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Cat the NatAte the Ratin the NetSaw the BatGlared at Gentle Batwith a tone of tatsaid to Cat"Enough of That!""Hah Bat the Bet!"said the Cat"What Cat the Ket"said the Bat"Chess is my Gat, You Fat"said the Cat. "You mat, I know that!"said the Bat.There the Cat!There the Bat!What are you looking AT?

Poetry Tip-o-the-Day: "Prattle" rhymes with "cattle." Moo, people, moo. poetry tip-o-the-day: be sure not to over-capitalize or punctuate because you may unintentiontionally inject more intensity than your average emo-boy is a allowed to read aloud.Poetry tip-o-the-day©: 'Blue' is as much a tone as it is a color. It has a texture, a scent, a flavor. Make a melody with it, warp it into a tapestry, dab it on your wrist and your neck, sprinkle it on a pastry; but Teal is just a color - don't get too fancy with it or you'll fail miserably.Poetry Tip-o-the-Day © - Write in the nude. Totally take all those clothes off that your mind dresses you up in every day so that it can pretend you are the person it wants people to THINK you are. The best writing is from the mind that is a naked as the day it was born.Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day© (for Kids!): Fish pee and poop in the sea.Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day© (for Teens!): Life is so much more than romantic love and/or angst. Tell me instead about why speed thrills you (not the drug), or why sleeping-in is so alluring.Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day© (for Seniors!): Poems are know for their emotional power. Try a poem for those messages that you have to leave on your children's voicemail - "Quilt" rhymes with "Guilt"!Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day© (for Poets!): Please, just carry on.Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day© (for Contact scientists): Send a Poet.Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day © (for God!): Thanks, Amen.Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day ©: It's scietifically proven that blue ink is better than black ink in the writing process. However, the converse is true when it comes to digital authoring (pixel colors). So, when online: write in black, but print in blue.Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day ©: Bite into a ripe plum pulled off the tree. Close your eyes. Notice the soft, firmness against your lips as you gently pierce the smooth skin with teeth. Feel warm, moist sweetness trickle down between your lips, over and around your teeth and onto your toungue. As you reluctantly pull it away, look at the wounded fruit between half-closed eyes and see how your teeth dragged the purple of the skin into a lipstick smear across the glistening exposed flesh inside.Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day ©: Earthworms are hermaphrodites. THAT is why they make delicious fish bait.Poetry Tip-o'the-Day ©: The funnydrippers wear painted comedy masks while shoving their faces into the tearjerker tragic visage carved into the backside. Can I get a witness?Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day ©: There has never been a Pulitzer Prize awarded for fart jokes.Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day ©: One day we'll look back and laugh. And then cry all over again.Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day ©: See that man under the bridge? The one sleeping in urine soaked pants, using an old couch cushion for a pillow and a collapsed cardboard box for a mattress? He is twitching and smiling while he dreams. Why? Write me his dreams.Poetry Bonus Tip-o'-the-Day ©: Once your done with the homeless man's dreams... sing me a song about the nightmares of his mother who hasn't seen or heard from him in 9 years.Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day ©: Flowers are pretty.Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day ©: www.rhymezone.comPoetry Tip-o'-the-Day ©: On the cusp of night, the dried grass crinkles under my son's bare feet as he tiptoes among the fireflies - only interested in tapping the rhythm of the cicadas into his forehead with a decapitated pinwheel.Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day ©: Dreams are like rainbows. Only idiots chase them.Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day ©: peel, strip, scrape. unscrew, unbolt, yank apart. pull down, tear down, knock down. pound hard, reduce to rubble, smash to bits. pile it, torch it, burn to ashes. gather it, cast to the wind, toss it over cliffs, sink it in oceans. wait. longer. now begin.Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day ©: 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144, 233, 377, 610...Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day ©: 20 years later, I don't laugh as often, but I laugh deeper. The moments of joy are measured by the crumb, not the loaf. And I don't cry as much, but when I do, the tears are wrung from my bones.Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day ©: Read csharpe's _Sprinting Along the Border_ in the thread called "simple little poems" (it's #85). Excellent piece.Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day ©: Welcome to Summer Camp, Brothers and Sisters! We LOVE You! (psssst! don't drink the Kool-Aid!)Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day ©: Forget about OUTSIDE the box... just don't think OF THE BOX in the first place! (pssst! the box is an artificial socio-political construct - just ask a mime) Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day ©: Show me a person who has not had this nightmare about their exes, and I will show you a liar.Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day ©: If you want comments on your poems - first post a thread, then notify people here about the thread (exactly like Rael).Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day ©: The language of time is interchangeable with language of color and shade. Emotions color the images of our past, but contrasts of light and shadow in our choices provide the forms.Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day ©: This blade of grass. Bent under the weight of dew drops and a dandelion seed, it is supported a by fallen twig. See instead an old monk in a jade robe, with a wisp of white hair and sweat on his brow, leaning on a cane as he slowly walks to the temple.Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day ©: when you must kill your plans for the future, bury them very deep in your backyard in unmarked graves so that headstones and putrification of their decay shan't work their way into your final thoughts of the day as you nod off to sleep - tainting your dreams, twisting them to nightmares.Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day ©: First, care less about everything, then care more about something. Care so much about it that it becomes inseperable from you. Then separate from it - put it to paper. Then care about it a little less so that others may care for it. Let them care more for it. Then they will care for you.Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day ©: use the parable of the zero soul as a means by which your readers can retrace to the path to wholeness.Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day ©: All these worlds are yours except Europa. Attempt no landing there.Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day ©: Don't forget to freshen the water, refill the kibble, and change the litter box for your Muse - a happy Muse has a happy Writer.Poetry Tip-o'-the-Day ©: Tall waves of cicada song wash over me as I squat on the asphalt curb of street buckled in the heat. Balancing on one foot and pulling the other foot up akimbo over my knee, sweat runs down my back and arms, drips from my brow and burns my eyes... I scrape gooey tar off the soles of my sandle with a brittle stick and day dream of the days long ago when this was fun.Poetry Tip-o'-yer-Life ©: Call your mother and tell her you love her.

