I'll just blog a little

Tomorrow I should have absolutely no work at the office, so I will have absolutely no good excuse to not write. I'm curious what excuse I'll come up with.

Anyhoo, I think it gives off the wrong mojo to have my top post entitled with the word "horseshit" so I thought I'd point out two important things you might not have known. I'm here to help, after all. Also, I thought I'd get "edgy" and make it plain that, damn it, I'm not altogether a nice person.

First, Johnny Nash can sing. Mr. Nash starts about 50 seconds into it, after Miss Bassey. Now, I've heard this song a billion-jillian times, and every time I was "bleh". But however, however I know not, this youtube recording lets me hear this guy belt it. I mean, damn. If you don't believe me, at least listen to 2:20 and then kneel before this man's pipes. Humans can do this? I also like how he works the camera. None of these MTV frenetics. Chopping shots into ribbons because none of the plastic singers can keep a performance up for longer than two seconds. The man had class, and he appealed to the best in his audience. And he respected his elders.

Second, Paris Hitlon is a lot less helpless than people like to snipe about. I always figured she knew what she was doing. Clumsy, at times, sure. What child isn't? Whorish? Well, that's loaded. If one calls a girl sluttish, one is castigated as a backward Puritan Imperialist closed-minded dinosaur of the era of homophobes scurrying under the paranoia of vagina dentata. However, if one says she's just a girl exploring her body, with the help of billionaire playboys and sex toys, then one has reduced womyn to nothing but sex objects that can only break the glass ceiling via the open use of their body. As if Steve McQueen or Teddy Roosevelt didn't use their bodies.

I don't play games I can't win by design. Unless I can overturn the Monopoly board in a huff and scream, "A specter hangs over Park Place and Boardwalk--the specter of COMMUNISM!!!" Yes, I did that once. No, I forgot last Christmas. Twice. I can't win that freaking game.

Point is, I believe in Paris. Of course, I have no children to be corrupted, but I don't see how that has anything to do with it. I'm not even sure why I brought that up.

As an aside, I happily note that the spell check doesn't recognize the canard "womyn". The day it does, I'm heading to the hills with my gun to wait out the Mad Max hell that follows.

PB

P.S. It has been pointed out to me by an excellent person that the characters in my latest addition to the site, "A Neighborhood in Proper", are all detestable. People, please stay calm. It's the first chapter of an entangled serial--stories are normally about people changing over time. I assure you, nothing as it starts ends the same in my stories. Well... except gravity. And the doppler effect. And... well, except for science crap. People can surprise you if you let them.