“Junk journalism is the evidence of a society that has got at least one thing right, that there should be nobody with the power to dictate where responsible journalism begins.” That’s a quote by Tom Stoppard long before the internet began but it’s more true than ever. As more journalists, editors, photographers and almost everyone else connected to the big media machine are getting pink slips more amateurs like me are slipping into the cracks. We write about ourselves. I’m the fixed point in constantly changing matrix of the internet but I’m not alone. I wrote about the habits of my hometown to torch a car on a bonfire on the Fourth of July. I poked around and found a nice little old lady who wrote about someone who had his ashes shot into the sky as fireworks. You can buy an urn shaped like a motorcycle there too so she’s way better at the weirdness than I am. How about the garden turned into a Candyland Game? Should I write about that? No I’d probably write about my visit to the infamous Yogi Bear graveyard in Halifax, North Carolina. I just went to the site and discovered it’s not there anymore. It exists only in my memory. You wouldn’t be able to go visit even if you were crazy enough to want to so I’ll have to write about it. Why would I want to go and look at proletarian posters from 1930’s Japan? I don’t want a homegrown version of the Kempetai to appear. Let’s face it, most of my friends would be “difficult prisoners.” They’d drag the whole wretched hive of scum and villainy at Superficial Gallery off to be comfort girls. So in the end I’ve decided to keep writing about Napoleon’s chair and toothpaste tubes till people get bored of it or I run out of ideas. It’s a correspondence with my friends.
This is the last 24 inch shell allowed to be launched legally in the United States. It doesn’t say if Hunter Thompson was in it.