and every night someone complains about it.
Nonetheless, every time someone clicks Play on this YouTube, a new blogger gets her keyboard.
It’s true. It’s a fact.
If you haven’t looked out at a crowd of your friends and family and thought, Ah, material! you’re not really a writer.
Every Day I Write the Book, by Elvis Costello
Lyrics over the jump: Continue reading
Do I need to explain why?
Seriously, though, I’d have thought he’d have been a little snappier. If he’d had to compete with all the famewhores out there stuffing their blogs with memes, he’d have stepped up his game a bit.
Check out the August 10th entry:
Drizzly. Dense mist in evening. Yellow moon.
Yeah, ACTUAL diaries are never as interesting as blogs. For one thing, fewer amusing YouTubes. The premise is, one post per day, taken straight from Orwell‘s actual diaries. If it weren’t George Fucking Orwell I wouldn’t bother, but I have faith there will be something other than a haircut blog in it eventually.
We’ve now gone a good, solid step beyond asking what happens to a blog when somebody dies (see Theresa Duncan and Olive Riley) and gone straight into blogging for the dead by proxy.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this blog is rapidly becoming the world’s most concentrated source of really, really white rap videos.
Forget Vanilla Ice. Forget Snow.
I’m talking the Stephen Hawking Christmas Album. I’m talking Tea Partay. I’m talking White and Nerdy. I’m talking Death of a Fruitcake. I’m talking Ghost Whipping the Ride.
I’m talking Large Hadron Rap.
Pour out a G&T or Kir Royale for absent homies in cottage country or the Gulf Islands and enjoy.
Yay! My baby took her first unassisted steps today.
Well, okay, I may have had an assist in there, but she got the goal all by her own self. I didn’t even notice till the second Gawker thread had 84 comments on it.
Previously, she’d been held up by my daily links from Ayyyy and the occasional act of charity from AgentBedhead, but this past week she’s gotten two links from CelebuWreck without my even begging or linkbaiting for them, so she’s starting to toddle along nicely for a baby, or so I thought.
Until today.
Until she hit a new high of 1662 1718 and counting, with 12.55 hours left in the day, thanks to the fact that (I think) Nick Denton doesn’t yet know I own lolebrity.
Referrer stats:
I’m unsure whether it’s good to get a ton of hits just before I stick ads on it, thus inflating my going rate, or get them just after, thus assuring the ad company and clients of my worth; do I feel guilty or clever? Ah, this is always my dilemma!
Also: Double Gawker Media Whammy! direct link from Defamer today, stuck waaay down at the bottom of the post and good for exactly zero hits so far. I didn’t even link to the NYT, for which I got the “via”; I linked to Valleywag. Is there a Gawker internal spat going on that I don’t know about? I GOT on Facebook; what more do I have to do to get in the goddam fucking loop? Eh? I ask yez.
Actually, no. It’s worse:
Scotty is slowly sinking to the bottom of the South Pacific in a fine grey cloud of ash.
My God, It's Full of Stars!
Dignified and strange, in its own way, and somehow an almost-adequate substitute for the original plan, which was for the cremains of James Doohan, proud Vancouverite, former Canadian war hero, and the actor who played Montgomery Scott, Chief Engineer of the USS Enterprise NCC-1701, to be shot into space in a private SpaceX spacecraft. Goddam dilithium crystals!
The Falcon 1 owned by Musk’s private space exploration company, SpaceX, left the ground and stayed off it for 2 minutes and 20 seconds before second- and third-stage rockets failed to ignite. The whole thing, including Scotty’s ashes, plunged back to earth.
Well, back to the Pacific Ocean anyway. But nothing, particularly not the fate of a legend, is simple, and it seems there had already been a couple of false starts and a frantic search leading up to the ultimate un-ternment. For a man who claimed (falsely, but amusingly) that he was kicked out of the Canadian Air Force for slaloming his plane between hydro poles on a bet, the rolling swells of the unfettered tropical ocean are indeed the Final Frontier.
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raincoaster 