Equal time for Summer


Now, I've been a fan since the first time I saw "Peluca" at the Provo Library, but I do feel that all view points should be heard.

(By the way, fellow fans. If you haven't seen this yet, then you must.

Exquisitely Exciting Experience


This morning I drove over and signed a contract to teach English at Bedrock High School. I start Tuesday. Maybe I’ll get to see the text book before classes start. Maybe not.

Anyway, even though I’ll be getting more money and benefits etc., you have to admit that there has rarely been a worse time in American history to start a two hundred mile commute.

On my way back from the district office, I was ecstatic to find gas for $2.79. Gas has more than doubled in the last year and emergency reserve or no, it inna goin down any time soon. Or, more likely, ever. Welcome to the future.

I just hope the extra ten thou can cover all that gas.....


Hooray for Milk Duds!


It is AMAZING how just a couple of those bad boys can function as a lunch substitute!

Faint hearts and queasy stomachs not recommended


(Sensitive readers beware! The following post contains vampires and bodily fluids, among other unpleasant things.)

When I was but a child, while visiting my aunt's house, I looked at one of her old Childcraft annuals (the book really is at that link, but you'll have to navigate through some white space to find it).

One of the stories in it was supposed to be a disproof of vampires.

Here's the reasoning: If there are vampires and vampires must suck someone dry (thereby creting a new vampire) every month in order to survive, then each month we have twice as many vampires as the month before. All of you who have foolishly agreed to pay a worker one penny the first day, to be multiplied by two each subsequent day, know how quickly the numbers scramble out of control.

Let's see.....

One vampire in January.

February: Two vampires.

March: Four vampires.

April: Eight vampires.

May: Sixteen vampires.

June: Thirty-two vampires.

July: Sixty-four vampires.

August: One hundred twenty-eight vampires.

September: Two hundred fifty-six vampires.

October: Five hundre twelve vampires.

November: One thousand twenty-four vampires.

December: Two thousand forty-eight vampires.

January: Four thousand ninety-six vampires.

February: Eight thousand one hundred ninety-two vampires.

March: Sixteen thousand three hundred eighty-four vampires.

April: Thirty-two thousand seven hundred sixty-eight vampires.

May: Sixty-five thousand five hundred thirty-six vampires.

June: One hundred thirty-one thousand seventy-two vampires.

July: Two hundred sixty-two thousand one hundred forty-four vampires.

August: Five hundred twenty-four thousand two hundred eight-eight vampires.

September: One million forty-eight thousand five hundred seventy-six vampires.

October: Two million ninety-seven thousand one hundred fifty-two vampires.

November: Four million nine hundred ninety-four thousand three hundred four vampires.

December: Eight million three hundred eight-eight thousand six hundred eight vampires.

January: Sixteen million seven hundred seventy-seven thousand two hundred sixteen vampires.

February: Thirty-three million five hundred fifty-four thousand four hundred thirty-two vampires.

March: Sixty-seven million one hundred eight thousand eight hundred sixty-four vampires.

April: One hundred thirty-four million two hundred seventeen thousand seven hundred twenty-eight vampires.

May: Two hundred sixty-eight million four hundred thirty five thousand four hundred fifty-six vampires.

June: Five hundred thirty-six million eight hundred seventy thousand nine hundred twelve vampires.

July: One billion seventy-three million seven hundred forty-one thousand eight hunded twenty-four vampires.

August: Two billion one hundred forty-seven four hundred eighty-three thousand six hundred forty-eight vampires.

September: Four billion two hundred ninety-four million nine hundred sixty-seven thousand two hundred ninety-six vampires.

October: Eight billion five hundred eighty-nine million nine hundred tirty-four thousand five hundred ninety-two vampires.


Time to stop --- after all, less than three years have passed and already there are no more people left in the world--only vampires. (Who, presumably, are starving to death.)

I suppose this was supposed to be comforting to me, mathematical evidence that vampires could not exist. I wanted to shout this exciting proof from the rooftops, sharing it with everyone. But I never have.


Because, perhaps, you would turn to me and say, "So you're the last one," as your eyes slit and your mouth opens wide.

And that is why you will never, not on this blog, not anywhere, find me answering straight the question, "Are you a vampire?"

It seems to me that is my business entirely.

(Note: I'm not getting to the bodily fluids and other disgusting items, but I'll leave the opening warning as a reminder to myself to get foul some other time. Maybe next time as, after all, the issue is closely related to coming out of the vampire closet.)


