Let Me Digress

Kathryn Hore - Writer

Category: Archives (page 1 of 15)

Bye Bye Borders. (Oh, and A&R.)

Apparently, internet killed the retail bookshop. Yeah, there’s probably a song in that somewhere, but for those of us not that way inclined, it means something else entirely.

First off, it means the end – probably, unless the administrators are miracle makers (and sometimes they are, though mostly they’re accountants) – of one of Australia’s oldest bookstores, Angus & Robertson. One of New Zealand’s too. And Borders, the big, previously US behemoth, though these days the Australian chain was completely separated from its US former parent. Not that that stopped all this happening less than twenty four hours after the US Borders announced it, too, was going down faster than the Titanic at an Iceberg convention.

From memory – though don’t forget my memory is a fickle beast which runs its own agenda – A&R’s parent, REDgroup, bought Borders in Australia a few years back. When the US chain was first stumbling and trying to drag itself up from its financial knees, so looking to rid itself of overseas interests. Angus itself had stumbled already when REDgroup bought and saved them too. There’s been a lot of stumbling in retail bookselling of the bricks-and-mortar kind these last few years. Collins went kaput some time back also and had to do some fancy financial footwork with franchisees for the brand to survive.

So of course, what with all these retail booksellers struggling and falling and recreating something like that scene from War of the Worlds by collapsing all over the place into metaphorical rubble, everybody points the finger at Teh Interwebs as the culprit.

And fair enough, the shift to online shopping, particularly with books, probably is the bookshop retailer’s version of this seasons Big Bad.

But.

It just ain’t that simple.

And I say that as one who has been buying books online for years.

(Yes, Borders, A&R – it was me! I did it! Well, me and a zillion others, anyway.)

No, not that simple. See, it’s not like the internet just popped up yesterday and we all went, oh, wow, cool, let’s all buy our books online. It’s not like older industries from music production to white goods retailing to old school media haven’t all been complaining about those bloody interwebs and their newfangled ways destroying everything once held dear, like their massive profit margins.

Change isn’t coming. It’s here. It turned up on the doorstep bags in hand, put its toothbrush in the cup by the bathroom sink and stuck its boots under the bed years ago.

I’ve been buying books online since Amazon first learned to sit up by itself and giggle, way back in the 90s. I still remember the incident that turned me onto online book shopping. The banning in Australia of the brilliant Alan Moore/Eddie Campbell Jack The Ripper graphic novel, From Hell. It wasn’t banned long, a handful of months, after some customs joker took offence at the graphic manner (it was a comic book, so, you know, the graphics were kind of necessary) in which the Ripper treated one of his victims. Yes, dreadful historical detail that. We should censor history as well.

Fortunately the banning was quickly overturned, but not before I had done what any free-thinking, independently-minded, modern adult faced with a ridiculous ban against a book she wanted to read would do: I bought it online from the UK, where it wasn’t banned.

Ah, the memories. The nostalgia. The satisfaction of screwing over the self-appointed censorship-obsessed morals-police.

Anyway. Being the long term online book shopper I am, I could have told A&R and Borders that they’re online bookstores were pretty crappy and that saying a book is in stock and can ship straight away means you really ought to have it in stock and be able to ship it straight away – like to get it to me overnight. Australia Post can get me any other bit of mail overnight, for the most part. I think I could have given you book guys two or three days.

Only you never could. You always had to order it in from overseas. Which was rather silly, because I could do that myself, from overseas based online stores like the Book Depository, and get it much cheaper while I was at it.

Once upon a time, Borders had *it*. I mean, really had it. When they first opened down there in South Yarra, they were open to midnight and they had a huge range of just about any title you could think of. Aisle after aisle, row after row. You could walk in there and it didn’t matter that maybe they were a little more expensive, they were just about guaranteed to have what you were looking for, no matter how obscure. And if you weren’t looking for anything in particular? The browsing was guaranteed to turn up something you had never thought of before.

It was grand.

It’s been years since they were like that. They became just another bookshop and as we’ve all seen of late, just another bookshop ain’t gonna cut it in today’s new world order.

Except, of late, just these last few months, I discovered what I thought might be their new way. eBooks.

