Sit down. Would you like a glass of wine and some Wheat Thins?
It’d be fun to write here again someday. Maybe I’ll do it someday soon. I’ve been actively practicing the art of not giving a fuck about much of anything. I’ve been doing it daily, hourly, minutely. Minutely and grandly. I’ve been pondering the great questions though, such as:
–Why is Pinterest such a stupid word? Seems that the lady meant “pin something of interest” on her website. She could buy and sell me, I’m sure, so any word she picks is right, I suppose. She thought it up while watching the “Most Interesting Man in the World” commercials, I guess. So why doesn’t it mean “I’d be interested in a pint”? I’d have a pint with my young blogging British friends anytime. (She didn’t start it anyway, the silly name thing, that is. What is “Google” other than baby talk, after all”)
–Is it Jane “Air”, or “Ay-er”, or “Ire”, or “I-er”, or maybe even “Eye-ree”?
–Why is “Dork” an acceptable word in computer Scrabble, but not “Slut”? Because it’s a nerdy game, I suppose. (Forget about “Cunt” unless you’ve got a different version than I’ve got, but “Za”, short for pizza of course, has gotten me thousands of points against that computer slut. Well, she makes up words, so she’s not my favorite. “She” is the computer by the way, represented by a cartoon woman, lest you think me a woman-hater. I love women; they are a great decoration for the living room when company comes, as well as an asset in the kitchen and bedroom. Hell, give me one that cleans the bathroom half the time and does some of the dishes, and I’ll fetch HER beers.)
–Why does hearing or reading the word “meme” make me want to break into a factory and destroy machinery, and live in a happy little cabin, making furniture by hand? (Internet nerdery at its worst. I’d rather have computers never invented than ever hear that term again.)
Words are fun; I love to read them. I’ve been reading heaps. A little Camus (“The Stranger”, who I couldn’t care less about, and I couldn’t care less about the Stranger not caring about much, because he inspired nothing in me, no liking or loathing, and I don’t care if that’s the point; I’m just glad it was a short book). A little James Lee Burke (our best living mystery writer, if you don’t count Walter Mosley. Jimmie Lee talks about prison rape a bit much for my taste–I mean every fucking book he has to mention it. And he thinks the Catholic Church is good and weed and masturbation are bad. That’s 3 strikes–if mystery were softball, you’d owe us a case of beer for that strikeout, JLB. But he’s got talent, and blasts big shots and governments and corruption and rich evil people, and convincingly states some universal truths about morality, mortality, ecology, greed, loyalty, addictive behavior, personal demons, exponentially increasing violence, etc., while he’s telling his tales.)
I read “Jane Eyre”, a fun little book from the early 19th century, and I’d have to say that I don’t think I’ve ever despised any character (short of perhaps real-life serial killers), as much as I despised that religious dipshit, St. John Rivers, who hid his desire for Jane’s ass behind the most humorless cloak of missionary zeal I’ve ever heard of. When I think of missionaries, I think of happy nerds, not morose hound-dogs, though I think most clergy people are a lot more “flesh-oriented” than they like to let on.
And, of course, I finally read “A Tale of Two Cities”, thoroughly enjoyable as long as you don’t mind wading through all that oldfangled language and 19th century British stiff manners, classism, beating-around-the-bush, and long-unused words. If there was a contest for best combined opening and closings of a book, this one would have to be in the top 10, I’d say. It opens, of course, with the “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times….” sentence, and concludes with ”It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known.” Though I’m not so big on the whole hereafter thing, I’d have to say that Chuck knew how to tell a tale. Like I say, though, it’s the little things about him that make me chuckle, like how befuddled Mr. Lorry is early on when Miss Pross declares that she shouldn’t have to go to Paris because “If it was ever intended that I should go across salt water, do you suppose Providence would have cast my lot in an island?” (How do you argue with logic like that?) Or in “David Copperfield” where Davey couldn’t figure out what the fuck old what’s-his-name meant by being “gormed” by something.
Time for bed. Thanks for visiting. I’ll write, I will. Someday soon, someday soon.