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One of my favorite scenes from Stripes is when Bill Murray’s girlfriend complains about how he constantly plays Tito Puente albums. Murray responds that, one of these days, “Tito Puente’s gonna be dead, and you’re gonna say, ‘Oh, I’ve been listening to him for years, and I think he’s fabulous.’“A couple weeks ago I posted comments from media types excoriating Bush #41, comments that sounded suspiciously like they could be made about Bush the Younger despite the patently obvious differences between them. It's hard to take the MSM seriously as it is, but it's even harder to do so knowing they can change their tune without even admitting they are changing their tune.
In recent years, the Tito Puente effect has afflicted liberals to a stunning degree. The press corps, the liberal intellectual establishment and the Democratic Party once considered Ronald Reagan a warmongering, senile fascist. Now it’s hard to find a self-described liberal to offer anything but praise. Barry Goldwater has also been Tito Puente-ized. His granddaughter’s recent HBO documentary depicts him as a cuddly-wuddly live-and-let-live sort of guy. Hillary Clinton, James Carville and Al Franken all pony up testimonials about how swell the 1964 GOP nominee was. Younger readers might need to be reminded that the liberal establishment hated Goldwater with such a blinding passion that reason, decency and truthfulness were deemed luxuries his critics couldn’t afford.
Marsha T. Smith:
It was back in aught-three ['03] when I was reading "The Beat" by James Lileks and I thought: "well, doesn't this beat all? I can write about the mundanities of daily life and not get paid for it!" I knew I had a lot of daily experiences - or vignettes as another blogger fancily called them - and so I started my blog the very next day. I've learned that a lack of exciting experiences is no reason not to write.
TS O'Rama:
I guess my first experience of the possibilities inherent in blogging occurred shortly after receiving what is commonly referred to as "spam". Back in my day "Spam" was an unidentified form of meat, something you had for dinner as a last resort. But beginning in the late '90s it began to refer to unsolicited emails promising drugs, low market rate loans and Russian brides among other things. I was struck by the poetry of many spams, how they had a sort of disconsolate abruptness and non-sequitorness. By stringing and arranging many spam subject lines together, it seemed possible to bring some good out of what most considered a pain. I sent my "spam poetry" to co-workers and friends, but eventually realized that blogging was more efficient than sending poems to long distribution lists.
Jack "Steinway" Rogers:
I write poetry but have found to my utter dismay that my art has not yet been formally published. My first poem was written at the age of ten. It was about marigolds and was written for English class, but I was accused of plagiarism by a fellow student because it was so good. She said I'd copied it out of a book. I didn't know what plagiarism meant at the time but thought it meant the same as 'perjury'. This was about the time of the Clinton-Lewinski scandal and I was especially upset to be lumped with Clinton. Blogging has given my poems a larger audience and allowed me to explore avenues previously unexplored due to the harsh editing and selective process that most publishing houses nefariously engage in.
Sal Minelli:
I'm a liturgical turd. At least that's what my wife calls me. I complain about the abuses of language in the texts of the wretched Novus Ordure. The only problem I have with being labeled a RadTrad is most of my fellow "radicals" are far too obsequient to modern "popes", nor do most of them recognize the real article, Pope Sylvester of Hazard, Kentucky.
Bob and Betsy Reed:
I think the first time we said to each other "we gotta get our own blog" was when Betsy's friend Kathy began posting pictures of her darling cat Alex. [Turns to Besty] Remember that one of Alex 'boxing' their Boxer mix, honey? It was priceless since Alex had been declawed. We were ROTFLMAO (ROTFLOAO?). We knew our Ralphie would give us a lot of blog material, and I don't think our readers are disappointed.
Jonathon Simmons:
I've always been interested in writing. As a child I dreamt, like Johnboy Walton, of seeing my own byline. Blogging has given me that chance and I try not to take it for granted. I post nearly every day. It never gets old to see my name in print below my posts. The daily deadlines and pressure to produce has been a challenge but it's no different than what professional writers go thru every day.
Sean Reynolds:
I'm a political operative working undercover for Bob "ED" Dole. I took up blogging as a way to get my message out since it's a particularly potent form of communication with a potential to penetrate market segments heretofore inaccessible. I call it the little blue pill of the technological age.
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Sir Leicester receives the gout as a troublesome demon, but still a demon of the patrician order. All the Dedlocks, in the direct male line, through a course of time during and beyond which the memory of man goeth not to the contrary, have had the gout. It can be proved, sir. Other men's fathers may have died of the rheumatism or may have taken base contagion from the tainted blood of the sick vulgar, but the Dedlock family have communicated something exclusive even to the levelling process of dying by dying of their own family gout. It has come down through the illustrious line like the plate, or the pictures, or the place in Lincolnshire. It is among their dignities. Sir Leicester is perhaps not wholly without an impression, though he has never resolved it into words, that the angel of death in the discharge of his necessary duties may observe to the shades of the aristocracy, "My lords and gentlemen, I have the honour to present to you another Dedlock certified to have arrived per the family gout."
Hence Sir Leicester yields up his family legs to the family disorder as if he held his name and fortune on that feudal tenure. He feels that for a Dedlock to be laid upon his back and spasmodically twitched and stabbed in his extremities is a liberty taken somewhere, but he thinks, "We have all yielded to this; it belongs to us; it has for some hundreds of years been understood that we are not to make the vaults in the park interesting on more ignoble terms; and I submit myself to the compromise.
And a goodly show he makes, lying in a flush of crimson and gold in the midst of the great drawing-room before his favourite picture of my Lady, with broad strips of sunlight shining in, down the long perspective, through the long line of windows, and alternating with soft reliefs of shadow. Outside, the stately oaks, rooted for ages in the green ground which has never known ploughshare, but was still a chase when kings rode to battle with sword and shield and rode a-hunting with bow and arrow, bear witness to his greatness.