See, being an eBook lover in Australia is a wonderful, frustrating experience: It provides all the fun of buying, downloading and being able to read the book in an instant (much like what walking into a bookstore was once able to provide me, except with eBooks I can do it in my pajamas, I can do it before I’ve even got out of bed, or at 3 in the morning, or on the train with my fancy mobile device.) It also provides all the fury of finding the book I want in the eBook store, only to discover that because of that bloody anachronistic territorial copyright thing it is not available to Australian readers.

I mean, really, publishers and booksellers of Australia. If you want me to go download pirated books, then you’re certainly going about it the right way. But if instead you want me to buy your books legally – you know, pay for them, full price and all – then all you have to do is MAKE THEM FREAKIN’ AVAILABLE FOR ME TO DO SO.

So how about we strike a deal – you make them available for purchase, and I will purchase them. Because otherwise I’m donning the tri-cornered hat, eye-patch and finding a parrot to sit on my shoulder.

Right, where we were before I tangoed down tangent lane?

Ebooks. In Australia. And the lack thereof. Once again it comes down to range. Back catalogue. Stock. And that’s where it actually does get simple. It’s not about whether or not you can compete with online sellers in a physical world on price. It’s about whether you can provide the product that people want to buy – if you can’t, you lose.

I thought, when it came to eBooks, that maybe Borders could.

Let me give you an example. Last year’s Miles Franklin winner. Truth by Peter Temple. I’m reading it now, in eBook format, purchased from Borders and read using the Borders app on my iPad. It’s great. But I can’t get it from Amazon. Not in eBook format. Not for the Kindle. I don’t know if that’s because Amazon don’t give a damn about increasing their meagre Australian content, or if they just give publishers such a bad deal it doesn’t make sense for Australian publishers to sell their eBook products through them. Probably both.

Either way, as an online bookseller, Amazon are shite at servicing the Australian eBook market. They either can’t or don’t or won’t.

Borders in Australia did. Or could have. But now they won’t. And that’s a loss.

I will miss Borders, because I had grown to hope their eBook store might become what their physical bookstores once, long ago, had been. A shop with range. With decent back catalogue. Somewhere I could go to buy the books I wanted.

Because in the end, it really is that simple. As a consumer, I want to buy your products. I really do. But for me to do so, you have to make them available to me first.

‘Till next, folks…

Kath

So, anyway.

I’m kind of over opinions.

No, it’s true, really. Everywhere I looked in 2010 there seemed to be opinions. Some of them were interesting and good (i.e. the ones that I agreed with), and some of them were horrid, narrow-minded tripe (i.e. the ones I didn’t agree with.) Because that’s the way opinions work. Especially opinions in the media. And especially online.

For a great big interconnected world where everybody from the righteous to the right nutjobs can have their say with little more than three clicks and an anonymous online email account, we do tend to like to cluster amongst our own kind much of the time. Go figure, human nature. Quick, somebody write a thesis about it. Or an opinion piece.

Anyway. I set up this blog a couple of years back to play around with the software and keep myself amused. But I get bored quickly. And seeing as I’m not really chasing a non-fiction market these days, but rather have sashayed back to my fictional roots (hmmm, is there a pun in that, do you think?), I’m considering shifting the focus of this blog.

What’re you mean you didn’t realise it had a focus?

Humph.

See, I’m not retiring it, but I need to spruce things up a little. Need to get the site dancing.  Need to rethink what I actually want to do with it, seeing as what I don’t want to do with it is sprout a new opinion every week or two.  Something that is no doubt obvious seeing as for the last six months I’ve been treating my publicly-espoused opinions in the same way I treat my garden – if you ignore it, it will manage itself. Which should lead me to an awkward, forced metaphor about environmental weeds eating every lovely native flower in the district, only at least my garden is fertile, even if it’s only growing triffids. Which is more than I can say for this blog.

So. I really can’t be bothered with the opnionating thing these days as I’m focusing my writing elsewhere, but I do think this blog might have a place in the, well, ‘elsewhere’. Plus I need to sort out my online portfolio in a pretty desperate way. There’s some writing that needs to be drawn together. And some pretty pictures that need to be highlighted. And I did start a portfolio site just for that purpose, until I decided it was an exercise doomed to drown in the metaphorical vomit-puddle of  my own narcissism and so have left it permanently “under construction”.

Hmmmmm…………

It seems the time had come for me to finally accept that sarcasm for its own sake doth not a blog make. I need to start considering what I actually want to blog about, then blog about it.

