I wonder why that is. I gotta get my whole e-mail/newsletter/blogging/personal space/social netowrking site/twitter thing down, man. I gotta get this twitter thing going, and hook it up with my wikipedia, and get my blog in line with my e-commerce, and archive everything so it's searchable, and definitely up my SEO, because i'm feeling like a damn troglodyte, man.

I do know I like sending e-mail newsletters because they're like going to somebody. This Open Salon thing, this feels like writing on a rock out in the desert, hoping somebody'll drive by and discover me. That's what it feels like. 

I gotta get better with all this. I gotta pull my Salon thing together with my  Cary Tennis Books thing and my twitter thing and all my musings.

Uh, yeah. Dude. It's time to write your newsletter. 

Oh, yeah. In a minute. I'm writing my Open Salon thing.

Oh, wait. Got a text here. I'm being texted at. I gotta text back. I'll speak to you in the physical universe at another location when some digital representations of time units have accumulated. OK? This present moment is stretching too thin. We're concerned about breakage. 

there's magazines piling up. I'm taking the times, the wall street journal, fortune, poets and writers, the writer, writers digest, and the nyrb. they're piling up. i should hire somebody to read them all and do podcasts so I could listen to what I thought I was reading. Plus there are novels to read.

I don't think we're wired up properly for this session. There's a microphone missing somewhere. 

You get what I'm trying to say? It's not like I'm having a breakdown, it's like I'm trying to match up the incongruity with some nonsequitorial riffs of my own. Like what key is this?

No problem. Sometimes you get like this and you just go, OK, I'm gonna clean my room.