Christmas masquerade sex orgy in New Jersey like common vermin.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
The Thumb Ring and other thoughts.
I noticed something for the first time today when I saw my personal driver of eight years sporting a thumb ring. Now Julian, or Akbar, or Abigail, or whatever my driver's name is, didn't have one that looked exactly like the forthcoming image, but thumb rings usually go something like this:
Now this particular gentleman has gone above and beyond by adding the pinkie ring, the multiple string bracelets, and a seer sucker jacket and irreverent indie band tee shirt... the list goes on and on. To quote an early 20th century fashion critic:
So I first went to my jeweler that I keep on retainer that has done some of the most memorable work for the Long Island and West New York irrelevant crime families (come on Russian mob... stop boxing him out!). His one word response to my inquiry? Classy. He suggested that I don't go gently into this particular good night, so I triple-downed on the idea. The advantages of the three rings should be obvious, but the two I keep falling in love with are how I can no longer bend my thumb and how the ring closest to the tip flies off whenever I talk with my hands. I actually looked up the definition of windfall and saw those to tidbits there.
The real test of the thumb rings will be tonight when my Thursday night escort weighs in. We'll go through our normal routine of snuggling up to watch $#"! My Dad Says before I totally plow her, and then BAM! I'll flash the circular trifecta. Of course, now that I think about it, I might lose some of the rings all up inside... that thing I do with my fingers... probably nothing a lot of sterile medical adhesive can't fix.
As for Thanksgiving Day last week. I may have spent it alone, but it was never lonely. Thanks to the sexagenarian quartet animatronic fashionistas of Sex and the City who always have their feet grounded in the real world coping with the problems of real people (at least I assume that's what real people face since I've never met one). And the Moo Shoo Gai Pan from Eddie's Moo Shoo Gai Pan and Tacos was divine.
Unfortunately, my writing has stalled over the holiday. Here's hoping inspiration strikes while my Thursday night escort (Betty? Britney? Kate? Paul? Who even knows...) tries to decide whether or not to interrupt my somnambulating even when I step out onto the balcony.
Now this particular gentleman has gone above and beyond by adding the pinkie ring, the multiple string bracelets, and a seer sucker jacket and irreverent indie band tee shirt... the list goes on and on. To quote an early 20th century fashion critic:
This gentleman definitely has all that business going on in this particular snapshot of time. Now my driver, whether he goes by Phillipe, Alfred, or his college frat nickname The Register, didn't dare fly so close to the sun, but he did have the thumb ring. And if he could have it, I damn well better have it, too."It's burst into flames! Get out of the way! Please! Oh my this is terrible... Oh, the humanity! And all the passengers!"
So I first went to my jeweler that I keep on retainer that has done some of the most memorable work for the Long Island and West New York irrelevant crime families (come on Russian mob... stop boxing him out!). His one word response to my inquiry? Classy. He suggested that I don't go gently into this particular good night, so I triple-downed on the idea. The advantages of the three rings should be obvious, but the two I keep falling in love with are how I can no longer bend my thumb and how the ring closest to the tip flies off whenever I talk with my hands. I actually looked up the definition of windfall and saw those to tidbits there.
The real test of the thumb rings will be tonight when my Thursday night escort weighs in. We'll go through our normal routine of snuggling up to watch $#"! My Dad Says before I totally plow her, and then BAM! I'll flash the circular trifecta. Of course, now that I think about it, I might lose some of the rings all up inside... that thing I do with my fingers... probably nothing a lot of sterile medical adhesive can't fix.
As for Thanksgiving Day last week. I may have spent it alone, but it was never lonely. Thanks to the sexagenarian quartet animatronic fashionistas of Sex and the City who always have their feet grounded in the real world coping with the problems of real people (at least I assume that's what real people face since I've never met one). And the Moo Shoo Gai Pan from Eddie's Moo Shoo Gai Pan and Tacos was divine.
