Where To Begin ...
I’m home. I’ll forgo the complete retelling of the tale for now, but, rest assured, it will be forthcoming.
What I’m doing is allowing, for a few more days, at least, the Hot Springs rumor mill to do what it does best. Namely, to mill inexorably into the future with half-assed assumptions and liberal embellishments. This is all as entertaining for me as it is for you, I assure you.
We’re in that no man’s land between Christmas and New Year’s, when it’s not last year anymore, but it’s not quite next year. It’s nothing but the present moment, I suppose, and we all know what that’s worth.
That just means that I don’t know where I am or what I’m doing, but, that’s alright, because I don’t know what time it is, either.
It’s good to be posting again. I’ve missed you.
My lack of posts recently has not been as due to my one-armed typing status as much as has been due to my lack of spare time, my lack of any spare time at all. Rising to the upper levels of management as I did (and which went against ever grain in my body, and I never would have done it except that Leo Durocher once did,) I found myself working even harder than my so-called underlings.
(That use of so-called just now betrays some remaining vestiges of self-consciousness at being pulled up into the upper strata. That use of so-called is a pathetic attempt at a wink that says: you know and I know that I’m not one of them … but, alas, I fool you and I fool myself. I’m upper management to the core, but will continue to try to fool myself into believing that, indeed, I am not. I’m with you, is what I want to believe, on the picket lines and taking blows from the Pinkertons. I’m one of you, I want you to believe, as you reach into your lunch pail for a bologna sandwhich or scratch at the callous on your tired paw. But it’s not so. I visit and watch people work, then get into the company car and go. I issue directives and expect people to jump (and, surprise, they do.) I retire to a condo with wall-to-wall carpeting every night and have a glass of wine. Most importantly, I shower in the morning, not at night.
I make the big bucks, rest assured, and that is why I made the leap. So long.
So I had no time for blog posting, I think is what I was talking about. It was up early, bark orders all day, and then go to sleep. I had no time to waste hours in front of a computer every day composing lyrical accounts of my day or torturing myself with strained self-analysis. No, I leave such tasks to the unwashed masses; I’m too busy telling people what to do.
But that’s all behind me, now. It was a temporary existance in another world and that other world firmly booted me out and I landed with a thud flat on my bum in the middle of the holler.
As I say, I’m back. Back in the mud, in need of repair, but with all sorts of plans to make the approaching year just absolutely nifty. More on that later.
Rest assured, though, that, as I say, I’m back. And I’m still one-armed and will be for some time, and am trying to use my time as constructively as possible, and, (be forewarned) that just might mean sitting down here aand letting you in on every little synapse fire that occurs in my brain. So get ready. I’m your worst nightmare come true: a blogger with too much time on his hands.
What I’m doing is allowing, for a few more days, at least, the Hot Springs rumor mill to do what it does best. Namely, to mill inexorably into the future with half-assed assumptions and liberal embellishments. This is all as entertaining for me as it is for you, I assure you.
We’re in that no man’s land between Christmas and New Year’s, when it’s not last year anymore, but it’s not quite next year. It’s nothing but the present moment, I suppose, and we all know what that’s worth.
That just means that I don’t know where I am or what I’m doing, but, that’s alright, because I don’t know what time it is, either.
It’s good to be posting again. I’ve missed you.
My lack of posts recently has not been as due to my one-armed typing status as much as has been due to my lack of spare time, my lack of any spare time at all. Rising to the upper levels of management as I did (and which went against ever grain in my body, and I never would have done it except that Leo Durocher once did,) I found myself working even harder than my so-called underlings.
(That use of so-called just now betrays some remaining vestiges of self-consciousness at being pulled up into the upper strata. That use of so-called is a pathetic attempt at a wink that says: you know and I know that I’m not one of them … but, alas, I fool you and I fool myself. I’m upper management to the core, but will continue to try to fool myself into believing that, indeed, I am not. I’m with you, is what I want to believe, on the picket lines and taking blows from the Pinkertons. I’m one of you, I want you to believe, as you reach into your lunch pail for a bologna sandwhich or scratch at the callous on your tired paw. But it’s not so. I visit and watch people work, then get into the company car and go. I issue directives and expect people to jump (and, surprise, they do.) I retire to a condo with wall-to-wall carpeting every night and have a glass of wine. Most importantly, I shower in the morning, not at night.
I make the big bucks, rest assured, and that is why I made the leap. So long.
So I had no time for blog posting, I think is what I was talking about. It was up early, bark orders all day, and then go to sleep. I had no time to waste hours in front of a computer every day composing lyrical accounts of my day or torturing myself with strained self-analysis. No, I leave such tasks to the unwashed masses; I’m too busy telling people what to do.
But that’s all behind me, now. It was a temporary existance in another world and that other world firmly booted me out and I landed with a thud flat on my bum in the middle of the holler.
As I say, I’m back. Back in the mud, in need of repair, but with all sorts of plans to make the approaching year just absolutely nifty. More on that later.
Rest assured, though, that, as I say, I’m back. And I’m still one-armed and will be for some time, and am trying to use my time as constructively as possible, and, (be forewarned) that just might mean sitting down here aand letting you in on every little synapse fire that occurs in my brain. So get ready. I’m your worst nightmare come true: a blogger with too much time on his hands.
