Intention

How much of my bad writing and clueless blogging is intentional? Answer: a lot of it. I think it’s funny. I could blow Gator Ade out my nose over some of my contrivances. In short, I crack myself up. Take my previous post… please. I named it Dave Rogers’ New Puppy and indeed I did carry the news of Dave’s doberman forward to the half dozen readers of my circle who don’t overlap his readers. (When I went back for the link I was also tickled to note that I’d gotten the possessive apostrophe in the right place so I wouldn’t have to edit the post - a bit of recursive reflection to which blogging will eventually lead you if you’re not already possessed by the tendency). My post was really as much about Dave’s coverage of Dean as it was about his puppy, but I was making an obscure point… wtf, you can figure it out.

For the last 35 years I’ve written with the grad students of the future in mind. My uncle has a framed bill of lading from a Phoenician merchant vessel on his wall. Not a lot of written matter survives from that period so even some business-centric bullshit is remarkable. That’s what I’m counting on. In the year 4006 someone will pull an old 40 GB hard drive out of the rubble and using data restore techniques found only in the finest Universities - I’m thinking RIT here, endowed as it has been by the prescience of corporate sposnors of the type who would continue to optimize an investment in film while the world around them has gone digital… and didn’t those boobs just lay-off like 15,000 workers? But I digress. The RIT (not to be confused with the dye makers, although by the looks of some of the faculty there may be a certain overlap there… people dipping their tresses in great vats of the stuff… at RIT some post doc will sit down at a lab bench and patiently sort the bits from the mouse turds in the freshly excavated hard drive from the dig at White Cedar Farm. I have an arrowhead collected from the knoll above the lake northeast of the house that the archeologists suggest is about 8,000 years old, so a 2024 year old hard drive isn’t too much to imagine.

“What’s the point Frank?” I’m asking myself and the reader who has wandered this far with me is obviously asking the same. If I could remember the point, do you think I’d be maundering on like this? Just lighten up and let me wail, okay?

Oh yeah, a lot of this rank shit that you would call funky writing at it’s worst is actually intentional and this post is a clue for that grad student in the distant future who will be peeved that she’s faced with an analysis of simply more puerile bullshit from the age of over-information. But blogs are literature and I can prove it. Just not right now, okay?