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Archive for December, 2008

hockey and hope

I’m sick and I’ve got nothing today, so I thought I’d use this space for good instead of evil for now.

I love hockey, and I love people doing good for others, and I always like to spread the word about worthy causes, especially this time of year, when people are more inclined to give. So I present you with this today:

When you hear the phrase “Hockey is Life”, it is quite literal for Adam Sherlip – “The Hockey Volunteer”. Hockey is a constant in Adam’s life, proving on more than one occasion that he prefers hockey over social gatherings. To Adam, hockey embodies many of the virtues that we all strive to embody in our daily practice: teamwork, selflessness, loyalty, honesty and accountability.

Adam and U.S. Olympian Angela Ruggiero went to China on behalf of Project Hope, an initiative of the New York Islanders, providing children from Heilongjiang Province with the opportunity to learn and play hockey. Combining this unique experience with his passion for making a difference in the world, Adam has developed this program to impart the inherent values and cultures of hockey to connect with people around the world.

The first location The Hockey Volunteer is going to is Kashmir, India. Adam will volunteer with SECMOL (Students’ Education and Cultural Movement of Ladakh) in Ladakh, a solar-power, bio-sustainable village in the Himalayas. With your support and energy, we can make this dream a reality! Please donate using the ChipIn button.

You can visit Adam’s site here.

Project Hope.

I had the pleasure of attending an Islanders game when some of the young hockey players from China were introduced. I’m happy to be able to promote this cause here.

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[new at not pitchfork: huey lewis and sleater kinney]

I cannot bake. I can cook – I can whip up a gourmet meal at a moment’s notice. But baking leaves me frustrated and in a foul mood. So generally, I don’t do it. I leave the baking for the Martha Stewarts in my family.

So why did I find myself standing in my kitchen one December night in 2001, elbow deep in flour and frosting? I’ll tell you why. It’s my sister’s fault.

I work with my sister. My sister is the social butterfly to my anti-social maggot. And sometimes she drags me kicking and screaming into her little circle of work gathering hell. This particular year, it was the cookie trade-off lunch.

This is where a bunch of women get together for a holiday lunch, and bring a dozen home-baked cookies for each person attending. This was my fourth Christmas at the job, and I had avoided the cookie exchange every year thus far. My sister would have none of that this year. She enthusiastically signed me up without asking. Why? Because she is a sadist. She knew I would now have to combine my hatred of baking with my loathing of my co-workers all in one day. I suppose I could have e-mailed the head cookie cutter and offered my apologies, but I decided I would give in instead. Maybe if I did it one year, they will leave me alone for the next three.

But how the hell was I going to pull this off? Baking is a foreign concept to me. Well, not totally foreign. I’ve tried it. But never with any results that could be fed to actual, living human beings. And even when I did manage to bake something edible, it always came out looking decidedly unedible.

I had options in regards to the cookies. I could cheat. There are various ways one could cheat when it comes to cookie baking:

First degree cheating: Go to bakery, buy fresh made, gorgeous, incredibly delicious cookies. Put on throw-away Christmas plate, wrap in something festive and pretend like you slaved over a hot oven all night making them.

Second degree cheating: Buy a pre-made cookie mix, follow same method as above for wrapping and lying.

Third degree cheating: Buy the Pillsbury slice and bake cookie rolls. No fuss, no mess. Just chop the roll up, stick in oven and proceed with festive wrapping and lying about the recipe.

I opted for third degree cheating, sugar cookie style.

Have I mentioned I suck at baking? Even when the cookies are almost made for me?

First, I followed the directions carefully. One rounded teaspoon of dough per cookie. I only made six, to see how they would come out. I carefully rounded out that teaspoon size dough and dropped them on the baking sheet. The cookies came out the size of a baby’s toenail. Six cookies wasted.

So I made them a little bigger; somewhere between a tablespoon and a scoop. Apparently they weren’t rounded enough this time and turned out looking like lumps of brown coal. Which is great to stick in a kid’s stocking as a joke, but not great for actually eating. Six more cookies wasted.

Finally, I decided to throw some flour into the mix and roll out the dough. This was brilliant because it would feel more like really baking, and I wouldn’t feel as guilty. I had no cookie cutters, but I found the cover to one of my nephew’s bottles and used that to cut the dough into large circles. They came out the perfect size and shape. I was on my way to Marthaness.

