I am writing simply to state that there is nothing new to report or talk about. I may have something to write about in a few days, but as of now, nothing.

I return you to your regularly scheduled silence.

I don’t normally write about the deaths of famous people. Plenty of people will miss the individual who has passed away, and I am unable delude myself to think that any words I write will be any more than self-serving reflections that will be rightfully be forgotten in time.

However, Michael Jackson was not just a celebrity. His impact on the entertainment industry goes without saying, but he wasn’t just an icon, a legend, “The King of Pop,” or any moniker — good or bad — you could throw on him.

Micheal Jackson was the type of man I never envisioned dying.

Realistically, death is certain for all of us who are fated to live, but in my mind, I never thought I would outlive Michael Jackson. To me, he was a fixture of my very existence. Since I was born after his Jackson five days, I only know his earlier work through the Jackson Five as recordings, and portal to a time before I was even a though. Many of his songs were the backbone of the soundtrack of my childhood, but, of course, as a child in the 1980s, it was his videos. which favorite video was Thriller. I remember watching the recording of The Making of Thriller on Beta over and over again. I remember going to Disney World when I was six and watch Captain EO — those 3D effects scared the daylights out of me back then! I had the privilege to see him perform when I was seven, but I was far too young to truly appreciate the concert for something other than noise in the dark.

Over the years his physical appearance changed, and elements of his music changed as well. I still vividly remember watching the video premiere of “Remember the Time” on FOX and falling in love with the special effects and the story it told. In later years, he became more well known for behavior and allegations, yet that voice of his remained recognizable and immutable, and he still possessed many of his signature moves. He was labeled as having a “Peter Pan Complex,” but you never expect Peter Pan to die.

There is much to analyze about the importance of Michael Jackson to music, to American and world culture, to the entertainment industry, to anything and everything. That I will leave to those who know what they’re talking about. Michael Jackson was important to me, both as a little girl who once saw him as the pinnacle of everything as a performer, and as an adult who is cursed with the knowledge that a greatness that will never be approached by anyone else is now lost to this world, forever.

The Penguins have won the Stanley Cup in the same calendar year that the Steelers won the Super Bowl.

Now if we could only do something about the Pirates.

One of my least favorite tasks is deleting links, because so often I find interesting things on the Internet and almost as often I lose track of them. As a result, the few items I can remember to hold onto are the ones upon which I tend to cling far too long.

Three links that were once in my blog roll are now absent due to either a shift in the writer’s attention and direction or my own. But, to be honest, I doubt the writers will miss my attention anyway. Perhaps if my interests and theirs tend to cross paths again, we will meet again, and once more I will have a greater selection regular reading material than I do now.

If a local football team blows out another team 76-0, does it make a sound?

Apparently not if the winning team happens to be the Pittsburgh Passion.

The relative media silence disturbs me a little. I understand that the Passion’s fan base may be smaller than that of more well-known teams in the Pittsburgh area, but what happened this past Saturday night at Newman Stadium should have been reported by the local mainstream media, rather than leaving the recounting to “the blogs.” This was not a typical dominating Passion performance, this was an overwhelming display of a team that played so well, the event may have been one for the teams’ record books.

On Saturday, I attended the final Passion home game of the 2009 regular season. Since the time of my last post about the Pittsburgh Passion, the Passion no longer play at Cupples Stadium on the South Side, but in the aforementioned Newman Stadium at North Allegheny High School. Another change is that the Passion now play in the IWFL instead of the NWFA, which exposes the team to new opponents. (Several of their former NWFA rivals — as well as the Pittsburgh Force, another local football team — now play in the WFA).

The air was dry, but a little cool for May, to the point where I had to put on the jacket I brought as the sky grew dark. But the Passion tore the field ablaze with touchdown after touchdown. Their opponents, the Connecticut Crushers, put forth an effort, but the Passion were simply that good. Sadly, the crowd was a little quieter than I expected, but I think that was due to the overwhelming nature of the victory and the location change. There were certainly enthusiastic fans present, especially for Michelle Brevard. Brevard and many other Passion players had a phenomenal game, and will probably have great ones to come.

Maybe the next time they do, someone in the mainstream media will write about it.

