I enjoy the idea of having my name become a domain. Of course I didn’t cover my bases and buy up every domain with my name; just the .com and the name I call myself. A smarter man with my name would have spent serious coin on the .net, .org, .biz, .site, .me, .shop, etc., and he would have made sure no one else could lay claim to any domains with the name William Sisskind, Willy Sisskind, Billy Sisskind, Bill Sisskind, or Billiam Sisskind.

But a smarter man with my name would have done these things. I did not. For I have no money, and I enjoy danger. (To a degree.)

Good morning. I have become a blogger again. When I first started writing online, I had a Tumblr account, I was eighteen years old, and my mecca was the music production lab in my high school where we had no shortage of MIDI keyboards and Mac Pros with the latest version of Finale installed. I was young then. We were all young then. In 2009 it seemed like we had escaped a devil. Hope had cast a bright light all across America, across the world. In retrospect more of us should have known that the thick veiny tentacles of the hydra had just begun to choke us.

To those who knew: Big yikes. Our bad.

I don’t know what will go into this new corner of the Internet which I’ve carved for myself. Sports happen every day and I’ve started to take a liking to them. A lot of news goes on in the world for which I might have some uneducated reactions. The world of indie music has grown vast beyond my aging brain, but some of these new emo bands have put out some good stuff as of late. (These new emo bands. Might as well say “These hip rapscallions with their guitars and loud noises.” Who am I, your fuckin’ grandpa? Put me in the home.)

Good morning. I’m so tired and I’m dried out like a smoked lox. In our Brooklyn apartment the heat goes on when the temperature outside reaches 55 degrees. But then the apartment feels like a sauna. When I go outside, a blast of cold air kicks me in the face. Then I go back home and am drenched in sweat. All of this means that now my respiratory system hates my guys, I can’t sleep well at night, and I want to touch my face constantly which is a bad idea in this time of sickness and filth.

(I hated, by the way, the commercials and corporate emails and spam newsletters that opened their early pandemic messages with the same old boilerplate language. “In these trying times… We face an uncertain future…” Give it to me straight, Doc. “We live in disease. Buy our stuff. You have nothing else to do.” At least some honesty might get me to throw you a buck out of pure amusement.)

My whole family has the vaccine, except for my youngest nephews and nieces. I come from smart stock. My dad’s a funeral director who runs his own business. My mom’s a motivational speaker and life coach. My sister’s a pediatrician and a home pastry and popsicle chef. My brother’s a geospatial engineer. My brother-in-law, sister-in-law, and my wife are all teachers, all of whom deserve a million dollars after tax. Every one of these family members of mine have masters’ degrees or have spent so much time in their career that they might as well have one.

Meanwhile, I got a copy of Adobe Premiere Pro and I know how to set up a website, and I can brew up a damn fine cup of coffee. Cower before my abilities, my immaculate skills! Look upon my works and despair!

Good morning. I can neither confirm or deny that I will update this website much, that it will have much use to you, that it will make a big splash on the Internet. I don’t intend this to become much more than a dumping ground for thoughts that need more room for growth than Twitter will allow. (Hell if I’ll ever post anything on Facebook again besides wishing a distant friend happy birthday.) But if you take any solace or pleasure in reading what I have to write, I appreciate you. Just don’t say too much that might make me regret your company.

After all, I am a lefty sonofabitch who likes the idea of a big tent. But I also admire a private business’s right to refuse service to folks who cause problems. Don’t cause problems here. As the tagline says, “This is not a place of honor.” Don’t dishonor it more. Don’t walk into this nuclear waste site and start pissing on the dead trees. Definitely don’t record yourself and don’t then post it on YouTube. Why would you do that?

Good morning. This day, like every day, is a new day. And there’ll keep being new days until there ain’t any more.