Archive for March, 2009

ALLDERBLOB day: get thee to a dumpster

Saturday, March 14th, 2009

As we near the fourth anniversary of the day formerly known as St Patrick’s day, March 17, we acknowledge with some solemnity that things have been quiet around the ol’ blob lately.

Too quiet.

Our loyal readers (hi mom!) are asking, what is up?

Fact is, we’ve been reflecting lately.

Fact is, we received a letter some time ago that got us thinking. Who’s it from? Let’s just call them “anonymous.” The letter kind of knocked the wind out of us, if you want to know the truth.

We’ll post the letter, but we want you, our loyal readers (hi, casinoblackjack17!) to know we aren’t blue about it. It’s true the letter has us rethinking the whole blob thing, but that’s okay, right? There will always be Facebook.


Anyway, this is what we fished out of the ol’ mailbag a couple months ago. This is what shut us up, and shut us down. Read it for yourself:


You know what? Everything you do is garbage.

I mean this in the nicest way possible. I’m just stating the facts. It’s not just you, either. It’s everyone. Utter crap, what they do. I’m thinking of Yamasaki, the architect. You know, the World Trade Centre in New York? You know, 9/11? Garbage. It all turns to shit in the end. So why bother? Yamasaki should have left well enough alone after he put up that piece of shit, Pruitt Igoe. You know, the poster-child for social engineering gone wrong?

Le Corbusier would be proud

Le Corbusier would be proud

The original Yamasaki building to undergo controlled demolition?

But he should have been embarrassed.

But he should have been embarrassed.

I’m thinking Marcel Duchamp had the right idea. No, not his first idea. That first one was interesting, all right. I mean, it got people thinking: take a piece of crap (or a crapper, as the case may be), turn it upside down and sign someone’s name on it, et voila: it’s art.

R. Mutt wuz here

R. Mutt wuz here

But Marcel’s second idea is the one I’m thinking was right: it may be art, but it’s still garbage. Just play chess.

I can\'t define it, but I know garbage when I see it.

I can't define it, but I know garbage when I see it.

Look, I know you mean well. I know you think you can have an influence on the world, in some small way. I know you like the fact that googlers turn your work up in odd ways, like when the search for “proclaimed March 17” finds your site first, or the way when Jacob Richler’s old classmates look for him they get you ahead of Wikipedia. I know you’re proud of the fact that David Frum and a bicycle are forever linked in your memorable prose.

But that’s just it. It’s not forever. It may not even be memorable. I mean, look at the World Trade Centre. Look at Pruitt Igoe. Forever? What could be more forever than a 110-storey tower or two? But today? It’s all garbage, buried at Fresh Kills or melted down at a Chinese foundry. And your writing is garbage too. Even now, it steams in the dustbin alongside the prose stylings of Jack Lakey and the forgotten antics of Case Ootes.

You will die, and your writing will be shoved into a box somewhere and forgotten. Or more to the point, your heirs will decline to pay your web host service and the switch will be turned.

One day, not even Homer choking Bart (rebranded) will remain [You say that like it’s a bad thing.–ed.].

Never mind, Jake. No offence, but why not just play chess? (Or go, if you have to be a snob about it).

Marcel Duchamp, sit down.

Marcel Duchamp, sit down.