pinocchio versus finger puppet

I'm not going to lie to you. This is ridiculous. Not to suggest that I've ever lied here at frankenmonsterblog. Now fiction, that's a better word. Something factual happens, I strain it through a fictionalization machine (an Industrial Age, circa mid 19th century very, very British machine), then repackage the resultant glob into lots of green cellophane shrink wrap, and send it off on a truck. And I never think about it again.

But is that blogging?

Recently I read a blog about knitting and dried flowers. And thought it would be really funny to satirize it.

But, isn't that kind of mean spirited, Vic?

Yes it is. But to change my blog to The Wonders of Yarn and Dried Flowers, or some such thing (with a pink and purple interface and swirly, swirly girly font) makes me laugh. And why haven't I? WHY HAVEN'T I? What on Earth is stopping me?

I wish I could knit. And I love to sew. Don't get me wrong.

I think I'll call it Yarn Talk.

I wonder what it would have been like back in Shakespeare's day had there been computer access. Nothing else being changed. Just 1605 AD. And there are computers. Not cars. Not space travel. No other technology. Just computers. They run on kerosene. Maybe windmills. My real question is: would Shakespeare's blog still be out there today. And is that how it's going to be? Will my blingbling blog still be out there in five hundred years? Because I forgot my password/how to access it, and I'm afraid that it's just out there. Period. Forever. My only lasting contribution to this world. A fake ghetto blog.

That's about right. Sounds like me. That would happen.

I once drove somebody crazy with all of my talk about time travel.

(I'm sorry I was so ridiculous. I was just being myself. You know.)

Some of the blogs I read are people that I personally know. It all started with Winky (how many times has that sentence been uttered). Which brings me to an idea, but it would be such a rip-off on Winky, that I just can't do it.

But I will say this: impressions have been formed, people. They have. Though, again, half are people I already know. None the less. Impressions have been formed. And it's not good. Not good at all.

Just kidding.

I thought of integrating a photo of my Pinochio puppet into my blog. Just his face. I would spend some time getting the photo/lighting just right. Dramatic shadows would be necessary for me to pull it off the way I see it in my head. Or, I thought of using a photo that my brother took of a finger puppet that he had abducted from me about fifteen years ago. It's a long story, but this photo was a ransom note/birthday card. It's really harrowing as there are flames positioned behind the puppet. The flames are out of focus, but it's unmistakably fire, and my puppet looks so scared and out of it's element. But I'm afraid either of these images would limit frankenmonsterblog somehow. I mean, which image to choose? Meanwhile, human being need faces. And we'll find faces, conjure faces, look for faces even where there are none. It's the Gestalt Principle. Designers manipulate this to no end. Houses, cars, eyes, noses, mouths, headlights, windows, doors, grilles, bumpers. Kittens. We find faces because facelessness is scary.

I could always sketch something. Like a certain Ho that I know (but you do realize, Ho, that that is how I see you.) I don't know. I'm sure it doesn't matter. I'll figure it out.

Wait a minute. What the hell am I blathering about? I have no idea what I'm doing.

I felt like doing this right now. Just blogging. Like a Japanese school girl.

Ok.

I regroup. That is, I get a Corona out of my refrigerator.

Note: Blogs are public. But who reads blogs?

I should mention that I had to go into work briefly for a meeting tonight, and what nobody knows is that I was wearing my pajamas under my long coat. They're black, so my pants legs didn't give me away. Ha. I get away with wearing my pajamas outside all the time.

Right now I'm listening to T Rex.

And I'm avoiding something.

And I'd give anything in the world for a piece of chocolate.