Goodbye March, which has felt like 500 slo-mo trips through the "It's a Small World After All Ride" with no music, and statues gradually disappearing, and then when you finally escape there's no one in Disneyworld but an angry old man in a robe who tells you it's very late, and makes you watch the fireworks on your phone in a hotel room.

Three weeks since I was cast out of the office. Three? Checking . . . feels like six . . . yes, three. I’ve settled into a new routine. The old routine:

Morning: Industrious cheer, accomplishments, tidying up previous night’s work, no news, chipper mood

Afternoon: a slough of wandering, thumb-twiddling, meetings, half-hearted attempts at starting something new, furious burst of creative endeavors, nap

Evening: a basic meal, lazy early evening hours, then work from nine to midnight followed by TV and a quick drop into depthless Lethe

Now:

Morning: same as before

Afternoon: mute despair

Evening: same as before, with occasional worries at the end that make the next day loom up like The Blot.

My GOD why did I just think of the Blot? I saw it in a comic book at an early age, and it stuck with me. Certainly not an unusual comic book villain; almost the definition of the most generic villain ever - just a guy (or dog) in a black shroud. But he made an impression on me - faceless except for the staring eyes, shape-shifty, dark, implacable.

Anyway, that’s how the next day seems sometimes. I think the afternoon mubblefubbles are accentuated by dipping into the idiocy of the news. It gives the impression of a greater division than exists, I think, or perhaps it gives voice to a division that’s always been there. We didn’t used to say these things aloud, because we didn’t have a platform that acted as a porn-set fluffer to our basest instincts.

I’ll have a bit more to say tomorrow - as I’ve noted, the deadlines pile up at the start of the week now, and I had two pieces due Monday AM. Now to write the third.

I wonder what it’ll be about!

(In case no one linked to it yesterday in the comments - and man, really, must I do everything around here - a Bleat-esque Duration Chronicles can be found here, at the center-right civil-discussion Ricochet, where the percentage of barking mad posts is lower than anywhere else, and only a few of those are mine. I’ll have all the Duration Chronicles here by week’s end.

A sane man would just crosspost, but I want to give everyone fresh stuff.

   

   
   
   
   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This one popped up on the feed of things I’m supposed to want to like, and like most of the things in the Apple Podcast app . . . it’s of a piece with a certain mentality.

The most recent ep had this description:

What if you had a superpower that allowed you to see part of the world that was to come? At the age of 60, a Scottish woman named Joy Milne discovers she has a biological gift that allows her to see things that will happen in the future that no one else can see. A look at how we think about the future, and the important ways the future shapes the present.

It’s not really so, if I can drop a spoiler. She can’t see things. She can smell them. She can smell chronic disease. Parkinson’s, apparently, is yeasty. It's interesting, but as with 97.3% of the podcasts I try, I was not compelled to hear another. If it's not the production or the voices, it's the sensibility. Nothing wrong with that, it's just that I'm not of a mind to get a lecture from the host. Have a conversation, perhaps. But not sit passively and listen and nod.

Destined perhaps for the r/agedlikemilk subreddit: here’s the opening to the show.

   

 

 

This was recorded before COVID, and aired after.

 

   

This is not a modus vivendi that serves one well in the end.

Perhaps it's part of youth, a certain portion of which has the luxury of indulging their sadness, and taking on excess sadness to stay engaged with the world, because happiness has failed them, or they have trained themselves to regard it with doubt and suspicion.

The old bumpersticker was "IF YOU'RE NOT OUTRAGED, YOU'RE NOT PAYING ATTENTION." Not necessarily; I'm just not paying attention to you.

 

 

It’s 1941, and it’s also Canada.

“What the hell is this?”

“The men who could actually play the instrument were drafted.”

"Finish the job."

Bit early for that.

The pride of Chatham:

Did you know Canada is still the 9th largest auto producer, and the 4th biggest exporter? It’s true. Well, it was before the Bug Era.

   
  Does the sag get you down because you’re low on energy from hauling around the excess weight, or down because you loath what you have become?

Get a girdle! Redistributes that flab upstairs into your chestal area! Grimace while you perform an awkward dance intended to suggest your newfound vitality!

   

Uh oh. I think we all know what the problem is here.

Pacing in the yard because she can’t excrete, poor dear

   
 

SEND EVERY LAXATIVE YOU HAVE.

Even the purgatives. Poor dear is dosing herself.

The dread of "purgatives" - a miserable last-resort - tells me they must have worked, but it wasn't pretty.

   
  Lucky for the costive lass, her busybody neighbors are concerned about her inability to crap, and leave a box of stool-jolter on the stoop!
   

Note: it’ll work, but it’ll work some days later.

I can't believe I, an actress with credits that go back to the state in the Oughts, have to pretend to be happy because some fictiona doxy laid a loaf

Our fightin’ incorporeal heroes eat a brick a day and they hit the mark at 9:47 AM every morn!

Why was everyoe so constipated? War nerves? Loose stools sink ships?

That'll do. April awaits. Less Blot pls thnx

 

 

 

 

 

 
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