But…..I couldn’t just give plain sugar cookies, could I? That would be lame. Even though I did not like these women and I did not want to be in their stupid little cookie club, as long as I was forced to participate, I was going to make sure no one was going to talk shit about me after the party was over. Plain old sugar cookies would certainly be talked about. They had to be decorated. They had to reek of Christmas. I was ready with green and red colored sugar and some Christmas tree shaped sprinkles. I was prepared to go all out for this.

When the cookies were a bit cooled, I sprinkled the colored sugar on them. It rolled off. A rainbow of Christmas was all over the tray, but not on the cookies. So I put more sugar on and pressed it down on the cookie to get it to stay. The cookie broke. I poured myself a glass of gin. No, not a martini. Just the gin. Not even an olive. This called for clearheadedness and olives just get in the way of that.

I put a fresh batch in the oven and a light bulb went off in my head. I’ll sprinkle the sugar on before they bake! That must be how Martha does it! Six more cookies in. I drink, I wait.

They came out looking like an elf puked on the cookie sheet. Six more cookies wasted. Good thing I planned ahead for failure and bought a few rolls.

I baked a fresh batch and came up with a new idea, which was partly hatched with the help of my second glass of gin. I needed to find something to put on top of the cookies when they are cooled that will make the sugar stick to them. Frosting! God, I am a genius.

I only had pink frosting. I mixed some red food coloring into the frosting until it looked a Christmas sort of red. I stirred and poured and stirred and poured and finally the frosting was red, but the consistency of water. Like thin blood. At this point I didn’t care. I reminded myself over and over that I don’t even like the people who will be eating these cookies.

I took each cookie, smeared it in blood red frosting and then poured the colored sugar over them. They ended up looking like a kindergarten craft project, if the kindergarten was for blind, stupid children. Six more cookies shot to hell. More gin.

I decided to give it one more try. What is wet enough yet not distasteful that I could put on top of the cookies to make the damn sugar stick? Because at this point, it wasn’t about the cookies. It wasn’t about the party or the women or my sister or even Christmas. It was about the sugar. I was going to make it stick to those damn cookies even if I died of alcohol poisoning while trying.

And then I saw it, right there in my cabinet. The answer to my sugar dilemma. Pam no-stick spray. Buttered flavor. Of course.

I sprayed each cookie with a little Pam, hysterically laughing to myself that I have reached so low a point. I take each non-stick coated cookie and drunkenly turn it upside down in a pile of red and green, yelling BOOYA! as I spiked those cookies like a football into their decorative sugar.

I have Christmas cookies. I have baked. I was also very drunk and almost wept with joy at the sight of those hideous cookies because, well, I made them. I persevered through some horrible moments and I never, ever gave up, I just kept climbing that mountain, I….I needed to go lie down.

I woke up the next morning and had a vague recollection of having baked the night before. When I walked into the kitchen it looked like Martha Stewart and Christmas got into a drunken brawl in my house. And the product of their make up sex were the ugliest, most revolting, hideous, worst tasting cookies this side of dog biscuits. I didn’t care. I made them. I made fucking cookies. I baked.

I went to work that morning despite my raging hangover. I went through hell for those cookies and I was going to make damn sure that I got some decent cookies in return. I popped about two dozen Excedrin and walked into that party with my head held high.

Oh, I saw the looks. I heard the gasps as my pitiful cookies were unwrapped. I knew that I would be office gossip fodder for the next week. But that was ok, because only I knew those women were eating cookies whose main ingredient was no-stick spray, and which may or may not have fallen on my kitchen floor.

Don’t ever ask me to bake.

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QOD: under cover

[The latest at Not Pitchfork: Fear, Love and Rockets and The Kinks]

I’ve been playing an afternoon music game with my new twitter friend John. When I get home from work, I usually make a tweet saying what I listened to on my way home, with a link to the video. John usually responds with a song related to mine, and we go back and forth for while, building off each other’s selections, until it gets close to dinner time and one of us declares the other the winner for the day.

Yesterday, John won big time. We were doing cover songs and I thought I found the most ultimate cover, with Yo La Tengo doing the Angry Samoans. Then John shot back YLT doing the New York Mets theme song and, well, game over.

Of course, this got me thinking once again about cover songs. Not the usual suspects of cover songs, but some of the weirder variety.

