Perception, etc.

Perception, that melodrama of the Internet. It's replaced "Gone with the Wind" and "Days of our (endless) lives" with instant gratification, justification, money-making and general all-round mayhem. Contemplation takes too long. Instant reaction? That'll do. Next blog?

But the Serious Blog Writer has a problem with all this. They're serious, you see. They demand you take the time to understand their point, ala William Saroyan or Ernest Hemingway (odd how you never had to spend much time thinking about the points Mr Saroyan and Mr Hemmingway were making). Why does no one write in the style of Franz Kafka or Milan Kundera? (Not that I'm complaining, mind you...) These intense bloggers all pick intense, obscure or obscurely-worded writers, and... Totally miss the point.

But that's serious blogging for you.

It's a bit like serious photographers. They spend a fortune on camera gear, and take snapshots. A very intelligent chap (he's a doctor, currently specializing in Retirement) I know switched from a multi-thousand dollar camera to a multi-hundreds compact. His pictures are actually better. I think the flash on his old camera cost more than the camera he currently uses.

Once upon a time I knew a lot of Jimmy Page wannabes. The best of them, he died from a heroin overdose, used a moderately priced Spanish guitar. I'll never forget walking into the kitchen of his shared bedsit, as he sat on the counter, waiting for the tea kettle to boil, playing Purple Haze on his old, beat up, classical guitar. It was one of those moments that could never be captured on YouTube. He was never intense. His playing was languid. He was brilliant! The intense ones would sit in front of my (gas) fire, smoking joints and debating the merits of this or that guitar, this or that guitarist, or this or that style. I put up with them because they supplied the joints. (Oddly, joints were cheaper than booze. I can't recall any of them supplying anything like a bottle of booze to the ongoing debates.) Mind you, there was a time when Saturday afternoons would find me at a friend's downtown rental, smoking joints, drinking beer (that I, as the almost sole money-earner, supplied) and pretending to understand Frank Zappa and Leonard Cohen.

I also remember the "owner" of the flat deriding me for not supplying the beer, because it was the mortgage was due. I never went back.

I once won a fairly large joint simply by watching Frank Zappa's "200 Motels", unaided by illegal pharmaceuticals. All of it. I needed a beer when it finally got to the credits. (If I'd known about Andy Warhol's impossible movie ... The one where he simple read the overheard remarks of teenagers, I think I would have demanded my challengers watch that instead of supplying a largish mellow-filled cigar. I have never had the courage to discuss what I saw in that movie. And now I can't remember. Blessings do come in a variety of forms.

I'm not sure I can follow on from that. And the Mrs is making a pesto pizza, which will be ready in about 5 minutes. And Mike Holmes is on the telly in 12.

Night, night. :-)

Carolyn Ann