you mean, like Miss Piggee?

It hasn’t been a week since Alexander Piggee ignited a fire that all but destroyed the Roseville Galleria, Sacramento’s most monster Westfield shopping mall, into which I have never set foot.  Since then, our presumptuous MainStreamMedia has been giving his name a French-sounding pronunciation, like, “Pe-jay.”  Apparently at his arraignment he corrected everyone.  It’s Piggy, not Pe-jay.  Thanks, dude. 

Well, he was tired of trying to get by on his own, at 23, so he learned how to start fires.  He’s goin’ down.  Just like the roof on the Roseville Galleria. 


Wall Street Journal reports a meeting of small business owners debating the value of Facebook as a marketing tool.  Proponents say it humanizes their business, while the rest of us agree we don’t have time for any more media.  My own issues with Facebook stem from the way it harvests your e-mail addresses to see if they match any of their members, but back to the small business owners’ meeting, where some of the participants used their smart phones to photograph other participants so they could post them on their blogs. 

I’m reiterating things you may already know.  People have been fired for stuff they posted on their blogs.  Facebook is notorious for this, as some members “forgot” they “friended” their boss before they started ranting about how their company’s policies are all fucked up.  Law enforcement used to monitor activities on MySpace, where they discovered enough stupid things people posted to get warrants to raid peoples’ houses. 

My point is that sometimes things you post may come back to bite you in the ass.  And you knew that. 


Almost exactly five years ago, my father passed away peacefully in his own home.  He worked, he built, he innovated, he accumulated, he deteriorated, and he assumed room temperature.  And in all that time, he never had an internet connection at home. 

That’s still true today.  If you mention the internet to my mother, she responds with a desire to assemble an amateur radio station with the equipment that remains shelved in the garage.  She has an FCC license, ya know. 

They never had cable TV, either.  No dish, no satellite.  TV is free.  All you need is an antenna, HD or otherwise.  My father illustrated this point rather by accident one day.  The neighborhood had been wired for cable, but the installers didn’t bury the cable very deep.  He managed to sever the cable with a shovel.  No great loss.  They have never owned a cellular phone. 

So when my father passed away, I went to my blog on journalspace and began writing what I could remember of chapters of his life.  This wasn’t the wordpress clone journalspace they have now.  This was the journalspace that lost six years of data when a disgruntled employee overwrote everything on the server. 

I posted three to five long entries about my father.  It meant a lot to me to do that.  I let others in the family know where to find it, in case they had the interest and ability to do so.  The mom wanted to see it, but she doesn’t do the web.  So she persuaded a cousin to find it, and print it, and mail it to her. 

When the package finally arrived, I was stunned to see that the cousin had not only printed the entries about my father, but had printed Every Single Entry since the beginning of time, starting with the experimental ones about beer can kites and the Frito effect.  So my mother, who has no net, came into possession of my entire blog from beginning to end on journalspace. 

I guess my point is that whatever we post may be retrieved in ways that we might never imagine.  We’re essentially talking to the press here.  We are Paris Hilton, and we have paparazzi we don’t even see. 

Somehow this ties into the bad decision I had to make on Sunday, but my good discretion tells me I shouldn’t say anything about that. 

Instead, I might say something about my sisteh, who isn’t really my sisteh, since I don’t care if it comes back to bite me in the ass.  This one time my sisteh was offering up excuses for the way she is.  I think she’s pretty normal, but she does have some inexplicable traits that I’ve always found to be disturbing.  So she says, well, she’s that way because her mother was that way. 

She was 50 years old when she said that.  I tried to wrap my head around what she said, and all I came up with was, look:  you can blame your mother for the way you are at age 50, but it’s not going to fly.  It’s not your mother’s fault you are the way you are, if you are 50.  It’s your fault.   You can keep blaming your mother but none of us are going to buy it, at this advanced stage in your life.  You are the way you are because you chose to continue to be that way.  And if you’re only 49, it’s still your fault.  You see where this is going. 

At some point, you are responsible, even if you want us to believe that 40 is the new 18. 


The barn is telling me that winter is here.  Not too far off.  I am going to be good friends with the gas company real soon.


About comdude

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