Hellacopters doing Skynyrd’s Working for MCA
Faith No More doing Herb Albert’s This Guy’s in Love With You
Rammstein doing Depeche Mode’s Stripped
Ben Folds doing Dre’s Bitches Ain’t Shit
Devo doing Neil Young’s Ohio
Fat Boys doing the Beatles’ Baby You’re a Rich Man
Atreyu rocking out Bon Jovi’s You Give Love a Bad Name
Flaming Lips doing White Stripes’ Seven Nation Army
In Flames awesomely covering one of my favorite Depeche Mode songs, Everything Counts
The Residents doing Elvis’s Teddy Bear
The Avengers doing the Stones’ Paint it Black
The Stranglers doing Dionne Warwick’s Walk on By
The Dickies making Moody Blues’ Nights in White Satin sound interesting
Dead Kennedys doing Rawhide

And the ultimate in cover song medleys: Circle Jerks’ Golden Shower of Hits

I could do this forever, but I don’t have forever. So what are your favorite, maybe lesser known, cover versions?

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a hockey story

I got a bunch of new hockey fan followers on twitter yesterday (hi, hockey fans!), so I thought I’d try to entertain them with a story.

Back in the early 80’s, I took two kinds of road trips. One was the random, spur of the moment kind that ended up with me being 200 miles from home, not quite sure of my first name, peeing in a stranger’s backyard and wondering if we finally lost the State Troopers.

The other kind of trip was the hockey trip.

This was the glory days of the New York Islanders, the dynasty years where they won four cups in a row. Hell, it was the glory days for the NHL as far as I’m concerned. No helmets. Only 16 teams in the playoffs. Bench clearing brawls. Old time hockey! Eddie Shore! Damn, I miss the Patrick Division.

cup.jpgWe had season tickets for the Isles, but that wasn’t enough. We wanted to see them on the road, too. We went to Philly, Toronto, Montreal, Pittsburgh, Boston, Hartford. Sometimes we hopped in the car and went; me, my two sisters and my mom. We were all hockey junkies. Those were fun road trips, even if they ended up with us getting into fights, especially in Philly. Man, my mom could curse someone out.

Sometimes we went by bus. I belonged to the Islanders Booster Club, simply because of these trips. I didn’t go to the meetings because they were kind of the hockey equivalent of the AV club at school. But they had cool road trips, so we joined the club and traveled along.

One of these trips was to Boston, just me and my youngest sister. This had to be the 81-82 season. Or the 80-81. Either way, the Islanders were the current Stanley Cup champions. Boston was not.

The trip there was pretty uneventful. A crowded bus filled half with sweaty nerds and half with hockey groupies straight out of Slap Shot. At some point the president of the booster club gave us a speech about behaving properly because we were representing the Islanders. I closed my eyes and slept on and off until we rolled into Boston.

We pulled up right in front of Boston Garden. We got off the bus – behaving impeccably – and made our way to our seats. We were all wearing Islanders jerseys (#9, Clark Gillies) or jackets or hats, and we got looks. This was Boston. They don’t like us very much to begin with. And there we were marching into their arena flaunting our team’s Stanley Cup. The bad blood between New York and Boston goes beyond hockey; it’s a baseball thing, too. So we could just feel the hatred as we settled into our seats.

We tried to behave because we knew how it felt to have groups of opposing fans come into the Coliseum and start talking crap to us about our team. We vowed to be on our best behavior and just enjoy the game. But it was hard. I heard the taunts, I knew they were baiting us. Soon, some of the fans started cursing at us in that obnoxious Boston accent. Not for nothing, Bostonians, but cursing in that accent is almost funny. It’s hard to sound all pretentious and refined when you are calling someone a motherfucking asshole. Especially when you are directing that insult at someone’s grandmother.

I turned around and yelled something at them. I had a lot more guts in those days, and a lot less fear. I don’t remember what I said, I just know that I said it with a New York accent and it might have been threatening and, well, threatening in a NY accent works much better than threatening in a Cape Cod accent. So I said what I had to, something about not talking to a grandmother that way or the hard end of my boot would connect with a place on their body that would cause them to scream in pain. Something like that. I turned around again and concentrated on the game.

