For now, this page is to be reserved for free writing flights of fancy. There will be no cohesive logic or linear thingking or korrectly spelled words whatsoever on this page. Well, okay, so maybe that's an exaggggeration, but still, I'm here to tell you that from now on, as far as this new page is concerned, the sky above is indeed the limit, and I'm just going to generate as much verbiage as my little fingers can muster. The point is that there is no point. Anything goes, and goes to stay. Ain't no sunshine when she's gone. Uh-oh, I think I just got myself arrested for violating Bill Withers' copyright of (to?) that song. When he sees me in court, he's sure to give me a Withering look. I wonder if he's read Wuthering Heights. If I had my druthers I'd read something else, maybe something like Joseph Heller's Something Happened, which happens to be a good book, even if it's not the Good Book.
Sometimes you've got to ramble around in Cyberia for awhile before you know what it is you're trying to stay. Emotional incontinence meets verbal constipation. Constipatriotism is an act of treason, the inability to give a shit about what happens to your country. Sentimendacity is the embrace of sappy values, for example, an uncontrollable tendency to say "awww" when confronted by a picture of a kitty with a baby, all the while supporting a country with an endlessly expanding military industrial empire waiting to pop like Mr. Creosote, the guy who eats so much he explodes in the Monty Python movie The Meaning of Life when the posh French waiter played by John Cleese offers him a "waffer-theen meent."
Now that my wife has turned off her televisual apparatus and insists on communicating with me, I'm going to have to hang up the site again for awhile. talk to yuz later.