Wherein I bemoan the wastage of virtual space.

Today has been another day spent at the computer, doing too little that is productive and too much that is not. I have had occasion to bemoan the fact that teenagers do not know who Harrison Ford is, or Clint Eastwood, or Gregory Peck, or even Charleton Heston. If Ronald Reagan had not been an American president, they wouldn�t know that name either. The biggest laugh of all was that none of them had heard of Adam West. Not a single one. It is a sad fact that I too know very little about contemporary popular culture; all the new blonde teeny-bopper entertainers just get rolled into one for me and I simply can�t tell them apart.

However, while waiting for accessibility to the white box, or when none of my buddies has updated and I am hankering for some reading material (why don�t I just pick up a book, you ask?), I click on diaryrings. I have no idea how long some of these have been around, but they must be pretty stale if I get the error page when clicking on the originator of the ring. As a matter of fact, I tried one just now, the womenwriters diaryring, and the first three members I clicked got me to that no-man�s land. I don�t get it. Other rings I have accessed have repeatedly taken me to diaries with obvious last entries: �Goodbye, I am moving to (insert name of weblog host here). Diaryland has been wonderful but it�s time to move on.� What gives?

It makes me wonder about the capacity of D�land�s servers. So many people had diaries here, filled page after virtual page with digital information which is stored on some hard disk somewhere (probably in Andrew�s basement), and then left without cleaning out their desks. Is it any wonder that there are lineups (or queues, as we say where I come from) when legitimate users of this space want to update? Should there not be a policy on dormancy, similar to what the bank does when your money has languished too long in a forgotten account? Does any of this make any sense?

In other news, it has been raining quite a bit and my garden has responded by putting out a lovely crop of weeds. Thank you, Mr. Weatherman.

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