Blogs Are Stupid
Ruminations and Consternations of Blog Follies and Foolishness
"Make your point then stop"
Note: I have taken in some "orphans from the storm" that need a place where they can foster/fester their offerings/offalings:
Inane Prattle
Notes from the Quintell Maze Project
Readings from Wuthering Heights
Readings from The Space Child's Mother Goose
Note: JC will be returning with new ltaniertenhotce day 160 year this.
Annotations and Background
Guide to This Site, V1.1
Day 43 Audio
Day 1 Day 2 Day 3
Day 4 Day 5 Day 6
Day 7 Day 8 Day 9
Day 10 Day 11 Day 12
Day 13 Day 14 Day 15
Day 16 Day 17 Day 18
Day 19 Day 20 Day 21
Day 22 Day 23
Day 24 Day 25
Day 26 Day 27
Day 28 Day 29
Day 30 Day 31
Day 32 Day 33
Day 34 Day 35
Day 36 Day 37
Day 38 Day 39
Day 40 Day 41
Day 42 Day 43
Day 44 Day 45
Day 46 Day 47
Day 48 Day 49
Day 50 Day 51
Day 52 Day 53
Day 54 Day 55
Day 56 Day 57
Day 58 Day 59
Day 60 Day 61
Day 62 Day 63
Day 64 Day 65
Day 66 Day 67
Day 68 Day 69
Day 70 Day 71
Day 72 Day 73
Day 74 Day 75
Day 76 Day 77
Day 78 Day 79
Day 80
Quotes 100 Words
30-'Dec Retrospect
Day 81
12/22/2007
But Oz never did give nothing to the Tin Man
That he didn't, didn't already have.
-- Tin Man by Dewey Bunnell of the group America
You dare to come to me for a heart, do you?
You clinking, clanking, clattering collection of caliginous junk!
-- from The Wizard of Oz (1939)
Big to-do for ol' Nick Chopper, headlining on Sci-Fi an' all.
Course, he's now "Cain", an ex-lawman with his stinkin' tin badge,
freed by DG (Dorothy) and zipper-scalp Glitch (Scarecrow) from
an iron diving-suit prison, a-drifting like a
Bizzaro Kwai Chang Caine, 86ing evil with his 45.
Oz is now the Outer Zone, where land values have
plummeted since the coup by DG's witch-hazed sister Azkadellia,
who has banished Good Queen Mom to a Mystian sandbar.
But this binge-and-purge deconstruction of the 1901 L Frank Baum
Oz story says less about modern cynicism than it does about
half-swing ground balls.
Day 80
11/19/2007
Until now, you really couldn't get away with talking about sommeboy's mama. On
Tuesday [11/13/07], at the news that rapper Kanye West's mother, Donda, 58,
died of possible complications from cosmetic surgery -- reportedly including a
tummy tuck and breast reduction -- blog dwellers stepped over an imaginary line
of restraint. And stomped on it, again and again, monsters from the id coming
out to play: "hahahah too bad," one taunted. "VANITY KILLS!!!"
...
Increasingly, there's a tenor of mean-spiritedness creeping into public discourse,
a gleeful maliciousness.
-- Teresa Wiltz, Washington Post
Monsters. Monsters from the id.
-- Doc Ostrow in Forbidden Planet (1956) (screenplay by Cyril Hume)
I don't know what it is about this particular moment in human history which lends
itself to the sanction of miscellaneous and casual cruelty. [Cyberspace] has a
way of making us feel like other people are informational artifacts. If you cut
data, it doesn't bleed. So you are at liberty to do anything you want to people
who are not people but merely images.
-- John Perry Barlow, vice-chairman of the Electronic Frontier Foundation (quoted in Ms. Wiltz' above article)
I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses,
affections, passions? fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject
to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same
winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you
tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison us, do we not die? and if you wrong us,
shall we not revenge?
-- Shylock in The Merchant of Venice, Act III, Scene I, by Billy Shakes
The spirit of the MOB ("Move Over Brutus, [it's my turn]").
Assail within the 'Net from there,
Behind duck blind of Nottingware.
Pay them back, them all back,
Those cursed bullies of playgrounds past.
Take an aim, they're all just lame,
The other side of windowpane.
Their safe reflect is only stone's hurl
From your halogen hate
(Acrid retch triumverate).
If I could stay in so sedate
That wicked whimsy will not wilt
My heart when thumps of tameless trials
Make caustic callous catty calls
For seven steps to seppuku,
Then I would win from salty sin
A pardon-bearing mandarin.
Day 79
10/11/2007
Absently poking at the underfed fire Jones pondered wearily this bent week spent searching.
Flatface groaned and rolled over on blanket thin as warm promise lost while river bend shore
cobbles poked through his coat and wollenwear. The scout was sent out at first light to scour tree bark, bush and berry
for precious things on Compton's list. Squatting in the afternoon sun, Jones closed his eyes and concentrated on
the sounds: river gurgle, fire crackle, slow wheeze of Flatface's
breathing, and a rock clank as it is shifted by...
Springing up, he whirled around, drawing his weapon, to face...
Day 78
7/31/2007
It is becoming progressively more difficult to determine whether the
misblogynist JC Strider has been passing the pipe too often, or,
alas, passing it far too infrequently.
-- J Paul Clotte, blog apologist of www.blogsarejustallrightwithme.com
Seemed like rock of ages past, cadence of coming hope, years with yours.
In the crooks and nannies of wood's wander rings lies Patience's path,
the clear, centered tempo that I can anticip within lower branches
of my arbor familius, as back alternates with other back.
Must I go on, staged upon this porch of dusky denim doubts, whittling these words of ordinal time?
I face a shape with fretless bored fingers drumming in runaway march.
Knife edge seeks form within, niggling notches noting the nether core of my inculcated
memory-scars as chair sways harmonic betwixt porch-railing apogee and perigee.
Yeah, right. I can only squirt out a so-so blogdec a day or so, so sew me. If you want to converse,
I'm at jcstrider@blogsarestupid.com.
Please note that I want Google to list me under
blog literary criticism: general commentary on blogs, their content,
and their place as a fetid sucking wound on our cultural body.
blogdec (n.) A cohesive posting to a blog site of exactly 100 words.
A blogdec about blogdecs
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