rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,


Taking a few hours to dissipate some of the accumulated tension which my late displeasure with the world has induced, I had occasion to indulge in utterly trivial things. The utterly trivial is often maligned, but it has its uses. I might have done a bit of reading, were it not for the fact that all my utterly trivial reading matter has been used up. I might have sought triviality on the Internet, where it is undoubtedly abundant, but I've spent too much time in this chair recently as it is. So, I had recourse to my other source of utter triviality. My other source of utter triviality is, of course, television, and thus I repaired to the big box in the living room to see what I could find that might be sufficiently mindless to distract me from my unaccustomed choler, and yet possessed of some degree of charm. This can be tricky. Mindlessness is never difficult to find on television, but charm is an altogether different matter.

With luck, one might find an old movie, or a documentary about some quaint custom or institution now vanished from our lives in all but the faded images on the screen. One might even find an episode of Viva La Bam, which, while not the sort of thing commonly associated with the notion of charm, does in fact display and oddly twisted form of that particular quality. I take special delight in observing the unflappability of the long-suffering Phil Margera, who manages to retain a dignified equanimity even as the lunatics who run the asylum create mindless chaos around him. Now that is a very special kind of charm. Phil reminds me of Margaret Dumont.

Alas, the good ghost in the machine failed to manifest itself tonight, and I was reduced to channel surfing, enduring bits and pieces of such things as Bravo's Battle of the Reality Show All-Stars, In a Fix (a home renovation show virtually indistinguishable from others of its ilk), and reruns of Conan O'Brien. Well, OK, Conan's self deprecation does have some charm, but not of the sort for which I was in the mood. Realizing that the costly stream of programming being sucked into my house by Comcast had failed me, I went outdoors to look at the sky. The moon had gone, and the stars, though bright, lacked the power to cheer me. Night, both cricketless and cloudless, was curiously unengaging.

I thought for a while, attempting to dredge some memory, or to find in my surroundings something to capture my attention, to serve as a distraction from the lingering emotional dyspepsia. But I remained unfocused. I watched the reflection of a porch light up the block play on the spinning turbine surmounting my roof, and for a moment it almost reminded me of something, but the inchoate image quickly left my mind. There was nothing I could see in my small world which I could connect to anything large, nothing in which I could perceive any small meaning that might be a fragment of some greater meaning. Orion followed baleful Mars across the dull sky, and all I could think was that I was growing uncomfortably chilly.

And so I came into the house and wrote four good-sized paragraphs about failing to be even so much as briefly distracted from my dismal mood. I couldn't even make myself be mindless, and that's one of my greatest talents! Some nights are just doomed, I guess. Feh. I need a change of some sort. I think I'm going to dig up some of those old, unfinished long posts I rescued from Sluggo's hard drive and see if I can do something with them. I've found that when the present insists on being obnoxious, it's sometimes possible to kick its ass if you get a running start at it from the past. At this point, I don't know what else to do.

I experienced further disappointment tonight when I discovered that Google's main search no longer searches weblogs. That function is being moved entirely to their new blog search. Formerly, when I did a Google search on my user name, my journal was always the first result. It was easy to find, as I wanted it to be. Now, searching my user name only, on blog search, it fetches five links to what it calls "related blogs," including somebody at Blogger with my user name, a Russian Journal at LJ with the user name blind_flying, two LJ users who use Flying Blind as a journal title, and another person at blogger with the title "life while flying blind." My journal is not there, and the rest of the results fetched are all taken from journal content, rather than user names, so I didn't find it there, either. To find my stuff, I have to use advanced search and enter my url, or I have to use my handle, rejectomorph. Maybe it's time to invest in a rename token.

The worst thing, though, is that journals will no longer show up in a regular Google search. This screws up my summoning posts. I have some backdated posts which contain the names of people I'd like to get in touch with, the intent of the posts being that, if those people do a Google search on their own names, they will find those posts and thus find me. I've had some success with this in the past. Now it won't work with a regualr Google search anymore. What are the chances that anybody will do a blog search on their own name? Not high, I'd say. Google has pissed me off.

There are still a few residual bits of LJ and other journal and weblog sites in the regular Google cache. Among them I found this. It's a review! I don't think I've ever been reviewed before, except briefly, and only at other LJs. I never actually expected to be reviewed from off site. Too bad I haven't been writing anything worth reading lately. I feel as though I've had company drop in unexpectedly, and the house is a mess. Yeah, and me writhing on the floor in mid-conniption. I get the weirdest feeling that, any day now, I'll be turning into Norma Desmond.

And that's my second old movie reference in this post. Time to shut up.

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