sanemagazine: wonderful rubbish

In the whole great and magnificent history of inventions, I, for one, and I do not believe I'm alone, not the sole soul railing and ranting in the cold, rainy air like a modern day Walt Whitman who happens to be mostly clean-shaven, who bathes regularly (not as a personal slur on Walt Whitman's person, but I never got the sense that he bathed regularly, though that would possibly be the one place you'd catch me singing a song of myself (or a pop song of some sort would do), so maybe my judgement was wrong, and it was in the tub where he'd conceived the idea of singing a song of himself, in which case, I fully retract my possibly perceived slur, and admire his ability to turn it into a poem without getting the pages all soggy, however, one other possible (and my most common thought, if someone were to quiz me every few minutes or so to name the first thing I think of when I hear the words 'Song of Myself,' which no one, thankfully, does, and this should not be considered an entreaty to act as such in any way shape or form) image conjured by singing a song of oneself is of rolling around in the dirt, though I have no idea what that says about either myself or Walt Whitman and doesn't account for other people's personal preference for material/medium in which you'd roll around, given the choice and relative freedom from social constraints/mores; the moral of the tangent is: Singing of oneself sounds slightly fun, and in no way involving personal hygiene, therefore, see my conclusion about Walt Whitman's cleanliness habits (be it next to god or otherwise deity-proximate)), and who doesn't quite tend to overblown poetry to get his point, his very valid point, the very passsion of which stirs his soul (again) like a straw stirring a drink, a bubbly drink with cranberry and vodka mixed into the lot in some way or another, across, or not, in an elliptical fashion, more reminiscent of Cartesian vortices than anything else, and we all know what happened to Cartesian vortices and hows embarassed he must have been in the end on that front, really, I do not believe (nor can I believe, such is my sensitive soul, my dear sensitive, singing soul! (though only in the bathtub, apparently, as the text says/goes; so you could likely make that sensitive and prune-like)) no one else shares my passion. belief, song, if you will, that opposable thumbs were just an all around good call on the invention front.
Just a passing observation.

disclaimer:
Sane Magazine is fast approaching it's eighth anniversary of existing, seventh anniversary of existing on the web, and a whole other slew of anniversaries, probably.

There's not a whole lot of point to that previous sentence, but that's okay.

Nor is there much point in noting the rumoured fact that nine out of ten people read this magazine for the deep insights into daily living. Or weekly, if they tend towards the horoscopes.
And that four of those nine are aware of how crucially important irrigation was to breaking out of the hunter-gatherer mode of living.
The widespread use of parentheses may have struck you as not very deviant at all (from our normal practise, not deviant in any other sort of use of the word), but we would like to point out the brilliant use of blue, semi-colons, and slashes, made popular, of course, by Sören Kierkegaard and the World Wide Web.
A web (or 'Web', if you prefer) which, by the bye, we almost single-handedly destroyed by not sticking to our proclaimed delivery dates from 1995-1997 and publishing our once-a-week magazine once every few months or so, a shocking blow to the mores of the popular analogue publishing of the day and we were repeatedly chastised for our delinquencies (which is the subject of a relatively unknown film, released on DVD in Italy these days, only).
So you may thank us, in due time, for all this crap hoisted upon yourselves from various sources (various pop phenomenons are not our liability under this confession). Thank you, and good night.


				Hooray for Opposable Thumbs!
		archives horoscopes accessories contacts theatre fables home Add Sane Magazine to your My Netscape.		In the whole great and magnificent history of inventions, I, for one, and I do not believe I'm alone, not the sole soul railing and ranting in the cold, rainy air like a modern day Walt Whitman who happens to be mostly clean-shaven, who bathes regularly (not as a personal slur on Walt Whitman's person, but I never got the sense that he bathed regularly, though that would possibly be the one place you'd catch me singing a song of myself (or a pop song of some sort would do), so maybe my judgement was wrong, and it was in the tub where he'd conceived the idea of singing a song of himself, in which case, I fully retract my possibly perceived slur, and admire his ability to turn it into a poem without getting the pages all soggy, however, one other possible (and my most common thought, if someone were to quiz me every few minutes or so to name the first thing I think of when I hear the words 'Song of Myself,' which no one, thankfully, does, and this should not be considered an entreaty to act as such in any way shape or form) image conjured by singing a song of oneself is of rolling around in the dirt, though I have no idea what that says about either myself or Walt Whitman and doesn't account for other people's personal preference for material/medium in which you'd roll around, given the choice and relative freedom from social constraints/mores; the moral of the tangent is: Singing of oneself sounds slightly fun, and in no way involving personal hygiene, therefore, see my conclusion about Walt Whitman's cleanliness habits (be it next to god or otherwise deity-proximate)), and who doesn't quite tend to overblown poetry to get his point, his very valid point, the very passsion of which stirs his soul (again) like a straw stirring a drink, a bubbly drink with cranberry and vodka mixed into the lot in some way or another, across, or not, in an elliptical fashion, more reminiscent of Cartesian vortices than anything else, and we all know what happened to Cartesian vortices and hows embarassed he must have been in the end on that front, really, I do not believe (nor can I believe, such is my sensitive soul, my dear sensitive, singing soul! (though only in the bathtub, apparently, as the text says/goes; so you could likely make that sensitive and prune-like)) no one else shares my passion. belief, song, if you will, that opposable thumbs were just an all around good call on the invention front. Just a passing observation. disclaimer: Sane Magazine is fast approaching it's eighth anniversary of existing, seventh anniversary of existing on the web, and a whole other slew of anniversaries, probably. There's not a whole lot of point to that previous sentence, but that's okay. Nor is there much point in noting the rumoured fact that nine out of ten people read this magazine for the deep insights into daily living. Or weekly, if they tend towards the horoscopes. And that four of those nine are aware of how crucially important irrigation was to breaking out of the hunter-gatherer mode of living. The widespread use of parentheses may have struck you as not very deviant at all (from our normal practise, not deviant in any other sort of use of the word), but we would like to point out the brilliant use of blue, semi-colons, and slashes, made popular, of course, by Sören Kierkegaard and the World Wide Web. A web (or 'Web', if you prefer) which, by the bye, we almost single-handedly destroyed by not sticking to our proclaimed delivery dates from 1995-1997 and publishing our once-a-week magazine once every few months or so, a shocking blow to the mores of the popular analogue publishing of the day and we were repeatedly chastised for our delinquencies (which is the subject of a relatively unknown film, released on DVD in Italy these days, only). So you may thank us, in due time, for all this crap hoisted upon yourselves from various sources (various pop phenomenons are not our liability under this confession). Thank you, and good night.


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