These are short chapters, but I wanted to try my hand at dividing a story into chapters. Also, the 3rd chapter of Shape-Shifter is coming very soon. Chapter 1 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Menairo slid into his chair, sipping on a tankard of shein. Across from him sat a broad-shouldered Dunmer lad, and to his left, there was a big, burly Nordic man guzzling his third mug of mazte. After a moment of eyeing each other, the Dunmer piped up. "So, what's the news from the Fighters' Guild?" he asked Menairo. "Ol' Percius is looking for a few good warriors to help some guild guys deal with a gang of bandits over near Ghostgate. The guild guys tried one assault already, but it failed miserably; they lost two people. I don't know if they got any of the bandits." Menairo replied. "By Azura, those are some tough bandits." the Nord said. "And numerous." the Dunmer added. "And well-equipped." Menairo included. "Does Percius think that simply replacing those dead guys will suffice?" the Nord asked. "If it's just us three going out there, it's going to be hard if not impossible to make progress." "Nah, there are others heading over there." Menairo said. "What I'm wondering is whether or not these guys are your typical robbers. The whole Fighters' Guild branch here wouldn't come out just for a two-bit group of petty thieves." said the Dunmer. The other two nodded their heads in agreement. "So, what's the pay?" the Nord asked. "A thousand drakes a piece up front, and another fifteen hundered if we're successful." The Dunmer boy let out a low whistle. "That's a lot of money." he said. Menairo finished his shein and leaned back in his chair. "So, how are you two with leaving tomorrow morning?" "That's fine with me." the Dunmer said. "Works for me, too." the Nord agreed. "It's settled, then." Menairo said. "I'll see you guys here in the morning and we'll head out." After a toast, the trio parted ways for the night. As they slid into their beds, visions of battle and gold filled their heads. Tomorrow was going to be a big day.