Unfortunately, my writing has stalled over the holiday. Here's hoping inspiration strikes while my Thursday night escort (Betty? Britney? Kate? Paul? Who even knows...) tries to decide whether or not to interrupt my somnambulating even when I step out onto the balcony.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Sarah Palin, We're Officially Breaking Up
I wish I could use the "it's not you, it's me" opening here but I'm afraid it's truly you. I earlier wrote about Sarah Palin's singular efforts to destroy our beloved country by contributing to the canklefying of America's daughters. Now she's attacking our country's second non-cankled First Lady in American history (Jackie O, here's to you).
Mrs. Obama has accomplished so many great things in her life, but her Let's Move initiative is the closest to my heart. Essentially it's this great country's rally cry of "No Fatties!" and it's a position I've held every time I wrote in my votes in each election since the mid-80s. Now Ms. Palin has gone and attacked this initiative as well.
According to the fashion-pioneering journalist, Roland S. "S is for Style" Martin, Ms. Palin came out against the First Lady's initiative calling it one more intrusion of a big government into family life. I don't understand... how can someone who clearly loves our flag so much...
be so intent on destroying our way of life with this inside job. ?
Compare the following and tell me which is more terrifying?
Personally? I don't know because I can't tell the difference. Can you? That's just the kind of hard-hitting question Ms. Palin might have asked back in the days of he respected journalism career. Today's Ms. Palin can't seem to face those same tough questions, constantly ducking behind her Twitter feed (the concept of which appalls me as a writer... you wouldn't tie down beautiful D-cups in a binding B-cup bra? Why do that to the English language with Twitter?). And Facebook, oh the humanity, Facebook.
Ms. Palin, I implore you. Your television show is the cornerstone of the national treasure that is Reality TV. Stick with that, run with that, but please leave the front lines of the war on cankles to those able to fight the good fight.
I know, this isn't in the spirit of Thanksgiving, but I'm skipping my family's gathering at the Compound in Darien, CT for reasons I won't get into now (but maybe later, damn you Father). Oh well, off to my annual turkey day tradition of a Sex and the City marathon and pricey Pacific Rim take out.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone. Except you, Ms. Palin, we're through. Prepare for the wrath of this tree falling the in the forest with no one there to hear it.
Mrs. Obama has accomplished so many great things in her life, but her Let's Move initiative is the closest to my heart. Essentially it's this great country's rally cry of "No Fatties!" and it's a position I've held every time I wrote in my votes in each election since the mid-80s. Now Ms. Palin has gone and attacked this initiative as well.
According to the fashion-pioneering journalist, Roland S. "S is for Style" Martin, Ms. Palin came out against the First Lady's initiative calling it one more intrusion of a big government into family life. I don't understand... how can someone who clearly loves our flag so much...
be so intent on destroying our way of life with this inside job. ?
Compare the following and tell me which is more terrifying?
Personally? I don't know because I can't tell the difference. Can you? That's just the kind of hard-hitting question Ms. Palin might have asked back in the days of he respected journalism career. Today's Ms. Palin can't seem to face those same tough questions, constantly ducking behind her Twitter feed (the concept of which appalls me as a writer... you wouldn't tie down beautiful D-cups in a binding B-cup bra? Why do that to the English language with Twitter?). And Facebook, oh the humanity, Facebook.
Ms. Palin, I implore you. Your television show is the cornerstone of the national treasure that is Reality TV. Stick with that, run with that, but please leave the front lines of the war on cankles to those able to fight the good fight.
I know, this isn't in the spirit of Thanksgiving, but I'm skipping my family's gathering at the Compound in Darien, CT for reasons I won't get into now (but maybe later, damn you Father). Oh well, off to my annual turkey day tradition of a Sex and the City marathon and pricey Pacific Rim take out.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone. Except you, Ms. Palin, we're through. Prepare for the wrath of this tree falling the in the forest with no one there to hear it.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Inspiration... you fleeting, fickle muse.
After struggling with my writing last night, I went to the oldest writer's trick in the book. I gave myself the worst case of indigestion I could muster via multiple whiskey sours and pepperoni pizza, then popped an Ambien and let dreams take me to my muse.
Woke up in a cold sweat, my bedroom reeking of a flatulence most unholy, but with an idea in my head. I took twenty minutes to jot down the basics and flesh it out a bit, then returned to sleep the happiest I'd felt in a long while.