What's on my mind


I am alone this week. Lady Steed and I drove back to the Bay Area Friday night because her great-grandmother passed away on Thursday. The funeral was Saturday.

This has been hard on Lady Steed. She spent summers with her great-grandmother as a child and visiting grandma has always been a huge priority for her.

Since the Big O was conceived, we have last all of Lynsey's relatives older than her father and two of my grandparents as well. If you include in utero attendance, the Big O has been to as many funerals in his brief life as I have in mine.

After the funeral and partial recovery from long bouts of weeping, Lady Steed told me that what was hardest was knowing that someone who loved her was gone.

She as always happy to see me, even if she was mad at me for something, she was always happy to see me.

The Clan of the Brass Field (Lady Steed's family) has been dreading this because there is some money -- quite a bit -- that must now be distributed among the survivors and Lady's Steed's crazy aunt is in charge.

I don't want to get into this. It's not as ugly yet as was anticipated, but court is hanging out in the back of everyone's skull.

Anyway, I'm now back in Tehachapi all by myself, and besides the general disconnect with reality I always have whenever Lady Steed is gone, some other things are on my mind:

1. New Orleans.

Looks like they're gonna survive which I am glad of, of course, although part of me wanted to experience history. And last night it really looked like we might be seeing the effectual end of a unique piece of America.

2. Gas prices.

Also thanks to Katrina, it looks like it will be impossible to buy gas for less than $3 by the end of next week anywhere in this country.

3. Time management.

Lady Steed's absence always means that I can be a bit more productive in other areas of my life -- after all, I'm not wasting all that time being a good husband. I most want to finish repackaging my book proposal and send it off before midSeptember.

For those who don't know the story, Sept. 2003 I sent a novel proposal to a certain publishing company. The head editor there had previously told me that she wanted to see a novel from me. I was happy to oblige

Over the next year, while I waited for a reply, I finished writing the novel.

Then, in Sept. 2004, she requeted the complete version, read it, then said, um, great book, I don't get it, it's weird, but you're a fine writer. She said she figured that only young men would like it and they don't buy books and so I was instructed to get reviews from folks who are a) female, b) not related to me, and c) don't owe me any money.

(Incidentally, anyone who meets those criteria and would like to offer a review in the next couple weeks are certainly welcome to. Let me know and I can email a copy. If you reqest but do not reply I promise to understand and not hate you forever.)

I have since gathered said reviews and am now making Byuck: The Proposal v. 2.0.

4. Time management, part ii.

I also have some movies I've been wanting to watch but which Lady Steed doesn't have much interest in.

But no! I must focus! Proposal first!

5. Food.

Last Valentine's Day, Lady Steed and I were part of a Newlywed Show-type game at our ward's party for grownups.

We scored on the question: When you're not home, what will your husband likely fix himself to eat?

Lady Steed properly predicted my response:


She'll be harassing me everytime she calls, asking whether I'm eating. I've already missed breakfast and have other plans for my lunch hour, so I may be in trouble.

But here's the thing:

When she's gone, there doesn't seem to be much point in eating. Or sleeping. Or anything.

Now, don't think I'm moping about, horribly depressed; I'm not. But the basic life-sustaining activities seem pretty pointless when there's no Lady Steed around to do them for.

Also, Time is precious! Must get proposal done! So I can watch movies!

6. The bubonic plague.

(Don't ask.)


Keep on Celebrating!


Good news everyone! August is also National Pain Awareness Month!

I learned this by reading an article that was just sent to the paper via email by a women's-health lobby (because bigshot legislators follow our lead on most issues).

Actually, the article is apropos of conversations Lady Steed and I have had recently and, as we were about to buy a megasized bottle of ibuprofin on Saturday, apropos of our planned shopping as well.

Of course, being a man and spending six to eight hours a day laughing at such trivialities as pain, I find all this bemusing at best.

"Ho ho," I say, in the grand tradition of such manly men as Teddy Roosevelt. "Pain!"

The reason men need a room of their own incidentally, is not to write, but to nurse their wounds away from prying feminine eyes.

Or so I hear.

Celebration time

I'm astonished that it has taken me until today to learn that August is Breastfeeding Awareness Month. And in an email from Amazon, no less.

I'm not entirely clear on what it is they want me to buy.....


Packing my bags

I'm giving notice today before I leave work. I told them Monday it would be happening soon, but I thought we had a couple weeks before everything fell into place. Not so.

After Labor Day, I begin teaching at Bedrock High School.

