On Age and Aging (eventual edit: On Death and Dying)

This gettin' older shit ain't going away.

In an earnest effort to regain writing more (i.e. at all), I decided to start dabbling again on the interweb. (I can't bring myself to refer to myself as a "blogger" {noun} or that I'm "blogging" {verb}. Its just a shitty word thats been as overused and abused as "waterboarding," or "going green," or "pedophile.") I guess the idea was in a way sparked by that Huffington retard who was pimping her blogging book on Jon Stewart the other night, and then reinforced by reading my retarded friend Nate's food blog, but I had really been meaning to get back to it for awhile. [*sidenote- the author has nothing against retards, per se, and wants to maintain all necessary politically correct parlance. Its just that retards are, well, retarded. -ed.]

Anyhoo- I was meaning this to be a sort of continuation of the work I'd done on my old page, Rizzaks.blogspot.com, and I was even just going to cut and paste all the HTML and replace the content. To my chagrin, they've got this user-friendly idiot proof interface that, in its infinite wisdom, lets you know when there's HTML script errors. Evidentially the Rizzaks page is chock full of em, so I can't do dump with it. I mean it worked fine before... I mean, just look at it. Its beautiful. As is self promotion.

The point, if you must have one, is that I'm back to square one regarding "how to adjust page layout." What a waste of all of the hundreds of hours, gallons of alcohol, grams of amphetamines, etc. that it took to teach myself HTML. Its like when I mastered DOS on the Commodore 64 {load *fastball.exe,8,1}. Then they came out with Apples and Windows, and by the time I got to college all I could do was make a douchy animation of the 'have a nice day' face shooting himself. Actually, that was pretty awesome.

So needless to say I'm superfuckinpissed that I'm at square one in how to jazz up this informational e-log. I don't know if its from reckless destruction of brain cells or some kind of built in idiot-time-bomb, but I swear to God I can barely program my remote control anymore.

Nevertheless, enjoy the ramblings. Maybe you're bored. Or in jail. Or trapped in a fortune cookie factory. In any case, grab a loved one (not a relative, unless you must) and enjoy NY Times' "Best Blog to Make Love To."

Shaka.