The third period started and the Boston fans behind us went at it again. I said nothing, but I felt the stares on the back of my head, felt the mental daggers directed at me, felt the……….ice? Soda? What the hell? I turned around and saw it coming: a downpour of soda and beer cups headed right for us. I ducked quick but I still got pelted.bhockey.jpg Someone’s grandma gets knocked in the head with two plastic cups. My little sister was drenched in beer. I was about to grab her and get her the hell out of there when she stood up – I think she was all of 13 years old at the time – and said to the guy sitting behind us “You realize you just wasted four bucks by throwing that beer at me? You people aren’t that smart, are you?” And then the ice rained down. And we started throwing back. It was like a winter storm watch in our section for about ten minutes until the security guards finally got there. They grabbed onto anyone with an Islander jersey and hauled us out of our seats.

One of the booster club leaders tried to take control. He was shouting something about “they started it first” to the guards, but really. What did he think was going to happen? They were Boston. We were New York. Strangers in a foreign land. He starts screaming to everyone that we need leave, we need to get on the bus, which was waiting outside. The hell with the rest of the game. We all grabbed our stuff and ran. No one wanted to miss this bus ride home and get stuck in Boston Garden wearing a New York Islanders jersey.

As we were lined up to get on to the bus a group of Boston fans who had followed us out gathered around and threw garbage at us while screaming obscenities.

Of course, I had to get one last word in. I had to. I’m an ass that way. As soon as I was on the bus steps, I pushed my sister ahead and she climbed on.. I turned around, looked at the small crowd of angry Boston fans as a security guard was trying to push me into the bus. I held up both middle fingers and said: “Bucky Fucking Dent!”

If you know what that means, you know I didn’t say a very good thing. The security guard shoved me into the bus and said “There’s something wrong with you, girl.”

The bus doors shut and one of the booster club people was doing a head count, making sure we were all accounted for. As the bus pulled away, the angry mob (ok, maybe it was ten people, tops) were right behind us. They were throwing rocks at the bus. I started laughing. I couldn’t help it. They were throwing rocks at us? It’s hockey. Rocks? I laughed. What a trip.

[There’s a couple of new reviews up at Not Pitchfork: Dick Dale, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Neil Diamond and King Diamond]

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We’ve been playing Left 4 Dead for a few days now. As usual when we get into a game, we pretty much immerse ourselves in it until we finish. And by immerse, I mean we’ve been talking about nothing but zombies for four days. And we’ve played so much that when I got to work today and encountered a crazy little lady in the parking lot, my first thought was “I startled the witch!”

The best thing about Left 4 Dead, as with most games Todd and I play together, is the cooperative play. It’s fun to work together, help each other out, save each other’s lives. But playing together has also pointed out our glaring gaming differences.

I’m ten years older than Todd. This never, ever comes into play in our relationship except for when we are playing video games. I’m a gamer of the 80’s, an adventurer. He’s a gamer of the 90’s, a killer. I grew up on Zork and Zelda and I need to investigate every room, look in every corner and turn over everything I can. You never know where a secret door may be or when you’ll find something important underneath a garbage pail. Todd grew up on Mortal Kombat and Total Carnage. He shoots first. And second. And third. My gaming instincts tell me when to open a door or go up the stairs. His instincts tell him when to get into shooting stance.

Which brings me to thinking about my history with video games and how one game led me to where I am today.

Atari’s Adventure. It was simplistic and crude, but it thrilled me nonetheless. The thrill of slaying the dragon/duck, searching for keys, opening doors, finding the chalice – I had never played anything like it before. It had all the makings of one of those fairy tale adventures I loved so much when I was young. Well, minus the prince and the knights, but I had a good imagination. The best thing about the game was finding the Easter egg.

Select game 2 or 3 and enter the maze in the Black Castle. Move screen to the left of the first maze screen. At the bottom center of this room is a closed cubicle. Use the bridge to enter that area and collect the “dot”. Carry this item to the screen just above the catacombs, located one screen down and to the right of the Gold Castle. Note: The “dot” is the same color as the ground outside, so care must be taken not to lose it in transit. Drop the “dot” here, and bring two other items onto the same screen. Move through the line on the right side of the screen to view the programmer credits.

There were also little quirks like different ways to get around the bat or make it so the dragon can’t eat you. And really, was there anything more terrifying than the noise the game made when that dragon tried to chomp down on you?

I dreamed about Adventure. I played it in my head. And I thought how cool it would be if they would expand the game because I wanted more. More dragons to slay, more treasure to find, more quirks to discover.

