Goodbye Again

My heart has an endless capacity to break.

With apologies to Robbie Robertson and THE BAND, farewell to the Wacky Wild Woman:

Boards on the window
Mail by the door
What would anybody leave so quickly for?
Melissa
Where have you gone?The old neighborhood just ain’t the same
Nobody knows just what became of
Melissa
Tell me, what went wrong?Was it somethin’ that somebody said?
Mama, I know we broke the rules
Was somebody up against the law?
Honey, you know I’d die for you.

Ashes of laughter
The ghost is clear
Why do the best things always disappear?
Like Melissa
Please darken my door.

Was it somethin’ that somebody said?
Honey, you know we broke the rules
Was somebody up against the law?
Honey, you know I’d die for you!

They got your number
Scared and runnin’
But I’m still waitin’ for the second comin’
Of Melissa
Baby come back home.

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Adult Language

In an effort to avoid writing anything myself, I have been, um, researching the blogging community.

I have been reading a type of blog that may be described as “adult oriented.” Actually, many of them are adultery oriented. What they are is sex blogs. Blogs about sex, often described quite explicitly.

So far I haven’t looked at any sex blogs written by guys. Being a guy, it might be enlightening to learn what others are thinking and doing in this arena. On the other hand, call me old-fashioned, but when it comes to sex I am mainly interested in women, and what they’re thinking and doing.

And gosh, it’s surprising what they are willing to tell, under cover of internet anonymity. Some of them are married and having affairs, which they are keeping secret from their husbands, naturally, but for some reason they just have to tell everyone else in the whole world about it, about how their lovers don’t have much to say, but wow can they get everyone’s pants off fast once that motel room door closes! And the gymnastics that people can do with only limited equipment — a double bed, a 3-drawer chest, a Danish modern chair. Let me tell you, it’s really been an eye-opener.

I believe some of these things happen in real life, otherwise how to explain the occasional motel-room shooting? And there may be a portion of this filthy stuff that I’ve been researching that has been written with, shall we say, some poetic license. All I can say is thank you Lord, for these naughty girls and their nasty stories, imagined or real.

That’s not what I mean. I mean to make some kind of intellectual comment about the longing that so many of us have to be recognized, to touch and be touched, to reach out and say I’m here, won’t somebody hold me, know me, take me. This isn’t just a chick thing, either, although male bloggers may be more in touch with their feminine side than regular dudes. Hey, I’m not ashamed.

Some of the messages I read are so plaintive that I want to get right in my car and go wherever I have to go to comfort the poor, horny, lonely writers. And some are so swaggeringly in-your-face and self-assured that I wonder why the women bother to put their inner thoughts on the internet.

Most of you reading this will not remember the CB radio craze of the 1970’s, either because you weren’t born yet or you were high at the time and have blacked it out from your memories. But there was a period of years when otherwise normal people were using these little low-power two-way radios, mostly in their cars, I think, to talk to complete strangers at random. Big-time high-power amateur radio operators (hams) had been doing this since the thirties, but CB radio was for the masses. It was relatively cheap and easy, and you didn’t have to get a license to transmit. So God knows how many good buddies were gettin’ their ears on and chatting with anyone and everyone on the air. As a society, we must have been too uptight to run numerous popular magazine articles about this fact, but my guess is a lot of those conversations revolved around s-e-x. Anonymous, safe but oh-so-tantalizingly real-time.

CB radio died out, mercifully. Now it’s back to just truckers warning each other about where the Highway Patrol is, and the rest stop hookers. But now we have blogging. No, it’s not the same thing. Blogging is a much more noble, intellectual pursuit. Downright dorky, the unenlightened might say. But if the number of raunchy blogs that I have stumbled upon, completely by accident and without intending to, is any indication, there are a lot of amateur pornographers out there.

Of course, an infinite number of monkeys taking an infinite number of meetings and making an infinite number of notes to themselves would eventually conceive, script, fund and produce “Deep Throat.” Sure, there’d be some false starts, such as when they cast a monkey in the Linda Lovelace role, but sooner or later there it would be at the Pussycat Theater, up in lights: Deep Throat, an Infinite Monkey Production™ (leave it alone – I own Infinite Monkey™). Given this, maybe it’s just a coincidence that I keep coming across all this sexy blogging.