I've spent the last couple of hours backing up as many of my stories as I could find. The number came to 105 (or so, depending on how you count). I found some really terrific stuff I had forgotten all about and some totally forgettable stuff as well.

I've looked at the last year as something as a creative quagmire since I haven't even finished reworking my book proposal as requested by the publisher, but now, looking at this body of work, I'm rethinking that. I really did a goodly amount of stuff. Even if it was all timely and now dead>.

The 105 is a very small percentage of the stories I actually worked on while at the News, but they represent the ones I felt I had a significant hand in creating.

I recommend a year stint as a reporter to anyone (althugh, really, I wasn't a reporter that whole time). I learned a lot of stuff I would have remained clueless about otherwise, stepped into some bizarre controversies, and won the respect of people whose respect really means something.

And now, if I've learned anything as a journalist, it must be this.

In America, "pissed" doesn't mean drunk


And it's a good thing, because that means I can use it to describe the buckets of irritation I'm feeling because of this link: http://funkymonkey155.tripod.com/sitebuildercontent/sitebuilderpictures/kaku.jpg. Try clicking it. What do you get? Something akin to crap, am I right?

That's the link that I attached to the Muppet Show in yesterday's post.

I don't understand why a site would not want to be linked to, why it would redirect traffic to something worthless.

I had the same trouble with the closing link to the LMNOP post (no, that lame, lame, lame link at the end was not the intended link; the intended link was funny and cool).

After all, if I'm going to write online, I ought to use the medium in a way that nonline writing does not allow. And that means links.

(There are other unique featuers to blogging to be sure -- its serial nature, the way bloggers can riff off each other, et cetera, but I'm talking about linking!)

Links can serve many purposes -- ironic commentary, further explanation, background information, visual punchline -- but not if they don't work. Then their prime purpose is ticking me off.

I'm still a newbie at the blog form. I still haven't really figured out how to stick the ending for instance. But if it's going to happen for me, it's going to happen with links. In part because one of my first online reads was Suck and in part because, as I've said, if I'm not going to use the unique strengths of a medium, why would I use it at all? Why write a play if it's not going to work on the stage?

It's like when I was writing a newspaper column (which, sadly, was much too short a gig). I had to figure out who my audience was, what they expected, how to blast those expectations in a way that was rewarding rather than disappointing, and how to use the strengths of the medium to my advantage and, thus, to the advantage of my audience.

(Of course, you never can tell which efforts will succeed. One of my worst columns [in my estimation and also Master Fob's] compared leadership styles to rain. It now hangs on a wall in our ward building for the Saints' edification. Or perhaps so they can appreciate just how lousy a writer I am. I hadn't thought of that possibility before.)

I'm done. Feel free to insert your own hilarious/poignant/stimulating ending here.


Corrupting my child


Last night after I came home from work, the Big O and I sat in front of the tv and broke out our new first season DVD of the Muppet Show and plopped down to watch the first-ever episode featuring a still pasty Miss Piggy (I suppose Frank Oz hadn't learned how to apply makeup yet) and guest star Juliet Prowse. The show wasn't quite as funny as, say, lobster banditos attacking the Swedish Chef (funniest thing ever), but I laughed out loud many times.

After it was over, O decided he wanted to watch Donald Duck instead. Now, nothing against Donald, but the funniest line we heard from a Muppet was Rowlf saying "Where were you?" -- which you can't get out of context, suggesting the Muppets are a but more intellectually rigorous than Donald, who got the biggest rise out of me by saying "Jackass." (Really.)

Of course, what we should have been watching was the Marx Brothers. This was what I watched with him before he took an interest in moving pictures, and now that we have twelve Marx Brothers movies (eight of which I have not seen in their entirety), you would think we could prioritize.

Or we could go outside....


National Punctuation Day


So here it is, a half-hour to five on National Punctuation Day, and the parade still hasn't come by. I spent all day slaving over my sign and practicing chants like practicing chants like "Hey hey! Ho ho! Mindless ... have got to go!" and "A pox on your '!" and "Keep your filthy :s to yourself!"

But instead I have sat here alone, a single reveler on this most groundbreaking of holidays.

Next year no doubt, it will be neutered as was Armistice Day, given a new name like Period Day that leave bystanders confused as to what this day actually celebrates.


And I was hoping next year I could promote reintroduction of the interrobang. I don't care if Lynne Truss disagrees with me on the beauty of and need for this mark. I like it.