In other words, I think I need to stop ferluking about on here and start taking this site seriously.

Yes, you can get up off the floor now. It’s not that much of a shock, you know. Smartarses.

Anyway, it’ll give me an excuse to stop forcing bazillions of words in tiny font up onto your screens, as if I have some secret plot to achieve world domination by damaging the eyesight of a handful of occasional readers who have found this blog because I once made a reference to Brad Pitt with his shirt off. (Trusies. Of all the search terms that hit this blog, “Brad Pitt shirtless” is by and far at the top of the list. I won’t tell you what the others are. I don’t want to offend the kiddies.)

This place needs fewer words with more pretty pictures. It clearly needs to be updated more regularly, but, hey, whatever. It needs to be…

… well, you tell me. Send me your emails. I might even reply. Then  let’s see what happens here in the near future, shall we?

Just don’t come running to me in six months time complaining nothing’s changed, or everything has. Don’t forget – I get bored easily. This whole project might be forgotten by lunchtime tomorrow, or as soon as the next bright-and-shiny object of distraction comes rolling past my way.

Anyway, catch you round the next corner.

Kath.

Work / Life

Oh my god, I am just so riding the zeitgeist right now.  Now, if only I could get someone to notice.

I found out about my unwittingly sharp and entirely implausible cultural awareness when I turned on my social networking media of choice last week –Twitter. (I don’t ‘do’ Facebook much. The last time I turned it on, somebody had a status message warning about <<insert moral panic of choice here>> which included the actual words “It’s true, it was on Fox News!”  I got so scared by the idea that someone would believe something on Fox News was true that I had to quickly log off before my brain exploded.)

Anyway, there was a massive string tweets showing up in the feed about Go Home On Time Day (okay, most were from a notorious beserker-tweeter with a reputation for reducing complex issues into simplistic platitudes, but spread amongst her diatribe there were tweets from considered thinkers and identities of repute too – I don’t just follow fake politicians and porn stars on Twitter, you know.)  And there were more than the usual few stray links to an article in The Age* as well, plus a bunch of others waxing lyrical about wage slaves being exploited.

So seeing as I’m one of those wage slaves, I figured if that wasn’t a call to blog, then nothing is.  (Not that the ‘nothing’ side of that equation has ever stopped me before.)

See, of late I’ve written a longish feature about just this very topic.  I interviewed a handful of high status women I knew in high status jobs and produced a studied article with some actual real content and all.  Trusies.  I wasn’t even sarcastic, not even once!  Here, go and read it, proof that I can write something which isn’t pure sarcasm over substance, after all.

And of course, I’m sure you all remember my blog post about job satisfaction from a few weeks back, because there’s no chance you’d miss a single word that ever appears up here now, would you?  (Though on the off chance one, or two, or all of you have, here’s a link.)

Basically, I’ve just been banging on about this very topic to all and sundry for aeons.  And now there’s been a flare up in the mainstream media about it.  See.  Zeitgiest.  QED.

Now that the rest of the world (read: mainstream media) have caught up with me (the mainstream media would be all very threatened by me, I’ll have you know… if they knew I existed.  Oh, and if I had a readership of more than three), I clearly need to point out just exactly where they let that point fly right on by.  Which is Australia does have an embedded culture of long working hours – that is, it’s a deeply entrenched part of our working culture we can’t even see to acknowledge, let alone question – and the reasons why are not really so simple as they may seem.

So why do we wage slaves do it, then?  Yoked to our desks, sweating out the best years of our lives under the rule of the boss, chained and desperate… (hmmm, this is starting to sound like that *other* blog.  Um.)  Well, for starters, some of us like it.  (Look, I promise, this really is not the other blog.)  That is, we actually enjoy our jobs.  We like what we do.  It’s fun.  It’s challenging.  It’s interesting.  And we’d probably prefer it if you didn’t characterise us as wage slaves without will, reason or choice in the matter.

In other words – we choose to work said hours because we are enjoying ourselves doing it.

But it’s not so simple as that.  Because Australians are on average reporting as highly stressed, time poor and struggling with the hours they’re required to work, even if they do love their jobs.  The vast majority of us working more than a forty hour week – and that includes commuting time, Mr. and Ms. Employer, I’ll have you know, not just the time actually spent in the office – would like to work far less hours.  And then there are those working even fewer hours who would actually like more.  But they can’t get more.  And we can’t get less.