Or maybe not. Here’s what I’d like to know: Does writing sexy stuff, uh, get you off? When you write sexy stuff and put it on the internet, are you hoping someone will read it and get off? Would that be fun for you? Or are you (hypothetically, of course) thinking that some day someone will track you down and actually do sexy stuff with you, based on your naughty blog? In the words of the great Cecil B. DeMonkey, What’s your motivation?

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How I Want You, Part 2

I wanna want you in all the best ways.

Lift your heart and make every day your lucky day. Hold you safe, Sweet Thing.
Sing you sweetly, love you softly, drink you deeply. It’s what I want and I think I will.

But maybe I will take your heart that you give so sweetly, and maybe I’ll lock it up, that precious, beating thing, where it never will be seen.

Maybe I will seek until I find, search until I destroy.

And maybe one day you’ll find the doors are locked and the house is empty.

I want it to be real. I want it to be right. I want to want you in the best possible way.

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How I Want You

I want you in the worst way.

I want to take you away from your friends, get you out of your comfort zone, make you think about me. When you’re walking, driving, reading, talking, I want you thinking about me. I want to know everything right now. I want to talk all night and all next day, explaining me to you, learning you, studying you. I want to know all you’ve done, every thought you have. I want to go over the books, the movies, the places, the things, the music you love and I want to love them too, and make you love all the things I love, make you see the beauty, feel the groove, laugh at the perfect rhythm and rhyme. I want to take you to my special places and I want them to be your special places. I want you in the worst way.

I want to know who you’ve fucked and I want you to deny them, deny them all, forsake them for me, and I will forsake all mine for you. I want to own your body, touch you freely whenever and wherever I want, and I want you to want it, want me, arch toward my hand, lean into my arms. I want you to need only me, desperate desire without reserve. I want you in the worst way.

I want you to call me from work and say you want me, that you just can’t wait. I want to call you at night and talk dirty, and I want you to like it. I want to wake you in the morning by sucking your toes, licking behind your knee. I want you naked in my arms, naked in my kitchen, naked in my dreams. I want to give you all I have and take all you have. I want you in the worst possible way.

I want to fuck you all afternoon on a hot Sunday, and I want you to fuck me back, vulgar slut, beautiful angel, crying, laughing, moaning. I want to take your heart, your mind, your soul, and never give them back.

Because I want you in the worst damned possible way.

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L7

I am a square.

Just the title of this post makes me a square, coming as it does from the lyrics of Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs’ 1965 frat-rock classic “Woolly Bully.” Let’s don’t be L7, come and learn to dance. What kind of a dork would quote that barnacle-covered old relic?

I guess the term comes from the Beatniks, and it might not have meant literally “square,” but rather it might have been meant to describe someone who is squared away in life, all neat edges and perfect alignments, no disarray, no eccentricity, thus no creativity. Of course, there’s a good chance the Beats stole it from the blacks, who have always had better slang than white people in this country, often incubating entire sublanguages for months or years before white kids find out about it and “mainstream” it, which means “bring it to the attention of marketers.”

Wherever it came from, it evolved to mean dull, old fashioned and out of it. Square.

I used to be painfully shy. Now I’m just shy. There was a time when social situations caused terror to well up in my stomach and chest, and almost come out my mouth. I was insecure and unworthy, and I thought everyone knew it, could read it on me. I thought it made them look away and try not to let me know that they knew. But I knew, and their kindness added to my humiliation. I looked with longing at the ease with which the normal people would laugh and talk and touch each other, making plans for after school, after the game, after the dance, and I had no way in. I was isolated and afraid, a perfect candidate to join a gang. Little boys walkin’ away from it all, so cold.

I retreated into music. Huddled over the old kitchen radio after everyone had gone to bed, listening to whatever came through the static. Walking the city, the tiny six-transistor radio pressed to my ear, decades before Sony gave us the Walkman, in splendid, rockin’ isolation. Touching no one, no one touching me.

In ninth grade, as if my pain and alienation had been judged not horrible enough, I got my first pair of glasses. Black plastic frames. The stems hooked over and around my ears, like my Uncle Dick’s glasses. I wore them only when my parents or the optometrist were there watching. Fuck them. I never knew Buddy Holly, until it was too late. It would be years before John Lennon would come along and make them a hip fashion accessory, and make it cool to read books and write poetry and know about Neitzche and Buddha and painting, before I could say it right out loud: “Fuck them.” That’s when you fall. When you fall into a trance, sitting on a sofa playing games of chance.