Since I am in this group I guess I should post something. I don't understand how to write poems. I don't understand the deep meaning when I read poems. I was forced to write a poem in Creative English A4 class. So here it is. Denver I Wonder Where We Are? @ I could be at college not far. I could be eating a chocolate bar. I could be bowling with a friend. I could be writing to no end. I wonder where we are? I could be dancing of Friday. I could be at the play on Sunday. I could be helping 102 kids on Saturday. I could be having dinner on Monday. I wonder where we are? I could be holding hands with you. I could be feeling better than blue. I could be just waiting around. I could be here just to be found. I wonder where we are? Hmmm. I don't have to wonder. I guess I do know where we are. If you will look around You will see we aren't very far. I wonder where we are? Denver I also posted a poem in the general section. I made it fit to some chess thoughts. http://www.chess.com/forum/view/general/sometime-when-im-sad-and-lonely

Theme: Chess (battle between two forces) Word Limit- 500 – 2000 words World: A sci-fi one Example of an idea: The chess board is the battle field between two nations out in space. This is my idea for the contest, if you guys want to do it this, I can tell Writch to stickly this. If you have any other ideas, please post here.

Last ditch attempt to get this poem up. See what you think. Hope this is correctly formatted. “I do!” says I, one of the small A poem I wrote fairly quickly. Perhaps sloppy, but I’m pleased with myself. For those of you who don’t know, I’m currently in seventh grade, so this is probably sub-par, but hey. I may as well see what you think. Standing amongst a pack of giants Taller than tall, beyond defiance Who dares challenge them, any at all? “I do!” says I, one of the small. They look down to me and say “You’re too small, if I may.” Standing amongts a squad of soldiers, Stronger than strong, larger than boulders. Who dares challenge them, let him speak. “I do!” says I, one of the weak. They look into my eyes and say “You’re too weak, if I may.” In me there dwells, little do they know, A fire made to the world unknown Let him know who defies me yet Victory for me is all but set To those who say, “You’re weak, I deem,” Things are not always what they seem.

Breve New World-Writch- Some say it began in the classroom, others think it was due to broken families, and working parents, that latchkey syndrome fed the madness and eventually led to the New World Order. Few recall, when the textbooks were re-written, when the tea drinkers were persecuted and the tax laws favored owners of French presses and espresso machines purchased at Starbucks. Some of the older generation whisper tales of a Euro-dollar that finally gave way to the "Star-Buck" creating the first global currency, but who knows what to believe anymore. Its like those crazy sidewalk preachers who say baristas didn't always drive Mercedes with tinted windows and bulletproof glass. They shout about Starbucks stockholders buying D.C. real estate from the Japanese and then they're ushered away in vans by men wearing suits and sunglasses even if the sun isn't shining. And middle-aged apathy is at an all time high. The college students are all Starbucks apologists running around with blood shot eyes reciting drink orders like Shakespearean love sonnets, and staying up until all hours. Teens go on shooting sprees at the slightest talk of soda and no one mentions the pitfalls of caffeine addiction anymore. Last week, a man was arrested for possession of a pound of independent beans produced when that was still legal, and all you had to fear were the right-winged extremists who would bomb your store at delivery time or shoot you as you walked to your car. And what of the wars where troops were sent simply to keep coffee bean supply lines flowing freely as drip Sumatra at the local pub on Saturday night. Doesn't anyone see? All the home brewers have been rounded up, their percolators confiscated, loaded on trains and taken to camps for testing. It seems so apocalyptic when your thinking is clear, when your hands are slightly shaking; before the headache and the call of the wondrous aroma.

by Ian Curtis and Joy Division When routine bites hardAnd ambitions are lowAnd resentment rides highBut emotions won't growAnd we're changing our waysTaking different roads Then love, love will tear us apart again Why is this bedroom so cold?Turned away on your side.Is my timing that flawed,our respect runs so dry?Yet there's still this appealThat we've kept through our lives Then love, love will tear us apart again Do you cry out in your sleepAll my failings exposed?Get a taste in my mouthAs desperation takes holdIs it something so goodJust can't function?No more Then love, love will tear us apart again I miss you so much, Ian, it hurts. - Writch