Then I wake up to find that someone already had the same idea:
Dammit, dammit dammit! Sure there were some differences, like mine didn't take place in Kentucky. It took place on the outer rings of the Zargos empire in the Quadra System of Contested Space, but the similarities are so uncanny that I'm forced to push this idea to the scrap pile. I've had my heart broken more in the few weeks since I've decided to become a writer than in the entirety of my 40 plus years here on Earth.
I guess tonight's indigestion will have to come from some mashup of cheap tequila and those tacos served inside another taco. Wish me luck.
I guess tonight's indigestion will have to come from some mashup of cheap tequila and those tacos served inside another taco. Wish me luck.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Sarah Palin Will Destroy America
You can imagine that I might be a few days behind the news cycle given my tendencies of drinking, fancying the ladies, and dealing with the minor legal fallout that sometimes comes with those pursuits. I came across this article today while I was doing some Googling and accidentally had my SafeSearch set to moderate.
Sarah Palin Shakes Things Up With Sugar Cookies
I don't normally consider myself an outwardly political person, but reading this article shook me to my core. Sarah Palin advocates for and is directly contributing to a problem I care very deeply about... the cankling of American women. I touch upon the subject briefly in my About Me section on this site, but I feel that it's time to get my thoughts on the subject out on the table in the interest of honesty.
I grew up in a religious household, but the existence of cankles leads me to doubt the existence of God. Pear-shaped men do the same, but I'm torn about that. On one hand, they make me doubt the existence of God. On the other, the more pear-shaped men out there, the better my male pattern business looks in comparison. Back on point, let me state this as emphatically as I can. Cankles are a natural abomination, they turn my stomach faster than rancid (think back to this morning in front of the bathroom mirror, "I am a writer dammit!" and find that perfect word) mayonnaise. They should not be a cause celebre for such a responsible, thought-provoking politician as Ms. Palin.
Ms. Palin, with all due respect, I understood with crystal clarity what you meant when you Tweeted:
Sarah Palin Shakes Things Up With Sugar Cookies
I don't normally consider myself an outwardly political person, but reading this article shook me to my core. Sarah Palin advocates for and is directly contributing to a problem I care very deeply about... the cankling of American women. I touch upon the subject briefly in my About Me section on this site, but I feel that it's time to get my thoughts on the subject out on the table in the interest of honesty.
I grew up in a religious household, but the existence of cankles leads me to doubt the existence of God. Pear-shaped men do the same, but I'm torn about that. On one hand, they make me doubt the existence of God. On the other, the more pear-shaped men out there, the better my male pattern business looks in comparison. Back on point, let me state this as emphatically as I can. Cankles are a natural abomination, they turn my stomach faster than rancid (think back to this morning in front of the bathroom mirror, "I am a writer dammit!" and find that perfect word) mayonnaise. They should not be a cause celebre for such a responsible, thought-provoking politician as Ms. Palin.
Ms. Palin, with all due respect, I understood with crystal clarity what you meant when you Tweeted:
intro kids 2 beauty of laissez-faire via serving them cookies amidst school cookie ban debateThe intention behind this Pablo Picasso-ification of the English language couldn't match my own core beliefs more perfectly, but at what price? I want to get fully back on the Palin Express, especially given how strongly she opposes strawmen based on her unrelenting attacks against them, but I can not and will not lend my support to someone helping to cankle America's daughters. Good day, Ms. Palin.
Monday, November 15, 2010
The Inspiration For This Journey
There once was a man from Nantucket
Whose schlong was so long...
And that's as far as I got.
You can clearly see I'm a writer. I know I'm a writer (I spend at least 30 minutes every morning crying and screaming "you're a writer, dammit!" at the bathroom mirror). The disconnect comes because the world doesn't seem to know I'm a writer.
My first campaign involved telling the world, one hot chick in the Soho bar scene at a time. The ones who were fairly sober or native English speakers usually ignored me. A few laughed, but an impromptu trip to the men's room to scream and cry my personal affirmations for thirty minutes usually straightened that out.
