The Lost Blogs Page 14

  From: http://www.williamhearst.com/blog

  Subject: Top 10 Alternative Titles for Citizen Kane

  10. Citizen Bane of My Existence

  09. Citizen Grain of Truth

  08. Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them

  07. Citizen Stain on the Face of Society

  06. Citizen Train Wreck of a Picture

  05. Citizen Mainly Lies

  04. Citizen Plain Ol’ Crap

  03. Citizen No-Fame, if I Have Anything to Do with It

  02. Citizen Pain in My Ass

  01. Citizen Lame, Yes You Are, Mr. Welles

  I may not be a writer or a creative man, but if RKO likes any of these, they are more than welcome to borrow them while they are promoting the above film, which I have not seen.

  Strangely, the New York Daily Mirror, the Chicago Examiner, the Boston American, Cosmopolitan, Harper’s Bazaar, and the International News Service have all given this picture a bad review! I guess it might not be so good.

  Heard some gossip about Orson Sells out? Send it to me here. We pay top dollar for good information as you may have already heard after we paid a small fortune for this picture of Orson Welles nude on a beach with a huge zucchini.

  From: http://www.ernest_shackleton.uk/blog/

  Subject: Today’s Thoughts on Name Changes

  Update: The Endurance has been trapped in an ice floe for over six months now. We have had many opportunities to push our way out and escape, but each has failed. It is a desperate time and I fear that the motivation and enthusiasm of the crew is suffering. We are desperate. Depressed. Fearful for our lives.

  What do you think about me changing my last name?

  When Adrien de Gerlache and Lars Christensen couldn’t take delivery of their massive wooden ship the Polaris—it was offered to me. It was the perfect (NOT) ship for an expedition to the South Pole and I immediately purchased it for £11,600. The only step remaining was to change its name to the Endurance! Which, really, didn’t have any real effect on its endurance, but it was a much better name than Polaris, which, to me, makes me think of the water UNDER the ice—and really, do you want to name a ship after the kind of water you hope to not be sinking in!? I think not!

  This got me thinking about my name. Shackleton. Shackle. Shackles are that which keeps one secured against their will. This is not the kind of tone or theme I find that I’d like to communicate with my name. Secondly, by including the “ton” to the end of Shackleton, I get the feeling as if people might consider my name to refer to a “ton of Shackles” or more incarceration than anyone could ever imagine! Simply based on the current “incarcerated” and “shackled to the ice” situation we are in… Well, it’s a bad idea. Every time someone says my name, you can see it on everyone’s faces—thoughts of being “shackled” and “captured” and “kept against our will.” At least, I can see it. I know they’re thinking that. So I’ve suggested to them, let’s change my name!

  Some of my officers have told me I’m simply insane to change my last name—it is the name that is famous for reaching the southernmost point on the South Pole and that which garnered me a knighthood. But perhaps an alternative to Shackleton can illustrate something more freeing?

  For what is the opposite of being shackled? It is having freedom to go anywhere, perhaps a tropical locale like the Hawaiian Islands, possibly Maui—which I am a big fan of. And the word “ton” should be something far less heavy-handed, like an ounce, or a cup, or something “tiny.” Yes. YES.

  Sir Ernest Henry Mauitiny. (pronounced: “mow-wee-tie-knee”)

  I think that should get the crew into a much more positive, less “feeling trapped” attitude. I’ll update you tomorrow on how it went over!

  From: http://www.jimmyhoffa.se/moblog/

  Subject: An Offer I Couldn’t Refuse

  I been MIA for a few months now, s’why you haven’t seen much pop up ‘round here. But ol’ Jimmy Hoffa’s got more goin’ on than ever before. The rumors of my disappearance have, in fact, all been wrong.

  Back in July, I had myself a meetin’ at the ol’ Machus Red Fox joint in Bloomfield Hills. Was gonna meet up with “Tony Jack” and “Tony Pro” about certain Teamster issues as they related to their business and mine. Thing is, the boys don’t show up and I’m sittin’ around waitin’ with my hand up my ass when a group of these little people stroll on into the joint.