Here's another short story in the Elder Scrolls universe, this time based in Vvardenfell, an island district in Morrowind. By the way, I am planning on resuming work on that "Shape-shifter" story in the near future, so Svetla and anyone else who wants to see more, don't worry! I haven't forgotten about it! --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- “This story’s from my younger days when I wasn’t exactly a law-abiding citizen.” Grandpa Ramothan said as he leaned back in his chair. “This is about the time that I had the great opportunity to work with the famous thief Gavin Uvayn.” Aretha Methalas sat upright in her seat in anticipation of the story to come. Grandpa Ramothan always had an interesting story to tell every week when she came over to visit him. He was an old man, even by Dunmer standards. He had seen, heard, and done lots of things over the years, and Aretha, a beautiful, young seventeen-year-old Dunmer maiden loved listening to his tales. “This was about a hundred and fifty years ago in Ald-ruhn.” Ramothan said. “I had just sold a shipment of netch leather that I had acquired by hunting over in the Bal Isra area to a local trader, and I was taking some time off at the Breads and Beds cornerclub, which was what the Rat in the Pot used to be called. As I was sitting at a table drinking a flagon of greef, a Dunmer walked up and sat down across from me. I immediately recognized him as Gavin Uvayn, a very famous and experienced thief who had robbed every merchant, smith, citizen, and Redoran councilor at least once. He was wearing the clothes typical of a thief. The were dark gray in color, tight fitting, and covered with pockets to hold the various tools. There was, however, one outstanding part of his attire: a gold amulet with a bright blue gem in the middle.” “But wouldn’t that kind of stand out against his dark clothes and the shadows?” Aretha asked. “Yes, that’s why it struck me as odd.” Ramothan answered. “It seemed to just invite trouble. He did, however, have it strapped to his chest so it wouldn’t flop around and make noise, so I suppose he figured it was alright to wear it. I don’t know. Anyway, we exchanged greetings and the conversation was quickly brought to the subjects of thievery. After we gawked and discussed methods and styles of robbing and killing for a while, his tone got really serious. He asked me if I wanted to help him pull a heist.” “So you were a thief back then, Grandpa?” Aretha asked. “Yes.” Ramothan replied. “However, I never tried to rob any of the really nice merchants or any prominent people. I can also honestly say that I’ve never killed anyone during a robbery.” After saying that, Ramothan could see a look of relief flash across his granddaughter’s face. He knew that it was best to stifle any ideas she might have gotten about him being a heartless, murderous robber right now than let anger build up inside her and have it all spill out at once one day down the road. Ramothan shifted in his chair a bit, letting the moment of seriousness pass before getting back into his story. “He asked me if I wanted to help with a job. I asked what kind of job it was. He said it wasn’t anything to high-profile or risky, just a small raid on the local non-Redoran-affiliated smithy. He said that its owner had recently received a sizeable payment for a weapons shipment and he was thinking of liberating the gold from the place. I knew which place he was talking about. I had robbed it myself a couple times in the past when I was short on arrows or in need of repair equipment to fix my gear. I knew the layout of the building and I had a pretty good knowledge of the owner’s daily routine, so I agreed to help him. After I said yes, he told me to meet him around behind the Ald-Skar Inn after dark.” “This sounds like one of those fantasy stories in books so far.” Aretha said, chuckling. Ramothan laughed at the comment as well. “Oh believe me,” he said, “I felt like I was in one of those books during this robbery. So, he told me to meet him behind the Ald-Skar Inn after dark, and of course not knowing specifically what time he would show up, I was behind there as soon as the sun sank below the hills. I waited for a good long while, but he eventually showed himself and we started toward the smithy. As I said before, I had a pretty good knowledge of the owner’s daily routine. I knew that he liked to head over to the Breads and Beds for a couple drinks after work in the evening before going to sleep and Gavin showed up not long before that time came. So I told him about it and we crouched down in between some crates around the side of the building. After a little while, he left and headed over to the cornerclub. We slipped around to the back of the building and let ourselves in through a window. We climbed through into the forge, and I was able to lead us up to the bedroom where we had theorized was where he would most likely have the gold stashed. We rummaged through containers and looked in every nook and cranny we could find and we didn’t find it. Then, Gavin got the idea to tap on the walls and floor to see if any part sounded hollow. He did the walls and I did the floor, and neither of us had any luck until I tapped the floor under the bed. It felt hollow. So, we pulled the bed out of the way and stabbed the floor with our blades. After a few stabs, it broke apart and revealed an old, worn-looking chest. Gavin had the chest’s lock open in seconds and I pulled the lid back. There was a whole heap of gold inside. We had agreed to divide the loot right there to keep each other honest about giving the other his share. After we’d taken our cut, we put the chest back in the hole, put the bed back, and got out. After we had gotten out, we shook hands and parted ways. I went back to the Breads and Beds and he stayed at the Ald-Skar Inn that night. “Sounds like a textbook heist.” Aretha said. “Oh it was. Everything worked out perfectly. We were fast asleep in our beds by the time the smith returned to find his gold gone.” Ramothan replied. Ramothan then shifted in his chair again and cocked his head to one side as he began to stare out into space. Aretha, noticing, asked, “Is that the end of the story, Grandpa?” “Well, it’s the end of that story.” Ramothan said. “However, I did see something odd the next morning as I left Ald-ruhn for Maar Gan to visit a friend there.” “What happened?” Aretha asked. Ramothan crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap and said, “I was walking along the road to Maar Gan and you pass by the Trama Root Wall where they hurl really bad and notorious criminals off the top of the cliff and they either get hung on the trama roots and suffocate or they get crushed when they hit the ground. I glanced at it absent-mindedly, but something caught my eye. I looked up and saw the body of a Dunmer caught on one of the trama roots. The body was too high up for me to see it clearly, but I could clearly make out that it was hanging by an amulet or something made of gold with a brightly colored gem on it.”

