Halfway through this endless Holiday period. Seasonal joy reserves down to 30%. People over last night again. Over to someone else's house tomorrow. Mother-in-law staying here. Eight below at the home. Haven't left the house much; haven't done much besides redesigning and retweaking, hour after hour.

Here are some things I kept in mind during the redesign. This isn’t a news site, and it’s not trying to make money, or be Social, or garner Likes and such. This makes things easier. But tonight I clicked on a link about “How google Made Rap Genius Vanish,” and here’s the page.

Here’s the first thing that was relevant to my search:

Everything above the highlighted part was useless. Note: everything above the highlighted part was 83% of the screen. Let’s take a look at each useless element:

Hard to read menubar. Login? Signup? No. Gift Guide? Too late. Oh, but there’s the number of Facebook likes and tweets and Google+ links. As if anyone cares.


I presume that’s an American Express Ad that’s waiting for a mouseover to spring to life. It’s centered and short - looks like it’s sized in case someone still running a computer with 640 X 480 resolution lands on the page.


Breadcrumb navigation, headline, byline, SOCIAL MEDIA! Including LinkedIn, because nothing makes me eager to read something like learning it's been shared on LinkedIn.


Art! Click on it, and you will be a window that floats above the page that shows the art at the exact same size. Difference: Pinterest button shows up sooner, I guess.

Maybe I'm daft; maybe I'm determined to miss all the hot trends in SEO and social linking and other things that glug up the common conception of a website so this looks like something ancient and hence of no interest to anyone who's Up on Things, and believes the internet exists for posts like this:

At some point a man must look in the mirror to interrogate the soul that stares back, and ask himself: Could it be worse? Could it?

Yes, it could be worse. But I suspect the fellow who wrote that was quite pleased. Boops might be his beat. He might be the go-to guy for Boops. Well, let's head over to the distaff side, and see what xojane.com is doing to make everyone feel like an adult:

One of the most notable aspects of adulthood is the small amount of time you spend wondering whether you're an adult. Well, let's head over to the intellectual side of the internet, where people are pulling out quotes they found profound, and SHARING THEM all over the place:

I can't tell you how many times I've had editors throw back a manuscript in disgust with the same old complaint: it's a ripping yard, sure, it's a narrative freight-train, but when it ended I hadn't discovered who I was. Granted, I had a pretty good idea before, being 47 with a wife and two kids, but c'mon. What if I was wrong? You've failed the reader. You've failed ME! It's - all - about - me! This novel was not one of the 3946 grown-ass boops that made me discover who I am! Well, enough to the brainiac portion of the internet; let's go back to xojane, where it might be less narcisstic.

Never mind.




Iron Rule: movies from the early days of rock do not, with a few exceptions, rock at all. They get close to it. If there's Chuck Berry or Bill Haley, there will be rocking. Secondary rule: the more rock in the title, the less rock in the movie. So:

It arrives with instant teen credibility:

HIS Rock 'n Roll band. He doesn't sing and doesn't play an instrument, and the most engaged he gets is leaning down and clapping his hands and exhorting the sax player to BLOW, MAN, BLOW, which seems rather unnecessary as the fellow is, at the moment, engaged in exactly that endeavor and obviously requires no encouragement.

Freed was 35 at the time of the shoot. He had about two and a half years left before the payola scandal torpedoed his career, and nine years until hooch nixed his liver.

The rubber band didn't work! Sorry, wrong movie. Think she's the good girl? Of course not. That would be . . .

You may be surprised to learn her name wasn't really Tuesday. Her little cousin couldn't pronounce her real name, Susan, and called her Tu-tu. Hence.

She was 13 at the time; Connie Francis dubbed her songs. In real life she would marry Dudley Moore and Pinchas Zukerman, but in the movie she's in love with . . .

The Three Chuckles, eh. If you're wondering if they name themselves after the jelly candy, the answer is yes. Randazzo was a songwriter as well as a singer, and penned a few hits, including "Hurt So Bad," which Linda Ronstadt covered years later.

Anyway. These madcap lids are all jazzed and juiced because Alan Freed is coming to town to perform in person the things they have previously seen on the visual communication device:

There's a plot involving usury and parental disapproval and other impediments. Songs are sung; Chuck Berry duckwalks; it all ends with a gala show in some sort of restaurant. Note: THIS IS ROCK.

No guitar, but it's rock. Now here are some guitars:

But it's actually rockabilly, since that's Johnny Burnette. He had eight years left; in '64 he drowned in a boat collision.

Usually I wouldn't bother with a movie like this for Black and White World, but you needed the context to understand the screengrab from its imdb page.

Never let the fetishists write your keywords.









blog comments powered by Disqus