9.12.2007

The final countdown. Oh, wait. Zero.

It's time to let Period of Useful Consciousness go.

I know, I know... I'm expecting a flood of seven emails begging me to say it isn't so. I can't answer you all, of course, so let the following be enough.

I've been a good blogger. Reasonably. Less banal than oh-so-fucking-many others. Yet too self indulgent. Too edited. At times funny, yet many other times presuming people actually gave a shit about my life. But that's like conversation, except for here, there's no place for, "Enough about my appendicitis, tell me about your colonoscopy..." We have blogs to express our wounds. (And with some of my pictures you know 'expressing wounds' was not out of bounds.)

I learnt in the early days - one of the earliest - not to write about particular people in particular ways. Shit travels downhill, and in this case it traveled all the way down under. I know not how, yet it did, and it was wrong. True as the truths written may have been, I wrote some things that were just angry and spiteful.

There are, of course, other Contributing Factors.

The parrots I've been training - the ones in the submarine - have taken more of my time than I had hoped they would. Progress has been terrific, and I expect there will be news, public news, international news, the kind of news you don't have to put out press releases for, breaking soon. Will it be worth the loss of this outlet? Probably. As they say, "any press is good press." And this will soon be tested.

My children have all grown by now. All the ones we joke about that we don't know if we ever had. Well, I really don't. But if there are any, they're all legal now, since I stopped having orgasms during intercourse about 19 years ago. Intentionally of course. (Discipline is a crutch. I have two. A perfect emotional cripple.) I expect to be in court or on Oprah or being heralded and feted soon for my excellent sperm. One of those things.

My creative juices once flowed freely here. It's not that I've run out of them, they're just different colors now, and of different viscosity. No longer bloggable in this wee chasm. (My other blog will remain alive and well. If you've ever been invited to enjoy it or perhaps you're even a moderator, you know that it's a great, fun tool of abuse of the many by the gifted few. It will continue, I vow on my current wife's grave.)

Words are tools. 'Tools' are now, colloquially, clueless retards. 'Retards' are not Politically Correct. Political Correctness is blessedly dead (P.C. was made dogma by 9/11, yet clear retribution to it was resurrected, phoenix-like by George W. Bush). It is a new enlightenment of the post dogmatically pre-re-P.C. awakening. Hence Words are Dead.

Yet I continue to write.

Rhetorical dogmatism lives on like a dada-istic cat tire within the sphere of shampoo hatpins, thank the gods.

Jesus. If only I'd written like this the entire time this blog was alive... I wouldn't feel the need to drag the razor blade up its arm as it sits in the digital bathtub of my discontent.

It does, however. I've made the subtlest mentions of an End Coming. It's been stewing for some time. The meat was done some time ago, the carrots, the celery, dammit-I-should-have-left-the-mushrooms-for-last, it's lost some liquid and thickened nicely. Let's just call this a mixed metaphor, a boy in the plastic bubble (you know the little bastard is going to die), frayed rope end, last car to get on the last ferry of the evening, in the bottom of the ninth, and on the seventh day I created a final countdown that goes something like

3
2
1

End of Blog