To which I might add,
To which I might add, Amen and Amen, because I myself have similarly smoten various screeching primates of similar troop, especially today. It took eight hours and the combined efforts of various lawyers, agents, psychiatrists, theologians, and advanced materials specialists, but now I sit at home comfy in the air conditioning, blogging with Blogger Pro which is up while Blogger Not Pro is 404'd. That is a good thing and right now it is worth the $35 despite the complete ignoring of every question I have ever asked of Evan.
Back when I was peddling various New Agey self-help books along with the Big Book (not that one...this one) and so forth, one of the stress relievers often recomended by various experts in the art of relieving and/or avoiding said stress was the News Blackout. Avoid news, avoid it wearing shoes, avoid it while at zoos drinking booze, avoid it all the time, sit and watch a mime rather than read, hear, or see the news. I mean, the brand spanking-new vice-president of Afghanistan was assassinated on Saturday and I didn't even know about it until this morning. Or perhaps on Sunday, I'm not sure. And you know what?
Heaven help me, I didn't care.
There was this big tremendous rush of expando-vision after September 11, a vast influx of all the crap that's Out There, taken deep into the In Here, all at once, day in, day out, you can read it if you traipse back through the Astonished Head archives. It lasted for months...all the Big Nasties, all the Death Mongers, all the We're God's Favorite And He Says We've Gotta Kill Yous...all swirling around with wild surly abandon 'neath my brow. Until, finally. I'd. Had. Enough.
Right about the time folks started sailing up into the air and garden gnomes took up residence in my courtyard, my neuronal chemical soup (that's the medical term for brain) began poking me in the kidneys and warning me. Hey! You can't fix it. And this obsession is bad for your liver. I realized this was true: the adrenal glands perch atop the kidneys and were overstressed from all the fight-or-flight, and the liver processes the alcohol and copious quantities of China White that soothe the nerves and keep the shotguns safely unloaded in the rack. Sooner or later, said Mr. Brain, something's going to give, and it would be best for all concerned if you found another hobby for awhile.
So around about the time that commuters started blowing up again in buses along roads the desert, I started to deliberately tune out. And I continue to do so, seeking once again the safe refuge of ancient words written long ago. Because, you see, in those words...are the causal plonks that give rise to present BOOMs.
So: I deal with the Now by following the idea-tree back to its acorn youth.
And that, as Mr. Fidget would say, appears to be that, don't it, cats?