In my shyness I learned to play guitar, by myself in my bedroom, until I dared to come out and show myself. Shielded by my guitar I could join all those people, the ones who were better than me, who pitied me and ignored me. I still couldn’t be of them, but I could be with them. And I found that if you don’t act shy, it is as if you are not shy. No one knows. No one cares.

You’re not hip. You’re not square. You are merely the word made flesh. That’s the thing to do. Get you someone really to pull the wool with you.

Thanks and apologies to Van Morrison, Paul Simon and Domingo Samudio (Sam the Sham).

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Tax Time

Isn’t this cute?
The children want me to pay my taxes.
I guess it’s not painful enough that I am expected to fill out complicated forms every year, ratting myself out to a government that can barely even fix a pothole. What do those kids have to do with income tax, anyway? I’m sure the money isn’t going to schools.
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Everything is Everything: The Post About Comments

What’s happened here is I’ve been neglecting my guests.

OK, you are virtual guests, but I know you’re there, because you leave pertinent (and impertinent) comments. Things have happened to me lately, and my mind and my emotions have been spinning, and, it turns out, the universe is not entirely under my control. Probably these things would make a gripping story to put in a blog post, but I think not, at this time. Maybe I will figure out some way to tell it in which I am a heroic yet sympathetic yet inspirational figure. Maybe not.

But in this fast-moving world of blogging, each new post sits on top of the previous one and supplants it, and none of you will look at anything other than the top post on anybody’s blog, let alone this one, so, since I have been in a tizzy and haven’t participated in my own Comments section for a while, you’d think I don’t care about you. And nothing could be farther from the truth. (Before I go on, will someone please write and tell me if I should have said “further” instead of “farther?’ And what is the rule governing that usage?) So to dispel all concern, I will now move the previous two Comments sections into this post, and participate. The first five are for the Ketchikan story, and the rest are for “I’m Not Quitting.” Here we go:

theresa said… It’s a good story; brusque and dirty, but rich with honesty and compassion.
Fri Mar 11, 09:01:13 PM 2005

Jones sez… Thank you sweetheart. If only I were dirty and rich.

MPH said… “Cry to Me”, what a great, great song.
Fri Mar 11, 09:45:21 PM 2005

Jones sez… Solomon Burke has a new album, and it’s bithchin’. Who’d a thunk?

HeroineGirl said… Thank you for your comments on my Heroinegirl Blog, the memoirs are the best reading, which are to the right of the blog( at the top)
Thanks for stopping by,
Heroinegirl
XXX

Sun Mar 13, 06:41:42 AM 2005

Jones sez… HeroineGirl’s story is utterly heartbreaking and inspiring. Go read it.

jericmiller said… well told, larry. it does what you want it to do.
Sun Mar 13, 08:18:25 PM 2005

Jones sez… This is the Professor revealing himself. But I am flattered. I owe you a valium.

L said… I tried to comment on this a couple of days ago, but gave up in utter despair. I was going to post something incredibly insightful here today, but promptly forgot what it was after the comment box took so long to come up 🙂 I think Kung Pow Pig is right…
Mon Mar 14, 06:01:37 PM 2005
Jones sez… Glad you got through the Blogger anti-comment firewall.

**And now the “I’m Not Quitting” section**

Kung Pow Pig said… It’s called exit strategy. Do not ask the president, he has no clue how to conceive or implement one.I, on the other hand, do.It’s a strangeness after you let go of something. And I won’t be deleting the blog. I left some things in there I’ll need.Good point on Blogger taking a shit for the last week. I can’t really say that the fiasco had nothing to do with it, but it most likely was the straw that did that thing to the camel.
Be seeing you.
Tue Mar 15, 06:01:30 AM 2005

Jones sez… I’m sad to see Kung Pow Pig leave us. Now he will get way ahead in life, and we’ll be sorry.
theresa said… Thank you for the forewarning. You’ll be missed when the time comes to say goodbye.As for myself, I know that my time in the blogosphere is limited as well. I’ll know when it’s time to go when I’ve discovered my reason for coming here in the first place.
Tue Mar 15, 08:12:00 AM 2005

Jones sez… OK, now I feel better about quitting. I’m just not sure I’ll ever know why I started. (Also – Hahaha — you said “blogosphere.”)

