Redux

Your beloved host (that’s me) has emerged in Los Angeles (that’s here) wearing a tracksuit (that’s fine.)

Ryan Oakley

We’ll have to see how this goes.

The previous version of The Grumpy Owl died of neglect. That’s a sort of fancy way of saying that it had outlived its purpose and I just could not be bothered to give any fucks at all about it anymore. Not only that, the whole thing became constraining. Keeping records is fine. Having to deal with comments on them five years after the fact is annoying. Just having them laying around, all over the internet is sloppy.

So why bother again?

I don’t really know yet. The best answer is that it’s grumpy owls when it’s Grumpy Owl Time. I’ve looked and I’ve found no sort of social media that was enjoyable as blogging was (when it was enjoyable) and all of them seem, well, more than a little evil. Like Twitter is a nazi dump where one can’t even peacefully watch baseball without being called a “mangina” by the president. Facebook is some decayed geriatric suburb on the edge of town, overrun with history, its once clean streets filled with a howling, not thw wind but the blocked out, unfollowed screams of the crazy relatives of your crazy friends. Worse than that, it’s a patronizing piece of shit product that supposes human emotions, which smarter people than Zuckerberg have filled libraries and music and art attempting to articulate, can be reduced to five fucking cartoons. That’s what it calls “meaning.” And Snapchat? What am I? Some sort of highschool parking lot lurker? Shall I buy a Trans Am and a trenchcoat? I’ll leave that Snapchat shit to the kids.  (Like eating Tide Pods.) I don’t mind Instagram. It has sufficient levels of vanity, at least. There’s food there and lots of pets so that’s something. But anyone who ever said that a picture is worth a thousand words had never scrolled through thousands of pictures. Turns out that a picture is worth a cartoon heart. At best.

Also, I’m doing some shit these days. Working, going back to school, exercise. That sort of nonsense. And some it requires some sort of organization. (Like these fucking tabs – Jesus, why did we ever agree to that?) So I want to keep track of myself and my online life a little bit, center it a little bit, and this, for some reason seems like it might help.

It might work. Might not. Whole thing could vanish like the last whole thing.

We’ll just have to see. And if you, like me, somehow found your way back here, welcome, I guess. I can’t promise anything so I won’t.

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