Lone's the mist-cloaked road before me lying... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z3Ba-sTBJcY&feature=related

AL My best friend, Al (Grub was his ‘60’s name) used to always say “ain’t it the truth” no matter how dog-ugly the last chick in the bar is if she’s willing to go home with you – take her; always go with the sure thing “ain’t it the truth” Me and Al on Saturday mornings at Wally’s, a Polish bar with an American name and the first one was always on the house. Milort’s . Unbelievable! The world’s worst drink. “ain’t it the truth” Riding season almost over/ plans in our heads On “chopping” our pan heads over winter. Al said If you ain’t rode a Harley you ain’t rode a bike- “ain’t it the truth” Al said Butch tried to rip someone off in a drug deal AND Got shot in the head Butch was ok but sort of a jag-off ain’t it the truth 1969 the year I went to the Army/Al didn’t go Al and me’ve been friends for over 40 years. “ain’t it the truth”.

Recklessly cautious, the shy ego waits for signs of approval; To be noticed even... Then hides behind the anonymity of words and runs undercover to the lonely solitude of compulsive perfection in a world of ideas, thereby allowing said ego not to be pierced again by imperfect companionship.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I5NAPZp2w-o

A Long Twisted Haiku-- I hug my pillow at night and think about you, wondering if we will ever be face to face. It is good to live-- The internet blows my mind; Connections with words stealing a mental embrace. I watch my cat fight outside in the morning light. She swishes her tail, growling and lunging at other. Sidetracked by A-Team-- Nostalgia from my past life washes through my brain. Did those days ever exist?

My tribute to The Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask. Only 3 days to stop a wicked mask From completing a truly evil task. To crush the world with the moon! Link needs to act and do it soon! With Navi absent, Tatl appears. A great blessing to my ears. With a new fairy, Link sets out To find and beat this mask, this lout! Only three hearts of life at the start Increased only by pieces of heart. The Kokiri sword, both sharp and bold And made a monster when infused with gold The mask's evil all around doth leak. From Woodfall's swamps to Snowhead's peak From Great Bay's depths to Stone Tower's top. A curse that has no intention to stop! A song Link took from Hyrule's land, A song that directs Father Time's hand. Lets them reset every few days And plague the mask's scheme with mounds of delays. A myriad of foes conspire to fell The child who's legend Hylians tell. But one by one, they steadily fall Unable to stop link, only to stall. The temples' spirits give Link thanks For cleaving through the demons' ranks And slaying the bosses who led them too: The warrior, robot, fish, and bugs that flew. The final fight against Majora's Mask, The ending to Link's perilous task. The face-covering trapped, its death nigh Fights but falls in one last try. The moon restored to its place Among the stars and sun in space. Chalk up another epic win for Link Whose courage and strength shall never shrink.

