…as Slug, of Atmosphere, would say.
You may have noticed (or not) the relative paucity, both quantitative and qualitative, of posts on this blog lately. Sadly, this is not because I’m saving up for some grand denouement, some piece de resistance, some other inappropriately accentless French phrase. Nope… more like I just don’t know what to do with my (blog) . (As Jack White, of the White Stripes, would say in paraphrase.)
I kinda would like to talk about writing more. But I doubt anyone really cares that much. Or politics. But I have nothing especially innovative to say on the subject, and I tend to lapse into rants. Or food/wine, but I would sort of like to hold on to that and mayhap turn it into a paying gig (at least paying in food/wine). Or music, but I’m already sort of embarrassed at my lack of progress in learning to play my bass (31st birthday present. Wanna hear "Debaser" by the Pixies? No? How ’bout "Braineaters" by the Misfits? At this point, as performed by me, they both sound pretty damn much the same.).
The summer doldrums have hit, but hard. But I already blogged about the heat, at great length, and y’all already know it’s freakin’ hot, so I’ll spare you anything else about it. Except this: 113 in Stockton yesterday. One hundred and freakin’ thirteen degrees. And this: 103 in Portland yesterday. Yep, the city to which I plan to move to escape the heat. Well, thank heaven for CO2 emissions–looks like we’ll have a jolly toasty planet soon no matter to which rain-lashed metropolis we try to escape.
Really, I would like to talk more about writing. And books. Would you read that? Would you care? Ought it to matter to me? It does matter, and I read and cherish every one of your comments, darlings.
And now, a gratuitous photo of Fisher: