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Sucks to be me – and you, if you’re reading this

By Mark Sabbatini on January 25, 2015
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Since I’m pretty much porting my entire newspaper over to a blog site, I might as well have a category for the mindless crap that represents 99.? percent of all posts. And you’ve just wasted a bit of your life reading what’s basically a test post, But so it’s not a complete waste of time, I’ll also include some initial “insider” crap about publishing this fishwrapper.

I missed the drop-dead deadline for this week (to be explained in detail at some future point), which is a major downer, but events of the day – including a person killed in an avalanche – were something of a distraction. So the plan is to publish Monday, call it next week’s issue and work on tidying up this redesigned site (a.k.a. mostly figuring out how to snag ad/donation money from it).

This is how I’m trying to ensure my “biases” are the least-read thing at this site.

About Post Author

Mark Sabbatini

I'm a professional transient living on a tiny Norwegian island next door to the North Pole, where once a week (or thereabouts) I pollute our extreme and pristine environment with paper fishwrappers decorated with seemingly random letters that would cause a thousand monkeys with a thousand typewriters to die of humiliation. Such is the wisdom one acquires after more than 25 years in the world's second-least-respected occupation, much of it roaming the seven continents in search of jazz, unrecognizable street food and escorts I f****d with by insisting they give me the platonic tours of their cities promised in their ads. But it turns out this tiny group of islands known as Svalbard is my True Love and, generous contributions from you willing, I'll keep littering until they dig my body out when my climate-change-deformed apartment collapses or they exile my penniless ass because I'm not even worthy of washing your dirty dishes.
marksabbatini@yahoo.com
http://icepeople.net
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Published in Rants

Mark Sabbatini
Mark Sabbatini

I'm a professional transient living on a tiny Norwegian island next door to the North Pole, where once a week (or thereabouts) I pollute our extreme and pristine environment with paper fishwrappers decorated with seemingly random letters that would cause a thousand monkeys with a thousand typewriters to die of humiliation. Such is the wisdom one acquires after more than 25 years in the world's second-least-respected occupation, much of it roaming the seven continents in search of jazz, unrecognizable street food and escorts I f****d with by insisting they give me the platonic tours of their cities promised in their ads. But it turns out this tiny group of islands known as Svalbard is my True Love and, generous contributions from you willing, I'll keep littering until they dig my body out when my climate-change-deformed apartment collapses or they exile my penniless ass because I'm not even worthy of washing your dirty dishes.

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