But the non-native English speakers, and the really beyond plastered drunk hotties, and the not-really-hot-but-do-the-best-with-what-they-have Jersey girls... they fall under the writer's spell that I wield (borrowed simile alert) like a rapier. The spell I see swimming in their bloodshot, partially closed eyes when they yell over the noise of the bar "you're a waiter?" confirms everything I want to believe.
The other question I'm often asked, "what have you written?" That's the question that keeps me crying in the mirror every morning. That's the harsh banshee cry of an alarm clock during a five-alarm hangover pulling me back to reality. In a time when just saying you are something makes it so, writing remains one of the few hold-outs requiring you to put you money where your mouth is, and both my money and my mouth have been to some extremely dark places.
Which leads me back to where I started this blog post. For the first time in my life, I feel the need to create and you've seen the grand total of my efforts. I actually wrote those two lines last week before I posted my first entry here. Whoever that chick was in my dress shirt last time saw me suffering from a touch of writer's block (just saying that makes me feel like a writer) and mentioned that blogging might get me in the writing habit. So here I am, two posts in and no further into the writing.
I see Amazon lists a book called How I Became a Famous Novelist by Steve Hely. Looking through the description and only understanding roughly every other word tells me that we're alike. He wants to write to bang chicks. I want to write to bang chicks. Too bad he already wrote about wanting to write to bang chicks because I feel like I would have a lot to say on that subject. Hopefully my answer lies somewhere in that how-to tome.
There once was a man from Nantucket
whose schlong was so long he could suck it.
It feels good to get that out, like I just got over the hump, crossed that Rubicon. Maybe that bird whose name I never caught and who seems to have kept that dress shirt was onto something with this blog advice. Or maybe I just need to scream and cry in the mirror louder. Either way, I'm off and running.
Whose schlong was so long...
And that's as far as I got.
You can clearly see I'm a writer. I know I'm a writer (I spend at least 30 minutes every morning crying and screaming "you're a writer, dammit!" at the bathroom mirror). The disconnect comes because the world doesn't seem to know I'm a writer.
My first campaign involved telling the world, one hot chick in the Soho bar scene at a time. The ones who were fairly sober or native English speakers usually ignored me. A few laughed, but an impromptu trip to the men's room to scream and cry my personal affirmations for thirty minutes usually straightened that out.
But the non-native English speakers, and the really beyond plastered drunk hotties, and the not-really-hot-but-do-the-best-with-what-they-have Jersey girls... they fall under the writer's spell that I wield (borrowed simile alert) like a rapier. The spell I see swimming in their bloodshot, partially closed eyes when they yell over the noise of the bar "you're a waiter?" confirms everything I want to believe.
The other question I'm often asked, "what have you written?" That's the question that keeps me crying in the mirror every morning. That's the harsh banshee cry of an alarm clock during a five-alarm hangover pulling me back to reality. In a time when just saying you are something makes it so, writing remains one of the few hold-outs requiring you to put you money where your mouth is, and both my money and my mouth have been to some extremely dark places.
Which leads me back to where I started this blog post. For the first time in my life, I feel the need to create and you've seen the grand total of my efforts. I actually wrote those two lines last week before I posted my first entry here. Whoever that chick was in my dress shirt last time saw me suffering from a touch of writer's block (just saying that makes me feel like a writer) and mentioned that blogging might get me in the writing habit. So here I am, two posts in and no further into the writing.
I see Amazon lists a book called How I Became a Famous Novelist by Steve Hely. Looking through the description and only understanding roughly every other word tells me that we're alike. He wants to write to bang chicks. I want to write to bang chicks. Too bad he already wrote about wanting to write to bang chicks because I feel like I would have a lot to say on that subject. Hopefully my answer lies somewhere in that how-to tome.
There once was a man from Nantucket
whose schlong was so long he could suck it.
