Since I’m blogging daily for #NaBloPoMo, I thought I’d resurrect one of the most ancient forms of blog, which I will arbitrarily but accurately call The Bucket. You open an edit window during your work day and occasionally dribble in whatever fits into a bucket.
Here is the terrible truth of that approach: everything fits into a bucket. This is not a strategy that guarantees quality.
What amazes me is that people used to read this kind of thing on the regular. Everyone had their favourite buckets, some checked daily, others weekly. Some you’d forget about for months at a time until one day you’d think, “Hey I wonder how so-and-so is doing?” and then you’d have an entire afternoon’s worth of reading. Random thoughts, dippy jokes, melodrama and politics, all poured into a bucket and stirred around.
Just so we’re clear: it was fantastic. Thousands of us, all dropping into each other’s lives, catching little streams of someone else’s thought, someone else’s experience. Children just born, children untangling speech, children in elementary school, children learning to drive. Faces aging delicately, sometimes with near-explosive speed. Deaths, divorces, a bat mitzvah. Feuds and affairs. And above all else, words pouring over us all, in blogs and comments, in emails and chat. If you missed out on the blogging internet, that strange hiccup between AoL CD-roms in the mail and the social media stratifications of the twenty-teens, then I don’t what more to say.
That’s today’s entry: the bucket. The rag ends of thoughts snipped off and thrown in.
A clickbait headline tells me that “Kate Jackson turned 69 and she looks different than she used to”. I don’t need to click through three sites and several pop-up ads to land on a picture of someone who probably isn’t Kate Jackson to know that she probably looks different than she did forty years ago. Tell me that Kate Jackson looks frozen in time. Tell me she’s entered the larval stage of her growth. Tell me Kate Jackson strapped rockets to her legs and smacked her head on the moon. That’s how you bait my clicks, internetters.
SPOILERS FOR LAST NIGHT’S WALKING DEAD
Rick spent the entire episode dying, only for him not to die. A helicopter showed up? I stopped watching this show when Negan bashed in Glenn’s head at the start of season seven. Maggie confronts Negan about it and it only took, uh, two and a half seasons? What - why? What have these people been doing? Sitting around playing an old copy of The Last of Us? Why is this show so determined to be so terrible?
SPOILERS FOR CASABLANCA
Rick doesn’t die in Casablanca either. There is no death for Ricks. The camera just gives up on them.