Monday, June 25, 2012

The new blogger has floggered me.

I don't like the new free blogger protocol.
It doesn't seem to understand what I want to do, or even post stuff up  for me. I punch POST and it seems to say, yuck foo! and I am somehow reduced to DRAFT again. The whole new set up is like trying to read the philosopher Hegel.
Everything is everywhere connected, but it all seems a system of electronic nuts and bolts-- making this nut want to bolt.
If it weren't broke, why did Google decide to fix blogger?
I can not use white space in my paragraph breaks, Neither can I paragraph.
Like an old addled philosopher, I finally want to "offer a cock" to the god of Google

Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Ivan's new reggae: I wonder why nobody don't like me...Maybe it's the fact that I'm ugly...

Giving up writing, for a while, I decided to take up my other trade and play guitar downtown. And already, as in literature, where you can develop enemies more often than not, you get critics. Nobody likes the fastest mouth in town, that is to say,you. And so now, switching mediums, you discover that you have an enemy on the local music scene. It's not that you're all that fast on the fingerboard, you're just loud, and damn persitent. Nevertheless, on both performance circuits, I have an enemy in either field. Hm. Does the enemy know what sort of person he stalks? Is he blind, lazy, or just stupid? In music, you know you have an enemy when simple, routine things are suddenly very difficult to do, like finding a plug for your amp, or even finding a mike.... Or somebody from the audience gets backstage and stomps real hard on your guitar case (Quite often the case is more expensive than the guitar). Damn. Playing for your supper is a lot like old time local politics, where once or twice I tried to run for office. Wow. Talk about a blood sport. It is suddenly hard to get a job in the media. You think it's paranoia... but for sure, a man with a Fedora hat and a dated Lincoln rolls down his window and yells, "The sweetest sound I can hear, Ivan, is your GO bus leaving town Nevertheless the enemy is playing with my empowerment. Artistic power, of course, always bows to financial power, but then you think you have the penetrating truth on you side. Then with the truth pointed out (The town is gone!) --everyone suddenly hates you. You, of course, have your supporting army, your own Anthill Mob, old students, fellow writers and maybe a goodhearted hooker or two. Charlie still has a sheen. But I have an enemy. What did the enemy have for breakfast today? Where does he sleep? Is he a drinker like me? Does he have a master? For years, I strove to be a master, but at Trinity College, all I seemed to achieve was a C. "The Polish mark," says my friend Stashiu. And yet, there was some slight vanity in graduating....At least from the former Ryerson Pyromaniacal Institute. And achieving standing at that institution with all the trees a wasps. "Teacher-smeecher" goads the Portuguese guy wanting to argue. And yet I have an enemy. this time it's in entertainment. I had finished a set. There had been applause, especially from the blacks in the audience. I asked the owner for a beer. He must have been a music critic, because he said "you can't have another beer. You are unsteady on your feet, and, by the way, you are smoking." Darn. I knew I had an enemy.This guy is standing on my neck, or wants to. He seemed to ignore the black guys when they piped in, "Play that funky music White Boy." Taking a line from old Woody Allen, "Some people have the insight and sensitivity of the average tree trunk. " I ask again. "Is he blind, lazy, or just stupid? Nah. Just an enemy.