Ron Southern said… In a world where having a blog for a year or more makes you feel like you’re very experienced and where anyone who’s been writing one for 2 years or more is an old-timer, it apparently becomes the thing to do to quit or talk about quitting. It’s a high-octane burn-out environment out here. Probably that’s just the kind of people who are drawn to this self-absorbed form of talk-fest. You’re getting that lemme-outta-here bug up your ass a little early, seems to me, but I guess you’re anticipating the moment more than threatening to jump overboard soon. It can be a terrible thing to be so self-aware or self-conscious. Still, a blog can be a great safety valve, it releases some of the pressure.
Tue Mar 15, 09:21:22 AM 2005

Jones sez… It releases some pressure, and adds some of its’ own. I can only imagine how real journalists feel. I mean, deadlines! How sick is that?

Steph said… I think a courtesy last post is good blogging etiquette, don’t you? Unless you meet an untimely demise and are physically unable to post. Well Larry, glad to know you’re not quitting yet–you’ve got more blogging left in you, I know it.
Tue Mar 15, 11:53:54 AM 2005

Jones sez… Etiquette, schmetiquette. My Last Post will be for my own aggrandizement.

MPH said… Hmph. Not one mention of my role in this whole blogger comment fiasco.
Tue Mar 15, 03:27:13 PM 2005

Jones sez… I can’t mention it here. That’s what your blog is for, and you’ve covered it admirably.

Brent said… Glad to see that a good blogger is not quitting. Good blogs are rare in this sea of sucktitude.
Tue Mar 15, 04:08:34 PM 2005

Ha! Suckitude. Can I say “Suckitude, Schmuckitude?” It’s you and me against the world, Brent. Where were you when I needed a wingman?

L said… well goodness — take your time 🙂 don’t quit yet!
Tue Mar 15, 09:07:28 PM 2005
Larry Jones said…
L – I think it bears mentioning here that I commented on your
post
tonight at exactly the same minute that you commented on mine. Isn’t that some kind of sign? Do you think you and I should run away to Rio together and spend our days drinking daiquiris on the beach at Ipanema and our nights dancing like fools in the city? Or does it mean it’s time to quit blogging, for real?
Tue Mar 15, 09:17:32 PM 2005

Pops said…
Viking funeral. Only way to go. Drink lots of mead, put your computer in a boat and light it on fire as you push it out to sea.

Would make it hard to post pictures of the event subsequently, however. Plus it seems a little harsh, burning and then exiling your whole computer just to be rid of your blog. On second thought, this needs more consideration.

And the post-eating… if you hit PUBLISH and it gives you a PAGE NOT FOUND screen, then you hit BACK and you get a nice, freshly scrubbed CREATE NEW POST screen devoid of your magnum opus. So the anal retentive among us save to a Word file before we PUBLISH.

Tue Mar 15, 10:45:39 PM 2005
Jones sez… This reminds me of my own pathetic Vikings, drinking mead and trying to compete in the NFL, but I like your thinking! Will you say a few words at the ceremony? Can I wear the helmet with the big horns, or will you need it?
SJ said… I know I’m late on this matter, but the best way to find links to your blog is to type your url into www.technorati.com. It will show you all the links here.
Wed Mar 16, 01:34:27 PM 2005

Jones sez… Thank you for this tip. I tried it, and I was deeply disappointed in what I found. I may have reciprocal links on my site for people who never ciprocated in the first place.

I’m grateful to all of you, even those who do not comment, although you should. Speaking of which, it will be a cool warp in the blog universe to use the comment section of a post about comments. So be my guest.

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I’m Not Quitting Yet

I can hardly write another word without mentioning the Great Blogger Fiasco of 2005.

Especially since it is still going on. At least let us hope it’s the only Blogger fiasco of 2005. First the Comment system went down. For one whole day, clicking on the “Leave a Comment” button led down a spiral of despair, an eternity of waiting and watching for the comment box to appear. And this happened so soon after the Big Improvement! So much promise. Blogger popup comment boxes that looked like Haloscan’s, only with pictures! An easy way of reading the post upon which you were commenting, so you could stay on topic, God damnit. Maybe it was just too cool. Maybe the system got overloaded because millions of lurkers saw the coolness and came out of the woodwork, trying to comment on everything, spewing commentary until the servers could no longer stomach another pun, another clever riposte, not one more bon mot, and crashed, to save themselves.