  Little people = dwarfs = midgets = circus performers, whatever the hell you wanna call ’em. The leader, who called himself Sir Geebley Faltskog, stepped forward and jumped up on the swingin’ stool to shake my hand and announced that they were all from Sweden and most of ’em didn’t even speak English but that they had come all the way for one of these meet-ups with the rest of their little friends. I didn’t pay much attention at the beginning there until the little Geebley fella opens up a briefcase filled with cash and says there’s more back in Sweden if I wanna come organize the whole Swedish dwarf population so theys can get paid a fair amount for all the tumblin’ and jumpin’ around they do over there.

  Let’s face it—things back in the States weren’t as good as they used to be. With that attempted bribery conviction (which was overturned) and the whole Teamsters issue, who weren’t listenin’ to me as much as they used to (those shortsighted fools), I figured a change of scenery would do me some good. So I got into their bus, took a plane to Stockholm, Sweden, and I been here ever since.

  In just the last few months I’ve organized almost 75% of all the “little people” (that’s what you call ’em and if you call ’em anything else from this point forward I’ll pop you one) here in Stockholm. From the tossin’ kind to the pack ’em in a car kind to the kinds who dress up like clowns and entertain your stupid kids to the kinds who you seen in movies like The Wizard of Oz—not one part of the society over here is ever again gonna lowball these little guys for the big work they do. They got me to deal with now.

  One thing that ain’t no different… the bull and the horns. You try to offer less than a good fee for a midget party or try to lowball some dwarfs and you’ll quickly find a city that has no little people willin’ to do anything for nothin’.

  So yeah, that’s where I’m at. Hopefully, this info’ll get the authorities to let up on the Tonys and Charlie O’Brien—who had nothing to do with me goin’ missin’. Besides—I’m alive with the little people here, and I ain’t never felt this big in my entire life!

  Sorry, but you won’t be able to contact me.

  From: http://www.aaronburr.com/blog/

  Subject: What a Wednesday!

  Fate obviously hates one Aaron Burr. (That’s me, in case you, you know, didn’t know.)

  First, good ol’ friend Thomas Jefferson, who is quite obviously no longer my friend but seems to want to pretend he is my friend at social engagements, drops me from the ticket, thus removing any chance of my becoming his Vice President for yet another term. Thanks, buddy! Good luck to you. Really. Good luck. No, I’m serious. Good luck!

  Then, my decision to run for Governor of New York, which it seems is the next best thing to becoming Vice President or President, is thwarted by none other than those horrible Clintons of New York. Thanks, guys! Really. No, thanks. You’ve really done wonders for my political career. Uh huh.

  And lest we not forget the wonderful positive words being heaped upon my plate by one Alexander Hamilton, who has taken every public opportunity to speak ill about me—and for what? I have no idea. He just hates me. Apparently. For no reason. Which I find extremely depressing and confusing. Why why why why why!

  So, yesterday (Wednesday), I arranged to meet the Hamilton-Hater in Weehawken to patch things up because I prefer to have people like me than hate me and anything I can do to make that happen I will, but you know what the wonderful orator brings with him? He brings guns. GUNS! And he says, “why are you talking about me behind my back” and I say, “I’m not talking about you behind your back” and he says, “you are so talking about me behind my back a
nd I don’t like it” and I say, “you’re living in a fantasy world Mr. Hamilton because I never have talked about you behind your back it was you who talked behind my back” and he says, “no, I was very public about my thoughts on you which makes it talking in front of your back which isn’t the same as talking behind your back” and I say “that doesn’t matter as much as why did you bring guns here today if you’re a front-back talker instead of a back-back talker” and he says “because you wanted to duel me” and I say “I never said that” and he says “sure you did, you told me to get to the DUEL ON TIME” and I say “no I said that we should talk and resolve these issues in DUE TIME” and he pauses and there’s this long long long pause before he says, “well while I’m here we might as well duel unless you’re afraid that you’ll lose” to which I say, “fine Mr. Hamilton let’s duel but let history be aware of the fact that it wasn’t my idea to duel” to which Hamilton says, “you better believe I’m going to make sure that history remembers today’s events accurately—after I walk away from this place as the winner…”

  Well, I didn’t have much else to say as Hamilton handed me the gun… I was none too pleased, primarily due to the negative atmosphere all around me. And we line up and we shoot our guns and what do you expect but Hamilton is a horrible shot and hits a tree branch while my gun, which I shot with my eyes closed, ends up shooting him above his right hip. I’m thinking ohmygodohmygodohmygod, I just shot Hamilton.

