Brace yourself for a shitstorm

Wow, I really hate what benfox is writing here [this refers to some entries in the old public blog, may it rest in hell].

I mean, I really, really hate it. It’s exactly the kind of pretentious bullshit that I reject out of hand when it comes in as a submission. So why is it stinking up this section of the site? I don’t know. I should get rid of it, but it’s so bad I leave it there as a cruel joke on the rest of you.

Perhaps it is time to pull the plug on this experiment. This wasn’t meant to be a place where people could post garbage that didn’t make it through the front door.

What is it then? Besides a glaring example of people’s lack of desire to participate? Well, there have been a few good things in here, but mostly it’s just a rusty can on a string. So maybe I’ll just talk to you here. Maybe I’ll just lecture you and set it up so you can’t talk back.

I will pontificate and bore you with the beauty that is my life. Because really, I’m more interesting than benfox and Stuart are. I’m more interesting than benfox and Stuart locked in a cage, painting and grooming each other with their lizard tongues and rubbing each others lizard asses until sunrise.

Yeah, just me typing. Then you’ll be sorry. Then you’ll all weep and moan, “Oh, sweet, merciful JEEEZUS! why didn’t we stop him when we had a chance!?”

You know, benfox isn’t even the problem. It’s all the benfoxes everywhere, dripping and scraping and flinging their mutated dna into the artistic gene pool. I blame the internet, and the Republican party.

Way back when, there were just as many talentless dilettante hacks and creepy freaks as there are now. Only we didn’t have to deal with them. Because they wrote on their lunch breaks at the insurance company, or they painted on weekends, in the basement. Only their families had to look at their crap, if they had families, and if they could get them to look.

Yes children, there was a time when being an artist or a writer or a musician was a fucking difficult thing to do.

You had to actually have something to say, or a unique way of saying nothing, or an inborn talent of some kind. You had to really be an artist. Incapable of being anything else. Or you could just be in the right place at the right time…but you get the idea.

But as s.e. hinton said, “That was then, this is now” and now every jerkoff with at least one working arm and leg and a visa card is in art school getting an MFA and learning to crank out shit that looks exactly like the shit everyone else is cranking out.

And they all have web sites (awful, annoying, horrible cutting edge web sites that you aren’t cool enough to understand) and they are working that shit man, because success is important, and they only have 18 months penciled in to their schedules after graduation to become famous.

So yes, here we are, afloat in a sea of waste.

Jesus would wash the feet of these charlatans, but I ain’t Jesus. I ain’t anyone, so why are you still reading this?

Okay, that’s enough. I will shuffle off and take my leave. I must get up early and take my dog to the dog park. We’re going to make some art with a tennis ball and a dozen other crazy animals.

There may be some shit involved, but you won’t have to see it. Which is as it should be.

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