sly red fox: your new source for tangential half-musings
to import or not to import, that is the question. livejournal is apparently on its way out and wordpress has a nifty tool to import your lj entries if you so wish. i wonder if i should conglomerate all my past blogs to this present iteration, just like it crosses my mind every now and again to maybe bundle together all my half filled (if that) unlined journals for the sake of continuity. it’d be interesting to see the evolution of my posts. well, if you can call it that. much of it is verbal diarrhea and whining, but it is what it is. every now and again there’s a glimmer of intelligence and wit.
i wouldn’t exactly call my blog the mecca of the internet, either. i got the stats to prove it. mostly i think i write for my own purposes, be it boredom or the need to vent or the desire to capture beautiful moments on ‘paper’. i guess that’s what i never really understood about people who blog for a living. i can’t imagine pouring myself into words day in and day out for money…i seriously have a hard time wrapping my mind around the concept. then again, writers, poets, and artists do it all the time, but i imagine many of them do it mainly for love of the expression. because they need to. most probably don’t make all that much money anyway. i’m projecting here, but eh.
what about all those authors who write trash novels, though? you know, the candace bushnell, ‘devil wears prada’ types who glorify shopping as a woman’s sacred rite and perpetuate stereotypes and social expectations of women in chick lit books. or james patterson, who very clearly even in just his bio is all about whoring out his thriller/mystery books (dude, lay of the CAPS. you’re killin me, smalls) and trying to convince you how entertained you’ll be by reading one. i wonder if they ever lay awake and wonder if they’ve sold themselves out, if they legitimately consider their work to be artistic fictional genius. seriously, can you really call yourself a creative artist when you’re prattling on for chapters about this season’s jimmy choo’s and the steadfastness of the missionary position? that’s like popping a tv dinner in the microwave and calling yourself a chef.
wait, okay, i realize that i was being judgmental just now. i suppose it’s not entirely fair for me to rag on trashy novels. cause really, every kind of entertainment in life has its highs and its lows. war and peace/divine secrets of the ya-ya sisterhood. casablanca/the wedding planner. filet mignon/hot dogs. the new yorker/cosmopolitan. michaelangelo’s sistine chapel/velvet paintings of elvis. sometimes we just want the lowbrow, high calorie, artificially sweetened guilty pleasure. i mean hell, i can throwdown on a hot dog competition any day, and i always take a trashy magazine on a long flight as part of my airline ritual. alright bushnell, you’re off the hook. for now. just don’t go around calling yourself an artist.
in any case, if i were to rank my personal blog on a scale of michaelangelo to velvet painting, i would say it’d fit in somewhere between van gogh and a velvet painting of sad clown.
