New Levels of Needy: In which I force you to read my new “page”—


— but, let’s be honest, you’d never read it otherwise.

Would you, my collective Virginia?

There’s nothing worse for an artist stroke writer stroke lazy buttwad than labouring like ten toked-up Tolstoys over something vaguely humorous, in order to distract himself from that Mrs. Danvers voice in his head urging “Jump, little unnamed protagonist, jump! It would be so easy!”, then realizing that his feckless followers will take one look and say,

“Oh, he’s updated his Privacy Policy! Could someone shoot me in the head while I’m sleeping?”

—or something equally supportive.

What’s wrong with you guys?  Am I not paying you enough?

wix-about

Poot, snicker, Mrs. Danvers, totally.

Today started with me posting on Facebook about how I was going to go great guns on my marketing (a.k.a. forcing you to buy stuff from me that you don’t want, I did a course).

But then a page called Weird History caught my infinitely distractible eye, and a post “revealing” that cowboys in the old days of the Wild West used to rely on the culinary, and, ahem, other, favors of their fellow cowdudes when there were no gun-totin’ mamas around to, as it were, cook their breakfast.

Well, run me down with an army tank!

Cue the snarky, unnecessary comments from a couple of str8-tards (“is this trying to prove this is normal, not insane”) and naturally something about “extreme liberals”—because there’s a Venn diagram overlap between the “str8-tard” and the “conserva-tard” wedges, and those slack-jawed Dorito-munchers will cram the Ugly Sisters cookie-foot of their bigotry into any old cowboy boot they can find, glass slipper be damned.

Also spotted in the thread were the usual tired insults aimed at those who apparently qualify for the labels “femo”, “Nazi” (in its str8-tard sense of “someone who I dislike on principle”), “Lesbo” and “Bumfucker”, with “transgenders” thrown in as a free gift, as if to make it absolutely clear that these guys have been clicking the maybe later option on their own firmware updates since around Grade 9.

So there’s an hour gone already as I address each objection point by point with my gobsmacking, conversation-stopping rebuttal.  That would have been fine until—

—my computer turns itself off without warning, with a moist, mucus-membrane-y sound halfway between “snicker” and “poot”. Do computers even have mucus?

Reboot. Poot-snicker. Reboot again. Mrs. Danvers. Now the desktop icons are “large” rather than “medium”, they’re on the other screen, including one for a program I don’t recognize, and the desktop background has changed.

WhatEVERRRR! Marketing, marketing!

But first, Gmail!  I’m chuffed as all get-out to find I’ve received a response from my City Councillor to an email I sent decrying the high cost of Internet and cell phone service, and under their complimentary close that all but explicitly states, “Thanks for the laugh, go fuck yourself”, is an invitation to check out whether I would need to register as a lobbyist.

Would I like to check this out?  I totally think I would!

Now comes a merry ninety minutes as I ponder the minutiae of Toronto’s Lobbying By-law and legal definitions of conflict of interest, real or apparently real, including a wonderfully sleazy tale of the late Rob Ford and his brother, Doug, being wined, dined and tennis-matched by the president of the company that owns their family business.

This was the Mayor, you understand.   Marketing, marketing!

But first, flog my shit!  Two P.M. by that point. Galloping madly off in all directions, it’s to “letgo” I go to sell my air conditioner to help pay the rent.  But every time I complete a description so painstakingly enticing it would have you eating the eco-friendly coolant of my 8,000 BTU portable unit for your tea-time walnut cake—my arthritic old-guy fingers missing only every other letter and frantically jabbing at the wrong spell check suggestions as I type, because some vegan millennial developer has mandated, as a passive-aggressive attack on actual adults, that this all must be done entirely on my phone—the whole description disappears and is rendered as “gray portable air conditioner description suggested by app translation by Google” while I tear out my nose, ear and armpit hair with frustration, until—

—the computer turns itself off without warning. Mrs. Danvers Poot-Snicker. Reboot. But first—! Do I want my hamburger medium or well-done? Is it time to make some mayonnaise from scratch? Oh, yes. Totally.

Which brings me to you, and a gentle nudge with my toe. Pssst. Come to, my little sycophants or I’ll have to nibble on your earlobes. Herewith some insight into the behind-the-scenes mechanism that keeps this blog—afloat? Well. They say that some people always see a life-raft half empty.

But I see one half-full.


Below is the content of my new permanent

page, and here’s the link to it: Care and feeding of, a.k.a. legal stuff etc., but you can still ignore both of these then just send me a fake compliment.  

Can you believe the amount of validation I need? Seriously. But I can’t find my internal locus of control. Or the remote for the TV.  


There are certain conventions

I follow on this site, and I flatter myself that you might like to know about them.  Play along—you have no idea how needy I can get.

General:

  • I’d put you on salary to wake up every morning and click my “Like” buttons if I could afford to.
  • I use a lot of special characters, especially the “M-dash” (—),  curly quotes (“ ”) and my favorite, the right guillemet (») which I use to set off a link, now that it’s no longer those heady “I just coded my first web page by hand in only two and half months and filled it with animated GIFs of PAC-MAN” days, when the geeks waged war on the creatives and mandated that all links for ever and all time would be underlined in bright blue when unvisited, but dime-store-lipstick red when active. So I’m scared you might not notice them.
  • I also spend a lot of time memorizing the Unicode key combinations for these special characters, which I realize is about as impressive as the check-out millennial at Loblaws knowing the product code for broccoli.

Links to external sites:

  • All external links open in a new window.  Always. So get over your “pop-ups thing”. This is no longer those heady etc. etc. (see “I use a lot of special characters”, above).
  • I’m not necessarily endorsing the content of any external site.  Go there at your own risk.  But I usually approve of the content I’ve linked to, because why would I publicize it otherwise?  You know something, I just thought of that.

Copyright:

  • If it’s not already obvious, all writing on this site is my original work and is ©David Roddis, 2014-2017, except short quotes and excerpts where noted.
  • My writing is covered by a Creative Commons “Pass off this work as your own and say goodbye to answering your front door after 5 P.M.” license.
  • I even took a lot of the photographs, but not all of them. The ones I didn’t take myself I stole from the Internet. Honestly. Do I look like I have access to Melania Trump? I try to keep my weight down, but I’m still too big and unimportant to hide in a fake Egyptian urn and just jump up with a Nikon and a speedlight and snap her before she’s had a chance to Photoshop her face.
  • If I’ve stolen your image and you’re not suitably grateful for the extra notice it’s getting you, but instead are feeling all resentful and antsy about it, send me an email and I’ll apologize to you and take it down. I really will. But trust me when I tell you that I’ll roll my eyes and sigh when I do it, which anyway you won’t see.

Privacy and use of personal information:

  • Really? You spend your days off in a negligée doing “exotic dancing” on Chaturbate and you’re worried I might find out your address?  Never fear. Bro’s gotta stick together, Yo!
  • You probably have to give an email address when you comment so I know you’re not a bot. As if I care! Which reminds me, I’m still trying to fool Margaret Atwood into lending me her celebrated remote-signature machine, which I will then use to sign her name to abusive comments about Alice Munro before posting them to the Times Literary Supplement.  Let “The Divine Feud, Canadian style” begin!
  • If you purchase any of my heart-stoppingly beautiful merch, the whole shebang will be handled either by PayPal or Shopify, both of whom use the latest 4K-Ultimocryptothon technology to make sure your pre-paid gift card from Shopper’s Drug Mart is safe.
  • I never have access at any time to the personal information you provide during the purchase process.
  • Note to George Clooney:  You gave up your right to privacy when you stole my heart, baby—

—now answer the fucking phone.

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