Though of course, in a US map of movies, Oregon proves it’s inextricably linked forever with The Goonies, we all know the real truth. That halo of popcultural laurels by which every child born under Carter with Reagan rising knows: Oregon is, the Trail.
I am from the Willamette Valley. I went to Willamette University. My hometown is Independence, Oregon, the precise opposite end of the trail’s genesis in Independence, Missouri. I have driven the Oregon portion of the trail in an RV.
I have seen the wagon ruts. I have forded the river.
I have pressed SPACE BAR to continue.
Apple IIe, have I loved.
Though the map is kinda cool. (I enjoy the neighborship of Clerks and Wayne’s World a great deal.)
But hasn’t that always been the case?
He with the printing press makes the rules. If you buy your ink in barrels, you own the weaponry.
Because we see and acknowledge the face of the idea, rather than its hometown.
For creatives, is it scary? Only on the surface. Because as the printing press democratized information, so has the internet democratized dissemination.
One need not buy ink in barrels anymore.
Though the currency of creation and value of innovation has moved from inspiration, to discovery. Or rather, it has to share. Being on the inside, finding and distributing something novel and meaningful is an art in itself.
You get a co-creator credit for being FIRST!!!11!!!.
Like Columbus didn’t create the new world, but he sure got it a lot of Diggs.
But with ease of spread, comes great casualness of credit. If you can find and yank a photo off flickr, and 83 degrees of separation later, the source has been lost, does it make a sound?
If you make something you love, tag it well and set it free. If it’s meant to be, it’ll come back to you.
That, or just disseminate the daylights out of it yourself. Word.
Did Daniel the Tiger freak you out? There’s something about that level of horrifying meekness that’s grandly disquieting.
Though his origin story is kind of interesting… It was way before there was a Neighborhood of Makebelieve.
Fred, who was to be behind-the-scenes playing the background music, slipped Daniel on his hand and popped him out through the hole in the clock, just like a cuckoo, where he would sing out the time and some interesting fact.
The point is, I would evict Daniel outta his clock right now just to have some time.
Though I admit I haven’t cracked a Brooks in a while, and this is most surely cheek tonguing and context lite, I can’t stop with the Zen of him saying it.
Losing friends makes you sad.
Deep, D. Way deep.
Her treat was so tricky…
“Is that even a thing? No one is going to get it.”
Don’t care. In fact, I care so little, I have a BLANK in my BLANK.
And we’re required to wear a costume “in good taste” for the fun run on Friday. (Okay, I think the quote was “conservative taste” and CNR is…n’t, but hey.)
Respect the ascot.
Such that it ever was, the fuel of all human endeavor is the double-edged cutlery of discovery.
Eve. Pandora. Columbus. Benjamin Franklin. Neil Armstrong. Dora.
Once gripped, you will risk all to know — to scratch the temptation, to realize the suspicions, to satisfy the intractable desire.
But once you do, once you trade thrill for truth, you can’t never U-turn. The lift-off will extract its physics-demanded re-entry.
Every single time.
J.J. Abrams has a mystery box in his office that he won’t open, because the power of not knowing is more intoxicating than the reality of confirmation.
That which is known, can never be anything than what it is.
That which lives in the ether, can be anything you want it to be.
That is to say, in the Advanced Genius Theory of Baked Goods. Pumpernickel on the other hand, is merely Overt.
“…their seemingly inexplicable decisions are driven by guile.”