It feels good to get that out, like I just got over the hump, crossed that Rubicon. Maybe that bird whose name I never caught and who seems to have kept that dress shirt was onto something with this blog advice. Or maybe I just need to scream and cry in the mirror louder. Either way, I'm off and running.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Blogs v. Facebook
So after my fifth Jameson on the rocks this morning, I decided to finally muster the courage to start this journey. A dear friend, whose name I can't recall at the moment, posed an important question while wearing nothing but one of my dress shirts as she fixed herself an omelette. Do I chronicle my journey in a personal blog or as part of a larger Facebook profile? My retort of "why are you still here?" seemed to get lost in the sizzle of sauteed peppers for said omelette.
Truth be told, the question hadn't occurred to me, so I should be thankful in part. I had always assumed some kind of blog, which also assumes that "blog" is actually a word, was the way to go, but I decided to research Facebook just to put in due diligence.
According to the tagline for the recent film. The Social Network, you don't get to 500 million friends without making a few enemies, with 500 million being the operative phrase here. The potential exposure that comes built in to a Facebook profile is very attractive to say the least. Given that, I decided to look further into who those 500 million people would be.
Well, it turns out the secret to Facebook's success was combining masturbation with the mundane, and apparently jerking off to deathly boring aspects of life was one of the most untapped markets in the history of modern ideas. At the same time, the obvious simplicity of the idea had me slapping my forehead for not coming up with it first. That lead me to conduct the following non-scientific experiment.
Take the following: I just clipped my toenails. On a blog, that inane bit of information filters out into the online universe and passes through an infinite space of indifference, as most blogged information should. It's the tree falling in the forest with no one there to hear. On Facebook, I had people "Like this" with little thumbs up icons, other people responded with posts such as "ME TOO!!! LOL!!! ;-)." Within twenty minutes, a "Friend" of mine started the Facebook group I JUST CLIPPED MY TOENAILS LOL. Twenty minutes after that, the group had 400,000 members and I had 800 new "Friend" request simply from the residual aftershock of being the original "I just clipped my fingernails" poster. Now I have the option of becoming a fan of I JUST CLIPPED MY TOENAILS to complete this online circle of sadness.
I've been down that Facebook rabbit hole, my friends, and I didn't like what I saw. Also, is there some Facebook policy preventing naked pictures? Because after spending most of the day clicking through people's albums, I really didn't like what I saw. Not sure what kind of self-promotion doesn't involve nudity... something I'll correct on this blog as soon as I figure out how to upload pictures.
Truth be told, the question hadn't occurred to me, so I should be thankful in part. I had always assumed some kind of blog, which also assumes that "blog" is actually a word, was the way to go, but I decided to research Facebook just to put in due diligence.
According to the tagline for the recent film. The Social Network, you don't get to 500 million friends without making a few enemies, with 500 million being the operative phrase here. The potential exposure that comes built in to a Facebook profile is very attractive to say the least. Given that, I decided to look further into who those 500 million people would be.
Well, it turns out the secret to Facebook's success was combining masturbation with the mundane, and apparently jerking off to deathly boring aspects of life was one of the most untapped markets in the history of modern ideas. At the same time, the obvious simplicity of the idea had me slapping my forehead for not coming up with it first. That lead me to conduct the following non-scientific experiment.
Take the following: I just clipped my toenails. On a blog, that inane bit of information filters out into the online universe and passes through an infinite space of indifference, as most blogged information should. It's the tree falling in the forest with no one there to hear. On Facebook, I had people "Like this" with little thumbs up icons, other people responded with posts such as "ME TOO!!! LOL!!! ;-)." Within twenty minutes, a "Friend" of mine started the Facebook group I JUST CLIPPED MY TOENAILS LOL. Twenty minutes after that, the group had 400,000 members and I had 800 new "Friend" request simply from the residual aftershock of being the original "I just clipped my fingernails" poster. Now I have the option of becoming a fan of I JUST CLIPPED MY TOENAILS to complete this online circle of sadness.
I've been down that Facebook rabbit hole, my friends, and I didn't like what I saw. Also, is there some Facebook policy preventing naked pictures? Because after spending most of the day clicking through people's albums, I really didn't like what I saw. Not sure what kind of self-promotion doesn't involve nudity... something I'll correct on this blog as soon as I figure out how to upload pictures.
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