[Kzyxtalk] Not your butt monkey. Sorry.

[Marco McClean]

Daney, Tom T., John R., etc.:

Email, like radio, is not a telephone that rings a bell in your house 
and demands your attention, and it's not a pair of Jehovah's Witnesses 
knocking on your door, nor is it even a smelly young goof in dreadlocks, 
with a big happy pit bull, outside the grocery store, asking you for 
three dollars or a lift to Arcata or a cigaret. It's more like a book in 
a giant library. If you find that you don't like a certain kind of book, 
or a book by a certain author, or it's the wrong color cover for your 
taste, or the title is a swear word you got your mouth washed out with 
soap for saying when you were five, what's forcing you to read that 
book? You /know/ your head will explode. Pick up the book or not, then? 
And you keep picking it up, and your head explodes, so... when it grows 
back later I guess you don't remember what happened last time. Maybe 
that's why. I never thought of it like that before. It must be like when 
Wolverine was shot in the brain at the end of his origin story and then 
healed --of course he healed; he can heal from an atomic bomb!-- but he 
forgot everything but his sense of something unfair and unpleasant 
having happened and his boundless rage. Or maybe it's like Guy Pierce in 
/Memento/. Or, and this is my theory, it's a weird addiction that you 
can fight, in yourself, but you have to want to enough, and that's the 
problem, because that's exactly what addiction fucks up.

And no, I'm not going to band together with you to figuratively tar and 
feather someone you don't like and run him out of town on a rail, nor 
even stand with you on the corner and snigger when he passes by with his 
burlap sack of potatoes, nor exclude him from the cool kids' table in 
the cafeteria, nor drive three hours to San Francisco to kick his laptop 
of the table and shove my chin out and waggle my index finger in the air.

To answer your question, John, I don't care for some of the things Zeke 
writes, and I like other things he writes. He's a writer, an old, lonely 
writer with painfully bad teeth and no way to pay to fix them, much less 
travel walking distance in your direction to cause any harm to you at 
all, even if he wanted to. Unlike most of you his posts to the 
discussion listserv are just a tiny part of what he writes; I think he's 
wasting his time here, but so am I and so are you. When we have 
something better to do, we all do it, and come back later and 
hypocritically bitch some more. Or condescend, or whine, or proselytize, 
or punch ourselves in the nose and blame everybody else, or whatever.

Speaking of which, busy now. Show tonight. Bye.


-- 
Marco McClean
memo at mcn.org
http://MemoOfTheAir.wordpress.com