GUILT can still be a bitch after 30-plus years of psychotherapeutic "treatment.” Why should I, or anyone else, give a hoot about when and if I ever post another blog entry, or not?
Hey, cheers to those who can do it--if they have something to say and can bat over .500. A good outing used to be .750, but the proliferation of those driven to hurl (as an invective and/or puke) their thoughts and feelings to hit, and presumably stick to, the Internet forever. This drivel and detritus will surely linger and return to haunt us, or future generations. With each keystroke the blogistics add to the broadband equivalent of the Great Pacific Garbage Patch (aka the Pacific Trash Vortex. or hereafter: the PTV).
And that, bruddah, is one big, floating, turd-like mass of non-biodegradable shit. It is estimated the PTV extends over an area larger than the continental U.S. Less startling, if possible, is recent research sponsored by the National Science Foundation that suggests the affected area may be twice the size of Texas. (To fully submerge into the subject, take a deep breath, and go to:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z7rNYzSH-BA)
As with many of Man's Abuse of the Planet, this burgeoning, sinking heap of crap is all the easier to ignore, rationalize or propound a Palineque Conspiracy Theory because it is INVISIBLE. Although these days is more difficult to pull off, what within the max-magnify, hi-rez satellite snaps of what is often known as Google Earth. With the aid of twenty-first century technology it is possible to read the bumper sticker on the stern of, say, a U. S. Navy Trident-class nuclear missile-carrying submarine hundreds of feet below the ocean's surface. ("SSBNs Rock Your World," or whatever).
To make sure there are no subtle metaphors here, put it this way: One can sit at a shipboard keyboard, type out "FECAL PLASTIC"...and it can be instantly displayed on devices of every size and shape (with more on the way). But, take a dump in a Ziploc bag while afloat and toss it overboard, and the matter described by those two words slowly decomposes, eventually to morph into a part of the PTV.
For an illustration of this primitive means of flushing where no toilet is available, visit someone who lives in Aberdeen Harbor in Hong Kong. Having lived in Kowloon for a year in the mid 1960s, I somehow avoided doing this. However, since my gig involved planning a "pirate" radio station in Macao, I often rode the then-new hydrofoil, which covered the 40 miles between ports faster than the lazy ferry, a colonial throwback with its teak-lined staterooms and the most captivating fried rice I've ever tasted.
Several times a week a Piaggio P.136/Royal Gull seaplane flew The Gold Run from Hong Kong to Macao. One kilo bars of the precious metal were loaded behind our seats, for delivery under armed guard to the Portuguese peninsula’s dock, where a queue of diesel Mercedes sedans spirited off the treasure to inland Communist China. On occasion, Donn Tyler (KPOI, KMEN) and I would make the flight in the Piaggio's two available passenger seats; a quick amphibious ride, loaded with our Heist Fantasies. Thrilling trips, back then, when only one James Bond movie appearance (in Dr. No) had been released, leaping from the pages Ian Fleming's books we read in our spare time, which was abundant.
The same expedition via hydrofoil was as repulsive as our amphibious flights of fantasy were exhilarating. Hong Kong's English name is "Fragrant Harbour." The boat pulls away from the dock, yet within ten minutes, all comes to a full stop. While the vessel drifts with the tide, crew members in white “sailor suits” tiptoe on the twin foils and scrape off plastic bags of poo: excrement of landlocked boat people, they who live with no pot to piss in, nowhere to do Number Two.
No, this was not the travelogue perception of “The Pearl Of The Orient” I imagined before the reeking reality struck on my first visit to Aberdeen. But those malodorous memories of 47 years ago pop to the surface when I contemplate the consequences of millions of blogs spuming billions of words exponentially, or so it seems.
So, where is the GUILT, already? So I’ve only posted one blog this year, halfway into February, In one swoop I covered Super Bowl XLV (with a ballsy prediction that would have been close to spot on—except for some dropped Packer touchdown passes, hope for the Egyptian Revolution set to the music of a great hit from 1957, a passage from the Old Testament and the visage of St, Vincente of Lambeau.
Not only did I do my small bit towards keeping pure the Spamish Main, I spent the time that might have otherwise been devoted to more blogish blather, reading (Keith Richards’ bio Life, the riveting, revealing Game Change, slightly denting The Grand Design (Steven Hawkings’ latest), revisiting two H. L. Mencken classics, LOL with Jon Stewart’s Earth, catching up with Ripley’s bigger and better Believe It Or Not and other stuff in print and online.
While not doing such things or eating bananas, much time was spent staring at the wonderfully wide LG Hi-Def, LED wide screen, fixated on three nights of Carlos, Rachel Maddow, HBO’s Lombardi documentary, Undercover Boss, constantly amazed by Craig Ferguson, winter storms in the Other 49, Tabathas Salon Takeover, Bill Maher (Cornel West riffing in real time), Hawaii 5-0 (two episodes; research for a paid review) plus aloha/adios exits by Olbermann, Roethlisberger, Mubarak and Rep. Chris "Craigslist" Lee--to name just a random profusion of live and TiVo’d TV that I viewed between the many short naps required by old and jaded dudes,
From the 72-degree Kaneohe night, off this goes. Where it stops, nobody knows.
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