Enter Nintendo. I clearly recall sitting in my living room one night with my sister Lisa, watching the Olympics. We saw a commercial for the Nintendo and made up our minds right there that we had to have one. An hour later, we were at the Video Vault buying ourselves a Nintendo.

I don’t remember how long we played for. I know our eyes probably glazed over at some point and thumbs were aching and our asses had gone numb, but we were hooked.

I described Super Mario Bros. as Adventure times infinity. It had all the magic of Adventure – the quest, the hero, the villains, the scrolling from screen to screen as you tried to find your way around. But it was so much more. It was that expansion I was looking for. More worlds. More hidden features. More surprises. You never knew what would happen next. Would this brick bring a star or a mushroom? What will happen if I crouch down on this pipe? You can go up into the clouds!! Every time you played, there was something else to find, another clever trick or hidden surprise.

And the graphics! No more was I running from a pixelated dragon! Everything was so well defined. The colors were plentiful, the characters had real shapes..this is the stuff I had been dreaming of!

It was not all about gaming, either. It was about life lessons.

“Thank you Mario! But our princess is in another castle!” That was awesome. That, my friends, is how you learn coping skills. That’s how you learn to handle disappointment. Put your kids in front of Super Mario Brothers and let them play their little hearts out until they think they won, and then those lowly mushroom retainers appear with the bad news and your kids will have learned one of life’s greatest lessons. Disappointment sucks, but you must go on! I taught my kids how to play SMB at an young age just so I could let them know early on in life what if feels like to have the rug pulled out from under you. It comes in handy later. “I know you completed the entire project on time and you did a great job, but I think I want you to write me a ten page essay, too.” THANK YOU MARIO! BUT OUR PRINCESS IS IN ANOTHER CASTLE!

You just can’t beat a video game that’s not only fun to play, but gives you a harsh dose of the realities of life to boot.

I still have so much love for the 2D side scroll games. In fact, I prefer them over today’s 3D games that tend to be more about art than gameplay. I’m more interested in finding secret rooms and hidden weapons than I am looking at my heroine’s perfectly formed tits.

Which brings us back to zombies and Left 4 Dead. Yes, gameplay and graphics have come a long, long way. I sometimes just stare in amazement on what’s on my screen and think back to my days of playing Pong or Odyssey or Atari and I’m sure my mind then could never imagine what video games today would look like. I love Left 4 Dead and games like Halo because they are, more or less, Adventure. But with zombies instead of a dragon that looks like a duck.

That I can slay my dragons with someone else is the best part of today’s gaming. I get to go on my adventures, peeking in dark rooms, trying to find new weapons, and Todd gets to shoot everything in sight. And there’s always, always that lesson of our princess being in another castle.

Also: Great blog post on retro gaming here.

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elsewhere

Review #119, Michael Jackson , and my yearly ode to John Lennon on the anniversary of his death.

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I suppose this is a continuation of my “What is twitter for” posts.

I saw an ad for a book called The New Influencers. One of the books praisers (obviously influenced by author and new influencer Paul Gillen) says:

“If you haven’t immersed yourself in blogs or started one yourself, ‘The New Influencers’ can tell you what is popular, what type of blogs work, and what kind of impact they’re having across the consumer and corporate worlds.”

In other words, he will tell you how to start a blog simply for profit. He will tell you how to figure out what people are talking about and write a blog specifically about that and then promote it enough to get a company interested enough to advertise on your blog or maybe even pay you for writing it.

It seems so disingenuous to start a blog about a specific subject that you might not have any interest in, just to make money. It seems like, well, spam. It’s as bad as those “pay per post” bloggers who get cash to write single blog posts about specific products. If I go to a blog and see a few paragraphs where a link to the same exact website is provided five or six times, I know what I’m seeing. I know the whole damn thing is nothing more than an ad and the blogger is nothing more than Billy Mays selling a Bedazzler. He doesn’t care about the Bedazzler. He never uses one. He just wants you to buy one because that’s how he puts dinner on the table. He may try to sound passionate about his Magic Putty, but everyone knows, there’s no passion in putty. Billy Mays tries to convey passion by yelling. A pay per post blogger tries to convey interest in the product they are hawking by linking it ten times in one post. She tries to come off as if she really, really loves writing about time shares in Alabama, and damn it, those links to every page on the Alabama TimeShare Company website prove it.