Also: I like marsupials.

What I was like when ... I was single


(The first in what I hope is not a continuing series of apologia.)

It appears to me as if the blogosphere is collapsing our traditional six degrees of separation into a much less manageable two or three and that any flippant comment may get a person in trouble.

For instance, Thursday night I said something about Person A to Person B. By no mans should Person B know Person A, and yet, being bloggers both, Person B does know Person A, albeit not in the “real world.”

But! Person B does know Person C and told her what I said of Person A last Saturday. Now, Person C knows Person A personally and it is only a matter of time before Person C tells Person I what I said which will likely give Person A either

1) The great flatteries or

2) The extremely creepy heebie-jeebies

with the latter being more likely.

It is because of the likely effect upon Person A of this not-thot-thru comment that I am posting now.

The comment had to do with marriage and my thoughts thereon when single. The comment was absolutely true, wildly misleading and intended to be funny. (To date, no one has laughed.)

Absolutely True: Because it was.

Wildly Misleading: Because it was true of most breathing women in my geographical vicinity for at least 1.3 seconds.

Intended to be Funny: Hahahahahahahaha!

Not that she needs it, but if she so desires, Person A has my permission to tell exactly how geeky and clueless I was as a single Provoan in her estimation. Which was a lot. But here are some of my own evidences of said geekiness:

* I inflicted upon the fairer sex the 3-hour date. Generally (at least) the last hour consisted, for instance, Person A wondering how to get rid of me and me wondering how to leave.

* When geographical distance multiplied itself by five hundred, I wrote long letters on stationery of my own making that would feature such non sequiturs as sheep. (Preferably purple.)

* I could express just about any thought in a way that would give potential mates two distinct thoughts:

"He thinks the patron saint of woodchucks wants us married!"


"Run away!"

* The 12-hour date.

* I was remarkably unable to distinguish between girls who could muster interest in me and those who could muster a small pox quarantine for me.

* The concept of taking a beautiful woman OUT to DINNER seemed as fiscally responsible to me as helping out distressed Nigerian bankers.

* My idea of a clever Christmas present was a G.I. Joe figure in a necklace box.

Anyway, I a not at all falling into cliche when I say Thank God Lady Steed married me.

Because it certainly wasn't me that won her over.


The Half Moon Bay Ward


Today is our last day on the beautiful California coast,; we head home after lunch.

We went to church with Lady Steed's family in their shrinking ward. It seems everytime we visit, it is smaller. Only 16 men (including three young men) attended general priesthood.

Anyway, Story 1:

"Why I don't comb my hair"

Lady Steed says (and my cosmetologist sister agrees) that my hair would look better sticking up. I, however, am resolute in never sticking disgusting goop in my hair.

So, as a compromise, I have ceased combing my hair, thereby giving it "texture."

Lady Steed seems to approve in this hygiene downgrade since, after all less hygiene = more sexy. (Everyone knows that.)

Then, today, as we walked into church, she noticed my unkempt locks and patted them down.

My whole personal image has been shattered.


Story 2:

"Getting older"

For those who don't know, I turned 29 this month. That this may officially qualify as Getting Older was demonstrated to me in sacrament meeting today when the bishop asked the ward's new sister missionary to talk.

She was indistinguishable from a high school student.

And I realized that if even sister missionaries look like little kids, then I am getting old.

I shared this observation with Lady Steed and she said, "My gosh, you're right."

She's too kind.


LMNOP and cardigans


I have just started and finished Mark Dunn's "Ella Minnow Pea" -- a fine way to end a vacation, to be sure.

I first ran across the hardcover version at the campus bookstore of my beautifully byucky alma mater. The cover wasn't much to squeal at, but I knew I was interested and added it to my Amazon wishlist.

Fastforward four years , bump over a couple states to the San Francisco public library's Friends of the Library sale (the most expensive library sale ion my experience) and a much more attractively covered paperback.

It was four bucks. Four bucks! For a paperback! At a Friends of the Library sale! Shameful.

Anyway, I bought it and today I read it and it was a fun, fun read. All you alphebetarians out there, listen up. Imagine setting this challenge for yourself: Writing a 208-page novel with an ever-shrinking number of letters.

Anyway, the novel is epistolary which means I will have to dredge up and post the thing on epistolary novels I wrote for the AML-list three or so years ago. Expect that Monday.

I have to think that I have been overly dismissive of epistolary novels, given the charm of "Ella Minnow Pea" and the fact that Master Fob and I just completed the first draft of an epistolary novel a couple weeks ago.

