Friday Cup of Coffee

This is sort of me talking out-loud here people, so feel free to interject.

I have been web logging for more than a month and a half and I’m just wondering, what happens now? Where does this baby of mine go from here? I’m not going to get paid for taking my clothing off, that is strictly reserved for teenage girls.

What is my angle?

Im not expecting any great deal of praise for my efforts, but I can’t stand still for long, I have to move forward and make this thing a special place like I said I was going to in my ‘early days’. I want to have a blog that inspires, that informs, that reaches out to people and makes them feel connected.

I have broken down and bought that How to blog for the posers book by Rebecca Blood. I feel like an ass for doing it, but it might actually be a good read, so why not burn the $12. (Note to self: write book on blogging and get on the band wagon) (Note to self: Title the book Note to Self and pat self on back for ingenuity)

Unrelated topic.

My father is British. He has, as it were, English teeth. His teeth are a celebration of a history of bad personal hygiene and faulty genes. It’s not his fault, his country was unaware of such advances as fluoride, or toothbrushes with bristles. Be that as it may, I have inherited those total bastard genes and those total bastard genes have given me teeth so weak that every time I went to the dentist they found a cavity. No, I’m serious, every single time. So, until I was 18 I had to take fluoride at the dentist to, in theory, strengthen my hereditary tooth weakness.

It wasn’t the fluoride that rubbed me the wrong way, I could appreciate the dentist wanting to foster the strength of my teeth through all means available, but it was the flavor that eventually got to me. My dentist only had one flavor. That one flavor, much like the one ring, was evil. That one flavor was Pina colada. I would like to meet the man behind that fluoride flavor and tell him the stress and sorrow that that horrific little taste did to me. Not that, if given the choice, I would have wanted another flavor to become so disgusted by the thought of it still puts shivers down my spine. Pina colada is a disgusting flavor on it’s own, but put that flavor in a small child’s mouth, a child I might mention who had never had a pina colada before, and you are creating an adult who would bite his own arm off than even fain interest in that alcoholic drink.

I am damaged goods people. Damaged goods.

Site for the weekend:
The New York Public Library’s Image Gate. This site is by far one of the most amazing accomplishments on the internet. See for yourself. My favorites Union Square, Mohonk, and Telephone.

The Thinking Machine


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