(Insert Clever Post Here)
An ambition I have is to write a blog entry a day. The real reason for this has nothing to do with you, Dear Potential Reader: one of the points of doing this thing is to make myself write every day, even when I might not have the energy to write something... I don't know, productive. For instance, I have a clever (I think) idea for a novel I haven't worked on this week--I haven't had the brainpower or energy, even with a light week at work, to do anything with it, and I'm actually a little brain-tired after attempting to wrap up a ficlet series I was working on with some folks--but I still managed to write about the 40th anniversary edition of Piper At The Gates Of Dawn.
The problem with this ambition is evenings like this one: I really don't know what to say. One idea was that I could just cheat, and throw in a post from the Live Spaces page that was the direct predecessor of "Shoulders Of Giant Midgets." I mean, I think one or two of my observations on the new Radiohead record or the man who is obsessed with wrapping Roy Orbison in cling-film might be worth reprinting here. (Hell, the man who wants to wrap Roy Orbison in cling-film practically observes itself, I mean, you can just link to the page or include an excerpt from his space opera, and the comedy writes itself.)
The other idea I had this evening, is that I would like at some point to write down why I think Pink Floyd's The Wall is an utterly hideous record even though I will always nurture a deep love for it. That subject, however, might be complicated enough to split a post over; it certainly could be a long post, and one could really begin to write about it by writing about how The Dark Side Of The Moon was an unfortunate success that wrecked the band.
(As if in response, Winamp's shuffle play just invoked "See Saw"; this would strike some as spooky, but it shouldn't: the Floyd now represents 1833/14509 of my digital music tracks.)
But I don't quite have that in me at the moment. Instead, I can only point you to the saga of Kim Leblanc, who apparently failed to find his co-conspirator's lucky charms.
The problem with this ambition is evenings like this one: I really don't know what to say. One idea was that I could just cheat, and throw in a post from the Live Spaces page that was the direct predecessor of "Shoulders Of Giant Midgets." I mean, I think one or two of my observations on the new Radiohead record or the man who is obsessed with wrapping Roy Orbison in cling-film might be worth reprinting here. (Hell, the man who wants to wrap Roy Orbison in cling-film practically observes itself, I mean, you can just link to the page or include an excerpt from his space opera, and the comedy writes itself.)
The other idea I had this evening, is that I would like at some point to write down why I think Pink Floyd's The Wall is an utterly hideous record even though I will always nurture a deep love for it. That subject, however, might be complicated enough to split a post over; it certainly could be a long post, and one could really begin to write about it by writing about how The Dark Side Of The Moon was an unfortunate success that wrecked the band.
(As if in response, Winamp's shuffle play just invoked "See Saw"; this would strike some as spooky, but it shouldn't: the Floyd now represents 1833/14509 of my digital music tracks.)
But I don't quite have that in me at the moment. Instead, I can only point you to the saga of Kim Leblanc, who apparently failed to find his co-conspirator's lucky charms.
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