Anyway, if you look at the book and like it, read it. I'm not going to spoil it for you.

In unrelated news, Lady Steed cannot find anywhere on this godforsaken planet (referring, of course, to Luvmiluvmisaythetyuluvmi, the Swedish God of Sweaters) a white cardigan with the cut, fabric, length and sleeves required to meet her exacting specifications. Sweater collectors are encouraged to point me in the direction of obscure sweater sources. Their reward will be ... well, more than you can imagine!



Have you noticed that, these days, when one does a search on Google, web or image, an unseemly percentage of the results are blogs? This is really cramping my style.

(Imagine me cursing out all those ... bloggers, right now.)

Mother Instinct


I was just reading about that Grizzly Man movie and so I think the time has come to tell a vacation story.

Lady Steed and I went to Lake Tahoe (near Emerald Bay, for you enthusiasts) last week with her family and camped. When we arrived, we were told that there had not been any bears seen for nine days so we figured we were as safe from bearkind as from megalonyxkind.

One afternoon, the Big O and I walked down to the bathrooms to wash his hands and excited city folk ran past us in order to See the Bear.

Big O and I took a few steps beyond the bathrooms and then we too could See the Bear.

It was a smallish but definitely adult black bear.

The Big O and I watched the bear as our fellow campers banged pots and threw rocks. We got to see the bear climb a dead tree and climb down again and then run off over the hill. O loved it. He pointed and said "Uh! Uh! Uh!" which, best I can tell, means, "Saints alive! Nature at its finest! What wonders hath God wrought!"

We washed his hands and headed back to our camp. We passed Lady Steed and her mother coming to see the now vamoosed bear and to aid in its expulsion by aid of an airhorn.

Meanwhile, the Big O and I were back at camp, hanging out, chillin. Well, I was chillin; Big O was uhuhuhing for another bear.

We sat there, O on my lap, then my father-in-law said, "There's the bear!"

Sure enough, about twenty feet from O and I (about the distance from you and your next dietary transgression) was a smallish but definitely adult black bear.

The first thought I remember having was, "No, in fact I should not get closer that O may have a better look," which suggests I may have previously thought "I should get closer that O may have a better look," but I don't think I actually thought that.

Before O and I could do much more than point and be excited, we were attacked by a horrendous noise behind us.

The bear had come between Lady Steed and her cub and now faced her motherly wrath.

The blast scared off the bear, but it also terrified O who clung to me with all his might and went catatonic for the next half hour. Once he unburied his face from my neck, he would only stare off into space.

Meanwhile, the inlaws and I swapped fun bear stories.

And I failed to be a sensitive husband, not noticing that Lady Steed was in almost as much shock as the Big O.

I was laughing and teasing while she was recovering from a near miss.

The bear had, after all, arrived unnoticed at a spot where the Big O had wandered alone, collecting rocks, just the day before.

Now, maybe children need one parent to point at bears and one parent to save them from bears being pointed at, I can't say. But I do think Lady Steed showed remarkable presence of mind and an instinct-fast thought process while I was just going, "Oo! Bear!"

Which, to be frank, will probably be a pattern the Big O will have to learn to recognize and compensate for.

Lesson: Point at your own risk.


Less meta! More content!


I have discarded the notion that blogs must collect eyeballs like Wonkette or the Daily Kos to be labeled successful. I have made the heartwarming discovery that people like to know about people they know because they, sniff, care about them and that blogs are a good way to keep tabs on said people.

In fact, in some ways, keeping a blog is less egotistical than, say, sending a mass email (which I eschew anyway) because you're not presuming people want you to clutter their life/inbox with your meaningless blabber. Instead, you figure, if they care, they'll come.

Now, I do have one more postmodern entry to get off my chest some time, but for now, it can wait.

Dancing across the blogosphere


So Lady Steed and I took the Big O to Tahoe last week, far away from the online world. Then we rendezvoused with Master Fob and Foxy J and their spawn who now has hair and will make a suitable mate for the Big O in about twenty years. We had a) fun and b) sitting around. Which means it was a well rounded vacation, I think.

Master Fob and Foxy J convinced me (inadvertently, I think) to stop being self conscious about this blogging crap. This after hearing nothing from Lady Steed about how dull my blog is.

This I already knew.

Now, on top of everything, I discovered that Nemesis says she is excited to read my blog -- so I'm feeling a lot of pressure to spice things up. Especially since Nemesis can slay vicious monkeys at forty paces with her wit.