Don’t believe me about the significance of this?  Go read The Australia Institute’s latest missive. I mean it.  It’s important.  They found that actual working hours matched preferred working hours for only one fifth of Australian workers.  That means around eighty percent of us are not working the hours we’d like to, and yup, for more than half of us, that means working too much.

Even better, go read their related 2009 report as well.  That’s the one that points out that we work on average more than six weeks per person per year of unpaid overtime.  You know, far more than we receive in annual leave entitlements.  If that doesn’t get the shivers running down your spine, then you’re clearly not part of the Australian workforce.

Um.  Sorry.  I seem to have got lost in a sea of statistics.  Apologies for that.  I didn’t mean to grab you like a panicked woman drowning grabs a volunteer lifesaver, determined to drag you down beneath the waves with me…

… oh, okay, so I did mean it and was only pretending not to know how to swim, but that lifesaver was particularly good looking, and anyway, you need to hear this stuff.

Human beings need to have a purpose, projects to care about, something meaningful to work on.  But somehow – no, scratch that, lets not mince words, there’s no ‘somehow’ about it – thanks to our capitalist, consumer-driven post-industrial-revolution society (what? Am I letting my lefty political leanings show, or something?) we seem to have equated all that is meaningful with all that is paid.  So we prioritise our paid employment over our unpaid activities, our free time, our exercise time, our friends and family time, our volunteer time, our rest and relaxation time.

Here’s a live example (entirely without ethics approval) – I could get out and exercise more, if I gave an hour at the gym the same priority as a business meeting with the General Manager.  But I don’t.  It’s hard enough to get a slot in the GM’s calendar as it is, frankly, and my personal trainer doesn’t have the power to sack me if I don’t keep up with my exercise regime.  My physical health might suffer, of course.  But it’s more important to succeed at my job.

Well, that’s what my behaviour is suggesting, isn’t it?  By prioritising work meetings over exercise time, I’m saying my paid work is more important than my health.

Of course, my skewered priority system is reinforced and enforced by the social expectation and working culture that demands any other potential claim on my time get consumed by my paid work, like my career is the forever hungry title character in a Korean monster flick.  Fact still remains, if I go to the gym instead of meeting with the GM, I wouldn’t do well at my job, and then I might not have a job, and my house might be repossesed by the bank, and I might end up on the streets being stepped over by those who skipped the gym to go meet with the GM.

Like I said, it’s complicated.  But don’t let me hog the limelight.  I’m not the only one here.  Yes, I mean you, at the back, and over by the side, and right in front.  All of you.  Just what are your every day time choices and behaviours suggesting about you?

Go Home On Time Day is November 25.  Participate.  Read.  Inform yourselves, darnit, because if you don’t you’ll end up relying on the likes of me (well, okay, probably not me unless you’re one of the three regular readers who have actually stuck around through this blog’s hiatus – hi mum! – but definitely others like me) to inform you, and you won’t know enough to critically analyse their opinions and make up your own mind, and that’s just a bit sad, really.  Beccause whatever you do, make sure you think about this.

And make sure you understand that participation in a single day doth not a revolution make.

Time to go home now, lovelies.  Go on, then.  Go on.

Kath

* And yes, a handful of tweets and a piece in The Age does constitute the zeitgeist these days.

Oh, look! Pretty pictures…

Okay, so maybe not so pretty.

I’ve been tasked, of late, to gather some spooky pictures together.  No, don’t ask me why, life is just weird like that sometimes.  But it did get me thinking – I do that sometimes – as to just how subjective something like “spooky” can be.

After all, a friend was saying to me just the other day that she won’t ever watch The Human Centipede because it sounds terrifying.  Whereas I know I can’t watch it because I couldn’t stop laughing the moment I first saw the stills and a laugh-out-loud reaction would potentially put off other cinema goers.  Mad scientists and body horror is great for a gross out, but scary needs something more, and spooky is another thing again.

So, who’s interested in stripping off and jumping in the crowd-sourcing spa with me?  You tell me – what spooks you?  And more importantly for my current purposes – what of the below would you classify as a ‘spooky’ photo…

‘Till next

Kath

(P.S.  All copyright to me of course.  So, you know, if you go pinching any, at least let me know about it so I can bask in the knowledge my photography is worth stealing, or something…)

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

..