Previously, I provided an e-mail address for anyone who wanted to comment on this blog. The e-mail address is still in the archives, although since I have purposely not linked to that post, any reader will have to search my entries to find it.

Now I have an additional means for you to get in contact with me, that of the behemoth known as Twitter. If you would like to comment on my blog directly and you don’t feel like e-mailing me in order for the comment to show up, please send me a direct message through Twitter. I’ll set you up with an account. You could, of course, reply to my posts there as well, given the lowered barrier for commenting.

Of course, please don’t forget to look at Webb 2.0 if you would like to read my thoughts on soap operas.

Although I am a relatively young person, for the most part, I tend to shy away from social networking Web sites. Part of this is due to the fact that I am not an outgoing person by nature, but my main objection stems from the lack of control I feel regarding the information that is expected of me to disperse. I have no problem with sharing limited personal information that will spread across the Internet, but at the same time, I am not one to actively promote myself either. While many of those sites have legitimate uses, I am wary of them nonetheless.

However, a few days ago I read a wonderfully written post on LLLL.com from Reece Berg (edit: I can’t figure out why the link’s not working now). He linked to an article on Mashable concerning building a brand on Twitter. Had I not been dismissive of the gathering storm known as Twitter when I first heard of it, I could have gotten my beloved screen name, “rwebb” when it was available (Side Note: Rob Webb is doing quite fine with the service and screen name, even though I do not know the man personally). Now, rwebb.com will not have the matching Twitter screen name, and not only have I missed out a powerful branding tool, but coupled with my inactivity regarding rwebb.com, my chances of making my stamp with my screen name went from slim to next to none due to my own inaction.

In any event, I did grab webbready a few weeks ago for insurance purposes, even though I doubt anyone would have claimed that nickname anytime soon. Since I have no friends, no readers and do not advertise this blog, this was an exercise of futility.

So I’m on Twitter now. What’s next?

A few nights ago, I headed northbound on South Atlantic Avenue under the fleshed out leaves and full-figured branches of trees on opposite sides of the streets.  Several of their limbs reached out to each other like two magnets, and I worried that despite not being made of metal, that I would be ensnared by their magnetic field.  Although I had experienced this sight countless times before, at that moment their dark canopy made a street with which I am so familiar a mask to hide my surroundings.  The trees rendered the sky expressionless, the sidewalk invisible, and the homes where people lived and slept nothing more than dollhouses under the watch of the woody, silent guardians.  I am neither disposed nor averse towards low-light situations, yet for a rare moment, I was uneasy of the very plants themselves.

In the past two weeks, spring has shed its wintery cocoon, and the buds on the trees have in the span grown from green spots to broad leaves splayed in both sunshine and rain. This year my nose itched a little less that it normally does this time of year and my left ear canal felt as though it were being scratched by a toothpick rather than hacked with a sawblade. I am not certain if the relatively mild expression of symptoms was due the anti-allergy medication I took, as the onset of symptoms was later than normal. Still, the warm weather was nice, albeit as sudden as a sneeze triggered by the invisible specks that entered my nose, and even now, as it cools, I am certain that Demeter has thrown a party for the return of her homesick daughter.

In spite of all my declarations and assertions that I will change, I find myself once more in the same spot as I was last year and the year before that. Certainly, circumstances have changed, and I find myself surrounded by different people as the result of leaving and coming into my life. Despite this, I stare in awe as the world spins by in a tornado of events that deafens me with its terrible roar. It passes me, swatting debris flung by the vortex in my face and nostrils, and across my skin, but leaves my body without injury. I understand change comes at a glacial pace to those who desire it, but I worry that unlike the ugly duckling, my swan song will remain unsung.

There are times when the burn to abandon what principles I have set for this blog increases to the point where my fingers with would tramsit criticisms and praises from my mind to an audience without hesitation. Inevitably, I receive a reminder of my station. As much as I want to soar with the eagles, that my wings are made of wax, and I am confined to measured, careful flights by day, only to soar as an angel of the night, both unseen and blind.

Restraint of the body is a simple matter. If only I could restrain my aspirations in the same vein, then perhaps I would not write lies of change and promise motion when I must be still.