Whatever the reason, the patient seemed dead.

The comment system has been returning to health over the past couple of days, although it still feels like it takes longer for the comment box to arrive than it used to, and whenever the delay is more than 10 seconds (it really shouldn’t be even that long, I don’t care if it is a free service), I am tempted to click on another blog, or even another site completely outside the blogosphere. And thanks for asking, yes, that word still cracks me up.

And now I am reading that Blogger is eating your posts! I’m not sure of the exact manner in which this particular technoabomination is occurring, because so far it hasn’t happened to me, but several of my bloggin’ buddies are writing that Blogger has eaten their posts. I assume this means that carefully researched and constructed gems of journalism are written in the little “Create Post” boxes, only to vanish irretrievably at some point after clicking the “Publish” button. Of course, this could just be the blog writer’s excuse for publishing bad or plagiarized writing. I don’t believe that for a second about anyone that I read, but I’m just saying, you know, it could happen.

Or maybe Blogger really is eating your posts. As I said, It hasn’t happened to me, so I can’t complain, or confirm the glitch, but I would certainly be able to feel the pain, the heartbreak of crafting the perfect post, and then to have it disappear, with no backup. The humanity.

Whatever, the effect seems to be that some blog writers are simply quitting. I don’t mean they just can’t cope with the technical failures. If there’s one thing that almost everyone knows by this stage of the Information Age, it’s that computers crash, and information is lost. We all know how to cope. Go get coffee. Reorganize your desk. Make phone calls (unless you are using a computer-based phone system). Smile apologetically at your customer and wiggle the mouse real fast for a few seconds and say “Gee, the system sure is slow today,” as you look at a screen completely filled with gibberish.

No, it’s not the inability to cope. It’s probably that some writers have been feeling guilty about all the time they are devoting to their blogs. Time that, by any normal measure, is completely wasted. The time spent putting together their posts, thinking about their posts, checking their stats, replying to comments, commenting on other blogs, returning to those to see if their comments have been replied to, or even referred to, looking upon everything that happens in your life as a potential blog topic.

A few days of the system not working right, and these folks are outta here.

Frankly, I don’t blame them. This is an entertaining pasttime at first. I know, I know, it’s a writing excercise. OK, I’ll give you that. But you could write longhand at a park bench, or even on a computer at a park bench, and not post it on the internet. If you’re posting what you did on Friday night after your last final exam, you are probably not practicing your writing technique. You are probably entertaining yourself. The bloggers I read are entertaining me, of course, and maybe a lot of others. But if you find yourself getting sucked into Blogging Madness, all but abandoning your job and your family and traveling the path of solitary obsession, well, hey, welcome to my world.

A break in the action, so to speak, is just what a lot of blog writers must have needed to come out of the ether and make another grab for that elusive je ne sais quoi that we call reality. OK, I’m getting all tangled up trying to be clever here, but what I’m saying is just that some of those whom I have come to think of as “bloggin’ buddies” (only because I read their blogs, and I think they read mine) are stopping their blogs. It’s none of my business why they are doing this, but since I have let then into my mind and heart over the past several months I can’t help feeling a little pang of regret with each one who writes that final post: “Dear friends, I can’t do this any more. You have seen the last of me here. I go now to other things, where you don’t get to follow.” I prefer Holly’s method. She just stopped writing, and didn’t even delete her blog.

But now that I’ve started thinking about it, the Final Post seems like an irresistible grand gesture. How many actors work all their lives for the chance to make an exit speech? To leave the scene and be truly missed (one imagines), while at the same time summing up the meaning of life for all who remain? What glory! I am starting my final post tonight. It may take a long time to finish, and in the meantime I will continue putting up frequent but lesser essays here, especially the always popular “What If You Were Tied Spreadeagle to the Bed?” variety. But all the time in the background I will be working feverishly on my Grand Gesture, the Final Post to end all Final Posts. Or at least this blog.

Don’t hold your breath. These things take time.

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Ketchikan

On my third night in Ketchikan I was drinking J&B.

It was expensive, because everything is expensive in Ketchikan. You’d think it was Manhattan, or Paris, if you looked at your bar tab. If you looked at the bar, on the other hand, you’d think you were in Ketchikan. The place was decorated with totems, wagon wheels and stuffed animal trophies, heads with frozen angry faces bursting out of the walls here and there. Sawdust on the floor. The owner of the joint says it’s last night’s furniture, like no one’s ever heard that one before.