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.bloody wordpress theme formatting grrr grumble still won’t work.

TGI… oh don’t start that again…

Heellooo…

Is there anybody out there…?

Yes, it is a tad echoey in here these days, isn’t it?  But at long last I’ve figured out why they say don’t put your blog into hiatus.  Why, if you’re going to blog, then you should just damn well blog.  It’s because if you don’t, or if you’re an irregular every now-and-then (read: when I can be bothered) blogger, like yours truly has been of late, then your readers will all shrivel up and die, like vampires left for too long out in the sun.

Luckily I don’t depend on this blog for income or audience share or professional profile building or any reason other than my own facile amusement, then, hey?

So how you all been then (those three of you who are still here)?  Miss me dreadfully, did you? 

Nah, me neither, but it’s polite not to point that out in so much detail, you know.

Anyway, I’m not going to go on about being busy again, as if I were the only one in all the worlds who ever took on more than she could get her back molars grinding around.  And nor am I going to go on about my perfect sense of narrative timing, which was to postpone regular blogging (well, what passed for regular blogging around here) right about the time the odd obscure event or two occurred that might otherwise have provided good blogging fodder.  You know, like Australia’s first female Prime Minister, a federal election fought on image not substance, a hung parliament and a minority government.  Because that’s what blogs are best for, don’t cha know – adding even more ill-informed and trite commentary to already media-saturated issues, ah bless.

What I do want to chat about today, in the fine age-old tradition of blogging throughout the centuries, is a trivial conversation I just had in the lift here at work.  Yes, there’s nothing like a universal topic of shared human interest guaranteed to draw the riveted attention of the rest of the world to one’s blog, after all.

So there I was, standing in the lift with my extra big cappuccino and toasted cheese sandwich, with my purse feeling far, far lighter than it had been on the way down, because a basic coffee and sandwich cost enough to bankrupt a small pacific island nation around here, when the chap in the elevator with me suddenly says:

“Is it Friday, yet?”

And because I’m just the sparkling wit you all know me to be, I managed to stumble out a: “Huh.  I wish.”

Yes, scintillating repartee, as you can see.  You probably had to be there.  But anyway.

He then proceeded to tell me, in that jokey way of two strangers trapped together in a tiny space when one is one of those raving extraverts who don’t know how to be silent, about how his eye starts to twitch around Wednesday mornings, gets worse on Thursday, and by Friday he can barely see.

Then we got to his floor and he stepped out of the lift, much to the remaining lift-travellers’ relief.

Actually, that’s not at all fair.  He was a very nice chap and was just joking around to make amusing conversation, which he succeeded at, and he made me grin while we shared a common moment of corporate life everywhere – the shared desperation that it be Friday soon.  What’s more, making one grin is always a nice thing for a stranger to do, so he brightened my day in that little way, and doesn’t at all deserve for me to turn upon him my natural tendency to make smartarse comments about everyone and everything I see.

So my bad.  Just slap me silly and call me a very naughty girl.  (Oh go on, do it, please…)

Right.  Where were we, before the badly-veiled sex references took over this blog (again)…?  That’s right.  The common experiences in all offices everywhere of everyone wanting it to be somehow magically Friday every day of the week.  (Even if that might tend to defeat the purpose just a wee bit.)

See, you may recall, but a handful of months ago (possibly about the same time this blog started to show serious signs neglect*), I shifted day-jobs into a full-time, five-day-a-week, in-the-office, wearing-a-suit return to my corporate roots (no, don’t make any dirty puns out of that, please.  If I can restrain myself, so can you.)  Now, there are a variety of reasons I have done this, not the least of which being they are paying me damn good money to come into an office five days a week, and so I will therefore come into an office, and I will even not were jeans or other items consisting primarily of denim, when I do so.  Hey, I’ll not even wear my Docs into the office if you pay me enough, that’s how serious I am here.

But regardless of the money, or the diverting work, or the nice office colleagues, I still find myself one of the many who are yearning towards Fridays.  And I find it interesting that so many of us who otherwise enjoy our jobs do so.