  So, yeah. Yesterday wasn’t really that great of a day and I hope that things are better today and tomorrow. Waiting to hear if Hamilton is okay—which I hope he is, ’cause if he isn’t, that’s gonna sort of ruin today and the rest of the week as well and add to a pretty depressing year of horrible events that fate has decided to heap upon my plate.

  Fate! I curse you!

  From: http://www.plato.gr/blog/

  Subject: Today’s Blogalogue!

  So, yeah—let’s blogalogue!

  What is UP with the Universe these days? Hmm? Like, we can see it but we can’t. We know it’s there but we can’t prove it. It surrounds us, yet we do not feel it. It’s like a bowl of fruit sitting on a table—that you can see, that you can describe, that you can talk about—but which you can’t taste! Well, at least around my parts you can’t taste it or you end up getting your hand slapped! Ha! Seriously, folks—explain THAT one to me!

  Or what about wisdom? What is UP with wisdom these days? Everyone thinks they have it, yet it’s those who think they have it who don’t have it at all! And those who don’t think they have it and strive to find it end up already having it! It makes my brain twist up in knots just thinking about it! Seriously, can you even comprehend it? No? Maybe that means you don’t have any wisdom at all! Oh, I’m just kiddddding!!!

  Oh boy, the other day I was out in the courtyard of the Academy where I teach and I witnessed two students debating moderation. While they debated, they continued to stuff their faces with food! Do you HEAR what I’m saying!? Can you even IMAGINE? What is UP with that!? And yet, while moderation has nothing to do specifically with one’s consumption of food it encompasses the consumption of every resource around us, whether that be food, knowledge, respect, love, wisdom or justice! Or even politics!

  Hooooo boy. Did I just mention politics!? No groaning here. Well, okay groan if you want. But seriously, why do politicians tell you ONE THING and do something completely different? Why does government ask for your input then never use it to better society!? Why are those in power always losing their hair!? You wanna know why, I’ll tell you why! Because only philosophers, with our long curly thick hair, are fit to rule. You remember Samson!? What happened to that guy when he lost his hair? He lost his power! Ladies—listen up! Don’t you cut your husband’s hair if you want him to be successful. Please! Don’t get me started on that…

  And what about courage!? That’s right, COURAGE. What is up with courage these days? Nobody seems to have it. They have AGE, sure. But cour-AGE? Seems that we can’t have everything we want in life, except life itself!

  Okay—I must get back to my cave! Haha, yes—the one with the shadows in it! Shadows! What is up with SHADOWS!? They’re there but they’re not really there!? It’s enough to make your mind twist up in knots!

  From: http://www.samuel_morse.com/blog/

  Subject: .... ..

  From: http://www.bob_marley.com/dablog/

  Subject: Dontcha Worry…

  A serious t’ing happened, mon. I and the bredren were red, ya? Da spliff be passin’ ‘round t’a room… Good times, mon. Goooood times. Den ’fore we see it, more red ’n’ just our heads. Da bushes up in flames, smokin’, cracklin’. Rasta try ’n’ put out every little than’ but da spliffs burn up, mon—so do all da happy bushes…

  Sad. sad times… I. the Wailers, the Rasta—how we gonna get red without no supply?

  Da bredren, da sistren—Ites is gone, now da red and da spliffs and the massive supply o’ what the Rasta ‘ave, all gone. No danks to da polytricks ’ere in this wonderful set o’ states—Rasta all out of cannabis and Bob Marley needs all da help from ‘is Rastafari bredren ‘n’ sistren.

  They’s speakin’ an sayin’ dere places ‘round ’ere. which da Rasta know. Like little birds singin’ their t’ing… tellin’ Rastafari ta don’ worry ’bout a thin’ that ev’ry little thin’s gonna be ‘right.

  A wha’ dem seh?

