China: Not Just Communists

One more reason to love NPR. For those of you who are in dire need of news (the kind that involves journalism), cool new music (the kind that the radio doesn't play anymore), or fuzzy lovin', look no further than www.NPR.org.

The Art of the Written Word

Writing is agony. Caffeinated.

Safari

Like any libidinous female of a certain age and political persuasion, I have a massive crush on Jon Stewart. It’s not a crush based on physicality – he’s not the sort of man I want to undress with my teeth - rather, it's a crush grounded in zoology.

I would like to hunt in the vast jungles of New York City until I find the elusive Jon Stewart. Then I will stalk this King of the Anchors until he is weary and unaware (usually right after he has gone for the proverbial kill of some old, lame Senator and is finished gorging himself on their hypocritical entrails). I tranquilize Jon Stewart! I capture him and spirit him away to my lair (but not before taking the requisite Glory Photo with me holding my ENORMOUS rifle, standing next to an unconscious [conquered] Jon Stewart). Once in my castle, I install him in an iron cage in my living room and tune the television to cable news. I ease into my distressed leather armchair, and I wait.

The Jon slowly awakens from his semi-stupor, clumsily wiping the drool from his face. The TV hums with MSNBC and CNN and Fox News. Olbermann disses O’Reilly who demonizes Dobbs who chastises Blitzer who misquotes Carville who slams Hume. The sound of familiar “debate” arouses the Jon. He hears the talking heads spewing their spin on the television, and he listens to the politicos stump.

Gradually, he begins to mock. His eyes roll. When he lays his head down on the desk in faux despondency, sarcasm drips from his mouth in a clear, steady stream. The TV shows footage of Powerful People making Important Announcements. Pretty soon, the dry humor overtakes the Jon. He is gesticulating wildly and shaking his head madly, and he rubs his eyes and throws his hands down on the desk and, exasperated, exclaims “He shot an old man in the face!”

I will squeal with delight! and clap! and giggle! and bounce up and down in my leather throne, all the while wishing that more Jon Stewarts were loose in the wild.

TheMe

From my knowledge of the blogosphere, I am advised that my weblog (if it is to be) ought to have a thematic core. Here are some concepts that I have developed:

- "I solemnly vow never to join MySpace or Facebook."
- "I am Angry at the World and I'm Going to Tell You Why."
- "My Parents Didn't Pay Enough Attention to Me Because I was the Middle Child."
- "I am Smarter Than You."
- "Jazz Hands."
- "Deux Chats Noir á Paris."
- "Another Foreigner's Zany Adventures Learning to Live/Love in Paris with Handy Restaurant Recommendations and Metro Guide."
- "What is a Word Artisan and Why Won't They Stop Looking at Me and Whispering?"


Any ideas?

This is a test.

This is a test.

A test to determine if I really want to be Out There.

On the Internet.

The other day, I conducted another test. I Googled myself. In order to monitor the information about me that is disseminating on the world wide web. And I found very little - I was buried beneath other, lesser (or Grander), me's. My anonymity felt so warm and cozy. I was safe in a blanket of privacy. There was no one looking in the window, no one watching. When the whole world, not to mention your government, is watching everyone all the time, you can imagine how nice it feels to be independent and obscure. I can disappear into a new city, a new life, a new world, and they can't follow me.

Of course, despite my lack of Google-ability, my government was the first to find me. And summon me to jury duty. I don't even live in my country anymore!

All I want is to be left alone.

Well. . . That is arguably a fallacy.
In fact, much of this blog may turn out to be fallacious.

I'm married to Bruce Springsteen.

See?
But you would never know . . .

I don't like this Internet.
I want to go back inside.