I mean, if we were all totally fulfilled by this Monday to Friday life, would we be actually waking up in the morning and asking ourselves “is it Friday yet?”  Would we be discussing Teasy Thursday (the day that sticks out her leg and hitches up her skirt, waggles it around a bit, flashes a tad of garter and flutters long, long eyelashes, but still keeps you wanting and waiting for at least another twenty four hours) in the office tea-room, or Hump Day Wednesday (hmmm, no dirty jokes, I said), in the lift wells?

No.  At least, I don’t suspect so.  Feel free to tell me I’m wrong.  I mean, I am talking specifically about those who would otherwise say they enjoy their work here.  People who do love what they do.  But then the great big megafauna sitting over there in the corner of the room starts to grin and asks his pointed question, you know, the one that says: “yes, but would you be doing this, if no one was paying you?”

Ummmm… So would I be doing what I do when I go into the office five days a week just for the love of it… ummmm…  ummmm… no…

Oh, I’d be writing if nobody was paying me.  I write for free all the freakin’ time.  Just look at this blog.  But the exact tasks I’m employed to do on those five days a week I come into an office, regardless of the fact I enjoy what I do?  Well, to be honest, no.  No.  No, I wouldn’t be coming in to do it if I wasn’t paid to. 

I’m doing this because I want to pay my mortgage, and my electricity bill, and keep food on the table, all at once.  I’m doing it because I’d like to maintain the lifestyle to which I’ve become accustomed, and while it’s hardly that of Jamie Packer when bored, it does involve the odd trip or two to the opera and a meal at the local Chinese take-away maybe once or five times a week.

I’m doing it because I haven’t found a way to make the stuff I want to write pay enough to support all of the above just yet – but I’m working on it, and the plans are in place, my wonderous online chickadees.  This is a transitory measure, a mid-way point as I set up the future according to my own cunning plans.

So that’s why I’m doing it.  But what about you?  Why do you fall into the TGIF trap..?  And do you plan to stay in it forever?  Or like me, do you have A Plan in place?

Because one last note, my less-than-devoted disciples.  Human beings need to feel productive to be happy.  We need to be doing something useful or working towards something useful.  But don’t believe them when they tell you that working five days a week to be able to pay your mortgage is the only way to live a productive and happy life.  Because they’re lying. 

At the risk of overly simplifying a couple of centuries of post-industrial revolution economic history, this five-plus days a week, eight-plus hours a day, working thing is just some shit somebody made up once.  There’s nothing natural to it, nothing right to it.  It’s an entirely arbitrary practice.  It means nothing.  And yes, I am aware of the conservative economists and business lobbyists writhing over there in the corner and screaming in pain at my daring to say such out loud, but as far as I’m concerned that nice, obliging megafauna mentioned earlier can just go sit on them.

There are other economic models we could consider, and many of them make a hell of a lot more sense than the way we currently conduct business and construct our society do.  This is one of my favourites – the UK’s New Economics Foundation (for not all economists are weird conservative types, I’ll have you know) and their call for reducing the normal’ working week to 21 hours

That’d shake things up a bit, don’t you think?  And frankly, I’m all for a right good bit of convention shaking.

Right.  I’m back.  I’m not dead yet.  And with any luck I’ll find something else to rant about before the next week is out…

‘Till then folks

Kath

.

.

* You may, or may not, be pleased to know I self-censored here.  I actually wrote this very funny, rather dark, one-liner joke about neglect of children… but then figured child abuse jokes citing two year olds with black eyes+ are the province of bad breakfast radio hosts and conservative politicians, neither of which I have any aspiration to be, and indeed, would think I should need a damn good dose of anti-psychotics should I somehow ever become.  So I made a decision there was bad-taste I wasn’t prepared to indulge in (yeap, who wudda thunk it?) and censored the self and cut the joke. 

Hmmm, but even still, while I’m not prepared to own the joke, I’m not entirely comfortable with the self-censorship thing.  I guess I just don’t have what it takes to be a shock-comic prepared to go to any lengths for a laugh.  Ah well, there goes yet another fine career I never had any inclination to enter into anyhow. 

+ Note, though, self-censorship or not, I still ended up citing the most disturbing image associated with the said censored joke. I’m not sure if this makes me a hypocrite, or just a post-modern player of words.  Okay, okay.  So I am sure, and it’s clearly the former.  *sigh*

« Older posts

© 2019 Let Me Digress

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