Wrote this last night, the title is tentative, thought I'd share it here. TRULY SPOOKY We awaken and swear that this is not what we came here for. The frame is flawed; just to be okay, just to be okay: exist serene inside some excellent psychic scene. Just to be sweetly fitted, reassured... but we will all be disassembled, exploded, dissolved so soon. Just to accept, just to accept: the ego’s screen, or society’s perspectival hail-storm, crystalline rain of three dimensions, triangle visions, El, Set, Diana wet dreams. Call yourself home to the incipit slaughter, the inelegant critique, to the cruel, callous kiss of this. Just to possess a body— oh, so that is why we feel battered, embattled, beset on all sides by some magnificent, vibrational monstrosity. Maya, Mommy, I cannot compete with the litany of idiot imagery, the infinite heap of dichotomies, my ligament-woven-with-bone humanity. Just stop the story, just stop the stories, I just want to be okay, okay? Burn incense, meditate, play music, pray: whatever it takes to be undivided, for your union to unite.You are invited to mine.Do you want the two of us to watch us each be reclaimed by the light? That’s the essence of life— witnessing The Other upload the implication of their output so slowly. Even just the heat, even just the heat: ember of our heart & its smouldering moments, while our third eyes are fixated on some illusory future where our ghosts are satisfied. Gosh, I have these glimpses of how precious this all is, the truly spooky fractal significance that cascades across both vast & subtle scales unfailingly. We seekers together, hand in hand, in formation as some fantastic family, inside this fatalistic fantasy experiment,Love at the forefront of our priority & fascinating Sister Sorrow, who sleeps with me, she & I inside our magical, existential marriage forever.

A little poem I whipped up! I did this just for entertainment and because I was bored. I don't really despise gambits, but they do irk me. Anyway, I hope you enjoy reading this! Gambits. I hate them, I hate them both ways. Playing with and against them is a huge craze. Down in material, but with a massive attack? Ah, but it's the eye for tactics that I lack! I despise the King's, and the From is a pest I also hate the Benko and the Budapest. The Falkbeer and Albin both are just nuts, And the Duras looks like the work of a klutz! The Blackmar-Diemer is annoying as heck. The Englund and Soller are pains in the neck. I hate the Alesi, Hobbs, Borg, Wing, Schneider, Muzio, Latvian, Evans, and Ryder, The Halloween, Gibbins, Staunton, and Krejcik, The Halibut, Icelandic, Irish, Hartlaub-Charlick, The Omega, Omega-Delta, Danish, and Goring, The Ross and the Queen's, which can get quite boring, The Lohn, Blackburne-Kloosterboer, Gaga, Benoni, Comorant, Herrstrom, Smith-Morra, All of these gambits annoy me so much, Especially the ones against my beloved Dutch. Here ends my raving on these plays Although I really could bash them for days. Thank you for letting me tell the facts On what I think of these darn "sac attacks".

Here's a concept I thought was pertinent to a socialized website like Chess.com - one where we often share or offer-up personal factoids like kids swapping collectable-cards on the playground. I read it as a part of a larger article about Supreme Court Justice nominee Elena Kagan. The political stuff aside, the piece's writer, Derek Thompson, is coining a phrase Information Inflation to explain why we don't seem to care about the skinny on this nominee. He's better explaining it: Other pet theory of mine is that social media -- from Facebook profiles to blogs to Twitter streams -- creates what you might call information inflation. In typical inflation, so much money in the system causes the value of each dollar note to fall. In information inflation, so much private speculation, rumor and even semi-scandalous details about our lives flowing through social media tubes and news channels depreciates the value of each revelation. The 24/7 news cycle certainly helps the process by flushing out information with an impressive metabolism. One of the upsides (I hope) of sharing more of our personal thoughts and proclivities online is personal information loses some of its titillating aura.* Stated another way, the rampant publicity of personal information makes the revelation or rumor of somebody's personal information surprisingly, well, mundane. *The ongoing success of rumor magazines might not support this theory, but I suppose there's a difference between morbidly loving the idea that celebrities are flawed and actually caring that they're gay or sometimes drink too much. Any opinions on this? Do you think the dirt on you isn't worth the dirt you stand on?