I’m sitting next to my ever-growing pile of Kleenex and empty Nyquil bottles (which may have contributed to this wandering essay), wondering who clubbed my former life and buried it in a shallow grave in a remote part of the national forest.
Enough. Really.
And by “former” life I mean the one where I wasn’t infected with some horrible little virus every other day or so.
All of which amounts to a long-winded writer’s way of saying this week has been grim and last night was even grimmer, though today is sunny and I’m pulling myself upwards instead of sliding back down into that shallow grave.
Still, my Yugo-class immune system has deservedly earned Bush-level approval ratings, and things have gotten to the point that my clients are wondering why shit isn’t getting done.
Right outside my window, winter refuses to give up the ghost (snow finally melting, but still a good foot in parts of the yard), and even the normally anti-whiner Chris Raine is issuing threats to the weather (are you listening, weather?).
Meanwhile, Mount Shasta has become news media central with a 30-40 car pileup on the I5, a climber dying on the summit of Mt. Shasta, Tom Stienstra’s arrest and some weird shit in Dunsmuir pushing us square into the center of California’s marijuana legalization wars (not to mention a lot of bad jokes).
In short, the fecal matter is hitting the rotating blades (and hard), and when that happens, the reporters dive for their phone lists, the politicians dive for cover, and the fly fishermen should probably go fishing.
At least the smart, healthy ones. Read more →
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