Re: blogged out

We are not in (Ar)Kansas anymore...

Been awhile . . . somebody needs to air this room OUT a bit. It smells like old cheese ...

So Gov X and I continue our condiment summits and occasional exchanges of political nonsensery. Few haikus have been composed in the last year, and even fewer episodes of American Idol were watched. Since last I posted in here, I got married. Hurray, right? Damn right, hurray. It was about time, too. I was ready to buy a metal detector and start hanging out in San Clemente like a zombiefied version of Dick Nixon.

Smile - your crappy photo has been filtered and thus has aesthetic merit -------->

E-Book Lernin'...

What have I learned since then? Among many things, that BlueNapkins out Instagrams me; that GovX never ages (he's a Stepford creature); that I still haven't met Lewinstein or Ben from this blog site; that the Dodgers still cannot win a World Series. Yet, what I really learned, however, was that I did not make blogging here - or anywhere - a priority. And that is a bit pathetic. I love writing, so you might think I would blog my hands off, until my fingers were fused to the keyboard. I am online all day - so where the hell is my great American Blogvel?!

This thing called blogging - which, in case such etymological nonsense matters to you - is known in the linguistic world to be a portmanteau. Rather than the meaning which refers to a large suitcase, this type refers to a word which amalgamates two other words to form one new one. Smoke and fog became FOG (1884), while lions mated with tigers - by some sort of freakish Boy from Brazil meets Jack Hanna process, no doubt - are called ligers. I learned that Wikipedia is a portmanteau of wiki and encyclopedia. Then, of course, I had to Google 'wiki', which I have done now about 75 times over the years. I know it is a Hawaiian word, and I always think it means small, but then I always look it up and realize it means fast or quick. Ironic that such a simple, common word can be so easily forgotten, yet I recall the definition of verisimilitude and obfuscation for 30 years now without needing to crack a dictionary. Maybe the punitive pedagogy of my papally-infused education has something to do with that. Fear of detention or punishment always did bring out the more scholarly in me.

Where have all the good times gone, yo?

Blogging has become the new journalism. Newspapers are dying – so my blogs all say. I cannot find a columnist in the paper world who me makes run out and buy a newspaper at dawn, nor subscribe to one that I hope to see on my porch, not that anyone porches the papers that DO get delivered. Yet I read the scattered thoughts of a hundred users on a message board forum which I frequent every single day – and only one or two posters therein are actual journalists. Where are the modern age Mel Durslags? The new Nicholas Pileggis? Is Jimmy Cannon merely a memory, with nary a neo-acerbic New Yorker to take his place in the annals of sports reporting’s grand reverie?

PICTURED ABOVE: Jimmy Cannon, the 20th Century's foremost blogger, back when he was called a journalist. SI called him "tough and penetrating ... maudlin and manipulative." Today, I just call Sports Illustrated the People magazine of sports, and that is not including the swimsuit issue. Cannon would agree...

If my father were alive to see what has become of his beloved American English, this would kill him: my bad . . . true that …. LOL … u mad, bro? WTF ever happened to complete sentences? And what about Scarecrow’s brain?

Back to Life ...

So anyway ... I took a little time off, and it is nice to weigh in again, but this place STILL smells like cheese. Or maybe feet. Holy hell . . . it smells like cheese feet.

Fin

God, Give Me the WilPower

It was 1991; I was 13 years old, and I dreamed of exploring space, particularly exploring space holding the hand of dreamy, teen-heartthrob, Wil Wheaton. I took a break from writing bad poetry, listening to New Kids on the Block and fantasizing about the way futuristic spandex clung to sinewy, teenage glutes to write a letter to my favorite Star Trek character. Unfortunately, I can only vaguely imagine what said letter contained, as it was jettisoned into Wil's eagerly waiting mailbox twenty years ago.

Fast forward to last weekend: I was thumbing through one of my many Enterprise manuals for the sake of nostalgia with some friends when this amazing little envelope fell out into my lap.

Oh, man! The beloved response I had received from my darling Wesley, tucked away in a Star Trek book and forgotten for decades. Having long since grown up and moved on to more mature pastimes, such as fantasizing about Patrick Stewart, I was bemused and slightly embarrassed at this evidence of my teenage dorkliness. The room was alive with excitement as we pried the relic open to peer at the contents within.

First of all, there was this EPIC picture, complete with what is likely a photocopied signature on the back.

Though I fully appreciate the era-appropriate reference to Bill and Ted, I have to wonder whether the kid was getting paid to pimp Batman or if he was really just that big of a nerd. Given recent evidence on the interwebs, I'm leaning pro-nerd.

The real gem of the collection, however, was this terrible, grainy photocopy of an invitation to join the Wil Wheaton fanclub, boasting almost 1500 members world-wide!!

Now, the membership fee is $12.50 to join and $5 for each following year. I don't see a time limit on this document, so I wonder... if I fire this baby off to Wil's current address with my check for $12.50, what will I get in return? Will he send me whatever has laying around on his desk? Ignore me? Have a good laugh and just cash the check like a bastard, maybe apply it to his terrible sweater fund?

What's a smartass girl to do?

My god Bones, what have I done...

Where have you gone Edward Furlong?

Upland Lemon Festival

So the Skynet crew briefly visited the Upland Lemon Festival today and left with a real sour taste in their mouths. This festival is a real lemon. For starters, there really aren't any lemons. There were food booths, terrible music, and several garish hat booths, but few lemons. One of the two lemonade stands we saw was Hot Dog on a Stick. The crowd wasn't much of a squeeze either. We had hoped we would love it so much, you couldn't peel us away, but it just left us puckered.