I used to lend a hand to editing a few articles on wikipedia, but it was such an exercise in futility and frustration that I had to quit.
When I first came across wikipedia, it struck me as a great idea, but after having contributions that I knew to be factual repeatedly removed or edited, I have to say that the concept as a whole is ridiculously flawed and unworkable.
I wanted to write something here about John Lennon yesterday, on the 25th anniversary of his death, but marking the death of those we seek to celebrate seems like an odd practice. We’re only interested in celebrating people’s birth when they’re alive.
It’s kind of backward really, but considering how we elevate influential people to mythical status after their deaths, and conveniently gloss over anything unpleasant they might have done, I suppose it’s understandable.
I blather on a lot around here about music and punk and how great and holy it and I was back in the day, and I usually come off sounding like a smelly old man yelling at a bunch of kids to get out of his yard and go play ball somewhere else.
That I actually am a smelly old man doesn’t make it any more valid or palatable, so this time I’d like to pass the microphone to someone who is preserving a bit of musical history right here on the world wide internet.
Yes, that injury happened six months ago, and yes, until very recently it hurt every minute of every day, which is very distracting. Now it only hurts part of the day, which is progress, and I may be glimpsing the light at the end of the tunnel.
A relaxing Saturday night at home, I was cooking a pot of spaghetti, all was well with the world, so I thought a finger or two of fine Kentucky Bourbon over a couple of ice cubes would be appropriate.
I had an unopened bottle of Knob Creek at hand, so I peeled away the wax around the neck and pulled out the cork. I guess the glass was cracked, or it was a faulty bottle, because the instant the cork popped, the bottom fell out, and the contents of the entire bottle flowed out over the countertop, down the sides of the counter between the stove on one side and the refrigerator on the other, and all over me from the waist down.
Recently back home from a week long trip to New York city, which is all well and good, except for the record breaking, biblical-proportions rain that fell for the entire week. Seriously, it stopped raining for maybe 15 minutes while we were there. Then I came home (Carol went on to Philadelphia for a few days), and it rained here for a week.
New York is an interesting place, I have always liked the layout and the ease of movement. People say that Los Angeles should learn from the mass transit systems of cities like New York, London and Paris, but I think people who say that never lived in Los Angeles. Or looked at it on a map.
Wow, ten years of smog, go figure. In October of 1995, smog.net was born under the bold and stupid mjptv.com domain. The site was later briefly named monkeychow while at the mjptv domain, then I registered smog.net and that’s what it’s been called since. But I still like monkeychow.
There were less than 20,000 web sites in October of 1995, so I guess that makes me a pioneer of sorts. Though it hardly matters now, since your mother probably has her own web site. And smog isn’t as “important” as it once was, now that I serve only myself, rather than half of the rest of the world.
Ain’t that a bitch when people post that they’re too busy to post?
Well, working on a top secret (yeah) project, and buried at the job. Getting ready to go to NYC for a week. Time, time.
Some genius said, “Time exists so everything doesn’t happen at once.” But that doesn’t make sense when everything does happen at once. So much for genius. I should get a genius grant for trying to prove genius doesn’t exist.
On Saturday night Carol and I went to the 80 year celebration/show for the Los Angeles Art Association/Gallery 825. These kinds of “300 people in a steaming hot room looking at some good but mostly bad art” shindigs don’t really flip my switch, but all in all it wasn’t bad. I can almost always get a poem or two (or one of these) out of a scene like that.
But after an hour or so we’d both had it, so Carol said to some friends of hers, “Be right back…” and we headed for the car. About half a block from 825 on La Cienega there is a restaurant with an outdoor patio, and as we approached who should amble out the front door but David Johansen, ye olden tymes singer from the New York Dolls, and current bon vivant and man about town.
Well, I think I have this set up now to stop most of the comments from the casinos and mortgage scam joints. What kind of festering bag of filth resorts to spamming anyway?
I went to the wedding of one of Carol’s friends a year or so ago, and I met a guy there who was one of the bigger spammers, or worked for one of the bigger spammers, but it was a wedding, so I didn’t spit on him or punch him in his mouth to break all of his teeth. And I can honestly say now that not injuring him somehow is one of my only regrets in life.
The Isuzu Trooper turned over to 175,000 miles the other day, so to celebrate I hit the pump for some of that sweet, sweet almost-three-buck-a-gallon unleaded. Ah, there’s nothing like approaching the $60 mark for a tank of gas. It’s the logical and welcome progression of capitalism, and it makes me super-proud to be an American!
When I started driving I had a ’69 Chevy Malibu but no job, so I used to roll up pennies and buy fifty cents worth of gas at a time. I couldn’t get far on that, but I sure got there fast. Adults allowing a kid to drive a car like that is clearly insane, and quite possibly child abuse.
Gah, two new Dell computers arrived tonight. They weren’t supposed to be here until Monday. Now at least one of them will be taunting me all weekend to set it up.
Problem is there are seven computers in the house now (it would have been eight, but we managed to dump one off on Carol’s mother a few weeks ago), and not that I don’t appreciate the absurdity of two people having seven computers, I do, it’s just a bit much.
Oh my. I laughed so hard that the Knob Creek I was sipping came out of my nose when I read about the hubbub over a hidden sex scene in video game Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas.
Let’s see…assaults? Check! Carjacking? Check! Stomping women to death? Check! Decapitating cops? Check! Chain saw attacks? Check! Wait a minute…what’s this! Those people are screwing! Sweet Jesus! Get this thing off the shelves!