I know, I don’t have to read it. So I don’t. But I wonder who does. I wonder who reads those advertisements disguised as blogs and I wonder who reads emails about Viagra and I wonder who is following the new Social Media Experts (capitalized, of course) on twitter. Mostly, I wonder who is reading books about Thought Leaders and New Influencers and thinking they have something wise to say about gathering enough virtual acquaintances to use your blog or your FaceBook or Twitter to sell yourself to them. These people are the new shysters, the new hucksters. They are standing in front of the three ring circus of the internet, bringing in the crowds who want to see the bearded lady who is no bearded lady at all, but Billy Mays in drag. They are this century’s get rich quick artists, and there are people who hang on their every word, seeing every new phrase and made up word dangled in front of them like some kind of sparkling pot of gold. Monetize!

I don’t know why I have such a visceral reaction to this newfangled social media. Maybe because I see everything I love about the internet being squeezed so hard to try to fit them into marketing niches and tightly defined spaces identified by how much money they can make that the heart and soul are being juiced right out of them.

I started my first blog in 2001. That was when you would say the word “blog” and people would think you had something caught in your throat. There was a certain joy in blogging and reading blogs then. No one had figured out a way to “monetize” them. No one was paying someone for throwing links into their posts. People were writing about what they loved, what they believed in and what amused them. What happened with blogs is going to happen with every new form of media. People will say “Flickr was more of a community before they made all those changes.” They will say “Twitter was so much fun before the social media experts took over.” “Facebook used to be about college kids hooking up.” “This used to be fun.”

Yes, people are still writing about what they believe in and twitter still has poop jokes and Facebook will still help you find that long lost high school friend. But the noise level has changed. As soon as people find a way to use something as a marketing tool, as a capitalist venture, they will swarm in and change the face of it all, and it will be ugly to everyone except the people who are in on the money making.

Makes you wonder, though. Who buys those get rich quick books? Who clicks on links that are obviously ads? Who robotically follows someone who calls themselves a thought leader and social media expert? Who calls a 1-800 number to buy Magic Putty? Is someone really sitting there reading a guide on how to make money in blogging or pouring over pages telling them how to turn their tweets into gold or their Facebook contacts into piles of cash?

Here’s what you do. I’ll tell you for free. You get as many contacts as possible. You add blogs to your links list whether you read them or not. You follow every possible person on twitter and friend everyone who has a Facebook and do whatever it is you do with LinkedIn and all those other places. You just gather hordes of people who have no idea who you are or what you are selling but you shove your links down their throats and scream over and over again about what you’re selling and eventually you’ll make a few dollars and you’ll feel like a social media expert yourself and then you’ll write a book about it and sell it to people just like yourself who are looking to become social media experts so they can sell their grand ideas to other people…..

Right. It’s like a circle jerk of late night tv commercials.

I know I’m never going to make money off this blog. I know I’m not going to make money by reviewing my entire music collection. I’m not even trying. People keep telling me to open an Amazon affiliate thing and put in Amazon links to all those records I’m reviewing. No. It’s just not worth it for me to spend the time putting those links in for a 45 cent check I’ll get at the end of the month because someone decided to give Steel Pole Bathtub a try. I’m writing about the records because I love writing about music. Because it’s fun. I don’t want to monetize. I don’t want to thought lead. I don’t want paradigms or synergy or whatever the hell it is the “new influencers” want me to shove up your ass every time you read my blog or click on my FaceBook (which I haven’t clicked on myself in months).

Yea, I know. There are people who want that stuff. There are more people who want to figure out how to make money off each new big thing than people who don’t. So of course, the rule of the internet goes here. Don’t follow them. Don’t read those blogs. Don’t buy those books. Don’t click those links. And I won’t.

But the best thing about the internet is that I can use my blog to bitch about things I hate. It doesn’t matter that only a few people will read it and there are no ads within and I’m not using this as a means to exchange my social resume with anyone or get someone to read my book on how to write a book telling people how to make money off of writing books about nothing. It doesn’t matter that this is one big, rambling rant that I haven’t even proofread because it is what it is, and it’s not anything else.

Beware the money makers who want to show you how to make money. They will, you won’t. Unless, of course, you learn how to be a new influencer. By buying a book written by one of the new influencers.

The internet: a circle jerk where only half the people get off.

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