First step of course, is to come up with a better name for this thing. I'm working on that.

The pressure of being read by someone whom I happen to know is widely beloved ought to be motivating.

The first coup, of course, will be getting that kind of love from Lady Steed.


Recognizing my status as a boring blogger


Just so you know, I know.

I'll try to care more, that'll be step one.

At this point, I'm still an unwilling revolutionary.


On Emotional Exhibitionism
in defence of (not) zippergutting


By no means am I condemning the practice, but it is amazing to me that people will post, for all the world to see, what they would not normally discuss with their closest friends. Or what they would discuss with their closest friends--which is sometimes worse.

By saying worse I am passing judgement, for which I apologize.

Anyway, what I want to write about is how similar this strikes me to posing naked in front of a webcam.

I see this need to expose oneself, to become vulnerable, for an undefined and, therefore, possibly infinite audience.

I understand this appeal. But in my own prudish way, I refuse to give into it.

Never will I appear on this blog naked, that's a promise you can take to the slots.

I have more to say but it's escaping me.

We'll take later.


Demon-free real estate


As I was just driving back from the desert to our beautiful island nation of Tehachapi, I saw a billboard posted about three feet from nowhere lauding a Century 21 guy for being a "top producer."

I suppose this is supposed to make me, as a potential customer, feel his competence--how much he obviously loves people since he sells so many of them homes.

But ha.

The real estate people are so lost in their world of gold jackets and platinum pins that they don't realize that this billboard makes me, Theric, feel that this broker is the sort of chap who could sell prime Rosamond real estate to a rice farmer.

Not comforting to a sucker like me. I feel pressure to buy when a cashier catches me glancing at a Snickers bar.

Good for sellers, I suppose, and good for the agent, but me? How is this good for me?




No post


No new post will be appearing at this time. Thank you.


Wasted energy, time, talent


I see a few good reasons to blog:

I have access to important information that everyone should have access to and I need to get it to the masses in a timely manner.

I have 16,522 first cousins, all of whom love me, and want constant updates on my favorite flavor of toothpaste.

I have opinions so important that Aristotle would sell his left lobe to hear them.

I am able to provide scintillating commentary on current events and the art scene.

I am under the impression that strangers will flock to me if only given the opportunity.

Fine reasons, all. But I don't see any as applicable to this experiment.

All I am doing is wasting resources that could better be put to use at work or elsewhere.

But I knew that before I began.


Tehachapiltdownman's appearance


I am informed that on other computers, Tehachapiltdownman has a bloated and ugly appearance. I apologize. I am working on an antiquated browser which cannot be updated because of my antiquated OS. Making it look right here is far from a guarantee that it will look right anywhere else.

But I'll keep that in mind.

And someday, when I join you in the future, perhaps these design issues can be solved.



Calling it a day


My first day as Tehachapiltdownman's resident writer is done. With four posts this puts me in the category of At Risk for Obsessive Blogging Behavior.


I suppose it's a good thing I'm going home.

Here are some thoughts to take with you:

1) I have no connection to the fish, he speaks for himself.
2) Blogging is merely ephemera rendered to a digitally immortal state, worthy or not.
3) I think, therefore I think.
4) Is my lucky number.


Hated Hatred


I despise the Internet's pull on time.

It demands constant renewal because it offers instantaneous delivery.

I think of professional bloggers and think that they will never create something of lasting worth because they are always racing against time to fill space.

Which is not the same as suggesting that a blag cannot accomplish something of importance or even beauty.

But not all things of importance and beauty last.


Exclusivity through laziness


I would like to explain why I only link to two blogs (at the time of this posting).

1. Master Fob is the only person who has sent me his blog address.

2. Miss Nemesis's blog is the one most frequented by my wife. Besides, she's funny. I keep waiting for her to buckle down and write a book. You know she wants to.

3. If I move beyond them, I'll have to justify leaving other blogs out and then I'll add more and more and get an unweildy list full of people that are jsut that: people.

4. It's my country club.


Blanketyblankety NPR


As I told the Master Fob this morning, I heard on Justice Talking that the blogosphere may result in a return to the primacy of print.

I am still very unsold on blogs, but if it results in print winning out over tv, I guess I would be a hypocrite if I didn't do my part.

Now I just have to figure out what I should be doing as a participant in this grand experiment.

Don't expect much.


ps: I can't stand having a template. I'm gonna hafta find time to screw around with this.....