  I bredren hear the little birds singin’ their t’ing. Don’ worry ’bout a thin’.

  A wha’ dem seh? I and I shoot out da message through da digital post—get out da word that I and I bredren in desprat need… Desprat and da bredren is gettin’ more normal by da secon’.

  Den by da door, a sound ’n’ I and I bredren open it and da friends of da Rasta standin’ dere. Holdin’ spliffs. My spirit rise to da Ites, so too for da sistren. Sure, mon, da polytricks and da laws of dis here place no good for da Rastafari but I and I bredren don’ much matter, don’ much care. For, when da little bird singin’ their t’ing—and tellin’ I and I bredren don’ worry… I and I bredren don’ worry. We smoke da spliffs and play da music and dats just what I and I bredren gonna do.

  Ya, mon. I and I love this digital world. Even wit da downgression and down-pression, I and I know dat da spliffs, theys I and I t’ing. Ya. Feeeeelin’ good, mon.

  Don’ worry. No way.

  From: http://www.wilbur_wright.com/flying_blog/

  Subject: Master Pilot, Wilbur Wright!

  Yesterday was the day. Earlier this year, due to some very unique thinking on my part, I was able to include my brother Orville in the building of the Wright Flyer (picture here). Following our glider flights, this was to be the very first machine with a propeller (carved) and a fully functioning engine.

  Thanks to Charlie Taylor, who helped me in building the engine, I then decided to move forward in filing for patents and whatnot, making the Flyer I (I decided the name change would be a good idea because we’d probably have more than one Wright-sponsored flying aeroplane) its final name.

  Testing, which I coordinated and organized over the course of many months, showed that the engine was working almost perfectly—it was unfortunately not operating at 100%, but with a few quick adjustments (some of which I suggested to Charlie after really putting my brain to work) brought it up to 80% and which resulted in it being the best of any previous engines we’d put together. One of the great ideas I came up with involved using a bicycle chain in the engine—just wildly deciding to use things from around the shop! Again, an inspired choice—it worked flawlessly. The next step was to test out the Flyer I and see if my vision of men in the air would actually come true. Oh, and I invited Orville to come along as well—although I told him that if he was going to get all whiny like he usually did that he should stay home. He, of course, being the annoying little brother he is, decided that he had to be there.

  So yesterday, December 17, 1903, was the day.

  Let me just explain something here. A first flight is always danger
ous. There’s always the chance of getting injured or possibly killed. As my brain was filled with all the technical specifications and the solutions to any design or engine problems, I needed to find someone willing to put their life at risk for the first flight. After Charlie refused I was able to force Orville to do so. With my help, and the aeroplane, he was able to successfully stay at 120 feet for about 12 seconds.

  I immediately took to the air, following my successful first flight (with pilot Orville at the helm) and surpassed his flight by staying up for 59 seconds at a height of 852 meters. That’s right! Higher, longer and better than Orville. You could tell he was a bit upset, but I’m sure he’ll get over it.

  Whatever you do, don’t rub it in his face. He doesn’t even know I write my thoughts here, so keep it quiet. In the meantime, here are pictures of me flying.

  Congratulatory messages should be sent to me, here.

  From: http://www.orville_wright.com/flying_blog/

  Subject: I Believed We Could Fly, and We Did!

  You can call me Mister Orville Wright!

  I’m sure you’ve heard the news by now—even though some of the papers (the small ones) either didn’t report it or got it wrong … Yesterday was my first official flight on the Flyer I (a homage to the nickname my parents gave me as a kid—I used to fly around everywhere and I was the “little one”— thus, Flyer I (One)). Following those boring glider trips—this one was packed with a little something that Charlie Taylor and I thought up… an engine that we got running to about 90% capacity.

  You can imagine how big brother Wilbur tried to take credit for it—he goes around trying to convince people it was his idea, but Charlie and I just laugh about it behind his back. He wanted to call the plane the Wright Flyer (stuuuuupid!) until I reminded him that he might want to think about the future. What happens if we build another one? What do we call that? The Wright Flyer II? Wouldn’t make sense. Gotta number these babies from the beginning. Wilbur finally caved—he knew who was right.