The owner’s name was Jeff, and he wasn’t from around those parts. He was a good-looking guy in his thirties, five-ten, 175, sandy hair, hazel eyes behind wire-rimmed specs, two shades too pale for the neighborhood. He was trying to go native with a plaid flannel shirt and a patchy beard, but it wasn’t working. I never got it straight exactly what he was doing running a bar in Alaska, but he’d been there a couple of years, and he seemed to be doing all right.

Right around last call Debbie the waitress brought a tray of six drinks to my table, where I was sitting alone, recovering from five sets of rock’n’roll. J&B neat, water back. I asked if she was planning to join me. She told me no, that I’d been six-packed.

If Alaska had been a separate country, which a lot of the residents think it is anyway, drinking would be the National Pastime. It’s a young, rough place. A lot of rugged individuals, also known as misfits, a lot of folks who have run away from something or somebody, losers who think they’ve got nothing left to lose. The days are short, the nights are long and the loneliness blows through your coat like the north wind. So you drink. First to get warm, then to stay warm. Then to loosen up, then to keep up. All the usual reasons, only faster and bigger, Alaska-style, until the whole room is buzzed and buzzing, everyone a little stiff, a little loose, ready for anything, prepared for nothing.

Six-packing, as it was explained to me, was the practice of finding out what someone is drinking, and buying him six rounds of it. If you don’t kill them all before the ice melts, Debbie told me, you don’t have a hair on your ass. I guessed that if you do finish them, you get to be an honorary Alaskan, drunk like everyone else. I had a little extra time to complete the challenge, since there was no ice, but I was young and stupid, and I wouldn’t let my benefactor down.

She was a fortyish babe with impossibly black hair, sparkling dangly earrings and full lips. They were painted red, to go with the minidress. I’d seen her there the night before, in jeans, stalking the room. Tonight she was with a girlfriend, drinking, smoking and getting braver.

To show I was thankful she’d picked me, I downed two shots of whiskey fast, then held the third one up toward her table before hammering that one, too. After a minute the girlfriend got up and went to the bar, and I went over to talk.

I put both hands on her table and leaned down. “Are you trying to get me drunk?” My tongue was numb.

“Is it working?” She gave me a nervous smile and shrugged one full, ripe shoulder. She was wearing Ciara. I suddenly felt warm.

“Something is.”

We danced. The jukebox played Solomon Burke, “Cry to Me.” Grown-up heartbroke R&B. When your baby leaves you all alone... She put both arms up around my neck. …and nobody calls you on the phone… I bent a knee and she let it get between her thighs, the minidress riding up. …Dontcha feel like cryin’? She clung tight and pushed herself against me. Here I am, honey. Cry to me.

We were strangers, but we had always known each other, the way strangers at last call always know each other. I didn’t need her name, she didn’t want my promise.

Later, at the door, getting into our heavy coats, I remembered my three remaining drinks. “Never mind,” she whispered. “I’ve got something at home.”

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Housekeeping

I’m doing a little behind-the-scenes fixing up.
Gears
First let me say thank you to those who have put revision99 on the links list of their sites and blogs. I want to reciprocate, and I have done so in my list over there on the right sidebar, headed “Bloggin’ Buddies.” [UPDATE: The name of the list has been changed to “Reciprocity.”] I installed the “Who Links Here?” javascript on this site, trying to find out exactly who does link here, and it half-way worked once or twice, but now it doesn’t work at all. I have tried it on different computers, with my firewall disabled, at different times of day, and I get Bad Information.

So if you are linking here and you’re not on the Bloggin’ Buddies list (and you want to be), email me or leave a comment, and I’ll get right on it. The Bloggin’ Buddies list is in no particular order, so don’t get your panties in a twist if you’re not as high up as you think you should be — I add you on as you add me on. I will entertain arguments about moving your link up, especially if accompanied by bribes or sexual favors.

And speaking of comments, you should know that I am notified automatically by email when anyone comments on any post anywhere on this weblog. This means if you find an old post that you have something to say about, you can comment there and be certain that I will see it.

Oh, yeah: My new banner has been up for a week and no one has mentioned it. What do you think? Where is the love, people?

So that’s it for now. You know I love you all.

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