Get Off My Lawn, Part MCMXVIII (except you, smut peddlers)

"Yeah, that title'll reel 'em in."

C'mon. Who can refuse smut.

Look, Blogger, stop fucking with the prima interfacies. Sure, I may have preferred the labels on the side managing their posts, and I will admit to taking great pleasure in the ability to, pre-upload -- doesn't that sound vaguely naughty, imagine if the internets ever got porn, be still my beating -- choose between door nos. 1, 2 and 3 for the final destination of what will no doubt be a hedonistic image, the above an obvious exception proving the rule don't worry I'll toss up something scantily-clad in a bit, but I'm getting old and new things, but not new albums, frighten me. No, this isn't another review of a band 99% of you wouldn't listen to if I paid in precious metals -- METAL! \^^/-- but that's your loss you stuperous funkers, spin that Carpenters LP for the nine billionth time, wuss.

Speaking of nine billion times, I believe that's how often I've said, mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the laziest of them all, because I'm not the fairest even in a swanky pinstriped three piece but I have started three separate tales for the third annual Writer's Digest fictionalizing contest and each has keeled over at about word three hundred, I smite with mercy. As much as I dig the concept of storytelling and relish reading the works of others, I cannot tell tales with aplomb because I enjoy going off on tangents and the idea of some fucking editorial tool, likely a failed writer and thus diabolical kin to music critics, dictating that I streamline this, that, the other thing and that doodad collecting dust over there in the corner makes me want to set people on fire and curse their soul with the blackest magic, all serving the throne of readability, whatever the fuck that means.

"Dude, it's a contest. There isn't an editor."

You need an editor. Oh, and that ain't hubris, I'd wager 95% of my fellow citizens who consider themselves "writers" are far more skilled than I, but I say unto thee, what's wrong with a little nonsensical plotless plot now and then, what's wrong with no one talking for three whole sentences? (Seriously, must everything be dialogue? Can't I just sit in my head for 500 pages?)

I'm not even sure why I'm bitching -- okay, it's one of the few things enjoyable in life -- because the only work partially in the non-garbage can is the destined-to-be-unfinished Novel From Hell and a fuckload of unreadable poetry, especially my kind of non-MFA, purpled junk, but I'm going to blame the good Doc for this instance of third-class complaining, because I'd never blame myself for my faults, don't be silly. In the commentary section he lamented a bit about what he sometimes feels, and I'm paraphrasing and perhaps twisting the entire meaning on its head, is an overuse of a literary crutch, the dreaded 'write what you know.' That exact dilemma isn't what concerns me here because, if you'll permit me to wax Rumsfeldian, I don't really know what I supposedly know or should know, but the undercurrent remains the same, dance the hoochie koo: write what you love.

"As profound as ice cream is delicious."

My point is that Frankenstein graftings or forcing an end -- unless it's the apocalypse, then bring it on because I believe seeing actual hailstorms of flaming sulfur would be kind of cool -- is a bad gig. I can conjure up a confluence of a moment, a person, a thought, the physical environment and write multiple pieces on that singular emotional space, each being the intersection of said memory and how it coursed through my veins at the time the piece itself was composed, reflections of the same light in ever-changing waters, comically hypocritical if you know me at all, given my general disdain for deconstructionist extremity, sometimes a potato is a fucking potato, you frog. That is what tugs at the heartstrings like a sadistic puppeteer, not busting out well-plotted stories even if they're on that same confluence I've milked five too many times already. My circulatory system simply cannot sustain a quality effort over such an extended period of time before fatal bloodloss. Melodramatic, huh?

Oh well, back to unpublishable verse. Wait, I've got it, I know what'll sell, mystery lines! Husband and wife detective team fights crime -- in rhyme!

Another unsolvable case?
Not with John and Jane Catchyname!
A vicious kill with style and grace,
an innocent suffers the blame!
Try your best, public defender,
still stuck playing don't drop the soap.
Wait! Unorganized offender
screwed up big time, so grab that hope!
"Your one fatal mistake," says Jane,
"Was leaving this behind, says John
to suspect number eight. "A stain
of blood, yours, you filthy ex-con!"

Riveting.

Oh yeah, almost forgot, your reward for skipping reading this tripe.


















I've got the solution to your one-pipe problem, my dear detective.