Cheesily, I've been wanting to enter this in my blog for a few days, ever since Chatty was busted, as if I'm auditioning for the Jay Leno writing team, which has inevitably used THIS EXACT SAME LINE. And I can tell you I don't know it because I don't have a TV to watch the stuff anymore. That's the beauty of the Web - and I've finally figured out how my friend Scott knows so damn much about television and pop culture that he doesn't watch a whole lot of - is that the Web, drum roll please, provides a Reader's Digest Condensed Version of popular culture, with an outsider's analysis, and an insider's analysis, and a crazy, obsessed person's analysis, and a media analyst's analysis, and a television watching, including Web TV, single mom from Possom's Way, Tennessee analysis, and so many layers more, that you can know more about a television program from reading snippets on the Web than you can if you actually watch the show, making the next wave of the intelligensia the most ironic of illuminati - people who gain power not by leading the people through propaganda, but by analyzing easily available information about THEM, the people, propaganda they produce themselves, and yet don't understand as an analysis of themselves. As if they are walking around in a Big Brother house (from the television show, which is derived from something written by some guy, I guess. Maybe a screenwriter? Adam Huxtable?), and are AMAZED, utterly, when they get a direct mail piece the next day suggesting the prolonged pleasure provided by such and such a product, taking you back to an infantile state of sucking on something, playing with something, seeking and receiving the most basic of pleasures that you, and only you, have denied yourself, ironically, by buying into the very reflexive, Post-Modern (I feel as if I should use a trademark whenever I use this term, branded as it is, even if ONLY in academia) pleasures, escape these consumables provide. I don't know if they still exist, and if they've finally gotten it and seen the light, but I wish there were some folks recording the experience of the Polynesian cargo cults, who would worship the parachuted goods dropped by western planes, deifying, as alleged by anthropologists, items such as refridgerators. But I wonder what it must have been like when they got it, that the items weren't REALLY from some mythological being, but humans, using tools, not too separate from the tools they themselves used, as may (I almost wrote undoubtedly, but I don't have enough hubris for that declaration) be judged in history. "And for 10,000 years humans labored under false precepts hodpodged together from Euclidian geometry, Newtonian Physics, Einsteins infantile notions of relativitiy, and the Isoneurocosmos theory only partially understood by 27th century Mystophysicists." Hello, nerd boy. You ain't no metaphysical Greenspan.) be judged by history, had created and delivered the items. There is a strong argument, and I don't know if any anthropologists are arguing such, so maybe it's not a strong argument, just a Ben argument, based on my isoneurocosmos ability to step out of the maze of parametrical time and space into the fluidity ether string encapsulating all seven dimensions ounymonoia K'echtal K'kuk K'chaal, that so called primitive religions have a much greater internal sense of the allegorical and ironic and quizzical and sometimes downwrite humorous aspects of their own religion. God, imagine someone landing in Dogtown, St. Louis, Missouri and interviewing some drunk at Seamus McDaniels about the religious practices at the sacred home of Saint James. He or she, with some awareness of the weight of the history of the entire culture resting on that one conversation, would talk about baptism washing away sins (Apparently, the Dogtown tribe, at least those who profess allegiance publicly to the unifying deity of a god they call Saint James, who is, as part of a complex pantheon, only a servant of the son of the father of the universe, using tools of "spirit" power provided by a third mysterious entitity.), the transmogrification of Christ with absolutely no irony. But even if they did construct a self-aware allegory, I would be interested in knowing what happened when they got it, just as I'll be interested in knowing what the transition is like when our media fed people get it.
But I digress. Really.
I've just been thinking about the fact that much has been made about the fact that Chatty FAILED flying school, when it seems to me that the ideal recruit to crash a plane would BE SOMEONE WHO DIDN'T KNOW HOW TO FLY. Makes sense that he would know how to crash a plane if he didn't know how to fly it.
I've also been thinking lately, with this entire recent online dating experience, that it would be really funny if someone set someone up on a blind date where the person didn't know it. I thought about playing that off when Barbara came to get me on Monday, that my friends had obviously arranged for the date, done the entire profile, but I would go anyway, just to be polite, which might take all the pressure off a first date, but giving the people something to laugh about, some shared experience, before they'd even begun any shared experience.
And now I'm thinking of BED, as an alone experience, except for one fine, content black pussy named Snack
3:41:34 AM 
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